Out of His League

CHAPTER FIVE

SHE WAS DEAD wrong about him.

His pulse throbbing in his neck, Jon yanked open his SUV door and fumbled with his key in the darkness in an attempt to start his engine. He had the key lined up, but damn it, he couldn’t turn it in the ignition easily with his right finger in a splint.

White-knight complex? Give me a break. At the moment, he couldn’t even help himself out of a paper bag.

Jon laid his head against the seat back and let the motor quietly run. Condensation covered the windows. It was a cool night after a warm day. Lizzy could probably explain the scientific reasoning behind the fog that blocked him from seeing where the hell he was. In so many ways—education-wise, her doctor status, her aloofness to sports teams—she was out of his league. Made him feel inadequate. Tossed him around like nobody else did.

He blew out a breath. He wasn’t an idiot. He was a self-aware person, smart enough to know that he’d been thrown for a loop over his cancer scare. That, and then the euphoria over learning he was cancer-free had sent him spinning, all in the course of a few hours.

He’d wanted somebody to share his excitement and relief with, somebody genuine, a person who didn’t have any skin in the game with his career, and somebody who understood what he’d been going through. He’d thought that person had been her.

Wrong. Lizzy wanted nothing to do with him, and she’d told him so from the moment he’d rung her doorbell. Maybe, for a brief time, he’d managed to change her mind. When Martinez had thrown his ninety-eight-mile-per-hour four-fingered fastball, low and in the corner, and had psyched out Bates into swinging too late, she had been hooked, and Jon had felt hope.

But then...somehow her prejudices against him had kicked in, and the moment had gone to hell. He hadn’t managed the situation right at all. He’d blown it; he’d been the one to walk out in anger.

No highs, no lows. The best fielding coach Jon had ever known had taught him that, early on during his rookie year in the minor leagues. Don’t get too far emotionally up, and don’t get too far emotionally down, the mantra meant, or you’ll ruin the game plan. If you wanted to win—at baseball and at life—then it was necessary to take everything as it came, with an even temper.

He knew what he had to do. He felt calmer now. The windows were getting clearer.

His stomach growled. He should have taken the pizza when he had the chance. Pride be damned, he was starving. Still, it wasn’t wise to go back up to Lizzy’s apartment to have her psychoanalyze him again, even if—in her defense—she was probably terrified over having him and Brandon inside her normally ordered, doctor world, and was making up theories in order to push him away.

He was not drawn to helpless women. He never had been, and everyone knew it.

He dug his phone from his pocket and scrolled the contact list to call up the number for Brooke. He would stay cool. His plan of action was clear: get your baseball life back on track.

“Patch me through to Max,” Jon said to Brooke when she answered the phone. “I want a three-way call with all of us on board.”

“What’s going on?” Max asked, his voice faint. “You’ve left me a few messages this evening.”

“Yes, I have.” Jon’s SUV windows were clear now, so he pulled the Expedition out of the lot. “I need my contract signed for next season, and I need to get going on that as soon as possible.”

“That’s...good. Brooke is sitting with me.” Max did sound weak. Why was that? “She was just about to send you a text message. Are you listening to radio sports talk?”

“Ah...no. I don’t pay attention to that stuff.”

“Jon...turn on the radio...and listen...”

“Now,” Brooke said insistently. Jon could hear the radio playing in the background. “Turn it to SPK FM.”

“Call us back in a few minutes.” Max disconnected the call.

This was not good. But Max had never steered him wrong. Jon eased up on the accelerator and slowed for a traffic light.

While the light was red, Jon took a swig of water from the bottle in his cup holder and then fumbled with the radio dial to find SPK. He would subject himself to the negativity for just one minute, and then he’d turn it off.

“...he’s a local guy. What are you ragging on the local guy for, the only pitcher who won his last two games?”

Jon almost spit out his water. That was Francis! His brother had called into the radio show. On top of everything else, this had to happen?

Jon turned the volume louder.

“...come on,” the radio host was saying. “Local or not, you can’t argue with his numbers. They’re terrible.”

