Bagley Loves a Boy
“Now batting for the Red Wings, Johnny Gorman!” Marian Anderson’s velvety voice came over the speakers, singing my walk-up song. “I want Jesus to walk with me.” The crowd, which had been chanting, “Joh-nee,” grew silent.
“I want Jesus to walk with me.” After Marian repeated the line, I stopped, held my bat in my left hand, and made the sign of the cross with my right hand. I paused for a reverent second at each spot my hand touched: forehead, chest, and left and right shoulder. Some fans made the sign of the cross with me.
“All along life’s pilgrim journey. I want Jesus to walk with me.” After Marian finished the fourth line, the music stopped.
“God is good, Johnny!” shouted a voice as I dug the cleats on my back shoe into the dirt at home plate. The phrase had been shouted at me for two years, ever since I published my first Christian bestseller, God is Good, Good is God with my wife, Cindy.
I lifted my front foot and stepped six inches toward the pitcher, but I didn’t swing. The ball whistled past me—high. “Ball one,” barked the ump. Even though I was in Omaha to get my swing back after missing a month with a broken hand, the crowd clapped their hands in unison. They cheered because fans knew I donated five hundred dollars to Save the Children every time I walked—even when I was playing in the minors. I thought that was quite a chunk of change, but my wife, Cindy, and our literary agent said it was an investment. “The donation advertises your books and grows your Christian base.”
These days, drawing a base on balls was my specialty. During my early years in the minors, I’d been a free swinger. Sportswriters joked I was the first guy born in Des Moines to follow the Dominican creed, “You can’t walk your way off the island.”
A fan shouted the title of our new book that came out two weeks ago. “God’s Good Never Ends.” I’d signed copies for fans after batting practice. I’d scribbled my initials and a cross symbol in each book.
I recognized the horizontal spin on the second pitch—a slider—and let it break down and in for ball two. The crowd chanted in unison. “God is good. God is good!” Since last April when I started donating to Save the Children for each walk, my on-base percentage had gone up a hundred points. Some fans saw a Godly hand in the increase.
I stepped out of the batter’s box, undid the strap on my batting gloves and pulled them tight. Normally as I adjusted my gloves, I analyzed the pattern of curves and fastballs and changeups the pitcher had thrown during my at bat, so I could guess what might be coming next. But tonight I could only think of Bag and the text he sent me yesterday morning. Time 2 leave the closet. Time to b me 4 the whole world. Time to get married?
Bag and I started in the minors together. We roomed together for one season in Davenport. He played short, and I played second, so the hours we spent on our footwork and our pivot on double plays, along with our mutual love of comic books and movies, made us inseparable for one season and friends for life.
Bag’s real name was Bagley Carlton, just like his great grandfather. But everyone called him Bag. He looked like a twenty-year guy in “The Show”—he was already the AL rookie of the year and a perennial all-star, while I was a utility guy who, after five years in the minors, had shuttled back and forth between the minors and majors for three more years before finally sticking in “The Show” for the last two seasons. I never hit big league pitchers like I did the ones in Triple A, but I could play every position on the diamond, so that made me useful.
Bag and I knew everything about each other. He knew about Cindy’s affair during our first year of marriage. I knew about his father’s alcoholism. He knew about my mother’s three marriages and my crazy stepfathers. I knew he was gay.
We had both kept our secrets for ten years.
But now Bag didn’t want to keep one of his.
“You don’t need to do it,” I told Bag on the phone last night. “Are there rumors? Is TMZ outing you?”
“No. Even my teammates believe I want to stay single until my career is over. They know the baseball life is hard on families. So my lie is legit. Hell, even Derek Jeter waited to marry until after he retired.”
“You said last night you want to be yourself. What’s going to be different? Will you be photographed with guys, be an example for gay youth? Are you getting married?”
“Not yet. I’m not rushing into anything, but maybe I will sooner rather than later. Hold on, J. I’m sending you a text.”
