Vuco shook his head in exasperation. JT was his creation. He was the one who scouted him in Galveston and recommended him for scholarship; who’d brought him to Billings after they passed him in the draft; who’d worked with him hour after hour in the far flung stadiums of the Pioneer league, teaching him a changeup, a splitter, a new pick-off move — and the one who brought him up to the Reds. Again and again he’d put his reputation on the line for Jason Thibodeaux; and now he wanted a trade.
“They can’t move you the way you’re pitching.”
“Then I’ll pitch better.”
“That’s what I mean about taking it seriously.”
“I’m sorry, Vuco. I’m just doing what I have to do.”
“What you have to do is win baseball games.”
“Fair enough.”
Vuco’s expression grew visibly softer. “We go back a long ways,” he said, clearly uncomfortable with what he was about to say. “I respect what you’re doing — on the homefront,” he added quickly.
“Thanks, Vuco.” Jason rose and stepped towards his tightly-wound coach. Vuco raised his hands as if he were holding a runner at third.
“No hugs, man.”
Jason hugged him anyway. Vuco didn’t hug back but neither did Rafe half the time. That didn’t mean he didn’t appreciate it.
“I still want you to go into therapy,” Vuco said.
“And I still want a trade.”
SYLVIA HLUCHAN was a sports psychologist who had once been involved in a highly publicized case in which she was hired to hypnotize the entire University of West Virginia football team before its seasonopener. The fact that the team eventually went 2-8 that year did not diminish the fury of the public ridicule around the opening game loss to Ohio State by a score of 55-3. Dr. Hluchan did not take the criticism lying down. “To be subconsciously convinced you are an excellent football team when you are not, no more guarantees positive results than if you are hypnotized into believing you can fly, only to plunge to your death off a cliff,” she said in an article for the Pittsburgh Press posted on the wall of her waiting room. “The next time I’m recruited for a job like this, I’ll be sure to consult a scouting report as well as Las Vegas odds makers.”
Her waiting room wasn’t much bigger than a closet, with two straight-back chairs, a small table with back issues of various magazines, that morning’s Cincinnati Inquirer, and a single potted plant that looked just hours from death. Jason picked up the sports section and glanced at the box score from last night’s game: Houston 9, Reds 0. Teddy Driscoll, their ace righthander going for his sixteenth win, gave up six runs in the third inning and they never recovered. They were four games out with three weeks to go and had no more games with the front-running Cardinals.
His thoughts were interrupted by the appearance of a small elderly woman with stiff white hair and thick glasses. “Come in, Mr. Thibodeaux,” she said in a no-nonsense voice. She led him into a small, windowless room and motioned to a chair beside a messy desk. She leaned forward from her worn blue easy chair and offered her hand. It was surprisingly dry and delicate, as soothing as talc. “I’m Dr. Hluchan,” she said. “Why don’t you tell me why you’re here.”
“Why?” He’d never been to a shrink before and didn’t know what he was supposed to say. “I pitch for the Reds — the Cincinnati Reds. Bill Vucovich recommended you … ” She stared at him, her blue eyes magnified to startlingly huge orbs by the lenses of her glasses. He tried to adjust himself upward in the chair, as somehow he was sitting lower than the tiny therapist. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t get himself up to her level.
“I’m here because I’m a lousy pitcher, I guess,” he finally said.
She shook her head. “You’re here because you’re a fine pitcher but you’re not pitching like one. Tell me what’s going on in your life.”
He took her back to the day Vicki left with Rafe, then told her about their divorce, the custody battle, the rigid visitation schedule — his ex-wife’s refusal to exchange the two weeks allotted during summer vacation with Rafe for time at Christmas or Thanksgiving. “On top of that, she’s late all the time — an hour, two hours, sometimes more. Or she’ll call and say she’s got special plans, or that Rafe’s sick and needs to stay in bed.”
“Is he sick?”
“It doesn’t matter, I’m perfectly capable of taking care of him,” he said defiantly. “I like taking care of him when he’s sick.”
Dr. Hluchan leaned forward in her chair. “You gave a very compelling story about why your ex-wife should see a therapist, Mr. Thibodeaux. But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“How do you respond to her behavior?”
Jason squirmed. “Like an asshole.”
“Examples please.”
“She brings him two hours late on a Friday, I’ll bring him back two hours late on Sunday. He’s sick on a Wednesday and can’t make it, I’ll claim that he’s sick on Sunday and can’t make it back to her house. She won’t answer her phone when I call for Rafe; I won’t answer when she calls for him at my house.”
“You really do sound like an asshole,” she smiled. Jason looked up in surprise. She was a tough old bird, he liked her. “Do you fight in front of your son?”
He nodded. “I can’t help myself. I just hear her voice and it’s like the bell in a boxing match.”
“A match you absolutely have to win.”
“Exactly. That’s the way I am — I want to win.”
“Win what?”
Jason stared at her, half-smiling in embarrassment. “The battle.”
“The battle for what?”
“The battle with my ex-wife! The battle … ” his voice trailed off.
“You won that battle, Mr. Thibodeaux. You were convinced your ex-wife thought you’d disappear and you didn’t. You stayed to fight another day, except this isn’t a fight. You were given the extraordinary opportunity of raising a child and you went about it the best way that you could. You say you read books, you interviewed child development experts, you talked to mothers, fathers, kids about the best way to raise your child. So why did you stop?”
“I didn’t stop. When the courts took him away I couldn’t — ”
“Courts shmourts. You took yourself away. You chose to play baseball and that’s OK — you’re a baseball player. Like I’m a therapist and your wife is a lawyer and your kid is a kid. Your ex-wife could be a lot more cooperative in this venture, but then she wouldn’t be your ex-wife, would she?” There was the smile again — or at least, the shape of one. Jason stared. “Now you have the extraordinary challenge of loving and caring for that child despite all this. And what are you doing about it?”
“I’m doing the best I can.”
“Are you?”
“Of course I am! What the hell else would I do?”
“Come on, Mr. Thibodeaux, you graduated from Stanford.”
“Yeah, well, all the books say cooperate. But when I see her — ”
“Him, Mr. Thibodeaux. We’re talking about him.” Jason looked at her questioningly. “Do you ever make videotapes or audio tapes of you reading stories or talking to him?” she asked.
“No.”