Great, Jon thought. The host’s gravelly voice made him sound like a tough guy, but Jon had met him in person. He was short, overweight and wore thick glasses. In high school gym class, he likely would have been picked last, every time. Maybe Lizzy would know if there was psychology that drew guys like him to working on these sports-team criticism shows.

“Farell just did not have a good season,” the second sports host said. “I’m sorry, but you can’t spin the numbers. Overall, he was a disappointment to Boston fans this year.”

That particular host had played in the big leagues. Jon actually respected his opinion, and that comment hurt.

“But he won his last two games! You guys aren’t even considering that. It shows you don’t know anything. You don’t know what’s happening in that clubhouse,” Francis said again, spouting off, and Jon knew he had to do something, because this would not end well.

When the light turned green, he hooked a left turn and drove the mile out of his way through thickly settled neighborhoods to his father’s house—Jon’s boyhood home—where Francis still lived in a bottom-floor apartment. Jon had even helped build and convert it for him. And when Jon got there, he would physically hang up the phone on his well-meaning but hotheaded younger brother, before he could do any real damage to Jon’s name.

Fortunately, the show cut Francis off. Fuel added to their fire, the two hosts segued to a discussion about how they would like to dump the entire Captains starting-pitching rotation, front to back, and start over with new recruiting, because they thought that the existing attitudes were poisonous to the rest of the clubhouse.

Jon switched off the radio. Talk like this could spark a revolution. The cries and calls from fans and press—especially in a big-market team like Boston—did affect management’s personnel strategy, as much as everyone liked to think it didn’t.

This was worse for him than his evening’s troubles with Lizzy. He fumbled with his phone and dialed Francis’s number. “Don’t you ever do that again,” he said when Francis picked up.

“I hate those jerks,” Francis sputtered.

“Then why do you listen to them?”

“How can you not listen to them?” Francis shouted.

“Because it helps nobody,” Jon answered calmly. “Don’t you get it? They’re looking to cast blame. These guys live and die by their ratings, and they’ll be happy for any kind of outrage they can stir up to explain our lousy September—how we blew such a huge lead in the standings and lost so many games that we missed making the playoffs. If I were a fan, I’d be interested, too.”

“Why did you lose so many games?”

If Frankie was questioning him, then he was really in trouble.

“In reality, Frankie, sometimes stuff like this just happens. For no reason. Okay? And then we deal with it and we move on.”

“How are you dealing with it, Jon?”

“By planning for the future. My agent and I have a plan.” Okay...not yet, but they would. “What I’m getting at is that I have to be irresistible to the team for next year so they’ll sign me again. And if people are bringing up my name in public in a bad way, then that can only hurt me. Do you understand, Frankie?”

It was the bluntest speech he’d ever given Francis. There was silence on the other end of the phone. Hopefully, his brother was digesting the message.

“Yeah, man,” Francis said, but in a smaller voice.

“Look, I don’t want to hurt your feelings, man,” he said. “I appreciate you caring about me.”

“I’m...sorry,” Francis said. He paused—it sounded like he was conducting a muffled conversation on the side. Jon couldn’t be sure, but he’d guess it was with a woman.

A woman? With Francis? Since when?

Jon glanced at a passing street sign. Just a few more blocks to go. “Don’t leave, okay?” Jon said, stepping harder on the accelerator. “I’m almost at the house. We’ll have a beer together in Dad’s kitchen when I get there.”

“I’m, ah, not at home,” Francis said.

How could he not be at home? His life was at home. Him and their dad, home together every night after work. Why did Jon get the feeling that his life was quicksand all of a sudden?

“Where are you, Frankie? Do you want me to drive over and pick you up?”

“No, Jonny, I’m good. I just...don’t know what I’ll do if you lose your place with the Captains, okay? It’s...it’s...” He lowered his voice. “It’s the best thing in my life.”

Jon gripped his hand on the steering wheel. There was something just so sad about that statement. Did his brother really believe that?

Yeah, he did. And if Jon were honest, it had been that way since childhood. That, at least, hadn’t changed.

