Chapter 3

Spring Training ended on a high note for Brock, the Dodgers really didn't have any other options so he went north with the team to Los Angeles.

He had hit .310 over the last 11 games – enough to raise his average for Spring Training to a robust .218. He also had gone eight games in a row without an error. Still, he knew if the Dodgers had a choice he would be back in Class AAA.

He had watched the late March cuts with considerable trepidation. He doubted any front-line infielders would be released in the waning days of Spring Training but the way he played earlier in March it wouldn't have taken a front-line player to replace him. Just about anyone could have performed as adequately.

The manager, Jim LaCross, wasn't down on Brock, though. He was of the opinion that as soon as Brock got his feet under him he would be fine. The last few days in Arizona seemed to prove that point.

Still, when the Dodgers opened their season in Houston, Brock was batting eighth in the lineup.

But at least he was in the lineup.

In Southern Florida, Chastity was doing her best to keep up with the Dodgers games. She could listen to the first few innings but then it was time for lights out. The fact that Arizona was two hours behind Florida was a constant thorn in her side. She knew it would be worse when Brock was in L.A. – a full three hours behind. The games would no more than get started before the coach would call for the 11 p.m. lights out.

It was a frustrating time for her and she was growing more disillusioned by the day at being 3,000 miles away from the first guy she could truly say she loved.

To make matters worse, she found that she and Brock had almost opposite schedules – particularly with the time difference. Chastity had time before morning practice – but Brock was still asleep at five a.m. on the West Coast – and after dinner – when Brock was expected to be at the ballpark for early batting practice.

The pair had managed only a few brief conversations – and a litany of voice mails – since Brock's season began.

But still she was too close to her dream of winning an NCAA title, an Olympic gold medal and a World Cup title – just as her idol had done in the 1990s. Of course her idol had also managed a successful marriage to a Major League Baseball player.

Brock's second trip to Los Angeles came after a 10-day road trip to Houston, Arizona and Colorado to start the season. Despite his agent's directions he got lost several times on the way to his new home in the Beverly Glen neighborhood of Los Angeles – or rather the home owned by the man he'd been traded for. When Brock pulled up in front of the place he was certain he had the wrong address – again.

Brock knew little about the personal life of the pitcher the Dodgers gave up for him but he realized that front-line pitchers must make a hell of a lot more money than rookie middle infielders. The place was enormous and Brock immediately wondered if he could afford it.

He called his agent before he even went inside.

"Mr. Balsam, it's Brock Miller, from Los Angeles," he said into the phone.

Stan Balsam chuckled inwardly. He found it amusing that Brock always introduced himself. His management group handled more than 50 athletes but Stan made sure he knew each of them individually. Still, the young man on the phone was one of his favorites – if for no other reason than he didn't act as arrogant and self-important as most of his other clients.

"It hate to bother you, Mr. Balsam and I don't want you to think I'm ungrateful, but I'm not certain I can afford to live in the house you've arranged for me," Brock said.

Now Stan's inward chuckle became a full-fledged laugh.

"Brock, it's fine," he said. "The guy who went to Cleveland wants to keep the house but he doesn't want it empty. He's one of my clients too, so he's cutting you a break on it. He knows what it's like for a rookie. I mean, he knows that some people tend to toss money around when they first get it.

"He's only charging you a thousand a month for it."

"Sir, that's almost what I was paying for a two bedroom apartment in Buffalo," Brock told him. "When you talk to him again, please let him I appreciate what he's done. It was really nice of him."

"I'll do that, Brock," Stan told him. "How are things going out there? You seem to be picking up now that you've had a chance to get acclimated."

"I guess," Brock said. "It's a different environment than the Indians organization. That's for sure."

"J.C. told me the exact same thing," Stan said with a chuckle. "He thinks he's died and gone to heaven with the Indians. He said the first day he was in Cleveland he started for the stadium a full three hours ahead of schedule so he'd be able to fight traffic and get the park. It took him 20 minutes to get there. He's a lot like you, Brock. He doesn't take things for granted. Maybe this winter we can all go fishing. I know you love it and so does J.C."

