Plunking Reggie Jackson Page 7

  “I guess that’s cool.”

  “Not really. It gives him too much time around the house. About the only thing he ever does is play golf.” The left side of her arm was making full contact against him.

  From time to time, when she let her hand fall briefly on his thigh, the swelling in his groin caused him to shift his hips carefully. He was wearing his blue jeans, but Bree had on a pair of low-slung, hip-hugging pink pants and a matching string halter top. On her feet were white patent leather thong sandals. It didn’t surprise Coley when she tilted the rearview mirror so she could give her hair a close inspection.

  “You changed your do,” Coley observed.

  “It’s a teased ponytail. It’s the first time I ever tried it. Do you like it?”

  He wasn’t sure if he liked it or not, but he did enjoy the generous side view of her tits that the skimpy halter top allowed. He had to remind himself to watch the traffic. “It’s real nice, Bree.”

  She spoke to the mirror: “It’s kind of hard to do, but it’s one of the best ponytails there is for girls who don’t have real long hair. You have to spritz some hair spray on your roots, and then work it back with a teasing comb.”

  It was more hair-care detail than Coley needed. “It looks real nice,” he said again.

  “You like it, don’t you?”

  “I like it.”

  “I’m going to let my hair grow real long so I can do it in a French twist down the back. You can even make a croissant-shaped tail that way.”

  They were in the parking lot at Knight’s Action by this time and out of the car. Bree was childlike and spirited on the miniature golf course. She jumped for joy when she made a putt, but hopped her frustration up and down when she missed. She disregarded her hair even when it started coming loose at its barrette, and she had so much flesh on display, Coley could only think how much he ached to get her in the sack.

  They stopped at the concession building briefly for a soft drink. As soon as they left, they found themselves headed in the direction of the batting cages. “I feel like a few swings,” Coley told her. “You wanta hit a few?”

  “I don’t know anything about hitting baseballs.”

  “There’s one machine that has real slow pitches. Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure. You can hit balls if you want.”

  “Just a few swings,” he said.

  “I’ll just watch while I finish my Coke,” Bree said. She followed him toward the cages, fussing with her hair again.

  Most of the cages were in use, but one near the end was available. Had he been by himself or with Rico, he would have selected the 90 mph option; but under these conditions, with Bree watching, he decided to make a better impression. Coley chose the medium mode, which brought the pitch at about 78 mph, 80 at the most.

  He put in two dollars’ worth of quarters, but it took several swings before he felt relaxed. After that he felt comfortable; he began making solid contact and driving the ball consistently.

  They walked hand in hand past the small swimming pool where the Disney figures were positioned among some stacked vinyl recliners. The water recreational facilities wouldn’t be open for several weeks yet. “I didn’t know you were such a good hitter,” said Bree.

  “It’s not a big deal to hit against a pitching machine,” Coley replied. He was glad she was impressed, though. “A pitching machine is so consistent there’s no stress when you hit against it.”

  “But you really know how to clobber that ball. I thought you were just a pitcher.”

  “I used to be a good hitter. I could be again if I ever worked at it, but I concentrate on pitching about ninety percent of the time.”

  “Are you going to be in the big leagues?”

  It was naive the way she asked the question. “I’d like to be; I guess I’ve got a chance. It’s what my old man wants, that’s for sure.”

  “Does he, like, put pressure on you?”

  “You could call it that. If he was here and he saw me hitting in the cage, he’d want to know if I learned anything about pitching. When it comes to baseball, there’s no such thing as just doing it for fun.”

  They were following the path that rounded the water slide. Bree changed the subject. “I have to get a new suit for summer.”

  “You mean a swimsuit?”

  “Yeah. I saw this string bikini at Kohl’s last week. It was kind of turquoise.”

  “You’d have the guts to wear it?”

  Bree tossed her head before she said, “Why not? I look good in bikinis.”

  Coley didn’t doubt it. “I’m sure you do. That’s not what I meant.”

  “I’d probably have to get a bikini wax, though.”

  “Oh, God.”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Because it’s nuts what girls will do to their own body, just for the sake of fashion.”

  “I don’t think it is. I mean, if you’re going to, like, get your legs waxed, it’s no big deal to have a bikini wax, too.”

  “Whatever.” Coley didn’t feel like arguing, and he wasn’t sure how he’d hold up his end of a conversation about Bree’s pubes. “What about your father?” he asked her.

  “You mean Burns. He’s not my father, he’s my stepfather. What about him?”

  “Okay, what’s he like?”

  “Why are you asking me this?”

  “You asked me about my old man, so I thought maybe I’d ask about yours. I think it’s called conversation.”

  “I hate him,” said Bree. She turned away when she said it.

  “Hate? Isn’t that, like, pretty strong? Why do you hate him?”

  “I told you, you’re not supposed to ask me so many questions.”

  “That’s just one question, for Christ’s sake.”

  But she was running by this time, past the smaller water slide, across the abbreviated boardwalk that fronted the bumper boat area, and along the lakeside path where the paddleboats were moored. The light was dim there, but Coley could still see her. Her running form was good, but she looked so small from this distance. Perplexed, he followed her. Walking, though, not running.

