The Yips Pt. 02

Bryan did not know.

"Gambling." Mitch threw his head back and guffawed. "The idiot ponied up on the Yankees. He probably paid some season ticket holder a fortune for those seats so you would have to look up and see them every time you threw to first. Fucking asshole. He's counting on your yips."

"I don't have the goddamn yips!" Bryan shouted.

But he did, and he knew it. Fuck, every baseball player knew it. The yips were like the herpes virus. They hibernated in your nervous system, patient and harmless. Until the day, for no apparent reason, they exploded into your game.

The batboy ran down the tunnel, nervous and flustered, and thrust out Bryan's batting helmet and gloves.

**********

Bryan stood near the on-deck circle, swinging KERAUNOS and pointedly not looking over at the dugout.

The Sox leadoff batter had grounded out. The guy at bat, the shortstop, watched a 3-2 pitch cross the plate. The crowd groaned, but the umpire stood and pointed at first base.

The ancient bones of Fenway trembled as the collective voices of 37 thousand and more fans screamed approval.

Bryan waited until he knew the cameras would be on him, then he raised his bat and very pointedly kissed Megan's name. Oh, yeah. Win or lose, the press would be asking about that.

He peered down at the third base coach, who flashed nonsense signs. No play on.

He walked slowly to the plate, then went through his ritual of preparation. He tapped his cleats, he tapped the plate. He leaned back, stretched his arms high, brought them down into position, and took a deep breath.

It didn't work. The acts which were supposed to calm and ground him were as dry leaves swirled and shredded by the hurricane inside. He shook with anger. His teeth clenched tight; his jaw muscles bulged.

He had never rage batted before. He had a horrible premonition of taking three wild flailing swings and retreating in humiliation. To the dugout. Under the sneer of Owen Archer.

That made him so much more furious that the catcher noticed and quickly changed the number of fingers he had dropped between his shielding thighs. He inched his mitt slowly up in the zone.

Kaplan rocked and delivered. His catcher had first called for a slider away, then abruptly switched the signal to a fastball high and tight. It wasn't what the book on Monnic suggested, but Kaplan trusted his catcher. The guy had backstopped all of his 18 wins, and this was not the situation to start overthinking.

Bryan watched the ball approach. He hadn't done his mental trick of imagining the play through a high-speed camera. He could not. He didn't have to. Fury had seized him, altered his brain chemistry. He saw the ball as a fat alabaster orb floating gently toward him. Up and in.

He wanted to stick his face out and eat the damn thing, just bite down on it. He hated that goddamn ball with the entirety of his soul, and that hate seemed to give him superhuman strength.

No sound. No motion on the earth other than the pale enlarging sphere.

Bryan swung, and the swing contained his whole being. The swing was an entity incarnate, with a family tree and a life of its own. Every one of his 185 pounds went with prejudice down the barrel of KERAUNOS to greet that fucking ball.

Then the sound turned back on. The sound of giant waves crashing against rock chased him out of the batter's box.

He ran. He reluctantly dropped his wooden friend as he raced from the batter's box. Glanced left to see how fast he would have to run. Which fielder had the ball.

But nobody was fielding this ball. Not this time. The noise battered at him like jets scrambled from a carrier under attack, the solid intense music of the home crowd pouring out their love for him.

The tiny dot of white rose up and up and up in the intense light of the outfield lamps. Moving inexorably, an ivory satellite against the pure black sky that hovered over the tall green wall. Up and up and over and gone.

**********

They attacked him as he crossed the plate and pummeled him as he dragged a crowd of teammates to the dugout. He was so full of joy he didn't even think about Lauren and Archer sitting yards away. He hugged and high-fived everyone in the dugout, drank some water, stuck fresh bubble gum in his mouth, then picked up his glove and tried to refocus on defense as he watched Mitch hit a long fly out and the next batter ground to third.

Back onto the field he ran. The park was buzzing, with the Sox up by two runs and the starter cruising. The first Yankee batter lined out to short. The second man hit a laser beam one hopper to Bryan's right.

He turned and snagged it, then hesitated for such a short time that probably nobody noticed or would ever notice without replaying it several times.

Bryan had just come down from the ecstasy of slugging. All of a sudden, the insidious doubts those happy feelings had stiff-armed away flooded back. He shouted - one sharp syllable - to the shortstop, who had also run at the ball. The shortstop had his eyes on Bryan.