My phone vibrated in my hand. The photo showed a man with a tanned face and curly red hair that rested on his shoulders. His big smile advertised “fun guy,” “friendly guy,” “family guy.” He wore a t-shirt with a picture of Bag, the R and O on his Royals jersey covered in dirt, both legs of his pants smudged with dirt as he rounded third base and headed home. There are two Bags in the text, because in the picture, Bag is sitting next to the man at a table with a basket full of onion rings between them. They are both holding up a frosted mug of beer.
“Who is that?”
“Wesley Dunkel. I met him six weeks ago!”
The excitement in Bag’s voice brought back memories of the morning after my first date with Cindy when I gushed to my college roommate, “I’m going to marry this girl!”
“I met Wesley in the bathroom at a movie theater,” Bag said, “after seeing Once Upon a Time in Hollywood. “We were both using ‘the head,’ when I said, “No way that fight would’ve went down like that. Bruce Lee would’ve kicked Brad Pitt’s ass.”
“‘Cliff Booth kicked Bruce Lee’s ass because Brad Pitt is an actor.’ Wesley winked.”
“I stayed standing in front of the urinal, even though I’d finished pissing. ‘Excuse me! So Bruce Lee would’ve kicked Cliff Booth’s ass.’”
“‘I’d like to see that movie again.’ Wesley was fake pissing like me now.”
“‘Another show starts in twenty minutes. I’ll buy,’ I said.”
I heard happiness in Bag’s voice. “So we went to the movie again. And yes, Wesley is hotter than Brad Pitt!”
I laughed. “I won’t comment on that.” Bag and I talked baseball and movies and comics on our nightly calls because if Bag dated or had the occasional one-night stand with a gay groupie, he didn’t talk about it. The press had it half right. Bag was waiting until after his career to get serious with someone. They just mixed up a future husband with a future wife. But apparently Bag was just waiting for the right one to come along. And he had. “So Wesley is a boyfriend? A serious one?”
“Yes. And I want to be with him, J., when I want and where I want, without caring about someone seeing us. Hold Wesley’s hand if I want. Openly date him, and if I want to marry him someday, I want to do that in the open, too.”
“I don’t blame you. Go for it. Do it!” I said. But did I mean it?
The third pitch was a deuce. It spun up to the plate and hung over the plate like it had been set on a tee. Normally, even a singles hitter like me would’ve sent this “hanger” into the stratosphere, but I took the pitch for a called strike.
Bag’s coming out was a problem. It could mess up the plans Cindy and I have for our lives after baseball. And the way it looks, since my replacement with the Twins, Kiki Barton, has been tearing up American League pitching while I’ve been out with my broken hand, Cindy and I might have to start those plans sooner rather than later. My hand is healed, and I’m getting my timing back rehabbing in Triple A, but if Kiki keeps hitting, I might become expendable. My contract of $507,500 is only guaranteed through September. So I need to think about my career after baseball—figure out how I’ll keep up our standard of living without a major league salary. Cindy’s been thinking about it, too.
“You’re lucky,” she said last night when we FaceTimed on the phone after the game. These calls were a nightly ritual, but the eight missed calls from Cindy were unusual. My games lasted anywhere from two to five hours, so she always waited for me to call her.
Cindy got right to the point, the same one she’d been preaching to me since I told her about Bag’s plans and my intentions to go to his press conference. “You have something besides baseball to fall back on. You have a second career as a Christian writer.”
I saw a third career I could fall back on. I’d been building and refurbishing furniture during the off seasons and making decent money at it. Not major league baseball wages, or even Christian bestseller wages, but it was enough money for us to live on. And I’d be happy doing it! For me, making a desk in the solitary space of my garage gave me the same peace as shagging grounders under the warmth of the sun.
I even talked about the business in our new book. I wrote a chapter about the spiritual lessons I learned from being a carpenter like Joseph. Don’t get me wrong. I like writing. I’m a Christian. I love our writing gig and my furniture shop. But writing Christian books with Cindy was not my only career option after baseball.