  She was headed for the picnic pavilion, which was deserted. Since she hadn’t been to Knight’s Action Park before, Coley wondered how she knew where she was going. If, indeed, she did.

  Bree was turning herself in circles by hugging one of the iron poles that supported the roof, like a child swinging on a playground apparatus. It was dark in the pavilion; some of the picnic tables, stacked on end like dominoes, made a partial shield against the pale light that might have reached them from the parking lot.

  She came near to him as soon as Coley took a seat on the edge of one of the tables that were level. She planted several brief, playful kisses on his chin and eyes. Then she moved her mouth on his and thrust her tongue inside.

  She astonished him. Who is she? he wondered while he swallowed as much of her active tongue as he could. “I hear she’s hot,” Rico had reported. When they broke the seal, he asked her, “I thought you said you didn’t like to mess around.”

  “I have my moments,” she said. “I have to be sure.”

  “You have to be sure of what?”

  “I mean, I have to be sure of you.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Maybe not now, but maybe you will.” She was looking straight into his eyes. “You’re so big, aren’t you?”

  “What do you mean, ‘so big’?”

  “I mean, I can hardly get my arms clear around you.” Bree was running her fingertips slowly down both sides of his face. Coley shivered slightly, not so much from the cool night air as with desire. He pulled her close roughly to kiss her again. He was aroused and he wanted her. His fingers were just below her shoulder blades, where the string of her halter top made a horizontal path across her lean rib cage. He was tentative, as all this was happening faster than he had expected. He untied the string slowly, waiting for the resistance that never came.

  Bree s
tepped back from him again, this time about two feet. Her top, even though loosed from its bottom anchor, still hung to cover most of her chest. While his large hands rested on her waist, she reached behind her neck to untie the bow at the top. Looking him straight in the eye, and smiling, she asked him, “Is this what you want?” She let the halter top drop. It landed on his knees.

  Bree was using her folded arms to conceal her freed-up breasts. “You like?” she asked him.

  “Who wouldn’t?” he asked her back. Coley was staring at her dumbly, with a dry mouth. Even though he was experienced with girls, he had never been gifted with a gesture this bold or seductive. You would only expect it from movies or television shows, if you would expect it at all.

  She held him tight around the neck while his fingers worked the slick flesh of her naked back. He longed for a better look at her breasts; the modesty of her body language had permitted only the briefest view of their shape and definition, and only then in the poorest light. But each time he tried to separate himself, she simply clamped him tighter, giggling all the while.

  “I want to look,” he whispered. He was letting his tongue caress her earlobe.

  “Do you?”

  “Yeah, I need to see.”

  “You don’t want much, do you?” she teased. Her grip was still tight. Coley was surprised her thin arms could generate so much strength. He could have forced them apart, but no way would that be cool.

  He used his teeth to tug gently at her earlobe. “I don’t have a condom,” he said.

  This remark only provoked her to more giggling. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” she whispered. “This is as far as we go.”

  “Oh, man, you serious?” He felt the keen edge of frustration and disappointment. He was so hard his too-tight blue jeans were cramping him. He wanted her, and he wanted her now.

  “There’ll be other nights,” she explained.

  “You never can tell. There are no guarantees in life.”

  “True enough.” She released her grip to step back, but she kept her arms folded across her chest. “I think we’d better go.”

  Was her smile a promise of some kind, or merely simple mischief? “Let’s stay a little longer, Bree.”

  “It’s after ten thirty.”

  “We won’t be late even if we stay a little longer.” The curfew imposed by her stepfather was unfamiliar and frustrating. Her folded arms were creating a lot of pushed-up cleavage but obstructing the view and access he craved.

  “I’m serious, though,” she said. “We have to.”

  “We don’t really.”

  “I said we do.” She wasn’t smiling anymore. She turned away and wriggled back into the halter top with her back turned. She tied the bows swiftly. “I thought you didn’t like to mess around,” said Coley.

  “You said that before. I told you I have my moments.”

  “You’re not a tease, are you?”

  “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean by that.” Now she was facing him again. “Let’s just say I’m trying to give you something to look forward to,” she said with a provocative smile.

  The week he was intimate with Bree for the first time was also the week Coley pitched the perfect game. Well, almost; it was perfect for the length of time he pitched.

  They made love on his bed, after practice, when the house was empty. Bree’s lean body might have suggested adolescence, but there was nothing juvenile about her manner of participation in the sex act. She was as focused and fearless in the pursuit of her passion as any grown woman. Since she was only fifteen, Coley wanted to believe in her innocence, but it wouldn’t be easy. In the heat of the moment he didn’t even remember to use a condom.

  The game against Urbana, which came two days later, was his best of the year. He was grooved from the first pitch, in the warm spring air. It didn’t seem likely that the passion he had explored with Bree could be linked to this overpowering performance on the mound, and yet somehow it did. It was a day when he was a man among boys, and there was something about his relationship with her that made him feel like a man.

  Coley struck out the side in the first and third innings. He might have done the same in the fourth but for a feeble pop-up to deep short.

