The Baseball Lesson

The Baseball Lesson

I was innocent then, a child that viewed the world as an open play ground, full of limitless possibilities, like an artist that has seen with a precognition of the rich layers of multihued colors when others only saw a blank canvas. I was Superman leaping from one end of the neighborhood to the other in a series of hops, skips, and jumps. I was Spiderman hanging off the ceiling using my web slingers to rob the cookie jar that was placed inaccessibly high on top of the refrigerator. I was the Incredible Hulk, a mass of twitchy green muscles, slamming through the walls and knocking the house off its foundation. I was watching way too many cartoons.

I never got further than four feet in a jump and Spiderman never ended up laid out on the floor with his head swollen and red from being inverted too long and the Hulk-well I didn’t knock the house off the foundation but I definitely put holes in the wall. But that’s what you did if you lived in my neighborhood in northwestern Georgia. Situated on the bottom end of the Appalachian Trail, a budding town swallowed up by the endless sea of evergreen trees crowding the sloping hills like soldiers surging up a beachhead. It was a gas station here, a hardware store there on the next hill where three old men sat around giving advice on what kind of wood you used and then cursing the name Sherman, then the McDonalds and the arcade ten miles down the winding road next to the highway to Atlanta, fifty miles away. It was nature. The neighborhoods, small and insignificant viruses at the time, gave precedence to the sylvan scenery as the neighbors built their houses on the hills. If you bought a house there, you had the choice of the one with the fourteen foot sloping front yard right outside your front door or the one with the twenty foot drop in the backyard with the patio deck, supported by long weathered beams of wood that looked as sturdy as toothpicks. It was Podunk, an archetypical redneck jerkwater town somewhere ten miles off of route whatever.

So there was nothing for the kids to do except play baseball on the cul-de-sacs, blaze a new trail through the woods, taunt black widow spiders and scorpions with sticks when we were fortunate enough find one alive, and gorge ourselves on sugary-make-you-hyper-active-and-give-your-mother-a-heart-attack Cocco Puffs while we rotted our minds on Saturday morning cartoons. We would spend our hours together, my friends and I, building a go-kart racer out of cardboard and two by fours only to remember, after we gave the lucky test driver a team-coordinated push down the hill, that in our excitement we forgot to add brakes. Our friend was fine; the go-kart popped off its wheels and disintegrated before he hit a twenty foot drop. We would leave the house in the morning, play all day, and as long as we came back before the street lights came on, we were okay with our parents. Basically, we did just about anything we wanted that our parents were okay with, and the things that our parents were not okay with-well, we only “did it” if we got caught. In short, we were reckless and wild on any given day, but every once in a while we also ended up paying for it like I did on one summer day.

On this hot and lazy morning, which came as familiar as any other summer day, I had dressed myself, eaten my Cocco Puff, and bounded downstairs to the basement to where my Schwinn sat, jet black with polished red flame racing stripes that glinted in the light. I mounted my bike, opened the door leading to the garage and took a quick stab at the garage door opener. As soon as the garage door was open, I was off. Shooting down a fourteen foot driveway at break neck speed and flying down the street, straight towards my friend Matt’s house. I hit Matt’s front lawn with a hard bounce, dismounted the bike and ran up towards the door. It was simple really, just take off from the driveway and don’t stop moving until you got to the doorbell. That was my style. I took a jab at the doorbell and then went in the front door. No waiting needed because the door was always unlocked during the day.

The cool darkness of the house greeted me along with the familiar smell of stale cigarette and home made potpourri that Matt’s mom was always partial towards. The house itself was a ranch home and the insides of it looked like a battle between tidiness and slovenliness with the furniture neatly arranged and the carpet freshly vacuumed along with piles of junk mail, toys, and empty beer cans. Then a figure moved in the next room, Matt’s dad getting up off of his easy chair moving towards me. He was a giant, almost a foot taller than my father, with lanky arms and legs balancing out his beer belly. His clean shaven, weather worn face had the look of a man that was ten years older than he was, with crow’s feet branching out from his baggy eyes, his nose jutting out, and pronounced cheekbones covered by leathery skin. He took a comb out of his pocket and brushed his slick black hair until his bald spot was covered; his widow’s peak seemed thinner every time he did that. He always had a cigarette visible on him and if he wasn’t smoking, it was either nested on top of his left ear or hanging on his lips as if he was contemplating when he should light it up.