“It will be okay, Frankie,” he said quietly. “You’ll see. Everything will turn out.”

“I have to go,” Francis mumbled. “I’ll see you on the weekend, okay?”

Before Jon could answer, the call disconnected.

He tossed the phone on the seat. But now, he was there, at their dad’s house. Jon slowed the SUV to a stop.

The porch was lit by a single bulb, and in the diminished light, the place didn’t look much different from when he was ten and Francis was eight. Back then, Jon had the weight of the world on him, because nobody in his family could pull themselves up from their sadness and their grief without his encouragement. He’d cajoled and helped his brothers and his dad every step of the way. And it had eaten at him. Some days, Jon didn’t know how they were going to all make it through to the end—himself included.

A car came up behind him, high beams bouncing off Jon’s rearview mirror. The single lane street was narrow, lined on both sides by parked cars, so Jon had to either pull his SUV over or drive on.

Shaking off the maudlin feelings, he executed a quick maneuver and backed the Expedition into the empty on-street spot beside the driveway. There was a pecking order with neighborhood parking spaces, and the local owners and tenants knew enough to leave this particular space open—for him or for his brother Bobby—or else face the pain of Francis’s wrath raining down on them. Not that Jon insisted on the spot remaining open—but Francis did. And they were a family, so Jon embraced it.

The car with the high beams roared past him. Jon wondered why he hadn’t driven off, too. Why sit and stare at his boyhood home, thinking depressing thoughts? The place was in darkness, and it was obvious that nobody was home, either in his brother’s downstairs rooms or his dad’s upstairs apartment. At ten o’clock on a work night.

Jon frowned. Where was his dad, anyway? But Jon had no idea, because he hadn’t checked in with him since before the season had ended. Jon had been too preoccupied with his cancer scare, trying to hide that from his family so they wouldn’t be upset if they found out.

His phone beeped, alerting him that he had a new text message—which reminded him that he really should drive home and call back his agent. Surprisingly, when he checked the phone’s readout, he found that the message wasn’t from Max but from a young Captains pitcher just up from the minors, his first year in the big leagues. Jon had been mentoring him this season. Calming him down before all his big starts.

Jon, help me out here. I don’t like the sound of what I’m hearing about us on SPK. What should I do??

Jon stared at the screen. Fixated on that word help. Focused on the question marks just begging for his assistance.

Twenty-four hours ago, Jon would have happily tapped out his advice and sent it to the newbie. Now, he was doubting himself.

Lizzy was in his head, obviously. Her psychoanalyzing was causing him to see things differently. He wasn’t sure he liked that.

Maybe he did like helping people now and then. So what? It didn’t mean that they were helpless, or that there was something wrong with him. He just...hated when people felt bad. Like Francis, in childhood. Jon needed to see people smile. He needed them to have an easier time in life than they were having when they were upset.

But Lizzy did have a point. Maybe he did tend to help people a little too much, at the expense of himself.

When he really thought about it, hadn’t all this helping and protecting and watching out for people gotten him into a bad spot with the team? He’d spent too much time worrying about—frankly—the crappy attitudes of some of the Captains’ leading aces. It had trickled down to the younger guys on the pitching staff, and the team’s cohesion had been affected. The sports talk radio guys were right—there was a reason their team had imploded.

For the second time that night, Jon leaned back with his head against the seat. He should have focused more during the season on his own pitching, his own numbers. Things had slipped by, and now he didn’t have what he wanted: the team breathing down his neck, eager to sign a contract with him for next year.

He held his throbbing finger in his lap and just closed his eyes. Lizzy, what did you do to me? But nobody had ever pointed this out to him before.

A knock sounded on the window. Jon snapped to attention. His old neighbor, Mr. Yanopoulis, was peering at him. Jon turned off the idling engine and stepped outside into the cool night air to greet him.

“I knew it was you!” Mr. Yanopoulis grinned and held out a gnarled hand. When Jon didn’t shake it because of the splinted finger he hid behind his back, Mr. Yanopoulis lifted his hand to pat Jon’s shoulder, undaunted. “It’s good to see you, Jonny. You don’t visit us often enough. You’re our neighborhood celebrity. When you’re pitching, we throw a big party.”

