Bringing the Heat
by Larry Fangman
“I’m ready to go, Emily” Dad said. He was closing his body shop at noon on a Friday to attend a high school baseball game with me, his seventeen-year-old daughter, because my boyfriend, Ryan, was pitching. Ryan’s got a fastball that tops out at 94 MPH. He’s the talk of the town.
“How’s Ryan feeling?” Dad asked. He tugged on his Yankee cap. Dad wore a blue Body by Rick t-shirt that showed him standing between a busty blonde in a bikini and a glossy red Camaro. On the print, Dad’s head is turned toward the car. Dad gives a free shirt to every customer. Since my parents’ divorce two years ago, I’ve seen more of Dad on T-shirts than I have in person.
“He’s fine,” I said. “Says the arm feels good.” Ryan was as aware of “the arm” as other people were of the weather. He always made sure “the arm” wasn’t put in an awkward position when he slept or it didn’t lift too much because it was his golden ticket. At school, he slung his backpack over his left shoulder so he wouldn’t strain, “the arm.”
“I’m nervous,” Dad said. He pressed the button that unlocked his Ford F-150 and eased into the driver’s seat. Dad’s been to every game since baseball season started.
“Ryan is, too, but he won’t admit it. The Yankees can change their mind. They’ll have scouts at the game.” I switched the radio from Dad’s country station to my pop one.
“Be careful, Emily. Don’t step on my JUGS gun.” He steered with one hand and held his free one out to me. “Why don’t you hand it to me? I’ll put it behind the seat.”
“I can do it.”
After Ryan’s first game, despite being a Dave Ramsey follower who believed in paying for everything in cash, Dad bought a JUGS radar gun. “I want to know how hard he throws every pitch,” he said when he showed me the JUGS model he ordered online with his credit card.
At games, Dad records the speed for each pitch and writes it down in a notebook. After the game, he figures Ryan’s average pitch velocity and compares it to other games.
I picked up the box with the JUGS gun in it and held it on my lap. “Ryan’s working on a change up.”
“He told me that last night.”
“Dad, you promised to call me when Ryan comes to the shop. I’ve told Ryan to text me! He’s dating me! Not you!”
““He just dropped in.” Dad switched lanes, gunned the truck up to seventy, and set the cruise. “I thought he was only staying for a few minutes, but we started talking about his change-up, and time got away from us. He’s going to throw a few in the game today. His arm motion needs to look just like it does when he’s bringing the heat, so the batter thinks a…” Dad saw my annoyed look. “Guys get talking, honey.”
“You don’t talk much with Phil.” He’s my sister Phoebe’s husband, a poetry professor she met in graduate school at the Iowa Writer’s Workshop. Phoebe’s jealous of all the time Dad’s been spending with me because of Ryan.
“Phil’s a writer. He talks to me through his...his scripts.”
“Poems, Dad. Scripts are for movies.” Last summer, Phil published a book of poems, A Splash of Cold Water on a Hot Day.
“Either way, it’s words on paper. He gave me his book for Christmas. I’ll get around to reading it. Then Phil and I’ll talk.”
“This is our song!” I turned up the volume as “Into You” by Ariana Grande played. Ryan loved to sing, The temperature’s right. I’ve been waiting and waiting for you to make a move. He always cranked the volume LOUD for that line. He’d rub his hand on my thigh as he belted out the lyric. He doesn’t know that a different line from the song is stuck in my head. Too many mistakes. I better get this right.
* * *
Last week on the couch in his basement, Ryan kissed me on the cheek and on the neck. “Jacey and Ben, they’re serious,” he said. “They’re bumpin’ the uglies. He says she likes it as much as he does. Jacey’s mom put her on the pill.”
I love Ryan’s eyes, but they scare me, too. When his arms are around me and I’m looking into those blue eyes, I want to give in. Let him pull my pants off. Let him do what he wants.
I closed my eyes so I couldn’t see his. Ryan’s left hand roamed freely over my legs and the front of my jeans. “I’ll talk to my Mom.”
Ryan unsnapped my jeans. He slid his finger inside me. “My parents are going to Kansas City Friday for the weekend. I have the Millard tournament, so I’m staying home—I’ll have the house to myself.” Ryan whispered as his finger moved faster and faster. “That could be our night. The one we’ll never forget.” The windows fogged over. I moaned and thrashed. “I love you,” Ryan said.
Afterwards, I leaned against his shoulder, feigned sleep— silent—as his three words echoed through my brain.
* * *
A few days later, I caught Mom relaxing on the deck, sipping a glass or red wine.
“How did you know it was time, Mom?”
