Chapter 14: Play Ball! (Or Not)

February 25, 1981

First thing in the morning, I saw a notice on the school bulletin board: BASEBALL TRYOUTS BEGIN NEXT MONDAY. IF INTERESTED, REPORT TO THE PRACTICE FIELD IMMEDIATELY AFTER SCHOOL.

I loved baseball, as a fan. And the other life, I'd played baseball quite a bit during my childhood. I'd done pretty well in Little League. I could hit some, and I could catch and throw as well as anyone. However, as I got older, two problems in my game became apparent. One, I couldn't run very fast. It's not that I was overweight or anything, I was just rather slow afoot. Two, for the life of me, I couldn't hit a curve ball. I never overcame the urge to go with my first instincts as soon as the pitcher released the ball, and if the ball moved in any manner other than a straight line, I'd flail away and miss. I suppose I could have taken up pitching myself, but that never held any appeal for me. I'd tried out for the school team during ninth, tenth and eleventh grades. Each time, the aforementioned flaws kept me from making the team. Senior year, I'd gotten the hint, and didn't even bother to try out.

But during my adult years, I'd often found myself daydreaming about what might have been. I felt as if I hadn't put my full effort into baseball. Suppose I'd have worked harder, and learned to wait on a curve ball? If I had it to do over again...

Well, wouldn't you know it, I had it to do over again. And for a different school team this time; St. James instead of Fairfield. I'd learned that, in this timeline, I'd also tried out for the St. James baseball team the previous three years, with the same result as before. But why couldn't it be different this time? Why, indeed? I had the energy and stamina of a teenager, with an adult's knowledge of the game. Plus, I was spurred on by the determination to improve on my first go-round.

I mentioned my plans to Diana a short while thereafter, during our morning get-together in the cafeteria. Predictably, she was less than thrilled.

"I guess that means we'll hardly be able to see each other any more," she said morosely. "You'll be busy just about every day after school."

"Not necessarily," I said, making an attempt to mollify her, if perhaps only temporarily. "I don't know if I'll even make the team. I'll know within a week whether I made it or not." Left unsaid, of course, was what would happen if I actually did make the team.

"Why is this so important to you, anyhow?" she snapped. "It's just a stupid game."

All I could do was sigh in frustration. At this point, she had just about stretched my patience to the limit.

"If you wanted to pursue an activity that was important to you," I told her pointedly, "I would try my best to understand, and if I had a problem with it, I'd try to come to a mutual decision along with you. That's how relationships work." Then, I just got up and left.

After school, Evie and I went over to Dave's house, which we were doing with increasing frequency these days. We now had a sizable repertoire of songs that we knew. Many of them were tunes we'd learned the first time around, but I liked to explore new material; thus, I'd often suggest songs we hadn't played in the other timeline, simply for my own secret pleasure. Of course, neither one of them had any idea that our band had already existed in another reality. I really enjoyed these sessions; I was confident that this was the one area of my new life where I could live it all over again, and do it better the second time around.

One tune we'd been kicking around was another Billy Joel song, "Scenes From an Italian Restaurant". It's a seven-minute-plus composition that's really three songs in one. I wondered why we hadn't considered it in the other life. The two most prominent instruments? Piano and saxophone. The song starts smooth and mellow. It builds until it reaches a furious peak, featuring a scorching hot piano-sax duet, allowing Evie and I to totally rock out. It took us a long time to get that one down. Finally, we ran it through cleanly, and all three of us just stood there, grinning like fools, feeling pride in our accomplishment. Dave's mom, who sometimes came outside to watch us, clapped in appreciation.

"You know," exclaimed Dave, "if we had to perform one song in front of an audience, right now, just the three of us, I'd pick that one."

"I agree," Evie chimed in.

We stopped playing at that point, and got to talking once again about finding a guitarist and bassist. I still had not made any inroads in my private quest to contact Paul. It was a deceptively difficult undertaking, and I wondered if it would actually be easier to accomplish when we were at the university. That is, if Paul actually would attend Rutgers in this life. I didn't know that for sure, did I?

Mrs. Mancuso left to run some errands, leaving just the three of us high-schoolers on the premises. Once his mom pulled away in her car, Dave right away ran inside, and returned in a flash with three beers. I wondered where he'd stashed them.

"I brought one for each of you," he offered. But Evie and I both declined.

"No problem. More for me," he said with a satisfied grin.

Dave's drinking was the topic of conversation as Evie gave me a lift home.

"You know him better than I do," Evie asked me, her voice full of concern. "Does he drink as much as I think he does?"

I answered in the affirmative, and shared a few stories, including last summer's beach trip, when Diana and I had practically carried him into his house.

"When he goes away to college," Evie commented, "he's heading for trouble, unless he gets his act together. It's a shame. Dave is a wonderful guy. He's smart, he's funny, he's a good friend, and he's great company."

She didn't know the half of it. I'd witnessed what happened to Dave in the other life. And the Dave problem, just like the Paul problem, had no ready answers that I could see.

March 4, 1981

Baseball tryouts had commenced two days ago. I brought my glove and cleats to school, and kept them in my locker. At first, everything went fantastic. During batting practice on day one, I stepped in to face one of our prospective pitchers. Sure enough, he snapped off a sharp-breaking curve. I held back my swing, waited on the pitch, and smacked it clear over the center fielder's head. Wow!

But on this, the third day of tryouts – the day before the first cuts were announced – it became apparent that maybe, possibly, it just wasn't in the cards for me to play high school baseball. The coach split us up into two squads, and we played a nine-inning scrimmage. I started the game in left field.

