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Center Fielder |
by Shannon Bartlett
Body of Lies
"Ballplayers learn after awhile that you don't tell anybody you have an injury if you can possibly avoid it, even a teammate. It might get back to the coaches, get spread around and be blown up
out of all proportion. More important, it's because you don't want to admit it to yourself."
— Jim Bouton —
Dave waited in center field for the next batter. Jesse stood on the mound, picking up signs from Scott and then nodded his glove in return. A pitch for a ball, a pitch for a strike. Ball, foul, foul, foul.... Dave's stomach churned, his head pounded. He could feel the bile slowly creeping up his throat.
Now the batter swung for the fences and Dave ran the few dozen feet, just as he ran miles and miles every day: pushing, pushing against his muscles, against his stomach. The ball was heading down now, inches from being a home run. Dave reached out and felt the ball smack into his glove, seconds before he slammed into the padded wall.
He hit the ground as his feet tingled; they gave out and he landed on his knees. He held up his glove to show the umpire the ball and promptly slumped on the warning track overwhelmed by the throbbing in his head and ringing in his ears.
Keiji and Felix ran to him, as did Alan and one of the umpires. Dave could see spots of blinding light in his peripheral vision and if he turned too quickly, as he did to look at Felix, he had to shut his eyes before the pain shot through him.
"It is O.K.?" Keiji asked.
"Yeah," Dave said and swallowed hard.
***
The buffet was laid out at every meal: bacon or sausage, steak or burgers, chicken or pork. There were potatoes for breakfast, lunch and dinner — hashbrowns, french fries, mashed, baked, boiled, au gratin. Even though many players ignored the vegetables, the chef made multiple dishes because the management wanted the "balanced diet" available: steamed broccoli, carrots and peas, green salads, grilled asparagus, butternut squash, creamed corn. The desserts were the worst: cookies, brownies, ice cream, German chocolate cake, apple pie, Baked Alaska, vanilla pudding, banana splits....
Dave clenched his teeth whenever he picked up a plate and decided how much he would eat this time. He'd missed three catches in the outfield this morning and his average was down to .233 so he methodically took two bacon cheeseburgers, a bratwurst, french fries and onion rings. Then he filled up a second plate with corn, broccoli, potato salad and coleslaw.
He sat down with Felix, Javier, Keiji and Sasuke and placed the plate filled with vegetables behind the plate of burgers and fries. As he chomped into the first burger, Javier studied the food.
"Think you got enough to eat, dude?"
Dave chewed for several seconds and finally swallowed. "I had a hard practice."
Before Javier could respond, Dave glared at him, then tore off another hunk of meat and cheese and began chewing again.
***
The hardest part was timing his visit to the bathroom. Too soon and the stragglers who hadn't finished shaving or brushing their teeth would take minutes to finish. Too late and people would notice he still hadn't come up to the dugout.
This happened a couple of weeks after Opening Day. Just as he'd flushed the toilet, the door swung open and Scott yelled, "Dave? Dave! Are you still here?"
He'd shot out of the stall, wiping his mouth with his hand. "Yeah, hey. Scott. I wasn't feeling good. Sorry."
"You O.K. now?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm fine. I took some stuff. I'll be good."
He knew if that happened more than once, someone would say something to someone else and people would know something was wrong. So he stood just inside the clubhouse door, checking his glove once, twice, three times and counting teammates in the locker room area, noting specifically who came from the bathroom. There were twenty in the clubhouse now which meant there couldn't be more than four in the bathroom.
He fiddled with his glove until John came out of the bathroom and walked toward the locker room.
"Hi, Dave."
"Hey, John. What's up?"
"How's your head?"
"Oh, no big deal. I'll survive." He smiled, hoping John would stop talking, would go into the locker room. He turned toward the bathroom.
"Good." John was still there, watching him.
"Yeah. I just...I gotta take a piss."
Dave ducked out of the locker room, walked briskly to the bathroom, looking back over his shoulder to see if John had gone into the locker room and —
"Ow! Jesus. Watch where you're going." Javier shoved past Dave. "You mess up my arm and Rick will kill you, asshole." Javier rubbed his elbow and stalked off.