But I needed to think of Cindy. She loved being a best selling author, and our niche in the Christian market was as a couple. Could she make a go of it solo if her husband supported gay marriage? If he said being gay is not a sin, not an abomination?
Tomorrow’s an off day, so I’m flying to KC to support Bag at his press conference. “The reporters are going to ask me questions,” I told Cindy. “They’ll scrutinize my answers like a manager’s decision in the bottom of the ninth inning of game seven of the World Series. Everyone knows Bag and I are best friends and that I’ve co-authored two best selling Christian books.”
“You can’t support Bag. What he’s doing is a sin.”
“He’s my friend.” Was he sinning? I’d answered that question to my satisfaction years ago. Cindy had, too, I thought, but the books, the expectations of our Christian audience, had changed her answer, while mine stayed as fixed as a response I’d written on a worksheet in third grade.
“Tell the reporters you ‘love the sinner, hate the sin.’ You know what happened to Hatmaker. We have a lot at stake here.” Hatmaker is Jen Hatmaker, the wife of a minister, who published seven New York Times bestsellers. When Jen supported the LGBT community by saying, “They’re brothers and sisters in Christ,” Christian bookstores pulled her books from their shelves. Cindy doesn’t want that to happen to us—happen to her. Since our first book hit the Christian bestseller list, Cindy’s followers on Twitter have increased from 400 to 35,000. CBN, Fox News, EWTN, and even ESPN interviewed us. We’ve been guest on the radio shows of Joyce Meyer and Joel Osteen.
The fourth pitch was a fastball at the knees on the outside corner. A big league pitch. I took it for strike two.
If we’re going to make money writing Christian books for years to come, we’ll have to play by the rules of the Christian author game, just like I play by the rules of baseball.
After years of being a ballplayer’s wife, Cindy’s found a purpose—a calling. She likes her new identity. But our topic is Christian marriage; both our names adorn the cover. In the books we alternate chapters: She writes one, then I write one, and then we write one together. We have a successful formula, make a successful team. And my being a ballplayer, although an average one, helped us get our publishing deal. The buyers of our books are men married to women and women married to men. Cindy needs a husband writing with her, but more importantly, that husband has the to have the right beliefs. Speaking out for gays and accepting gay marriage is not the right belief. If I fall out of favor with the Christian book buying community, Cindy’s writing career goes down in flames with mine.
God’s Good Never Ends received good reviews in The New York Times and in Christianity Today. It debuted at number ten on the Christian bestseller list. But a statement from me in support of Bag will slow sales. It will end sales, make this our last book.
“Cindy, I’ll be asked for my thoughts.” I stirred my strawberry-banana smoothie, my usual post game treat, but I didn’t take a sip.
“You can be Bag’s friend without endorsing his lifestyle and without saying that what he’s doing is Christian.” As she talked, Cindy leafed through her Bible, scanning pages as she searched for a certain spot, and occasionally glancing up to make eye contact with me. “But Bag has to realize that you’re his friend, too. We aren’t making the money he’s making. He knows that. After your baseball career is over, we’ll still have property taxes and the cost of upkeep on our house. And we want a family. What you say to the reporters has nothing to do with your relationship with Bag. It has everything to do with securing our future. Bag will understand that.”
I’d forgiven Cindy after she confessed her fling to me. She said she’d been drinking. That it was a drunken one night fling. I understood the loneliness of a ballplayer’s wife when her husband was on the road. Cindy was twenty-one when she married me. Back then, playing with all young players, there weren’t many wives for her to socialize with when the team was out of town. Forgiveness. Living my faith. I’d never regretted sticking with Cindy after she strayed. I loved her. I love her.
The fifth pitch was a high fastball. I normally didn’t go fishing out of the strike zone, but I went after this high heater and hit a line drive over the second baseman’s head. The ball split the outfielders and rolled to the fence. I hustled out of the batter’s box, dashed around first base, and made a wide turn at second. Coach Stack had his arms up, giving me the stop sign, but I kept going. “Get down!” Stack yelled. I slid head first into the bag and reached with my fingers, but I felt the tag slapped on me before I touched the base.