“It’s good to see you, too.” Jon smiled at his elderly neighbor and knelt down to pet his little dog, yapping and straining on his leash. “My dad isn’t home?” he casually asked, straightening.

“Nope. I’m feeding his cat for him.” Mr. Yanopoulis pulled on the leash. “Your dad called me today. Said he was extending his trip and going with a group down to the Grand Canyon.”

“The Grand Canyon?”

“Sure. Jean and I went there last year, flew out and rented a motor home in Denver. I showed him the pictures when we came back—I guess he liked what he saw.”

Jon nodded. “How long has my father been gone?”

“He left for Vegas the day after...after the season ended.” Mr. Yanopoulis looked embarrassed for him. “It was a last-minute decision.”

His dad was gone, too? Why not, Jon thought. His dad had probably left after it had been clear the Captains wouldn’t be in the playoffs. Dad would have been bitterly disappointed. Jon wasn’t feeling so great himself.

“Can I ask you a question?” he said to his neighbor. This was stupid of him, but... “Did I ever help you when I was a kid?”

“Help me? You helped everybody.” Mr. Yanopoulis pulled on the leash again. “Why? What’s this all about?”

“I’m just wondering...what do you remember most about me from those days?”

Mr. Yanopoulis smiled. “You know what I remember?” He pointed at the narrow strip of grass—barely the width of a dugout bench—that separated Jon’s family’s driveway from the Yanopoulis house. “You, at about ten years old, out there for hours, hurling a baseball against that screen thing.”

“The pitch-back net,” Jon said.

“Yeah, the pitch-back. You threw baseballs at it every night. Jean stayed up late, worrying. She wanted to complain to your father, but I told her, no, leave the boy alone, he is going to be a star someday.” He pointed at Jon. “And I was right.”

Jon felt shaken. He remembered perfectly—the glow from the reflective tape of the strike zone he’d measured out, the squeak of the springs when the ball bounced back on the net at him, the satisfying feel in his muscles of hurling the ball with all his might, getting out his frustrations.

At first, he’d shredded those pitch-back toys. There hadn’t been just one; there had been half a dozen he’d gone through, at least until he’d figured out how to reinforce the sides with PVC piping and duct tape. To make them, he’d saved up bottle-and-can collecting money, plus payments for neighborhood shoveling and grass cutting, and bought the equipment at a sports store downtown, hauling it home on his bike with Frankie’s help. Jon had needed that ritual. His mom was gone—dead from bone cancer—and his dad was in a serious state of depression. His father had been—still was, in a sense—a lost soul. Francis, even more rage-filled back then than he was now, was constantly in schoolyard fights, and Jon had felt compelled to defend him. Bobby, the baby, had needed Jon’s help with everything—getting dressed, getting fed, being told to brush his teeth and to turn off the TV. He had been very much like Brandon in that respect.

Those hours with the pitch-back—that had been Jon’s outlet for blowing off steam. His way of calming himself down. Getting centered so he could sleep.

It had only been an accident that he’d turned himself into a pretty good pitching talent. A talent that, luckily, some world-class coaches along the way had noticed. They had seen enough potential in Jon to take him on board and train him seriously. After that, life had gotten measurably better, for everyone in his family. He’d brought them hope.

He didn’t want to lose that.

He blew out a breath. Everything felt clearer. Maybe there was even a reason he’d met Lizzy. He’d needed that message—her message—to focus on himself.

No highs, no lows.

“Thanks,” Jon said to his neighbor. “You take care.” He turned and stared at the narrow strip of grass one last time.

After Mr. Yanopoulis had left with his dog on the leash, Jon climbed back into this SUV and typed out a text message to his agent.

I need to give the team reason to sign me again. I’m adding a fourth pitch this winter, a changeup. I also need to do some visible fund-raising with Vivian’s charity at the hospital. Call me back and tell me what you think.