Now that Javier and John were back in the locker room, it was down to two. Dave walked into the bathroom to find Tom, one of the relief pitchers, washing his hands. Someone else was in one of the stalls. Tom smiled and nodded as he turned off the sink and reached for a paper towel. He thoroughly dried his hands while Dave stared blankly at the garbage can, silently counting the seconds he knew were stretching into minutes and were quickly cutting into the time he needed before he had to be ready.
"Dave? Everything O.K.?" Tom tossed his paper towel in the garbage.
"Oh. Yeah. Sorry. Just spaced out."
The toilet flushed and Jeremy, the backup catcher came out of the stall. Tom walked out the door as Jeremy turned on the faucet and Dave scurried into the last stall. He shut the door to the stall, locked it and fiddled with his belt buckle as he heard Jeremy turn off the water and yank a towel from the dispenser. Jeremy's footsteps echoed off the tile as he left the bathroom. Dave took off his watch and set it on the toilet paper dispenser. This way he could monitor the time without getting the watch dirty.
He had six minutes to do what he needed to do now that the bathroom was empty.
***
Though Dave would have preferred to use the Prop in the clubhouse a couple hours before games, he knew he couldn't. He took Prop every other day, injected into his glute or thigh. He found the needle pricks actually hurt less than his throat did after purging and he briefly considered trying to cut down on the binge-and-purge.
He stacked the Prop with the Primo, taking the Primo every day. Primo was easier because it came in tablets and had very few side effects. Miguel had explained how the drugs worked together when he sold Dave the first batch a couple months ago. He told Dave to stack for six weeks, then go off for two before starting a new cycle. Miguel said to make sure he kept on schedule because otherwise the stuff would be useless. Plus, Miguel said, Dave would need to know how soon to quit if Miguel found out the players were being tested.
***
At the end of the road trip a few weeks later, Dave tossed his duffel bag on the floor of his apartment. They had an off-day tomorrow and Dave clenched his teeth, thinking about it, as he walked to the freezer. Pulling out the carton of fudge ripple ice cream and five frozen burritos, he set all the food on the counter. He unwrapped each burrito and shoved them all in the microwave, set the timer. Then he pulled a spoon out of the drawer and dug into the ice cream, shoveling heaping tablespoons into his mouth one after the other. He continued until the microwave beeped, then he put the ice cream in the freezer; he'd come back to it later but he didn't want it to melt while he ate the burritos.
He needed to call Miguel.
Road trips were difficult. The players' hotel rooms were all adjacent and Dave knew someone would say something to someone else if they saw him carrying grocery bags of food. He would order three large pizzas from a nearby place while other players took cabs for a late dinner. The timing had to be just right so no one saw the pizzas being delivered or knocked on his door while he was still eating — and more than once Dave almost didn't make it. But in some ways, he relished the rush as he ate slice after slice of pizza as fast as he could.
Now he did the same with the burritos, after clicking on the television. In minutes, the room was a blur of color, sound, spice and satiety.
The television still blared the next morning when Dave woke up on the couch.
***
His head throbbed more than usual when he ran now and it often seemed to beg him to stop moving for even just a moment. He could hear one of the trainers barking at Javier as he continued the wind sprints though the voice grew softer as he ran harder. Dave knew he'd draw attention to himself if he showed his fatigue.
So Dave kept running back and forth across the field even as his head swam, even as his lungs screamed, until his legs gave way and he felt the grass on his face.
***
"This isn't up for discussion."
He was in Rick's office after they had revived him. Rick and Michael, the team doctor, stood behind Rick's desk.
"I've told you ten times already: I'm fine," Dave assured them.
"You're not." Michael slapped the folder on Rick's desk. "You've got low blood pressure, you're totally dehydrated and two hours ago you collapsed on the field. That doesn't sound 'fine' to me."
"Oh, come on. It's not like I have high blood pressure. So it's a little low." He looked up at the two men whose expressions hadn't changed. He continued gamely, "I've just been tired and it's been really hot lately. I'll up the water intake and be back to normal in a few days."
Michael crossed his arms and spat, "You don't play for a week and no workouts for five days. Then we'll see if you're 'fine.'" He left the office.