Mom laughed. “Let’s just say it felt so good that night that I just…we just…I let him do it.”
“Dad?”
“Yes. He was the first and only until…well. I’m not going there.”
By there, she meant the affairs. In middle school, even though Mom tried to be sneaky, I found out she was fooling around while Dad worked long hours on customized paint jobs. “That’s what happened to Melissa at Homecoming,” I said. “The next day she was freaking out! Thought she’d be knocked up. Now she’s a bit of a whore. Has sex with every guy that makes it to the third date.”
“Once you start, Emily it’s a hard switch to turn off. That’s something to consider.”
“Ryan told me he loved me.”
“Oh honey! For the first time.”
I’d replayed the words a thousand times since Saturday night, as if I’d purchased a recording. I love you. “His parents are going to KC this weekend. He wants me to spend the night.”
“What did you say?”
“I didn’t say it back, but I’m thinking about it. Wondering if I should. Wondering if I want to.” With Ryan, I set the limits. When we’re fooling around, I have to say, “Stop!” Say it four or five times before he stops. Each time I say no, he tries a different approach—loving words, soft kisses, and tactical touches. He works me like he works the count with a batter, as if he can fool me with the right “pitch,” I will give in and make love to him. I wondered if his telling me he loved me was just a new pitch, like he’s adding the change up in games, to set me up for sex this weekend.
“When Ryan signs his contract, he’ll be a millionaire. Make sure he uses protection…but I’m just saying…if the worse happened…if you got pregnant…he loves you…he’s going to have money.”
After the June draft, he’ll be leaving, and there will be plenty of girls—women—throwing themselves at him. Ryan’s favorite movie is Bull Durham, and it won’t be long before Ryan will be living the life of Nuke Laloosh and having the opportunity to sleep with the beautiful baseball Annies who pursue professional ballplayers. Could I trust him? Did “I love you” change our future?
* * *
When we traveled, Dad and I did our best to keep up a conversation, but we kept the radio playing so the songs would soothe our silent stretches.
We drove by the Kwik Shop and The Cozy Café. Last Christmas, when Phil and Phoebe came home for a week, Phil settled on the Cozy Café as his favorite place to write. He found a favorite booth in the corner and waitresses willing to re-fill his cup all morning. I sighed and searched for the first words. As the miles passed and the ballpark became closer, I pulled up on my shoulder strap, as if it was responsible for the tightness in my chest. “Dad, I like these drives.”
“Yeah, it’s beautiful country.”
“I mean…you know, us going to games together. You closing up the shop, uh…Thanks. ”
He glanced over at me, smiled, let his soft eyes connect with mine for a moment. “Well, I like Ryan. We’ve hit it off, and I’ll admit it; I like the attention. You know, people coming up to me and talking about his latest game, or if the Yankees will take him with the first pick in the draft. Business has even picked up since he’s starting hanging around the shop.”
“Haven’t you’ve always had enough work? Mom told me in all the years you two were married you never closed the shop. She wanted you to hire someone for years.”
“It’s hard to find good help.” Dad looked over at me, long enough that I felt the need to glance through the windshield to make sure we were still in our lane. “You’ve been talking to your mom about me a lot lately.” He eyed the road and then fixed his eyes on me again. “Any reason for that?”
“Well…I’ve had some questions about Ryan. First guy questions. And you know, you were Mom’s first guy, so she’s talking about you.”
“I hope she’s sticking to the good sides.” Dad laughed and adjusted the rear view mirror, as if he wanted to move it, so he could see his good side.
I turned off the radio. I reconsidered and switched it back on.
Dad turned his head sideways, looked at me, squinted, his mouth open.
Sex was not something I ever saw myself talking about with Dad, but then hearing, “Use protection” wasn’t something I ever expected to hear from Mom, at least not before hours of conversation, hugs, and tears.
I’d talked to Phoebe about Ryan, too. “He’s not going to be able to leave his team for a weekend to come see you at college,” Phoebe had said. “You aren’t going to be able to skip classes for a week to see him. I just don’t see this working unless you follow him from town to town as moves up the baseball ladder.”
I wondered how many towns that would be? Who would my friends be? I turned the radio off again.
“Dad, Ryan wants me to go with him after the game. His parents are gone for this weekend. ” I hoped Dad could read between the lines. I didn’t want to have to say the word sex.
Dad slowed down as if he thought better at a lower speed. On my side of the road was the Green Hills town park, which consisted of two picnic tables and a children’s playground with a sand surface and a swing set. No kids were around. Dad pulled over and we sat there with the engine running. “He wants you to? Does your mom know?”