Bryan flipped the ball out of his glove on a backhand to the shortstop, who pegged it to Mitch. The runner was out by five strides.

Fenway roared, convinced that they had just witnessed a heady, quick thinking defensive play. The play-by-play guys and the color guys from the four broadcasts present were busy agreeing that it was brilliant. The Spanish feed shouted that it was muy bien.

Simple analysis: The second baseman got to the ball in plenty of time but was going in the direction opposite from where the throw needed to go. So he got the ball to the player who was facing and moving toward first.

Bryan knew it was all a sham. He could have turned and thrown. He'd done it thousands of times. But in that instant of hesitation his fear of the yips had changed his decision. It wasn't a smart play. It was a stupid play. The chances of his soft exchange with the shortstop going wrong were much greater than if he had just kept the ball and made the play himself.

He kicked the dirt, disgusted by his decision.

He made the mistake of looking at the dugout and saw Archer actually grinning at him. The fucker knew Bryan was struggling with the yips. Then the asshole reached over and gathered Lauren to him.

Bryan saw red. Literally - his eyes filled with red. He had come across that as a metaphor somewhere, maybe in one of the Plinys' writings, but to experience it for real was disconcerting. Terrifying. He had to look down at his spikes, rest his hands on his knees, to get the throbbing blood in his vision to relent. He did note that Lauren seemed uncooperative, tugging herself back against Archer's grasp.

She was here under duress, it appeared to him, but she was here nonetheless. Under duress and under a spell. One initiated by words she had no doubt repeated to her young self over and over until the repletion gave them magical presence. A girl's promise that had to be fulfilled by the woman.

Bryan wished he had some immediate magic of his own. A pill, a silver bullet. Some wizard skill made manifest to free her from the chains of this entrancement. A favor in return for all the good and kind things she had done for him. He could not cure her affliction, he knew now, but just to get her released tonight....

The umpire called time to replenish his supply of new balls and brush home. Bryan took the opportunity to stare into the night sky and take some deep breaths.

The next Yankee batter stepped to the plate and presented himself for combat. Bryan took his place again. A step towards first, as this guy was a right-handed contact hitter with a natural inside-out swing that placed most of his infield balls to the right side of the infield.

The batter swung and missed. He took a pitch for a ball. The catcher signaled for a sinking fastball down, and Bryan got on his toes. This was a prime situation for a grounder.

It truly was. The pitcher delivered a perfect hard sinker. The batter swung with an efficient compact swing, but was an inch too high. The ball went straight down into the toe of his left shoe and skittered quickly out toward Bryan.

Dead ball.

The umpire yelled "Dead Ball!" and raised both arms as the batter hopped around on his uninjured foot making guttural pain noises.

The defense relaxed.

Not Bryan.

He took three running steps to the rolling baseball, bent over, and snatched it up with his bare hand.

Play until the play is over. He had learned that truism from a young age. So what if the whole park saw that the ball was dead? Bryan only saw a ball coming into his area of responsibility. Bryan's instincts were to field the ball as if the runner were hurtling toward first.

He held the ball firmly in his hand as he straightened up and directed his eyes to first base.

Mitch was off the bag, his mitt down, not expecting a throw.

Bryan glanced behind first, into the seats. Archer was leaning down over Lauren, speaking something, that smirk on his face.

Bryan drew back his arm.

Lauren met his gaze. Still his wife, once his friend, once his lover. They would have had children and grown old together if not for this horrendous confluence of events. He might never have known about those deep fears that weakened her inside. Her eyes were filled with regret.

He had a vision of a scrawny, dirty, unhappy little girl sitting on hard-packed dirt in the uncaring Texas sun.

Bryan stepped towards his target.

Yes, she had promised him. They had taken vows to each other. But she had a more fundamental set of vows that she had made to herself long before they ever met. Whatever anger he felt toward her had subsided. Leaving only pity for her and sorrow for what she had given up.

He whipped his arm forward, his eye fixed on a spot.

Hey, everyone knew he had the fucking yips. So when his totally unnecessary but excusable throw went wide and high, sailing nowhere near first base, that was not unexpected.

The ball rocketed true and flat and hit within a quarter of an inch of where Bryan had aimed.