“Out!” the ump bellowed. But the ball trickled out of the third baseman’s glove. “Safe.”
“Gave you the stop sign,” Coach Stack said. He handed me my helmet that flew into foul territory when I slid. “But way to hustle.”
“Thanks, Stack. Sorry about going rogue.” As I brushed the dirt off my chest, I heard a rumble of thunder. A dark cloud hung over the grandstand. “We going to get this one in?”
“The forecast says a hard rain is coming. Probably be a delay. But we’ll finish the game. Clear skies are behind the storm.”
Terrence Gadfly jogged out onto the field. “Not sure why I’m running for you.”
We bumped fists. I wondered why, too. Skip wasn’t a manager who took a player out for one mistake, especially a hustling one.
After accepting congratulations and high fives from everyone in the dugout, I found a spot alone on the bench. Skip plopped down next to me. I deserved an ass chewing for missing Stack’s stop sign. “Johnny, I just got a call. The Twins put you on waivers. They decided to stick with Kiki Barton. I don’t want you to get hurt and screw up your chances of catching on with another club, so I pulled you.”
“Thanks, Skip.” I felt tears coming to my eyes. Would I catch on with another club? Was this the end?”
“You always played like a pro Johnny. I appreciate it.” Skip slapped me on the shoulder, got up, leaned against the fencing in front of the dugout, and went back to managing the game.
And I went back to thinking about my conversation with Cindy.
“Normally I’d say we need to pray on this,” she said last night. “But we already know God’s answer. We have his Word. ‘If a man lies with a male as with a woman, both have them committed an abomination; they shall surely be put to death; their blood is upon them.’”
I hated Bible quote debates, but I joined this one. “Leviticus also says not to trim your beard or cut your hair. I see quite a few barbers and hairdressers making a good living.” Room service had brought my supper. I lifted the lid off the plate and took a bite of grilled salmon. “In Matthew, Jesus said the greatest commandment is to ‘Love God with all your heart.’ He goes on to say that the next greatest commandment is to ‘Love your neighbor as yourself.’”
“Johnny, don’t go! This will be easier for us to handle if you’re not at the press conference. Later, we’ll issue a statement to the press. Or Tweet our response. We can control this. You don’t have to answer questions about Bag.” Cindy had closed her Bible. She picked up a red Sharpie and started signing author nameplates that would be stuck in copies of our book. I’d sign each one under her name when I got home.
“Bag is my friend. I want to be there for him. I believe God loves him just as much as he loves me.”
“I’m not saying I disagree with you. But I’m not going to go around blabbing it to the world. Please, consider what I said. Think about our future.” Cindy leaned up close to the iPad and sent me a kiss with a loud smacking sound. “I thought we’d already decided.”
“You decided. That’s why I’m bringing it up again. There’s middle ground. We can support Bag and keep what we have going.”
“The Bible is clear!” Cindy held the book up in the air and waved it, as if she was stirring up a gust of wind to deliver the truth to me.
“I’ll think about what you said. I’ll pray on it some more. I’ll give you that. But in the end, I’m going with what’s in my heart, with what God says to me. Isn’t that what an authentic Christian does?”
The rain came in a downpour. The ump stepped out from behind home plate and waved his arms. The grounds crew started rolling out the tarp. The team went in the clubhouse, but I lingered on the bench and watched the sheets of water pound the field. The sky was gray for as far as I could see. I watched the water splash on the tarp. Was this my last time in a professional dugout?
I took in the smell of the rain. I reached out until a few drops hit my hand. The cool water felt good. The dirt that covered my hands from my headfirst slide washed away.
I stepped out onto the field. I took off my cap and the drops hit my hair and face. The remaining fans under the shelter of the grandstand or their umbrellas cheered me.