“I talked to her about it yesterday. She said to use protection.” I cleared my throat with a little cough. “She said you two…uh…did it, the summer after graduation, and kids waited longer back then. Ryan and I are seniors, so Mom says this isn’t early by today’s norms. She’s says I’d be starting later then her—based on today’s more relaxed moral standards.”
“So in 2016 morals, your mom would’ve had sex with me a year earlier. I wish I would’ve had a time machine back then!” Dad let out a nervous laugh. “I’ve never heard morality put in those terms before.” Dad usually drove with one hand, but now, even though we were parked, he gripped the steering wheel with both hands, his fingers wrapped around the wheel, as if he might have to make a sharp turn at any moment. “So what if I say, ‘don’t do it?’ Is that going to make a difference?”
“I don’t know, Dad.”
“Have you talked to Phoebe?”
“Not about this weekend, but I’ve talked to her a lot about Ryan. She says it can’t work. Not if I want to go to college. She doesn’t think I’ve dated enough guys to make a decision like this. Who do I have to compare Ryan to? She says dating a professional baseball player won’t be the same as dating a college guy. She thinks I’ll be lonely.”
“Your mom was the first girl I dated, but I have some friends who’ve been married to their high school sweethearts for twenty years. Phoebe’s right. Being with a ballplayer in the minor leagues would be a tough life—a lonely life.” On the playground, a man hoisted a small barefoot girl into the swing and gave her a push. “I could just turn around and drive you back home, but this needs to be your decision. Do you love him?”
“He said he loves me.”
“Emily, do you love him?” Dad tapped the dashboard with his index finger, making a soft knocking sound, as if he was waiting for someone to open an invisible door. “I loved your Mom, but we changed. It wasn’t my work or her affairs. We became different people at thirty-five than the ones we married at nineteen. That’s what caused her affairs. That’s why I worked so much.”
“I’ve always wanted to go to college. Ryan will sign with the Yankees or some other team.”
Dad sighed and shook his head. “Did Ryan make an ultimatum?”
“No, but he wants to have sex. He’s...” I swallowed like I had to gulp down two large pills. “He’s been trying to have sex…if I didn’t stop…I say…” I took an audible breath.
Dad put his hand on my shoulder. “There will be other guys.”
“I know, Dad, but Phoebe has ‘another guy.”
“Phoebe? You’re not telling me that she’s…”
“No, Dad. Phoebe loves Phil! She’s not cheating on him, but she’s jealous of me. What if my next guy is like Phil? I guess what I’m saying is I—Phoebe and I—we want two guys in our lives. Ryan gives me that package deal. Phoebe just has Phil. You didn’t come with him, but you do come with Ryan.”
Dad’s voice rose. “That’s not what your relationship with Ryan is about.”
“He’s hot! He’s the pitcher. He’s got the sexiest eyes. I wanted to date him! But now…” I folded my hands, squeezed my eyes shut tight, fought to keep the tears inside. “I like Ryan. If we break up, it’s going to hurt.” My voice broke. I felt the squeeze of Dad’s hand on my shoulder. “But I can’t lose both of you. That…that terrifies me! I went out with Ryan because I liked Ryan—like every girl in the school liked him, but now—you have to admit, I see you ten times as much since I started dating him”
“Okay, you got me,” dad said, “but I’ll always be your father.”
“You know what I mean, Dad.”
“You won’t lose me. I promise. Don’t let that worry be part of your decision.”
I reached up to my shoulder and put my hand on top of his. His fingers moved on the inside of my palm. We sat in silence. Comfortable silence.
#
Dad pointed his JUGS gun at Ryan as he took his warm-up tosses off the mound. “93,” Dad said. “He’s loose.”
Ryan’s next pitch flew over the catcher’s head and stuck in the chain link backstop. “Fright fastball,” is what Ryan called the intentional wild pitch he occasionally threw in warm ups. A murmur went through the visitor’s section in the stands. The players in the opposing Golden Eagle dugout shifted uneasily and exchanged glances that asked, “Did one slip or is he that wild?”
“The faster they come in, the faster they go out,” yelled the Eagle’s first base coach, a skinny player without a number on his jersey.
Ryan ignored the taunt and nodded at Joe Samuels, his catcher, to indicate he was ready and Joe could fire the next pitch down to second base.
“It’s easy to be brave when you’re riding the pine,” yelled Matt Swanson, the father of first baseman Toad Swanson, from a few rows behind us.
Normally, I enjoyed the banter, the anticipatory tension before the first pitch, but today I just felt tense, and even after Ryan’s last warm up pitch smacked into Samuel’s glove, a weight pressed against my chest. I took a deep breath.