A baseball traveling as hard as a professional like Bryan could throw possessed perhaps 150 Joules of kinetic energy. The whole of this energy was transferred in a microsecond to a small area near Owen Archer's left temple.

The sound was a horrible splat like a pumpkin dropped from a rooftop onto concrete. The park was temporarily lulled after the dead ball call, so 35,000 plus people clearly heard the impact and winced as one.

**********

The Sox gathered on the mound during the delay.

The team of emergency room doctors and nurses from Beth Israel, present at the park every game, hustled down to the victim and worked on the injury. They laid the man down as best they could on the ancient green cement steps and obtained vitals, examined his head and face, applied pressure, taped on a temporary bandage.

This all took almost a half hour. Bryan saw Lauren standing, not exactly over Archer, not exactly away from him. She had her hands over her mouth in horror at what she had just witnessed.

When the medical team had her boyfriend strapped into a gurney and began to haul him to the exit, she stood rooted for a while, seemingly unable to decide whether to go or to stay. Bryan caught her looking out at him, but then he got distracted into a conversation between the catcher and the pitcher about how they wanted to work to the next three batters. After a few minutes, he glanced over and saw that she was gone.

Catillo approached, but Bryan just smiled a smile unconcerned and placid and confident. His coach frowned, thinking, then shook his head and returned to the dugout without suggesting a change.

The fans had begun the old Fenway staple, the Yankees Suck chant. It had of course been there throughout the game, a constant undertone to the cheers, propagated by pockets of the traditionally-minded. The refrain increased in volume during the lull, overtaking the programmed music and the season highlight reel that had begun to play on the big screen.

Then some fragment of those attending got the word about who was being taken to an ambulance, because the chorus of Yankees Suck! Yankees Suck! gradually morphed and became:

Yankees Suck! Jets Suck Too!

Bryan felt a right bastard, because he grinned like a sock monkey. He put out his arms like he was catching one of the beach balls being whacked about in the bleachers and spun around in a full circle.

These fans were such demanding unyielding unforgiving assholes. They were verbally kicking the guy when he was literally down. He adored them all, each and every one, pink hats and grizzled Southie lottery ticket scratchers, scientists, carpenters, housewives from the western suburbs, Maniacs down on a bus, college kids in the bleachers.... They were his tribe.

He loved this city.

**********

She was sitting in the porch glider when he finally got home. He didn't even want to know what time it was. He sat down and put an arm around her. She was shivering.

"Your cologne smells like champagne," Mel said.

"Funny thing about--"

He never got to finish the thought as a marvelous redhead thrust her tongue deep in his mouth.

When the game had resumed, the Yankees played like they possessed the secret to victory, and it was located over on the right side of the Red Sox infield. They went out of their way to pull balls at Bryan, but it did not work out for them.

He smoothly snagged the first two grounders and burned them into Mitch's glove. Then they tried pushing bunts at him, which only resulted in routine outs and a couple of sports segment highlight efforts on Bryan's part, also outs. Wherever dark hole the yips had crawled out of, they had slinked back in.

By the time it sank in to everyone in the park that Bryan was this evening what he had been his whole career -- an elite infielder -- it was too late. The Red Sox setup man and the closer had been money for the last month, and they continued to roll.

The visitors went with a whimper as Fenway got louder and louder and the air ripped in a roaring ovation as if a Class 5 tornado was sucking them all into the sky.

The night ended with a group dogpile on the mound and champagne cologne in the clubhouse.

**********

Bryan came up for air and pulled out his cell.

She answered on the first tone.

"Hi, champ."

"Hi, sis. I just called to say thank you."

"She's there, isn't she?"

"Witch sense?"

"Yep. And sister sense. Bye.... And Bryan? You are welcome."

He turned to Melody. "Brie says hello."

Melody ran her fingers through his hair. "I saw the throw. You're not worried?"

"Nope. Everyone knows I had the yips. I had no idea where that ball was going when it left my hand."

She frowned. "With an attitude like that, you are going to need permanent legal representation."

**********

EPILOGUE: THE FOLLOWING SPRING

"When do you get the ring?" The guy stood next to him at the bar, a pint of beer in his hand.

Bryan's attention was out on the dance floor. He turned and smiled at the man, who had introduced himself a few minutes before. Joe? Jim? Another of Kevin's detective buddies. Another life-long Dodgers fan.