I went over to the railing where a dad and his young son sat under an umbrella. I put my cap on the kid’s head. I took off my jersey and wrapped it around his shoulders. “Thanks, Johnny. Can I get a picture?” I lifted the boy onto my shoulders. “Smile,” his dad said. “One more.” He put his phone down and thanked me again. I handed his son to him over the railing.
I stepped away from the stands, waved to some fans getting drenched in the in the left field bleachers.
I was good and soaked, so I went in the clubhouse, showered, put on dry clothes, and said goodbye to my teammates who would finish the game without me.
* * *
Before I left the locker room, I texted Cindy. Released. Not sure what’s next. Heading 2 hotel n airport.
She called me as I rode in the UBER. “Will another team pick you up?”
“Hello to you, too.” The wipers squeaked on the windshield. The hard rain bounced off the road. “Another team might claim me right away. Or maybe they will in a few weeks. Or maybe they won’t at all. Either way, we’ll be okay.”
“You can make sure we’re okay,” Cindy said. “Why don’t you just come home? You got released! Bag will understand.”
“No. I’m going to Kansas City. I’ll just get home a day later.”
Cindy got quiet. I could sense her searching for the perfect words to say, like she was writing a line in a book. “I didn’t want to tell you like this,” she said.
“Tell me what? Order me to not support Bag? Not to go to his press conference?”
“I wanted to wait until after the road trip. Johnny, I’m pregnant.”
I started to cry. Sobbed. I’d all but given up on being a father. We’d been trying to have a baby for years.
“Johnny, it’s not just you and me anymore. It’s you and me and our baby!”
After her fling, Cindy was three weeks late. It was a scary three weeks. What if the baby wasn’t mine? She never told me the name of the guy. What if the kid wasn’t mine? What would I do? What would we do? Cindy and I never discussed the possibility that if there was a child growing inside of her, it might not be mine. But we never felt the excitement. I sensed Cindy wanted her period as much as she had ever wanted anything. Thankfully, on a Tuesday morning, she said, “It came.” That was it. I did cartwheels inside. We never talked about the “maybe my baby” or the “mystery guy” (to me) again. As the years went by and we tried and failed to have kids, I never wished Cindy had been pregnant with the “maybe my baby.”
Cindy was right. I needed to consider the baby. But did the baby change my decision to support Bag? Was his loving a man wrong because I was going to be a father? Did I want to teach my son or daughter to throw a friend under the bus if it benefitted them financially?
“When did you find out you’re pregnant?” I asked.
Cindy paused. “I took a home pregnancy test last Thursday and went to the doctor on Friday.”
“I bet it was hard to keep it from me for a week.”
“Yeah. I was bursting with the news.”
“Do your parents know?”
Again, a pause, a moment of hesitation, as if Cindy was thinking of an answer that should be right on the front of her brain, ready to be released on a moment’s notice. Or was I imagining it. “No. I wanted to tell you first.”
“I can’t wait to tell my Mom! She’s wanted to be a grandma for years. She’s given up on me and made my sister the great grandchild hope. Mom reached the point where she didn’t care if Melinda became a single parent. Mom just wanted a grandchild.”
Again, I sensed hesitation. “We should keep this to ourselves until the end of the first trimester, Cindy said. “Miscarriages are most likely to happen then. I don’t want to get your mom all excited and then disappoint her.”
“So how long is that?” I asked.
“Thirteen weeks.”
“How far along are you?”
“Two weeks.”
“I don’t know if I can keep it secret from my parents for three months,” I said.
“But we don’t want to risk of hurting them if I miscarry after they’re all excited about a baby.”
“All right. You tell me when I can break the news. I’m at the hotel. I’ll text you when the wheels touch down in KC.”
“Remember what I said. Think it over. Do what’s best for our family—our baby. I’m praying for you, for us. All three of us.”
After Cindy hung up, I thought over what she said. And how long she took to say it. Those moments of hesitation, were they imagined? Or real? If imagined, Cindy would never know about my doubting her. If real, then why did she need to think of answers that should have popped out of her mouth as easily as reciting her birthday?