"I think that would nice," Brock replied. "I'm not sure of my winter schedule yet so I can't commit but I'll certainly try."

"How is Miss Durant doing?" Stan asked.

Brock felt his face turn red.

"OK, I think," he replied. "It's hard for us to keep in touch. We mostly just text or e-mail each other."

"Do you have a lot of people coming for the game tonight?"

"No, sir," Brock replied sadly. "No one could make it across to see me play."

He had called them all and asked them to come to the game. He had hoped they would make it to Houston for his first non-September game. Brock had spent a month on the Indians roster as a late-season call-up when the rosters expanded but had appeared in only a handful of games. The manager had explained that they already knew what he could do and the team was interested in looking at some of the other players.

Brock, again, understood the view but it didn't make sitting on the bench any more palatable.

Each of his friends couldn't find a way to rearrange her schedule to see him play. It was a sore spot for Brock.

Brock had taken three days away from winter ball – and paid a fine and sat through a two-game benching – to see Jen receive an mathematics award in Atlanta.

He had cut classes to drive to Tennessee and help Mel set up her law office. He had sat through a thorough interview with Tara so she could have something tangible to use as her introduction into television along with her resume.

He had made it to Leslie's for the holidays even when it didn't fit into what he wanted to do or even needed to do.

And he saved Susan's life a lifetime ago.

He thought someone, anyone, might be able to find the time to join in his special day.

But they couldn't. Jen was in the final weeks of preparation for defending her master's thesis. Mel had a trial date nearing and couldn't take time away. Tara was working as a weekend anchor and in the midst of starting her own morning talk show. Susan told him that she had duties and responsibilities that precluded her from taking time away to drive to Los Angeles or to fly to Houston. Even Leslie and Erin were too busy with their schedules to find time.

Each called him the next morning to see how it went. But none of them were there. None of them would see him in Los Angeles either.

Brock was resigned to the fact his friends' accomplishment meant more to him than his accomplishments did to them.

Brock had taken batting practice thousands of times from Little League but nothing like this.

There were a few people who arrived early and they seemed scattered around the stadium. But Brock was certain they were all watching him.

He spent his free moments scanning the crowd for familiar faces but of course he saw none. Every face was just a stranger in a strange place. It further enforced Brock's feeling of isolation.

As he walked toward the dugout to grab his glove an hour before the game, he finally saw someone he recognized. Brock stopped in his tracks and watched the man make his way to his seat. The man saw Brock was looking at him and gave him a broad smile.

Sam Van Landingham was impossible to miss. He was a mountain of a man. Even if he weren't, the smile couldn't be overlooked. Brock couldn't keep a tear from forming as he grabbed his glove and took his position.

It was somewhere during the second rotation when he noticed someone else making her way slowly down the aisle. She was loaded down with beer and nachos and she was watching her step so she didn't notice Brock's apt attention.

But Brock couldn't pull his attention from her even enough to focus on his next grounder. The ball skipped off the heel of his glove and bounced into the outfield.

The coach with the fungo shook his head and drilled another Brock's way. Brock fielded it cleanly this time and flipped a toss to first base on his way off the field.

He saw Meredith Van Landingham laughing happily at her father's side. Brock stopped short of the dugout and tried to catch her attention but Merie didn't look up. Sam saw what Brock was doing and tapped her daughter on the shoulder and pointed to the field.

She looked up and saw Brock standing at the steps. Then she blushed, blew him a kiss and looked away as Brock was hustled down the steps by his manager's voice.

There was no way Brock would try to navigate his way back to his house after dark so he had taken a car service into the city. He eased out of the player's entrance and he expected to see Sam and Merie waiting to talk to him. But the only people there were the usual group of autograph seekers and baseball groupies.