To set the scene ... the practice baseball field really wasn't much of a field. There was a crude dirt infield, partially filled back in with weeds and pebbles. There was a misshapen, rusty metal mesh backstop. The outfield was merely a grassy area with no defined outer limit. Beyond left field, where I was stationed, there were the beginnings of some residential construction. There was a huge mound of dirt, maybe fifteen feet tall and about fifty feet in length. It was still late winter, which meant that the entire field was cold and damp. Not exactly prime playing conditions, but hey, these were only tryouts.

I don't recall too much about the first two innings. All I remember is what transpired when I ran out to take my position at the start of the third inning. I had a ball in my glove, and I tossed it to Dan Brockington, the center fielder. You know, the usual warmup routine that occurs between innings.

But before he could toss the ball back to me, I heard a girl's singsong voice, a quite familiar one, originating from behind the big hill of dirt, distinctly out of place in this setting. "Yoo hoo! Pat-rick! Come back here! I want to give you something!"

Good grief. Diana. What the hell was she doing here?

But the inflection in "I want to give you something" wasn't lost on me. I'd gotten to know Diana all too well. I could at least go back there and see what she wanted ... couldn't I? So, I made a motion to Brockington (who I'd already pegged as an obnoxious blowhard), indicating that I needed to take a piss. He snorted in reply, and then resumed his catch-and-toss game with the right fielder.

Peering nervously behind me, hoping the coach wasn't looking, I ran to the rear of the mound of dirt. And there, of course, was Diana, wearing a parka, a scarf and a shit-eating grin.

"Diana," I began, protesting in vain, "this isn't the best time. For crying out loud, I'm in the middle of baseball practice!" She prevented any further comment by pressing her lips against mine, and jamming her tongue between my teeth.

"My baseball stud," she uttered between thrusts of her tongue. "Can't you take just a couple of minutes for li'l ol' me?"

Obviously, she didn't understand how the game of baseball worked. I pulled away from her, and spat out, "Diana, there is a game going on. I need to get back out to my position, I mean, right now!"

"Hmmm," she purred. "I've got a position for you. How about this one?" With that, she dropped down to her knees and, at once, began to fumble with my pants. She was brazenly initiating a repeat performance of that day in the woods, just a couple of weeks ago. Of course, I was well aware that this was neither the place nor the time for such hanky-panky, but you know how the teenage libido works. In no time, she had my erect rod in her soft, albeit rather cold, hands. And she proceeded to take it into her warm, inviting mouth. Another outdoor, cold-weather blow job.

It was Brockington's booming voice that brought me back to reality. "O'Malley!" he yelled all the way from center field, on the other side of the hill. "Get your ass back out here!"

"Fuck!" I yelled as I pulled away from Diana, and yanked my pants back up. Fastening them in record time, I ran out into the clear just in time to see our pitcher, far off in the distance, in the middle of his windup. He was delivering a pitch to Artie Brenner, our third baseman, who would make second-team all-state at the end of the season. Brenner swung, made solid contact, and the ball arced skyward. Toward left field, of course.

The instant Brenner's bat made contact with the ball, I was already running full speed. Had I been positioned normally in left field, his blast would have gone well over my head. But I was a good two hundred feet beyond my usual position. I sprinted inward, in full damage control mode, hoping against hope that a spectacular, highlight-reel defensive play would induce everyone on hand to forget about my earlier whereabouts.

But like I said before, I have never been a speed demon. As the ball neared me, I realized that I wouldn't be able to catch it on the fly. So I pulled up, and the ball dropped in front of me ... and then skipped right past me. And kept right on bouncing. And rolling.

And so, while Brockington screamed, "O'Malley! You turd!" I reversed course, and set off in pursuit of the bouncing ball. But before I could reach it, and before it came to a complete stop, its course was intercepted.

By Diana. Shooting my "I had to take a piss" excuse all to hell.

She'd followed me right out from behind the hill. Now, there she was, in plain view of all, smiling broadly, relishing this whole situation in a manner that was beyond creepy. She raised the ball triumphantly, and then underhanded it toward me, shouting, "Here ya go, Sweetie!" Her aim wasn't very good, and I had to make a lunging grab with my bare hand to keep it from getting by me again. Then, in one smooth motion, I turned and flung the ball toward the cut-off man. The best defensive play I'd made during this entire sequence.

Normally, the shortstop takes the cut-off throw from the left fielder. But these were not normal times. It was none other than the center fielder, Brockington, who fielded my fling from afar. He'd headed in my general direction as soon as the ball was hit. Unfortunately, my throw caught him on the short hop and he fumbled it. Figuring all was lost at this point, he just stopped in his tracks and glared back at me. But, apparently, Brenner had been dogging it around the bases; he still hadn't reached third base.

"Throw the ball! You can still get him!" I shouted at Brockington.

His attempt at a throw was nothing short of hilarious. He reared back and misfired spectacularly. The ball slipped from his hand, bounced off his heel, and rolled back harmlessly toward me. I'd continued running forward, and by now, I was stationed less than twenty feet behind Brockington. He turned and, clenching his teeth, spat out, "Pick. Up. The. Fucking. Ball." I just shrugged my shoulders. It didn't matter now; Brenner had already circled the bases.

The funniest part of all this? The coach made Brenner go back to second base. You know, spectator interference, ground-rule double. Thus, I'd gotten further with Diana behind the large dirt mound (third base) than Brenner had gotten on his long hit (second base). I wondered if Coach felt sorry for me, but the icy glare I got from him indicated otherwise.