Bryan had assumed that the crowd would be hostile. The groom's side was heavy LAPD, and the LAPD was heavy Dodgers. The bride's side was movie folk, who wore the hats and professed their love of their home team, although in Bryan's experience not as passionately as the cops.

Hostile? Monnic and his team had gone hot as a highway flare after beating the Yankees. They were boulders, rolling downhill, looking for obstacles to crush. The avalanche flattened the Twins, then squashed the Astros. By the time the Sox faced the Dodgers in the World Series, there was no doubt east of about Pasadena what the outcome was going to be.

Four games to one, and it hadn't even been that close. Luckily, the cops were fans of baseball and appreciated the way the Sox played the game. They didn't like the outcome, but they grudgingly admired how it was achieved. Hustle, speed, aggression, dirt on every uniform. Pitching, defense, and an occasional three-run homer. Most of the movie crowd had moved their minds on to the next piece of glitter and donned their Lakers caps.

"There's a ceremony on opening day. Thursday." Bryan said. "That's when we get a look at them, try them on."

They raised their glasses and watched the crowd. Most were dancing. Off to the side, Melody was deeply involved in a conversation with Kevin and his new bride. Sharon was regarding Mel as some kind of divine oracle. Kevin only had eyes for Sharon, radiant in her beaded white gown.

The guy nodded toward the floor. "Your wife?"

"Not yet."

"Kevin says that Sharon wants to go to law school all of a sudden."

"I am really not surprised."

Bryan's eye traced the exquisite curve of Melody's ass in her Fenway green dress.

Yesterday in their hotel room she had been standing nude in front of the sliding glass door, looking out into the Palm Springs sunset. Her hips swelled from her waist in a way that ignited something primeval in him. He realized that he wanted to make her pregnant. The vision of her with a rounded belly and swollen breasts filled him with an odd intoxicating sensation that he had never experienced before.

He felt dizzy. His lungs would not fill properly.

He wanted to be a father.

Then she had turned to him, full frontal, serious, glowing, the tiny fuzzy hairs on her arms and legs incandescent from the backlight of the sun. Her aura.

She smiled. And he was healed.

He remembered Brie's description of her sister as having something inside that whipped her to be her best, and he tingled. Sandpaper on his skin. He knew. The certainty came to him static-free, translated without flaw by his wizard senses.

She would be driven to be the best. The most faithful and loving wife the world had ever created.

The spirits of generations of poets could but curse their fate not to have known her.

Whoever was organizing this event corralled the unmarried women into a tight group and handed Sharon a bouquet. She turned her back on them and tossed the flowers up so high they threatened the huge chandelier in the middle of the enormous room. As the bunch fell, one hand shot up above the others, one strong hand on a long arm attached to a tall woman.

The crowd ohhed and ahhed and applauded and broke apart. Bryan looked into a gap and saw Melody facing him, cradling the blossoms. Their eyes met and a look of perfect understanding passed between them.

**********

EPILOGUE: FIVE YEARS LATER

He had really done a good job with the sign all those years ago. He had prepped the wood with a layer of primer, then lettered in black on the white, then covered the whole thing with poly. It was hardly showing any sign of weather. The translation, however, he knew was imperfect. If he had it to do again, he would modify the tense. But he would not do it again. It was a product of the moment.

"Can I put the flowers in now, Daddy?"

Bryan handed the yellow roses in their crinkly green paper to his daughter. "Here you go, Breezer. Take the paper off and make sure the stems go into the water."

The little redhead unwrapped the flowers and put them into the stone vase one by one, carefully, with the lip-biting concentration of a four-year-old.

The early morning sky was filled with puffy perfect but tiny clouds, the kind that would not provide any useful rain to southern Texas at this time of year. They didn't even provide relief from the sun. It was already in the eighties, and noon wasn't for a couple of hours yet. He felt sorry for Mel. Seven months pregnant, she was right now ensconced on a sofa in front of the air conditioner at his parents' house. She and his mother were probably combing the family tree scouting out baby names. Bryan had thought that naming the baby Ashford after her father would be acceptable. It was a cool name, didn't mean anything vulgar or embarrassing, and it was not common. But Mel decided that since they had named their daughter after her sister that the next name should come from the Monnic side.