I hated myself for thinking it. Was Cindy lying about the pregnancy? And the old doubts came again. Was her fling really a one-night stand?
When I got to my room, I texted Bag. He’d played a rare Wednesday afternoon game in KC. Twins waived me. Cindy’s pregnant!!!
A few minutes later, Bag called. I put him on speaker. “J, you okay. That’s a lot of news in one day. Congratulations on the baby! I wish we needed a utility guy, but Capstone has been with us for years. We’re set.”
“Bag, Cindy doesn’t want me to support you. She wants me to do the “love the sinner, hate the sin” line. And my supporting gay marriage? That’s out of the question. She doesn’t even want me to be there when you make your statement to the press.”
“ J, your marriage comes first. Nothing you say will change anything between us. If you don’t come, I’ll understand. Cindy has to come before me!”
“I’m coming, Bag. The rest I haven’t figured out yet. But my ugly mug will be in the audience tomorrow.”
‘Thanks, J. I want you to meet Wesley. I’ve already made dinner reservations at Slap’s Barbeque. I know how much you love their ribs.”
“All right, Bag. It’ll be good food and good friends. I can’t wait to meet Wesley.”
“You’ll love him, J. Trust me.”
“Bag, if you love him, I’m sure I will, too.”
I loaded my luggage onto a wheeled rack. I told Cindy yesterday I’d pray some more about my reaction to Bag’s homosexuality, and I had. And I felt God spoke to me. He made Bag the way he is. So Bag being the person God made him to be is no sin. Bag loving who he loves is not an abomination.
But I decided to bury God’s message. Bury my own thoughts and feelings. Bury the truth.
I’d do it for Cindy.
I’d do it for our baby.
So with each step I took toward the elevator, I rehearsed my planned “Cindy” response. Bag is a good man. He’s my best friend, but God is my salvation. God says I must love the sinner but hate the sin. I still love Bag, but at the same time, I must hate his sin.
When I reached the elevator, I pressed the button and waited.
Had God spoken to me again?
The elevator door opened. “Sorry, I’m going up. I’ll catch the next one,” I said to the man who looked out at me. The door closed.
Had God spoken to me again?
I retraced my steps to my room and dug my computer bag out of my luggage. I took out my Dell and fired it up. I went to the Blue Cross and Blue Shield website and signed in on our HSA account. The last charge to our statement was Cindy’s annual gynecologist appointment two months ago. She hadn’t seen anyone for a pregnancy test last week.
Cindy wasn’t pregnant.
* * *
I stood in the back of the room. I wore sunglasses, blue jeans, and a blue Chance the Rapper hat with a large white number 3 on the front. I pulled the bill low over my face. I had three different plans, and I didn’t know which one was the plan. So I dressed incognito in case I went with Plan C, which was to blend into the background.
The media had showed up in full force. I saw ESPN and FOX Sports cameras along with reporters and TV stations from every major league city. This story was going national.
Bag stood in front of the microphones. Behind him in a row of chairs sat the owner of the Kansas City Royals, the GM and manager, along with Ken Gripperson, the team captain.
“I want to thank you all for coming,” Bag said. “I’ll keep this brief.” He cleared his throat and took a deep breath. “I am gay. I’m making this announcement because I don’t want to live a secret life anymore. I told the guys an hour ago in a team meeting. They’re supporting me, as is everyone in the Royals’ organization, from the support staff to management and ownership. I’ll be in the line up tomorrow night against the Yankees. I hope after today, everyone will let me focus on baseball and respect my privacy. Thank you.” Bag stepped back from the microphone. He turned around and shook hands with the members of the Royals’ organization.
I went with Plan A. I took off my sunglasses and hat and t-shirt. Underneath it I wore a second shirt. The design had the colors of the rainbow blended across a large cross.
I made my way to the stage and gave Bag a big bear hug.
As I faced the cameras with Bag, I draped my right arm around him.
I didn’t answer any questions or make any statements.
I just stood with my friend.