Rick sat down in his chair and rubbed his eyes before looking at Dave. "You check in with me after the five days. You'll do a modified workout then, if you can do one at all." Rick looked at his desk calendar and shook his head. "Now go home."
***
Miguel called late that night.
"What happened?" He yelled. "They ain't doing any testing now."
"Nah, I didn't take a test. I got dehydrated so Mike made me go home."
"Oh, shit, dude. I was sure they'd caught you. God," Miguel breathed into the phone. "Dammit, drink water, asshole! Don't let them do a bunch of tests or nothing I don't know about."
"Yeah, yeah. Look, you got anything stronger?"
"I'll see what I can do. Gotta go, man."
As the line clicked dead, the microwave beeped and Dave got up to get the burritos.
***
"Good to have you back," Alan said as he got up from the table with his tray.
"Yep," Dave said, around a mouthful of lasagne. He surveyed the dining room; most of the guys had already left, so he shoveled bigger and bigger bites of lasagne into his mouth. Then, looking up again, he stopped chewing.
Keiji and Sasuke were sitting a few tables away and Dave saw Keiji leaning toward Sasuke, whispering something. Sasuke frowned and looked at Dave until Keiji laid a hand on his arm. They both stood up and walked out of the dining room.
Dave felt the bile creeping up his throat again. He crammed one more bite of lasagne into his mouth, gulped down the rest of his Coke and left his tray sitting on the table as he hurried to the doorway.
He surveyed the locker room but quickly saw that they weren't there so he walked toward the training room, glancing in the snack area where the clubhouse attendants stocked the sodas and chips, and peering into the laundry room. When he couldn't find them in the clubhouse, Dave opened the heavy metal door and ran down the dank hall toward the dugout. He passed the dilapidated bathroom tucked in just behind the dugout benches and then he heard Keiji and Sasuke talking in the dugout and stepped back into the tunnel before they saw him. Then, in a moment of clarity, he nearly burst out laughing.
Even if they were talking about him, he couldn't understand them. Besides, he was being paranoid—no one knew what was going on.
Then, amidst the Japanese, he heard Sasuke say his name.
***
Dave was one of the last to finish his dinner in the clubhouse that evening and, fortunately, the locker room had emptied out by the time he got there. Finally, he didn't have to wait and so he promptly headed to the bathroom, entered his usual stall at the end of the row and took off his watch.
Two minutes later, someone rapped on the stall door and Dave nearly choked on his vomit.
"Hello? Are you OK?"
Dave's shoes squeaked on the tile floor as he scrambled to stand up and open the door.
"Felix. Yeah, I'm fine."
Felix shifted his eyes from Dave to the toilet. "You are not sick?"
"Just think I ate something bad," Dave leaned over to flush the toilet. The splashing water echoed in the bathroom as he pushed past Felix to the sink, turning on the faucet and rubbing some water on his mouth before washing his hands.
Felix still stood by the stall.
"I swear I'm fine." Dave remained hunched over the sink.
After an agonizing silence, Dave heard Felix mumble "O.K.," and leave the bathroom.
***
Two nights later, someone rapped on Dave's hotel door as he was finishing the last slice of pizza.
"Just a sec." Dave tossed the pizza boxes on the floor and kicked them one by one under the bed before he went to the door.
Felix and Keiji stood in the hallway and they both stared at Dave until he said, "Come on in."
Felix nudged Keiji who stepped inside; Felix followed and closed the door. They both watched Dave from their places by the bathroom and Dave, his eyebrows raised in anticipation, watched them.
Finally Felix spoke. "Me and Keiji—we are worried about you."
Dave sat on the edge of the bed and gave the two men a wan smile. "Why are you worried about me? You guys shouldn't be worried about anything."
"I think you are getting sick," Felix said hoarsely.
"Why would you think that?" Dave said a little too loudly and laughed.
"You got sick in the bathroom."
"I told you. I just ate something bad."
"Sometimes you do not eat." Keiji countered. "And sometimes you eat too much." Then he looked at the floor. Felix followed Keiji's eyes to the same spot on the carpet.
"Guys. I'm fine. Don't worry."
No one spoke.
"Don't worry," Dave repeated softly and smiled at them again, though they still weren't looking at him. He stood up and strode to the door, pulled it open and leaned against it. "I'm getting tired so I'll see you guys tomorrow."