  His fastball, which was clocked consistently at 92 and 93 mph on his father’s JUGS gun, and a time or two at 94, had movement and location. He threw his slider now and again not because he needed it to get people out, but simply to work on spotting it in the strike zone. The Urbana batters were completely overmatched; when they got swings at all, they were usually the feeble kind. He was ahead in the count so consistently that he was almost never in danger of walking anyone.

  At the end of five innings Coley knew he was pitching a perfect game. So did Coach Mason, as well as his teammates. Everyone followed the time-honored rule of not talking about it; nobody wanted to cast a jinx.

  Coley could see Bree sitting in the bleachers, not too far from where his parents were located. He knew there were major-league scouts as well, but his indifference to them helped establish a pressure-free condition. He poured live fastballs over the corner with so little effort he felt like he was ready to take on the Atlanta Braves. He couldn’t remember being zoned like this before; it was practically euphoric. Each batter might just as well have been the motionless statue of Reggie Jackson in the backyard. Paralyzed. Just bodies with bats, taking up space until it was their turn to drag on back to the bench.

  But then in the top of the seventh, with his team leading 6–0, it happened. Just two outs away from finishing his masterpiece. An Urbana hitter topped a lame grounder to the right of Ricky Huff, the first baseman. Coley needed to cover first, but he was too slow to react. When he did remember, he ran fast, but he had to make a beeline straight at the bag instead of the preferred J route.

  He meant to come down with his foot on the base, but Huff’s throw was enough behind him to throw him off stride. When he reached back for the ball, he lost his rhythm and stumbled over the bag. He rolled his ankle severely on the edge of the hard base and somewhat forward, just before he fell into the dirt in foul territory.

  He couldn’t recall some crucial details, like did he hold the ball and did he beat the runner to first? But he knew right away, the way he had snapped himself, that the injury was severe. The knowledge came first, before the pain. It came before the state of shock and the nausea. To have the knowledge didn’t seem fair somehow—wouldn’t the pain itself be enough suffering? He used his elbows to try to drag himself in the direction of the team bench.

  He couldn’t go far, though. By the time the furious pain in his ankle began its radiating path throughout other parts of his body, he was on his back. Blocking out the sky were the faces of his teammates, Coach Mason, and Odoms, the trainer on loan from the university. Coley wished they would all vanish so he could just throw up; the nausea came right in tandem with the cold sweats.

  Odoms was breaking open his case to get an ice pack. While he wrapped it gingerly around the ankle (it was the right one) with a fresh ACE bandage, Coley closed his eyes. He tried taking deep, regular breaths, but they didn’t come easy. He opened his eyes to discover that the faces of his parents had been added to the group. His father worked his jaw but didn’t speak. Coley knew why: He wanted to know the extent of the injury before any such information was available. His concern about the pain and discomfort would come after.

  “Get me that blanket,” he heard Coach Mason say.

  “Don’t move, man,” he heard Rico say. “Just lay still.”

  Then Jamie Quintero said, “Yeah. Just lay still.”

  Coach repeated himself, “Where the hell’s the blanket? I said somebody get me that blanket.”

  The words his mother spoke were, “Has anyone called an ambulance?”

  Coley had to get x-rayed at the hospital before any plan of treatment was considered. By the time he was in the X-ray room itself, the symptoms of shock and nausea were diminishing. There wasn’t much solace from this
development, however. It only gave him room to concentrate on the acute pain in the ankle, which seemed to intensify with each passing minute.

  The ER physician was a woman named Sloan. She removed the ice pack from Coley’s elevated ankle so she could begin to probe the swollen damage with her fingertips. The pain was so intense a couple of times that Coley nearly cried out.

  “The good news,” Dr. Sloan explained, “is that nothing’s broken. The X rays are negative.”

  “Okay,” said Coley’s father, “what’s the bad news?”

  “The bad news is that nothing’s broken.”

  “Are you trying to be funny?”

  “Not really.” The doctor was looking at the ankle closely while speculating out loud. “It’s a major sprain, that’s for sure. It may have to be put in a cast, but it’s too soon to tell.”

  “A cast?”

  “Maybe. We can’t know that for a few days, or until this swelling goes down enough to reexamine it.”

  “Are you talking about a hard cast?” Ben Burke wanted to know. “As in plaster of paris?”

  “Maybe so, maybe fiberglass. The material’s not really an issue, but there’s internal bleeding here and ligament damage. The question is, how severe is it?”

  “I hate to butt in,” said Coley impatiently, “but this thing here hurts like hell.” He was pointing at the ankle.

  “No doubt,” said Dr. Sloan. “I’ll send some pain pills home with you.”

  “Let me get this straight,” said Dad firmly. “You’re getting ready to send him home, but you’re talking about putting his ankle in a cast?”

  “We’re talking about a lot of things,” said Dr. Sloan with a smile. She pushed her glasses up so they sat firmly on the bridge of her nose. “And most of it’s premature. That’s my point. The goal over the next forty-eight to seventy-two hours is to limit internal bleeding and reduce swelling.” She was speaking to Coley now. “You need to keep icing your ankle until it starts to feel numb, then take it off. That usually takes in the neighborhood of twenty minutes. When you feel it warming up again, repeat the process.”