unsophisticated, they couldn’t understand the fuss about the first drink. Jesse had always thought that the first couple of drinks were like life itself. Pleasing, smooth, bubbly, and harsh. For people who didn’t like the taste, Jesse had unaffected scorn. The greatest pleasure came long before you got drunk. After the first one, with the certainty of more, there was gratitude for the life you led.
After a couple of drinks, the magic went away, and pretty soon it was just addiction.
“Got to work on that addiction,” Jesse said to Ozzie Smith.
Ozzie was in midair, parallel to the ground, his glove outstretched. As far as Jesse knew, Ozzie Smith had no addictions. Best shortstop that ever lived, Jesse said to himself. He knew it was too large a claim. He knew that Ozzie Smith was only the best shortstop he’d ever seen. He couldn’t speak of Marty Marion or Pee Wee Reese, or for that matter, Honus Wagner. He drank some more scotch. They better than Ozzie, they were very goddamned good.
He was pretty certain that none of the others did a back flip.
“Wizard of Oz,” Jesse said out loud.
If he hadn’t gotten hurt, he’d have made the show. He knew that somatically. He had always known he was a big-league shortstop. If he hadn’t gotten hurt, he’d be just finishing up a career.
Maybe moved to third in the last couple of years. Hit .275-.280 lifetime. Ten, twelve home runs. Less average maybe than Ozzie Smith, but a little more power. Good numbers for a guy with his glove. Guy who could throw a seed from the hole. His glass was empty. He went to the refrigerator, got more ice, and mixed himself another. He drank. Yes. Still there.
He’d made the show, he wouldn’t be bullying teenagers for a living.
“A conscious pattern of deception and coercion.” Fogarty had that right. May not stand up in court. Depends on which judge they drew. Might not get to court. Depended on which prosecutor they drew. He wondered who Jenn might be sleeping with. Experience would suggest the station manager. On the other hand, she said she’d changed. She said Dr. St. Claire had helped her be different than she was. Hard to love somebody sleeping with somebody else. Could be done though. He could do it. Hell, he was good at it.
“Nice to be good at something, Oz.”
Hadn’t worked with Abby either. She wasn’t tough enough, but at least she’d been faithful. Jenn was tough enough. One out of two ain’t bad. When he was nineteen, playing in Colorado, he’d been able to do a back flip, like Ozzie Smith, when he ran out to short at the start of a game. He made himself another drink and took a pull.
It wasn’t there any more, but he took it back to the counter with him anyway. The truth of it was of course that he hadn’t loved Abby. He’d liked her, and he’d tried to love her because he wanted to move on from Jenn. But he couldn’t. That was a grim thought, wasn’t it? That he couldn’t move on from Jenn? Jesus Christ! He’d better be able to. Or, maybe he wouldn’t have to. Or, maybe he was drunk.
He looked up at the picture of Ozzie Smith, frozen in midair.
“It’s a long season, Oz,” Jesse said out loud.
He drank most of the rest of his glass.
“And it’s not like football,” he said.
He emptied his glass and stood and made a fresh drink and brought it to the counter. He drank some and made a gesture with his glass toward the picture.
“We play this game every day,” he said and heard himself slush the S in “this.”
FIFTEEN
Macklin was eating fried chicken and mashed potatoes with a cracker named JD Harter at the Horse Radish Grill on Powers Ferry Road in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.
“How big is big money?” JD said.
He was small and slim with thick black hair worn long enough to cover his ears and slicked straight back. He had a pointed nose and wore rose-tinted black-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a powder blue jogging suit with dark maroon trim and a satin finish.
After a couple of drinks, the magic went away, and pretty soon it was just addiction.
“Got to work on that addiction,” Jesse said to Ozzie Smith.
Ozzie was in midair, parallel to the ground, his glove outstretched. As far as Jesse knew, Ozzie Smith had no addictions. Best shortstop that ever lived, Jesse said to himself. He knew it was too large a claim. He knew that Ozzie Smith was only the best shortstop he’d ever seen. He couldn’t speak of Marty Marion or Pee Wee Reese, or for that matter, Honus Wagner. He drank some more scotch. They better than Ozzie, they were very goddamned good.
He was pretty certain that none of the others did a back flip.
“Wizard of Oz,” Jesse said out loud.
If he hadn’t gotten hurt, he’d have made the show. He knew that somatically. He had always known he was a big-league shortstop. If he hadn’t gotten hurt, he’d be just finishing up a career.
Maybe moved to third in the last couple of years. Hit .275-.280 lifetime. Ten, twelve home runs. Less average maybe than Ozzie Smith, but a little more power. Good numbers for a guy with his glove. Guy who could throw a seed from the hole. His glass was empty. He went to the refrigerator, got more ice, and mixed himself another. He drank. Yes. Still there.
He’d made the show, he wouldn’t be bullying teenagers for a living.
“A conscious pattern of deception and coercion.” Fogarty had that right. May not stand up in court. Depends on which judge they drew. Might not get to court. Depended on which prosecutor they drew. He wondered who Jenn might be sleeping with. Experience would suggest the station manager. On the other hand, she said she’d changed. She said Dr. St. Claire had helped her be different than she was. Hard to love somebody sleeping with somebody else. Could be done though. He could do it. Hell, he was good at it.
“Nice to be good at something, Oz.”
Hadn’t worked with Abby either. She wasn’t tough enough, but at least she’d been faithful. Jenn was tough enough. One out of two ain’t bad. When he was nineteen, playing in Colorado, he’d been able to do a back flip, like Ozzie Smith, when he ran out to short at the start of a game. He made himself another drink and took a pull.
It wasn’t there any more, but he took it back to the counter with him anyway. The truth of it was of course that he hadn’t loved Abby. He’d liked her, and he’d tried to love her because he wanted to move on from Jenn. But he couldn’t. That was a grim thought, wasn’t it? That he couldn’t move on from Jenn? Jesus Christ! He’d better be able to. Or, maybe he wouldn’t have to. Or, maybe he was drunk.
He looked up at the picture of Ozzie Smith, frozen in midair.
“It’s a long season, Oz,” Jesse said out loud.
He drank most of the rest of his glass.
“And it’s not like football,” he said.
He emptied his glass and stood and made a fresh drink and brought it to the counter. He drank some and made a gesture with his glass toward the picture.
“We play this game every day,” he said and heard himself slush the S in “this.”
FIFTEEN
Macklin was eating fried chicken and mashed potatoes with a cracker named JD Harter at the Horse Radish Grill on Powers Ferry Road in the Buckhead section of Atlanta.
“How big is big money?” JD said.
He was small and slim with thick black hair worn long enough to cover his ears and slicked straight back. He had a pointed nose and wore rose-tinted black-rimmed glasses. He was dressed in a powder blue jogging suit with dark maroon trim and a satin finish.
Similar Books