“Hey little man…” he rasped.

“Hey, Mister Bowen is Matt home?”

“He should be in his room. Go on in.”

“Thanks Mister Bowen,” I said as I bounded down the hallway, displacing the white shag carpet runner in the process. Mr. Bowen shouted out something behind me, I didn’t really hear what he said but I’m sure it had to do with something to do with the familiar words of “stop running in the house.” I stopped at the entrance to Matt’s room and there he was, sitting on the floor in the middle of his room, his back turned to the door and his eyes glued on the video game he was playing. I snuck up behind him and got a look at his face and as usual, Matt’s eyes were dilated, glazed over while his fingers furiously mashed the buttons on his controller. I had to smirk, all the while thinking to myself that there was only one king in the neighborhood on the Super Mario Brother’s game. I just set a new high score two weeks ago. But Matt was undaunted by this, telling me everyday that he was getting closer to my score and it looks like he could just beat it today. I watched and waited, waiting for him to slip up but he didn’t. I couldn’t take it anymore and I didn’t want to hand away my high score to anyone, especially him. In one silent motion I wrapped my arm around his neck and drove my other fist straight down into the top of his head and drilled it until Matt screamed and dropped the controller.

“Why did you do that?” Matt shrieked as he watched his high score attempt drown in a vat of animated lava. The next second he was up on his feet, in my face, crossing his arms and staring at me coldly repeating his words with tone, dripping of venom.

“Because,” I replied, my tone equally cold.

“That’s not fair, I’ll get it tomorrow. You just wait.”

“No you won’t, that’s my score.”

“Uh-huh, yea I will. You know what? I’ll get that score tonight.”

“The hell you will” I said. Right there and then I walked over to his game console and ripped the game cartridge out of its slot, holding it high over my head like a championship trophy. Matt was livid, jabbering and clawing for the cartridge like an animated little monkey robbed of his banana. This went on for a while with Matt and me exchanging verbal abuses and insults about each others mothers until the din was overridden by the rumble of a basso voice. Shocked into silence by the intensity of the voice, we looked over to the door and saw Matt’s father’s stone cold glare clamping down on our throats until no more words came out.

“Did you hear me? I said stop it already. Whatever you’re doing, just stop” he said. At this I dropped the cartridge on the floor and Matt scooped it up in his hands and turned to his father, giving him a wounded look.
“But he started it” he said while pointing an accusing finger in my direction.
“I don’t care who started it but this fighting has to stop now. What is going on with you two lately anyway? You’re like brothers, you love each other and now half the time it feels like you want to kill each other.”

Matt scrunched up his brow and said “Eww, guys don’t love,” his father cut him off.
“I’m not finished,” he paused at this to light up a cigarette and then continued “Like I said, I’m not finished. What I’m trying to say is that I don’t know what’s going on between you two but it needs to stop. Look-either like each other or hate each other, but pick one and be done with it. Now, I’m sure you two don’t really hate each other now do you?” But before Matt and me could answer that question he pointed at Matt with the burning end of his cigarette and said “ Matt, you need to work it out soon because if there’s one more fight like this then so help me god, I will ground you ‘til next year.” At this I subconsciously smiled, which was a mistake because the father apparently wasn’t done and pointed towards me.
“And you- if you start another fight, I will call your mother.” My smile faded at that. It wasn’t funny at all. Only boys that were really bad get called out by another parent. He looked the both of us over and said, “You know, brothers don’t take each other for granted. Now apologize.” Cowed and defeated we shot half hearted apologies at each other. Then I made a mental note to ask my mother what “granted” means, because once a parent is done chewing you out and you’ve apologized, you just don’t do or say anything that would give them more ammo. So there was an awkward silence that hung in the air until Matt’s father finally said something.

“Now that’s over with, I have an idea. Why don’t we all go to our trail and have a cookout?”

“Yeah! I wanna do that!” Matt said.

“Yeah me too!” I added.

“All right, let me get the dogs and burgers. Oh, I’ll call your mother too and ask her if it’s all right for you to go too.” He turned around and headed to the kitchen leaving us alone in the room together.

“I call shotgun.” I said.

