STRIKE ONE
Grass, horizons of shimmering green grass, its loamy perfume sweet in his nostrils. Lunge, snatch, throw … lunge, snatch, throw … the crack of Vuco’s fungo bat beats methodically as he fields grounder after grounder on the tightly clipped turf of Sunken Diamond. A sheen of sweat spreads across his back, then Vuco shouts, ‘You wanna throw?’ He steps on the mound and tosses a fastball to Barf Connolly and the radar gun shows Double Zero. He throws another pitch even harder but the gun shows Double Zero again. ‘Vuco!’ he calls but his coach just stands there. ‘That must have been a hundred!’ Then he looks behind the backstop where Rafe was playing with his Big Truck and he’s gone. He tries to run but his spikes snag the turf. ‘Barf, for Christsakes where is he?’ Sweat pours from his face, he can’t breathe, a hole opens in his stomach, he has no idea where his son is.
He runs behind the concession stand, then down the asphalt path towards the stadium. A jumble of trees and tangled underbrush lines the path, places where Rafe could be lost. Then somehow he’s a mile down Campus Drive, running across the lawn toward their apartment though Rafe could never have gotten this far, he wasn’t even two years old. He stares up at the apartment’s balcony then down the boulevard, trying to retrace every step, every clue, but his thoughts float out of reach.
‘Rafe!’ he shouts. ‘Rafe, where are you? ’
JASON SHOT STRAIGHT UP FROM the sofa bed, scattering books, papers, pencils onto the floor. “Rafe!” he called, crossing the room with two giant strides into the nursery fashioned from the Murphy Bed closet. There he was, surrounded by Pooh and Noodles and Doggie and Fuff in the sky-blue crib Jason had painted with rising suns and phases of the moon, spread out on his back beneath the posters of Sandra Day O’Connor and Randy Johnson, his breath sliding in and out in the sweet reassuring sleep of innocence.
“Jesus Christ!” Jason exhaled. He leaned over and hoisted Rafe into his strong arms. At two years old he was no heavier than a full bag of groceries. He carried Rafe into the kitchen and poured two glasses of milk — one in a regular glass, the other in a sippy cup festooned with transparent butterflies. Rafe continued sleeping against his neck but began to stir at the smell of the pear Jason was slicing.
“Time to face the music, Buddy,” Jason said, switching the radio on to KSJO — All Rock, All the Time. “You gotta wake up or you’ll never get to sleep tonight. And tonight,” he said joyfully, waltzing with his son across the small kitchen, “your mommy’s finished with law school.” Rafe stared blankly as Jason strapped him into the old wooden high chair. “Dude,” Jason cooed. “Can you say freedom?”
The backpack, the stroller, the pale blue plastic baby bag — Vicki could deal with these now. Tomorrow he was going back to baseball. Tomorrow ended the unprecedented — and some said unwise — leave of absence from Stanford’s baseball program to be a full-time dad. He would rejoin his quest for what he and everyone who knew him assumed would inevitably be his — a professional baseball career. And Rafe would go back to being just his kid, rather than a full-time job.
Rafe stared at the pear slices on his tray, then picked one up in his chubby hand and flung it to the center of the floor. “Whoa, you gotta hit your cut-off man!” Jason cried. He knew Rafe was never hungry after waking, but he was anxious to accelerate the program. Vicki’s eighteen hour days, the endless cycle of studying and tests and papers — it was over today. He didn’t know what came next, but it couldn’t be any worse. Right from the start it had been ‘Vicki Vicki Vicki, Rafe Rafe Rafe.’ Finally, it was his turn.
He hurried into the living room and found the foam rubber baseball under the sofabed. Rafe’s eyes rose with a smile when he saw the ball in his father’s hand.
“Catch!” Rafe shouted.
Jason laughed and softly tossed the ball. Rafe’s hands came together several beats after the ball bounced off his chest. Jason threw it again and again until Rafe managed to squeeze it against the high-chair tray. “Good! Now throw it to Daddy.” Happily, with a jerky flap of his arm, Rafe tossed the ball into his father’s waiting hands.
“Yay!” Jason cried. “You’re gonna be a ballplayer, my little man.”
After a dinner of ravioli and green beans, he sat Rafe on the living room floor with a pile of wooden blocks and his favorite stuffed animals. “Let’s build a zoo,” Jason said. He quickly formed a square enclosure and placed Pooh Bear in the center. Rafe recognized the game and began forming new enclosures for his stuffed animals. Jason popped open a metal cookie can holding thirty-forty small plastic cars and arranged them into a parking lot, then grabbed a copy of Sports Illustrated and read two articles before Rafe began impatiently mixing the blocks and cars together. Not that it made any difference. The living room was a mess, the morning newspaper still tangled with the sheets on the pull-out couch that transformed their living room into a bedroom. A plate of half-eaten raviolis, sneakers, socks, a kitchen towel, issues of Baseball Digest littered the floor.
At nine o’clock Jason rolled over and squeezed Rafe’s belly. “Two minute warning, Buddy. Night-night time.” Rafe carefully set the animals on their sides. “Night night,” he sang. Jason carried Rafe into the bedroom, where he changed Rafe’s diaper and dressed him in his orange fire-retardant footsies.
“What should we read tonight?”
“The birdie book!”
“All right!” It could have been a plumber’s manual, Jason wouldn’t care. It was over. He could feel the rock rolling away, freedom blowing into his life. The trips to the pediatrician, to Gymboree for clothes, the afternoons cramming on park benches while Rafe scampered up and down play structures, the meals prepared, baths drawn, diapers changed, loads of laundry washed … it was all over, today. Finis. Terminado. Done. That was Vicki’s job now. His job was to play baseball.
He sat in the living room chair with Rafe warm and clean-smelling in his lap, leafing through the Encyclopedia of North American Birds for the umpteenth time. Ten minutes into it Jason saw the tell-tale wavering of Rafe’s eyelids, the softening of his mouth. He carried him to the balcony where they faced eastwards and began their nightly litany: “Good night Gramma,” they recited together. “Good night Grampa … good night Mommy.” And tonight, because it was there, “Good night moon.”
Rafe had brought a carrot stick and pointed it to the sky. “Do stars eat carrots?”
Jason smiled. “I don’t know, hold it up and see.” Rafe thrust the carrot towards the sky and waited, his dark eyes shining with anticipation. After a moment, he turned to his father with a wondering look.
“Maybe they’re not hungry,” Jason offered. “They probably already ate.” Rafe studied his face, then pushed the carrot against Jason’s mouth. He grasped it with his teeth and began chewing. “Mmmm, daddies love carrots. That’s why daddies are strong.”
He lay Rafe down in his crib and pulled the yellow cotton blanket up to his neck. “Good night, sweet boy. Have a great sleep.”
Rafe stared at him placidly in the half light of the room.
“Good night, Daddy,” he said, and closed his eyes.
Rafe’s breathing was soft and steady by the time Jason reached the door. He left it open the width of his fist and hurried into the kitchen. The clock on the stove said 9:27. Vicki should have been home by nine, but what else was new? He looked at the cluttered table and realized that he should have bought some champagne or something to celebrate the end of law school, whatever good that would do. Their relationship sucked, there wasn’t anything they’d ever found to make it better, so why pretend?
He cleared a space at the table and began reading from Analysis of Sociological Data for his midterm. At 10:30 he slammed his fist down. He’d never make it to work on time. It was his last night at the physical plant where he scrubbed, cleaned, painted, patched and monitored the machinery