Cindy called and called and called—nineteen missed calls. She sent eleven text messages.
I didn’t want to talk about this on the phone, so I just sent one text. We’ll talk when I get home. I’ll be home by noon tomorrow. Johnny.
So after the dinner at Slap’s, where Bag introduced me to Wesley—and we planted the seeds of a friendship—I flew home.
* * *
“How could you?” Cindy was all cried out when I got home. Only anger remained. “Everyone knows you don’t pick friends over family. You acted like you’re sixteen. I guess it’s true. Ballplayers are stuck in boyhood. They never grow up.” She flung the nameplates in my face. “Sign these. They’ll be the last ones you’ll ever sign. We’re done! We’re going to get the Hatmaker treatment!” A few of the papers slapped against my face and fell to the floor like the good memories of our marriage.
“I didn’t say anything.”
“Oh, please. That picture of you with your arm around Bag made the front page of the New York Times. And from there it spread like a California wildfire: Twitter, Facebook. It probably made the front page of every paper from Lizard Lick, North Carolina to Tarzan, Texas.”
Cindy knew every small town newspaper that reviewed our books. Our agent sent the clips to her, and she read them all.
“I know you’re not pregnant.”
Again, Cindy hesitated.
“We can get through this,” I said. “Why can’t we write a book where I make the Christian case for supporting Bag, and you make the Christian case against him? Then we let the readers decide.” I opened the fridge door and took out the bottle of ONEHOPE Red Wine Blend and set it on the table. I turned the corkscrew until the cork popped out. I poured myself a glass and filled a second one for Cindy, challenging her to speak the truth, or if she wouldn’t do that, take the first sip that would admit she isn’t pregnant.
I raised my glass and waited for Cindy to pick hers up and clink it against my glass and drink with me. “I checked our HSA account. You didn’t see a doctor. You made up the pregnancy story, so I wouldn’t speak up for Bag. You figured by the time you ‘miscarried,’ I’d be locked into your viewpoint about Bag that I’d been telling the press for months.”
Cindy picked up her glass. She didn’t raise it to me, but she took a long drink. And then gulped down a few more swallows. She looked in my eyes, held her gaze, and finished off her glass and poured herself another one.
“Was it worth that much to you?” I asked. “You’d lie to your husband so we can write books?”
“You’ve had your career. You can lock yourself in that shed and measure and saw and sand for the rest of your life, but you’ll still be a guy who played in the big leagues. Your dream came true!
“I sacrificed all those years you played in the minor leagues, moving from one town to the next, sometimes two or three times a season. You made the big leagues. Writing these books, being an author—that’s my big leagues. And I want to keep doing it. I didn’t say after two years, ‘Johnny, time to end your baseball dream.’ But that’s what I feel like you’re saying to me.”
“I never asked you to sell out your friends so I could play baseball. And I surely can’t ignore what I feel, in my heart, God is telling me.”
My two bags of luggage rested against the wall by the door. I wouldn’t be unpacking them tonight—not here.
Cindy followed my gaze. She seemed to read my thoughts. “I shouldn’t have lied about the pregnancy.” Her eyes begged, looked desperate.
“That first year in A ball. Was it a one-night stand?” I gulped. The hurt felt like it happened last night. “I want to hear the truth.”
“That was ten years ago. Why does it matter now?”
“It matters.” My words came out in a whisper. But she heard me.
Cindy put her hands in a praying position over her nose and mouth. She sighed. She shook her head. “Please don’t leave me.”
“I’ll get a room in town tonight. Find me an apartment tomorrow.” I moved toward the door and glanced back at Cindy. She’d collapsed onto the table. Her tears came in sobs.
Could I forgive her? Would I stay married to her? I didn’t know.
Maybe Cindy had one more book in her, a solo effort about love and betrayal, confession and remorse and honesty—a book whose every page talked about God’s love—for everyone.
I hoped she did.
If I saw that book in a store, I’d pick it up and buy it.
I’d give that author a chance.