Matt threw up his arms in the air and said “Oh all right. You win. I have to go to the bathroom. I’ll be right back.” He left the room while I took a second to register that the bathroom was right next to the garage and then I took off after Matt. It was too late; he was already in the cabin of his father’s pick up truck clamping down on the door locks, sticking his tongue out at me in defiance. He got me there, it didn’t happen often and that trick won’t work again, but I accepted it because it was a good trick and I also didn’t want to get chewed out again for starting something. So I did pretty much the only thing that I could do. I stuck my tongue out at him then walked to the back of the pickup truck, hopped on the bumper and climbed over the tailgate. It was the smell of dust and mold that hit me first. The truck smelled and looked like a piece of junk.

The truck, cherry red with a hardtop roof over the bed, had been around for as long as I could remember. It was a fix-or-die truck, with worn shocks, a struggling engine, and an exhaust system with a terrific backfire. The two-seater cabin had a full array of junk strewn over the floor and a cracked dashboard held in place with electrical tape. On the bed of the truck was a mattress with worn springs and cigarette burn holes. I assumed it was there to keep people from sliding around while the truck was in motion. Whenever I had to sit in the back, I would sit on the edge of the mattress near the tailgate for fresh air and a firm hold, in case the truck hit a bump.

I crawled on the mattress, over to the window separating the bed and the cabin and knocked on the glass. Matt ignored me and I knocked again, louder this time. He slid open the glass window and looked at me in annoyance.

“What do you want?” he said.

“I’m sorry for messing up your game.”

“And?”

“C’mon, why you have to be like this? Can’t you just give me my baseball back?”

“I told you it’s not your ball.”

“You stole it from me.”

“No, you never had it.”

“Well what if I traded something of mine for that ball?” I tried pleading with Matt in the past, tried threatening him with words of breaking off our friendship, and I even tried rifling through his dresser when he was not around. But this was new; I never got to the point where I was willing to give away something of mine.

“What you got?” he asked.

“Hmm, I’ll let you borrow my video games anytime you want.”

“No, I have plenty of games.”

“What if I gave them to you?”

“No.”

“No? Okay, what about my bike?”

“Your bike?” He hesitated at this. “Sorry, I don’t think I want to trade at all.”

I was pleading again. “There must be something I can do.”

“Sorry, there’s nothing you can do.”

I gave up at this and crawled back over to the edge of the mattress, sat down and crossed my arms, my head hanging low in insulted defeat. I was like this for a few minutes until a figure filled my vision. It was Matt’s dad with a cooler in his arms.

“Hey little man, what’s the matter?”

“Nothing, I’m fine.” I didn’t even look up at him.

“I see.” He opened the tailgate and loaded the cooler on the bed then closed the tailgate, mashing the cooler between the gate and the mattress. “By the way, your mom says its okay for you to come.” With that he got into the driver seat, coaxed the engine to life, and then we were off to our favorite barbeque spot.

I was taking in the scenery; one thing I loved about sitting in the back was that the scenery was different. Everything was pulling away from you. I sat there for like ten minutes until I heard a dull tapping behind me. My neck twisted around to its fullest extent and there it was, nested in Matt’s hand, the thing that started this whole mess. Matt had the baseball that should have been my baseball, and I could see the autographed name of Fred McGriff scrawled down the middle of it. He must have hidden it somewhere in the truck. He tapped the window with it again, a wry smile crept across his face, and he looked at me with his greedy little eyes, mouthing the word “Mine.” I was scorned by this, thinking about why he had to rub it in. It had been a month and he still felt that he needs to rub it in, ever since that day we went to the Braves game.

Matt and me were probably the biggest Atlanta Braves fans in our neighborhood and that day when my mom took us to the Braves game was one of the most exciting days of our summer. Everything has been perfect. It didn’t rain, the Braves were winning, and we had second row seats out by left field where we could see up close the scramble and hustle of the out fielders. At some point during the seventh inning, that all changed when one of our favorite players, Fred “Crime Dog” McGriff, stepped up to the plate. We both started chanting “Crime Dog” in unison, which we have been doing every time we saw him at bat. Everything else after that occurred in slow motion, the bat waving back and forth in pendulous motion, the signal, the pitch, the crack of the bat, the roar of the crowd, and the high arcing path of the baseball cutting through the sun and downward towards us. I was right there; no better place in the whole stadium, and it was coming right towards me. I thrust out my gloved hand, awaiting the anticipatory smack of the baseball colliding with my glove, but it never happened. Matt stood on his seat leaning over me, sticking out his glove right over mine and I heard the smack but I never felt it.