He shook his head and accepted the offer of one of the starting outfielders to share a ride. They lived about a mile from the other.

"Not a bad home opener, Rook," the man told him.

Brock was the lone first-year player on the Dodgers' roster. Thus, his nickname was Rook. At least the only nickname he could share in mixed company. Baseball was no different than any other sport but the "initiation rituals" were a little more complex.

For the entire opening road trip, he had carried the luggage of his double-play partner – a 10-year veteran from Latin America. One of the veterans had casually mentioned that the dress-up game would wait until summer when they had a few more targets – other rookies called up to fill in for injuries or because their performance warranted it.

"You looked nervous at the start," Al Perez continued. "It's the same game you've always played."

"Same game, different venue," Brock replied. "By the seventh inning, it was like being at a minor league game. I've always heard the Dodgers crowd arrives late and leaves early but I didn't really get the full impact until today."

Perez was one of the players who had taken Brock under his wing – something Brock dearly appreciated. The older player, in his late 20s, had pulled Brock aside during Spring Training to make sure he understood the dangers of late nights and missing curfew. He had wanted to ensure that Brock avoided the pitfalls that so many young players fell into.

The man had done the same on the plane back from Denver. Perez pointed out some of the issues that young players find with the L.A. nightlife and the personalities that attach themselves to the city's pro sports teams.

Brock was fairly well grounded as a person but he knew it would be easy to get his head turned. He chuckled to himself. Luckily he had Chas and the rest of his friends to keep his ego from swelling.

"Did you get the chance to check out J.C.'s house much?" Perez asked as they wound their way through the hills surrounding the suburbs.

"A little," Brock answered. "It's huge. Good God, I'm going to have to carry a map with me to make sure I don't get lost in there. I'll keep my cell with me and call you if I need rescuing."

Al Perez had grown up in New York City. His family didn't have much money but they had love in no short supply. He lived in a tenement with his brothers and his mom and dad. He was almost 20 years old before he had a bedroom to himself.

"It's different here than in New York where I grew up," Perez told Brock. "New York is fast paced but nowhere near out here. The thing about New York is that people are mostly genuine – even if they're just genuine assholes. Here, there seems to be something fake about almost everyone you meet. You're a single guy so you're really going to have to watch out. For a lot of women here you're a meal ticket. One of the reasons J.C. got shipped out was the fact he really never adapted to L.A. He is a hell of pitcher but he was always a little, I guess, soft. He couldn't say no to any pretty face or any hard-luck story.

"He's a small-town guy and he was taught to help out your neighbor. Here, you can't do that. Your neighbor is likely out for something more from you than what you think."

Perez paused for a few moments.

"Your neighborhood is particularly that way," he advised. "I know you're a small-town guy too. So you need to watch. Where you live is nice. But it is far from the most affluent area in the city. The people who live there are either on their way down from the heights of fame or on their way up. The ones on the way down know that a sure way to get back up is to take advantage of someone headed that way. The ones on the way up usually have figured out that latching on to another rising star doubles their chance of making it there."

"At least there is a privacy fence," Brock said. "Al, I've been through a lot in my life. I like to think that my outlook is a little different than most of these people."

"That's the other thing, Brock," Perez said direly. "Every person out that way will know all about you in the next day or two if they don't already. Gossip in this town travels at the speed of light. I don't expect you to hide in your back yard."

Perez smiled warmly.

"My mom sent my aunt out here to live with me when I was first called up," he said as he shook his head. "I've been here almost 10 years, Rook. I was 19 years old when I came up the first time. My whole family came out to see me play and my aunt, well, my great-aunt really, stayed to watch out for me. Talk about embarrassing."

Brock could imagine Leslie Miles showing up at his house to make sure he was fed and clean. He couldn't help the small smile that creased his lips.

"My friends moved to Carolina with me," Brock said with a laugh. "I didn't even get to go to college by myself. We shared an apartment and one of their Moms was the den mother. I couldn't even sneak a beer."