Keiji and Felix peeked at each other and crept single-file back into hallway.
"See you tomorrow," Dave said again and slammed the door before he could hear anymore.
***
The next night when Dave returned to his room, he saw his phone's red light blinking from where the phone sat on the nightstand.
"Hey, man. I got some more stuff so gimme a call," Miguel said on the recorded message.
Dave sat on his bed and listened the automated commands that followed the message.
"To repeat this message, press two. To erase this message, press three."
He held the phone in his hands for one minute, two minutes and then three, before he tapped the keypad with his thumb and snapped the phone shut.
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Morning |
by Shannon Bartlett
The sun dapples the sage green bedspread with polka dots of light, flashes of yellow and gold that match the bedsheets. The window shade sways and the polka dots move, drifting across his face to the cherry wood headboard.
His mouth is slightly open, so I can see just the edges of his front teeth. The day-old stubble has powdered his skin, making it nearly gray, like someone dabbed little bits of charcoal all over his cheeks. He murmurs and his eyelids flutter as I see the flash of green that matches the bedspread. He shifts his weight to his right side and rolls closer to me, slides his right hand under the corn-colored pillow. His left arm flops across my stomach and his t-shirt sleeve rubs against my shoulder. He is silent again.
Outside the window, it is not silent. The train moans into the station, its brakes creaking under its weight. Then the clanging starts as the crossing arms fall into position, stopping the cars and trucks, while the train rolls through town.
As the moaning drifts away, the crash and blare of bulldozers starts nearby. The clank of metal on metal, the dings as the machines move through the neighborhood and the rip of concrete and rubber as the street is hacked into pieces all ring in my ears.
A chill from the air the sun hasn't baked creeps into the room and nips at my barely-covered shoulders. I pull at my nightgown, untwisting the fabric from the tangles it made during the night, and burrow under the green blanket and yellow sheet. I find my place under his left arm and lean into him until I can feel the ebb and flow of his breathing deep in my spine. I mimic his inhaling and exhaling, hoping it will lull me back to sleep. His head slumps toward me on the pillow and, from his slightly open mouth, little puffs of warm breath tingle and tickle the back of my neck.
The neighbor's dog barks—a deep, thick bark—as it paces on the other side of the fence. The gardeners are coming now; the dog always paces when it hears someone coming up the driveway. The gardeners' voices get closer and the Spanish phrases are clear now—though still a jumble to my English ears. The jabbering, tool-scraping and merry whistling culminate right outside the window—until the neighbor steps outside. Her voice cuts through the cacophony.
"Oh, you're here!"
The gardeners greet her with hellos and holas.
"We're making donuts. Would you like some?"
The gardeners accept and the joviality, as they move away from the window, past the dog who is now silent, hums through my head—as does the idea of donuts.
He is still sleeping, his chin now resting against my shoulder blade, the stubble lightly scratching my skin. I turn toward him, rub at the spot where his chin was and nudge my hipbone into his side. He instinctively shifts his weight and rolls onto his back, his left arm grazing across my collarbone and coming to rest on his cotton-covered chest. I find his right hand under the comforter and link my fingers through his. He murmurs again but his eyes don't open.
I stare at the blank ceiling, then follow the bone-colored molding's path around the mocha walls. A few feet from his left hand—now draped off the side of the bed—the skeleton key, in its lock under the doorknob, winks as the shade sways and the polka dot lights shimmer across the wall, over his dresser and land on the door across from the window.
Another train groans in the distance but before the crossing arms clang down, the alarm clock buzzes. He purses his lips and wrinkles his nose, willing the sleep from his brain. Then he unlinks his fingers from mine and uses the heels of his palms to rub at his eyes as the alarm drones. He reaches over, slapping the clock until the beeping stops.
And for one short second, the room is still and silent.
Shannon Bartlett holds an MFA in creative writing from Chapman University. She has had fiction published in Washington State University's LandEscapes, poetry published in Chapman University's Elephant Tree, nonfiction published in Washington State Magazine and over 100 articles published in the Snohomish County Tribune and WSU's The Daily Evergreen. In her spare time, she enjoys baseball, astrology, and personality disorders (to study, not to have).
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