Matt jumped down from his seat and started doing a celebratory dance in the row, holding my ball high over his head and watching his image on the jumbo-vision screen. Surely he must have seen the incredulous stare on my face through that screen. In fact, I’m sure the whole of greater Georgia that was watching the game got to see it all on TV. I was robbed. Everyone must have seen that, but no one seemed to care. No one said, “That’s not fair.” They were too busy cheering on Fred as he did his required lap around the bases. My mom must have missed it too. Must have been all caught up in the possibility of catching her own home run ball, because she said nothing at all.

After the game, Matt added insult to injury by getting my favorite player to autograph that ball. And what did I get for my trouble? Just a wink and a nod, then he was gone. That night on the drive back home I told Matt that someday I would get it back, but it had been a month and I still hadn’t gotten it back, and there he was, sitting in the truck rubbing it in.

I turned away from Matt, ignoring him because I didn’t want to give him any more satisfaction. I took in more of the scenery, thinking that if I was Superman, I could zip in, snatch the ball back, zip back home, drop the ball off, and be back in a blink of an eye. Oh, how I would love to see the look on his face if that happened. The best part of it all would be that he wouldn’t even know if it was me or not and everything would go back to normal. I sat there contemplating that scenario for a few minutes until the truck reached the turn off into the woods.

It was another couple of miles down into the woods, the truck rudely bouncing around over a bumpy dirt road, when we finally reached the clearing where we held our traditional barbeques. The clearing itself was Spartan, like a cancer excised out of the woods, with a sun-beaten, water worn wooden table, and a black iron grill. The truck rolled to a stop and immediately I climbed out of the truck and onto stable ground, grateful to be here and out of that lumbering, soon to be dead weight. Matt got out of the truck with my ball in hand, taking off for the woods, as his father unloaded the cooler on top of the table I ran after him while Matt’s father looked nonchalantly after us, popping open his first of what would be several beers.

I scrambled through a small opening in the under bush that opened up into a small natural trail, trying to keep up with Matt. After hopping over a few fallen tree branches and running around muddy patches of dirt still wet from rain the day before, I caught up with Matt at our secret spot in the woods. We had come here so many times before, and built a fort out of fallen branches. We picked this spot because of the view. Beyond the fort, fifteen feet away, the ground gave away into a sloping incline meeting a steep rock faced ravine below where a white water river ran. It was a beautiful view in which Matt’s family could have built a little cozy getaway cabin there if Matt’s grandfather hasn’t lost the land in a poker game. A hundred acres of unsullied wilderness, from what I overheard Matt’s father and mother talking about one day, has been in the family for several generations until it was squandered away on a lousy bet on a questionable hand by a no good falling down drunk. Whoever owned it now seemed to not care that we were using a small part of that land or didn’t know, either way they left us alone.

“Matt, what do you want to do now? Want to play hide and seek or cowboys and Indians?”

“I don’t want to play with you right now. You’re no fun.”

“Hey. Why not?”

“You always make me the Indian or you’re a cheat and now I think you’re just coming over just so you can see if you can steal my ball.”

“Wait, but I’m your friend too even though that should be my ball.”

“Friends don’t steal from each other.”

“Like you did to me?”

“That’s not true. I caught it first. Why are you making a big deal about this?”

“Because I would have caught it if you didn’t cheat.”

“Forget it then, you cheat at other games too, what’s the difference?”

“No, I don’t cheat. You’re the cheat, Matt. You know what; you can have the stupid ball now. I don’t want it and I don’t want to see you again. You’re stupid and I don’t need stupid people as my friend. You stay on your side of the neighborhood and I’ll stay on mine, okay?” I turned around and walked angrily back down the trail, feeling humiliated and insulted at Matt calling me a cheat. That word was burning on my conscience; damn Matt for doing this, making me feel this way. I walked a few steps further when I felt a hard smack on the back of my head sending me stumbling forward, caressing the throbbing spot where the rock hit me. Wheeling around, I shot a cold hard look at Matt, his face pained and bitter with anger.