Perez laughed heartily.

"So you expect another den mother arrival, do you?" he said.

"Not this time," Brock told him. "It might be nice, though. I've lived alone for most of the last 10 years. The three years at Duke was the only time I've had someone else in the house with me. Unless you count my last winter in Buffalo."

Perez jokingly called Brock by another player's name.

"I can only hope," Brock said. "It's only been a couple of months but I honestly can't figure out how that worked for him. We were just really getting to know the other and suddenly it will be October or November before I see her again. Maybe I should see if the front office can give him a call to see how they manage it. He's in Minnesota this year, right?"

Perez nodded.

"I think a big part is the fact that they were older," Perez told him. "I think they both were in their 30s before they got together. I don't want to sound like I'm lecturing you but life is a lot different at 30 then it is at 23. It might be harder for you and your girl to make it go. Priorities tend to change as you get older."

Brock nodded sadly.

"You know, I'm happy to be doing this for a living," Brock said. "But it's not something that I ever planned to do. It's not even something I thought much of doing. I mean, I had all the normal dreams of stardom as a kid. I dreamed about hitting the game-winning jumper or hitting a home run in the World Series. But, well, most of those dreams ended far earlier than they do for most kids."

"I heard about all that," Perez said. "That's some messed-up stuff."

He sat a little forward in the seat.

"You're from out here, aren't you?" he asked. "I mean, you grew up near here."

"Near here but a world away," Brock answered. "I was born about 100 miles northeast of here. I went to high school about 400 miles north. My den mother and another of my friend's moms still live up there."

Perez nodded as the taxi pulled up in front of Brock's rented house.

"If you decide you want to hit some of the hot spots or something, call me," Perez offered. "My wife would love a night on the town or two."

Perez leaned to speak out the window.

"My wife, you know, she and my kids are my world," he said. "She likes you and she'll thump me if I let something happen to you. So call if you need me – or if you get lost in your house."

Brock felt a little better about life in L.A. as he watched the taxi pull away.

Once ensconced in his far-too-luxurious home, Brock finally had a moment ponder the Van Landinghams.

A huge part of him was relieved to see Merie walking down the stadium aisle. The smile and wave she gave him took away worries that he didn't even know he carried. At least she was doing well.

He sat down at his computer and sent Sam a simple message.

"I can't tell you how nice it was to see you tonight," he wrote. "I'm glad you and Merie could make it. It meant a lot to me – even if you were just there for the game. Tell Merie I said hi and I hope she is OK."

Then he crafted an e-mail to the rest of the crew telling them that there had been a confirmed Merie sighting.

Meredith Van Landingham was the lone unsettled portion of Brock's youth. The situation in Lewis County had been resolved to his satisfaction and even the sentence that Leah Van Landingham received for her actions was sufficient, in Brock's eyes at least.

Leah was serving the sixth year of a 25-years-to-life sentence for the kidnapping and felonious assault of her younger sister. As a third-time violent felon, it would likely be another 30 years before she was even considered for parole.

But Merie had simply disappeared from his life as easily as she had entered it. Brock had always found it troubling that it seemed so easy for her to simply discard him and the friendship they had developed.

At Leslie's insistence – backed firmly by Lynn Collingwood, his attorney – Brock had finally agreed to seek mental health counseling to try to get past some of the residual anger and distrust his young life had left him with. It was a lesson in futility for Brock. He felt he deserved to hold on to the anger and pain. He also still believed that the majority of people were not worthy of his trust.

Two years of counseling didn't change that and he doubted anything else would either.

That is why his relationship with Chas had thrown him for a loop. In many ways it was reminiscent of how quickly he had allowed a 15-year-old girl to enter his life so suddenly – and to take control of it so thoroughly.

With that thought in his mind, Brock completed his nightly routine as he normally did: he sent off an e-mail to Chas then went to bed.