“No one’s going to touch Ryan today,” Dad said. “That was ninety-five. If he can hit that speed throwing to a batter, that’ll be the fastest pitch he’s ever recorded in a game.”
Ryan dug a small hole in front of the pitcher’s mound with his left cleat. The first batter stepped into the batter’s box. He wore a red number three on the back of his white uniform. His red stirrups were pulled up to his knees. He waved his bat in a menacing fashion as he crouched, waiting for the first pitch.
Ryan kicked his leg high, his right hand that gripped the ball almost touching the dirt behind him as he reached back.
Dad pointed the radar gun as Ryan wound up.
Despite the batter’s confident stance, his left foot bailed as Ryan’s first pitch cut through the middle of home plate. The ball smacked against the catcher’s mitt. “Steerike!” bellowed the umpire.
“What was it, Mitch?” yelled Tony Samuels, the dad of Ryan’s catcher, Steve, from a few rows below dad.
“95!” Dad yelled. “He did it! On the first pitch! His fastest one!” Dad wrote the number down in his notebook. “Ryan is going to cruise.”
“Come on, Johnny, yelled a voice from the bleachers. “Hang in there. That’s not you! Step right at him.”
I knew the words would not fall on deaf ears, but they wouldn’t help Johnny. He was going to bail again. He wouldn’t be ‘himself’ again until the next game when he faced a different pitcher, but he put on the act. He stepped out of the box and took a deep breath and two vicious practice swings, but I knew his heart was pounding, and he was wishing two strikes was an out.
“What do you like best about Ryan?” I asked.
“His drive. He wants to be the best. God gave him a special right arm, but he works hard, too. He’s like me in that way. When I was his age, I wanted to be the best car detailer around; I wanted to be the guy customers wanted to work on their dream car. I spent hours working on cars. Getting better.”
“You still do, Dad. Did Mom like cars then?”
“She acted as if she did because she liked me. She used to spend hours in my shop. I’d be on a crawler underneath a car, and she’d talk to me for hours, hand me wrenches, change the radio station if we didn’t like a certain song, and surprise me with baked goodies. Your mom cooked a lot in those days.”
“Those days?” I asked. “When did those days end?”
“Well, they just didn’t end. They faded.” Dad held the JUGS gun up and pointed at Ryan, squinted, took careful aim, like he was the American Sniper in Iraq.
Ryan’s next pitch blazed over the black on the inside of the plate, and again Johnny’s left leg was stepping toward third base. “Steerike two,” bellowed the ump. Johnny’s dad stood up, but he didn’t yell this time because now he knew, as I knew, and had seen batter after batter—all summer long—Ryan’s fastball changed people.
“Ninety-three.” Dad wrote the number in his notebook and set the JUGS gun down between his feet. He looked away from the game and looked right at me. He didn’t get a reading on Ryan’s next pitch. “Your sister serves supper at five. It’s up to you. We could surprise her.”
“And shock Phil!” I laughed. “By the way, he does the cooking. He’ll be serving supper.”
“A Splash of Water on a Cold Day. I do know the title of his book.”
“On a hot day, Dad. A splash of water on a hot day.”
“Got it. You said that’s a poem in the book. He could read that for us before we eat. Make it our blessing. Our prayer for a closer family.”
“They wouldn’t have food for us.”
“We can pick up a pizza or some KFC on the way.” Ryan fired six pitches and struck out two batters. The JUGS gun remained between Dad’s legs on the bleachers. For the first time all season, he missed recording the speed of Ryan’s pitches, didn’t write them down in his notebook.
As Ryan jogged back to the dugout, carefully hopping over the white first base line to avoid bad luck, I hopped off the bleachers and walked over to the fence that stretched from the side of the dugout all way down to where it met the corner of the outfield fence in foul territory. Ryan saw me approaching and stood by the fence where it connected to the dugout.
His eyes still drew me in. “I’m going home with Dad.” He looked hot in his uniform. He’ll have a new girlfriend soon. The thought stabbed my heart. I can live with it.
He reached for me with his hand. I stepped back. “I’m going with Dad.” I turned and took one step, two steps, three steps.
“That’s it?” he said. “That’s all? Can we talk after the game?”
I waved to Dad and gestured toward the car.
“I love you,” Ryan said.
I turned and faced him. A distance between us now. He couldn’t reach me. “Come to the shop if you want. To see Dad. Or to see me. We like you.”
I walked away.
I was ready to start a new season with a new team: Dad, me, Phoebe and Phil. Someday I’d add one more to our team. A prospect out of college who is smart and funny and gentle and is maybe even a baseball fan, so someday we can go to a game and watch a real big leaguer throw.