“Don’t say that. You’re stupid for saying things like that,” Matt said.
I didn’t say anything. I didn’t think anything. I was nursing a visceral rage and before my brain could switch gears on what I was about to do, my legs starting pumping towards Matt. The look of anger on Matt’s face vanished and replaced by the momentary realization of what I was about to do right before I rammed the top of my head below his shoulder bone. The impact of the collision sent us sprawling across the ground. Immediately I was up and hunched over Matt, socking him in his hollow, flat stomach while he screamed for me to stop. I couldn’t stop. I was too far gone to care and the little green Hulk of a monster inside me took over. Matt, his eyes swelled up with tears, was striking back at me feebly while I violently wrestled him until he, in his desperation, grabbed a piece of a fallen branch and swung it around, connecting with my ear and leaving a gash of blood on my cheek.

Howling and cupping my bright red cheek in my hand, I let Matt go and stumbled back a few steps while Matt scrambled back to his feet holding his branch like a baseball bat. I spied the ball a few feet away from him and Matt read my mind too because at the same time we both scrambled for the ball. I came up with the ball first and took off running along the ravine. I had a good start but Matt had natural running ability that I couldn’t match and soon enough his hands caught one of my shoes mid stride. I stumbled forward yanking my foot out of the shoe, stabbing my shoeless foot into a muddy patch when Matt tackled me from behind. Now reeling and completely off balance, a critical mistake was made in judgment and the next thing I knew my other foot caught itself on a rock twisting it sideways with a pop and sending me tumbling forward down the side of the ravine. The ball came loose in my hand as the whole side of my body smacked into the slick mud, sliding in time with the ball until my body turned itself around during the slide and crunched into a tree trunk. Instinctively I grabbed my arms around the tree, feeling the sharp jab of my now twisted ankle biting back at me. My eyes followed the ball as it rolled down the ravine until it disappeared from sight. I turned my head towards Matt and screamed for help.

“Come on, grab my hand,” he said as he reached over the side of the ravine. I tried to move my body around so I could try crawling back up to Matt but then I just yelped as needling pain shot up my ankle and leg.

“I can’t,” I sobbed. “Matt, please help me.”

“Hold on, hold on. I’ll be right back.” Matt was running away with shouts for his father echoing through the trees. He was leaving me by myself on this slippery slope and I don’t know how long it was that I waited there. I just gripped at the tree trunk so hard that my nails ached and closed my eyes, praying that nothing would happen to me. I felt so helpless and nothing at all like Spiderman, who would have swung down and over the white water river to safety. A few minutes later, I heard pitter-patter of Matt’s feet followed by the heavy slapping footfalls of his father approaching.

“Help me!” I said.

“Hold on, little man!” Matt’s father said as he made eye contact with me. “Don’t move. Stay where you are.”

“Get me out of here,” I said as he was tying a rope across his waist. He tied off the other end to a tree and then started shifting his body weight down the slope. Slowly sliding down on his behind, his arms and legs crabbing for position, he reached me, scooped me up in his arm and pulled both of us up to safety. Once back up on top of the ridge, I hobbled over to the nearest tree and squatted down at the base. What has been held back in my moment of fear came forth and the tears started streaming as I gripped my twisted ankle in one hand. I was sobbing, feeling the tenderness of my ankle and the realization of how close I came to falling down that ravine.

“You’re going to be okay now. Its over,” Matt’s father said as he stroked my back.

“I was so scared. I thought I was going to fall,” I said between sobs and a hiccup.

“It’s all right now. Don’t worry about it anymore. But you got to be careful about what you’re doing. Can you tell me what happened to you?”

“I tripped and fell down there and hurt my ankle.”

Matt’s father was looking us over, sizing up our disheveled condition. His eyes scrutinizing at the muddy splotches stained into our clothes, our tousled hair, and the oozing gash on my cheek. “That’s all? Matt, did you fall too? You’re not looking too good either.”

“Yeah, um, I was trying to grab him and I fell down too.”

“Then where’s your baseball?”

“My baseball? Yeah. Well we were playing catch and he tripped while trying to catch the ball,” he said pointing to the spot where he tackled me. “I think it went over the side.”

“Yeah, that’s what happened,” I jumped in.

“So you just tripped trying to catch the ball, then the ball went down there and you went after it, hurt your ankle, and Matt, who was standing somewhere over there, ran over and fell too while trying to get you. Did you cut your cheek falling down there too?”

“Yeah, I think so,” I said as Matt’s father handed me my other shoe.