Then, and only then, did he reply to the text from the young guy he’d been mentoring. This would be the last time Jon would expend energy on a fellow pitcher for the foreseeable future. Jon had his own work to do.

Talk to your agent. Listen to whatever advice they give you, and follow it.

Then Jon took his own advice. He set his phone in the SUV’s cup holder and, while he waited for Max to call back, he headed home to Boston. He was trying a new way of living. Not helping, he would call it. Focusing on himself and getting his own work done.

“I am not a helpful guy,” he said aloud to himself.

“Jon?” Max said when he finally called Jon back, as he was driving across the Zakim bridge. “That sounds like a good plan you came up with.”

“I’m glad you think so.”

“We made some calls,” Max continued. “Management is marching to the drumbeat that they’re blaming the team’s collapse on the pitching falling apart.”

Little surprise there. Jon pinched the bridge of his nose with the fingers of his good hand as he fixed his gaze on the headlights and road before him. “Yeah, I heard the gist of it from the call-in program.”

“Your pitching staff,” Max said. “So you’ll be painted with the broad brush. It won’t be smooth going.”

“I know.” Jon turned the wheel with his left hand. “That’s why I’ll be working on my changeup pitch again.”

“It can’t hurt.” That was Brooke speaking. “But we think you should focus most on appealing to Vivian. She’s hosting a charity fund-raising event early next month. I can get you an invitation near her table.”

“Max,” Jon asked, “are you passing me on as your daughter’s client?”

“How’s your finger doing?” Brooke asked, unperturbed by Jon’s question.

“Fine.” The over-the-counter painkillers Elizabeth had given him had finally kicked in. “The surgeon called me and said everything is fine.” He paused. “Max, are you fine? What’s going on? Why is Brooke with you?”

There was only a slight hesitation. “I’m headed into surgery myself,” Max said evenly. “It’s routine—nothing for you to worry about, but Brooke will be in charge for the next few weeks while I recuperate. Pay attention to her—I’ve taught her everything I know. Don’t discount my daughter. Do you hear me, Jon?”

He was really being tested today. “Yeah, sure. As long as you’re the one negotiating my contract.”

“Of course,” Max answered. “But in return, I want you to implement Brooke’s ideas with Vivian.”

Jon grunted into the phone, paying closer attention to traffic in the intersection as he stopped the SUV at a red light. “I already do fund-raising for Vivian’s Sunshine Club project.” Such as, writing lots of checks behind the scenes. “I just don’t trumpet it.”

“Well, now you’ll be trumpeting everything to the high heavens,” Max said. “Vivian may be the team’s majority owner, and as such, normally stays away from operational issues, but she’s taken it upon herself to give input on contract decisions. If she likes you personally, you stand a better chance of things going your way.”

“And you shouldn’t have any worries in that department, Jon,” Brooke interjected, “but just in case, I’ll work on other ideas for your fund-raising participation.”

Jon hated having cameras in his face. But for the sake of getting serious... “Yeah, sure, everything is on the table.”

“Excellent,” Brooke said. “I’ll talk to the program directors at the Captains front office and at Wellness Hospital.”

Lizzy’s hospital. But knowing Lizzy, she didn’t get involved with the public programs.

“Fine,” Jon said. “Sounds good.”

“All right,” Brooke said. “I’ll float some ideas when I have them.”

“Great.” In the meantime, Jon would line up his changeup coach.

Jon hung up the phone.

He drove home and just slept, as long as he needed to, which, thankfully coincided with the crack of dawn. When he got up, he cooked himself a big breakfast: eggs, toast, bacon, orange juice, coffee. He made an early phone call, checked the internet and, in the process, tracked down the one man in Boston—the pitching wizard—he could trust to help him add a changeup pitch to his repertoire.

That was all Jon had in his power to focus on at the moment. Yeah, his day of “not helping” other people, just himself, was starting off fine. Coach Duffy—his high school mentor—still lived nearby. Now, all these years later, he worked at a local college with a top baseball program. Not Jon’s alma mater, but that worked out for the best. His “changeup” project needed to be top-secret in order to get him anywhere.