“Well I don’t know what the hell you two were thinking but you sure put me through a scare. Now tell me that this is how it happened. If you remember something else you want to tell me, I won’t be angry. Come on, who can tell me what else happened?”

“Nothing else happened. That’s how it happened. He tripped and fell trying to get to my ball and I fell trying to get to him,” Matt said.

“Umm, yeah, that’s how it happened,” I said with a stammer.

Matt’s father sighed. “All right, enough of this. Everyone lets go back to the barbeque and don’t come back here together without a grownup. It’s not safe. How’s your ankle? Can you walk?” I shook my head no at this without even trying to walk. He hoisted me up on his shoulder and carried me back to the barbeque spot and I looked back at Matt. I saw a reluctance to make eye contact with me, an embarrassed look as if I broken an unspoken rule and was to be pitied. I think I liked it better when he was angry at me because then I could still be angry at him.

We reached the clearing and Matt’s father took me off his shoulders, plopped me down on the table bench, and proceeded to stroke the embers of the now burning coal in the grill. He laid out a picnic blanket across the table and emptied out the contents of the cooler on top then turned to me.

“Stick your foot in there. I don’t have anything to bag up that ice.” he said motioning to the cooler.

“But that’s all ice. It’s cold.”

“I know its cold but you’re the one who hurt your ankle and if I was you and if I wanted the swelling to go down then I would stick my foot in there. Cold or not. Now, before it falls off, put it in there.” I wasn’t going to argue this and pulled my shoe and sock off and stuck my foot in the cooler. Matt sat across from me as Matt’s father walked to the truck and then he came back with a deck of cards and a box of toothpicks.

“Here you go guys, play some poker while I’m cooking. It’s a lot safer than having you two play catch out there. The worse you can do at poker is lose the shirt off of your back.”

“What does that mean?” Matt asked.

“Never mind, just go ahead and play. I’ll let you know when the food is ready.” With that, I shuffled the cards while Matt divided up the toothpicks, which were our playing chips. We didn’t get into the game like we used to. Matt’s father taught us his favorite poker game, Texas Hold’em, and he also taught us all the fun parts of the game. He taught us how to bet, bluff, and also strategies to maintain a poker face as well how to see through one. But we didn’t have the four people considered necessary for poker and I don’t think either of us could take our minds off of what happened earlier. So our playing was mostly mechanical, without any excitement.

“Your bet,” I said.

“I see you and raise you.”

“I call. What do you have?”

“Full house,” Matt said flatly. This went on back and forth and before I knew it my pile of toothpicks was down to only three. By that time Matt’s father brought our food to the table, so we dropped the game, not bothering to see who would win. Matt’s father checked my ankle, then he took the cooler away, satisfied that my ankle had soaked long enough. We ate our burgers and hotdogs in silence with only Matt’s father trying to make idle conversation about everything from the nice weather we were having to the Braves team to how I was doing on the YMCA baseball team. The food didn’t taste as sweet as it usually does. There was a funny raw taste in the back of my throat that bubbled up when I chewed my burger. I try not to think about what happened, but I could feel my stomach turn over on its side. I willed my stomach to calm after I finished my food. There was more idle chatter until Matt’s father decided that it was time to go back and started cleaning up.

“Hey, I got to ask you something,” I said to Matt as I sat myself next to him. “Why didn’t you tell your dad what really happened back there?”

“I don’t know, maybe I didn’t feel right saying it like that. I didn’t want us to get into trouble even if you started it.”

“Did I start it? I thought you did.”

“No you started it. I just caught the ball. You’re the one who wanted to take it.”

“I wouldn’t have to try to take it if you tried to share it with me.”

“I didn’t want to share it.”

“Why not?”

“Because it’s the only thing I had that you couldn’t have. Remember how you liked my old bike and then your mom went out and bought you a better bike. Or last Christmas, you got five new video games plus a lot of other cool stuff and all I got were some clothes and just the one video game. Every time I got something cool you seem to get something better and this time you couldn’t and it felt good.”

“Well, the ball is gone now.”

“I know. Thanks to you. If you were really my friend you would try to get me a new ball and apologize for losing mine.”

“Why should I apologize? You almost killed me.”

“That was an accident; I didn’t mean to make you fall down there.”

“Well it was an accident that I dropped the ball.”

“Does that mean you’re not going to apologize?”

“I’ll do that if you do it first.” That would usually shut him up since he was too prideful to apologize and mean it.

Matt sighed at this. “Okay, I’m going to say it first. I’m sorry for making you fall. What about you?”

“You’re not sorry.”

“I can be. I want to see if you can too.”

“Fine, you’re allowed to feel sorry.”

“You should be the one who’s sorry. You tried to beat me up. Even if you think I’m not sorry for making you fall, you should still apologize to me. I think you owe it to me.” He seemed sincere, I think. I should apologize back, but I was still feeling sore about what happened in the woods. Matt was staring at me, his fingers tapping on surface of the table, waiting for me to say something back. He seemed to want a real apology from me and not the fake ones that we exchanged to appease Matt’s father. I felt a little queasy again, wondering if I would feel a little better if I said something. I almost did. At that moment, Matt’s father, who finished cleaning up and putting everything away, came up to us and told us it was time to go.

“Shotgun!” I said. I felt like I should have said something else but it was too late now. I’ve said what I said and now I was limping towards the cabin of the truck, not even looking back at Matt. It was a weird scene for me. Matt never seemed to be this serious about this as in the past we always managed to put our differences aside, but then again, I realized that he never had his butt kicked like that before.
I climbed up onto the passenger seat, feeling the bite of my wounded ankle when I shifted my weight, and settled in the seat. Looking back at the table I could see Matt and Matt’s father talking. I rolled down the window, stuck my ear out and strained to hear what they were talking about. After all, they could have been talking about me and I wanted to know if Matt was going to turn me in or not. But it was too far for me to make out what they were saying, so I waited until they were done talking.

Soon enough all of us were back in the truck and on our way home. Matt had the honor this time of sitting on the stale mattress in the back. At some point during the drive back I looked back through the cabin window and tapped on the glass, but he ignored me and kept staring out the back. I knocked again and this time Matt turned around. I could see his eyes, misty and raw red, and it shifted downwards to his lap and my eyes followed suit. Matt took a balled fist and slapped the top of his hand on his thigh where his middle finger snapped up as if on a spring. He looked back at me with a little satisfaction once seeing the shock on my face. It wasn’t something that you would have done unless you were mad, really mad. It wasn’t something that you wanted to get caught doing by an adult. But he did it anyway and he was pissed. Perhaps more than I thought. I turned back around and faced ahead, feeling really sick now. The miasma of cigarette smoke filling the cabin and the truck bouncing over every rut in the road added to the queasiness I was feeling. I leaned my head against the side of the cabin as close as possible to the open window and fresh air, praying that the truck would get back home already.

The truck reached the neighborhood and Matt’s father stopped by their house first. Matt went inside the house as Matt’s dad picked up the bike that I left on the front lawn earlier today and loaded it into the back of the truck. A few seconds later we were up the driveway at my house. Matt’s father put the truck into park and looked over at me. I took this as my cue to leave and put my hand on the door handle.

“Thank you for taking me out today.” I started out the door until I felt Matt’s father’s hand on my shoulder.

“Hold on, little man. Don’t be in such a hurry. I want to talk to you first.”

“About what?”

“Well, how long have you known me?”

“What?”

“Not that hard of a question.”

“All my life I guess.”

“And Matt?”

“The same.”

“Right, so you guys grew up together and I was there and I have a pretty good idea when you two are trying to fool me.”

“What? No I wouldn’t do that.”

“Now you’re being a smart ass. Listen to me, I don’t know what really happened between you two today but I’m willing to bet that there was more to that story than you just falling over. But I’m pretty sure you’re not planning on telling me. I’ll tell you this though; Matt and you have been friends for so long that it would be very stupid to let it end over something like a baseball, a video game, or whatever else you guys can come up with to fight about. But you need to ask yourself if you really want to be friends with Matt and if you want to then you’re going to have to stop acting so much like a little boy and start acting like a little man. What do you think of that?”

“I don’t know. I have no idea. If it will make you feel better, I’ll try.”

“It would.”

“You won’t say anything to my mom, will you?”

“Oh, well, as long as you promise that what happened today won’t happen again then if she asks, I’ll tell her that you took a fall. But really, I shouldn’t be the one who’s telling her. If you want to start acting like a man then you’ll have to do the dirty work and tell her the truth yourself. It’s not as hard as you think.” He blew a cloud of smoke in my direction, offending my nasal cavity and I could feel the taste pooling in the back of my mouth.

“Okay. I promise.”

“All right, we’re done here. You can go in now.” With that he shook my hand and got out of the truck at the same time I did. I limped more than I walked to the open garage while Matt’s father took it upon himself to put my bike in the garage. I walked through the door leading to the basement, giving Matt’s father a wave good-bye, then climbed upstairs.

“Mom! I’m home,” I said as I closed the door to the basement behind me. She walked to the hallway where I stood and stopped in her tracks.

“Good lord! What happened to you?” I had forgotten about that. I backed up a few steps and looked over myself in the hallway mirror. I still looked like a mess. My T-shirt caked with dried mud and some dried blood, my cheek red with a hint of black bruising, and my hair was mussed. My stomach sank and turned itself over at the sight of this. I hesitated to answer, still looking myself over in the mirror and debating on what I should say to her. I felt like I should tell her the truth but I didn’t want to.

“What happened to you today?” She was more insistent this time. I turned to face her and tried to say something like that all of this happened from falling down. I hiccupped and felt two invisible hands squeezed my stomach like a balloon. The next thing I know, I was getting spasms and heaving everything on the floor in front of my mom. A murky yellow puddle of half digested hot dogs and hamburgers was now diffusing through the beige rug.

“Oh my god,” she said. “Okay, okay, all right. Go get your dirty clothes off and take a bath. I’ll see you after I clean this up.” She was agitated now, walking over to the closet where she kept her cleaning supplies. I wiped off the remnant vomitus from my lips and went upstairs to take a bath.
After I took a bath, brushed my teeth, and put on clean clothes, my mom came up to my room with some crackers and ginger ale. She waited patiently besides me on the bed while I ate. When I was done, she stroked me on the back.
“So how was your day?”

“Good. I had fun.” I was lying again.

“What happened to you then?”

“Umm, I tripped and fell and hurt my ankle.” I guess telling the truth was harder
than I thought. She checked me over, checking all my bump and bruises.
“Next time try to be more careful honey,” she said once she was satisfied that I had no other injuries. “I’m going to get an ice pack for you and some Tylenol.”

“Hey mom, what does “to take something for granted” mean?”

“Well, sometimes honey, we don’t know how much we care about something or someone until they’re gone. If you’re taking something for granted it means you’re not paying attention to how important it really is. When it’s gone, it’s gone. Do you understand?”

“I think so.” She left the room and I started feeling guilty thinking about Matt and his injuries. I was wondering what kind of conversation he was having with his mom right now. I felt that I should have done something differently today. Actually, I should have done a lot of things differently. At an impulse, I decided to give Matt a call and went downstairs to the kitchen. Mom was there, still in the process of making an ice pack when I picked up the phone and dialed Matt.

“Hello,” a gruff voice said.

“Hi, Mr. Bowen. It’s me.”

“Oh hi, do you want to talk to Matt?”

“Yes please.”

“Okay, remember our conversation?”

“Yes sir.”

“Okay, here he is.” There was some shuffling and voices coming through the other end until Matt picked it up.

“Yeah, what do you want now?”

“Umm, remember what happened today?” I spoke in a hushed tone so mom
wouldn’t over hear.

“What kind of question is that? Of course I remember.”

“Well you said something to me and I didn’t say it back. I’m sorry for everything today.”

“I’m sorry, you’re talking too quietly. I thought you just said you were sorry.”

“Yeah that’s what I’m saying.”

“Say it again one more time.”

I sighed and said “Matt, I’m sorry for real okay? I won’t do that again.”

“You better not.”

“So we are still friends right? You want to do something tomorrow?”

“Okay, sure. Anything but baseball.” I couldn’t help but laugh a little at this.

“Sure, no baseball. See you tomorrow.”

“See you.” He hung up. I felt a load lifted off of my shoulders and for the first time today I was feeling a swelling sense of relief. Things were better, for now. I put the phone back in the cradle and headed over to mom for the ice pack. I went to the TV room, plopped myself down on the couch and turned the TV on to the cartoon network. It’s what I always watched but it didn’t seem as real to me as it did before today. I love cartoons but right now it didn’t feel the same. All I can think of is how all of this mess started because of my pride and a stupid baseball.