By Richard Noyes and Pamela Robertson
Nell and Rob Clevenger were at a table in an upscale restaurant having a drink before dinner. A soothing piano across the room accompanied a tuneful vocal of ‘Skylark.’
“Thanks for taking the clerky, on-trial, unpaid employee into a social strata beyond his modest means.”
“Hey, that’s nice. Did you rehearse that? Anyway, sweet man, I’m glad you’re in, it’s a start and they’ll soon see what they’ve got. So what did they give you to do?”
“Fixing bad letters, a proposal rewrite, marketing plan that looks like it was written by a junior clerk.”
“Are they human?”
“The managers I met were candid, which is refreshing. And then there’s the strange girl I met at the water cooler.”
Nell arched her back. “How cliché. Did the sparks fly? Is she attractive?”
“Cute, big tits. She’s in the brass bed business on the side. Said her apartments full of them, asked me over to see them.”
Nell smiled, lifted her glass, and with a smidgen of an edge in her voice, “How convenient, you can try all the springs. I’m sure she wouldn’t sink in a brass water bed.”
“It gets better. I give her orgasms.”
“Orgasms!” Nell looked around at people staring from neighboring tables, grinned sardonically at them and turned back to Rob.
Still holding the glass, she asked sotto voce, “Orgasms? At the cooler, or did you already bed the brassy wench? And before you answer, you can wipe that self-satisfied smirk off your kisser before I moisten it with my drink.”
“When I was talking with her, she would shudder every so often. I asked her if she was cold and she said, ‘No, you give me orgasms.’ ”
“I’d fear for her inventory if you got down to brass tacks. What did you say, Mr. Turnonsky, when she invited you to the showroom, or should we say workroom.”
“I blushed, shuffled my feet, tugged at my forelock and mumbled, ‘Shucks, Mam, I’ve got a wife and kids.’ Actually, I said I needed to check with my cardiologist.”
They laughed, toasted and had a good belt. A waiter asked if they would like to order. They opted for another round.
“Speaking of kids, it looks like the future’s up for grabs for both Sam and me.”
“What do you think his problem is?” Nell asked.
“Can’t throw the ball in the ocean.”
“I know that, but why?”
“You got me. There was a lefty phenom from the Cardinals who went to pieces in the playoffs several years back. I saw it once in the minors when the catcher couldn’t throw the ball back to me without firing it over my head or down into the mound.”
“What happened to him?” Nell asked.
“I knew the kid a little, was from the south, Appalachia I think, came from nothing, one chance to stay out of the coal mines. Like most of us, baseball was his whole life. They tried to work with him, but they cut him soon. I heard him sobbing in a bathroom stall after . . .”
“You learned control from Mac. Could he help Sam?”
“If I thought Sam would take the suggestion. This is different. I was wild around the plate. Sam’s wild around the backstop. I wish I’d heard of a good ending to drastic control problems.”
The waiter arrived with their drinks and took the empties. Nell heard ‘Here’s That Rainy Day’ from the piano and thought: That’s appropriate to the conversation. She said, “Sam always had good control. Second year of Triple-A, headed for the big leagues by midyear the papers said, and it all goes screwy.”
Rob sipped his drink. “I read once that when young guys go off the deep end it’s often because of a fouled-up relationship with their fathers.”
Nell took Rob’s hand. “You and Sam got along.”
“We never had big trouble, a lot of arguing, just never got close. I traveled all the time back then. Probably didn’t give enough attention. I don’t think I’ve hugged him since he was twelve or thirteen. Maybe you can talk to him. You were always buddies.”
“He’s coming back for a while,” Nell said. “Let’s see what he says.”
“Is he staying with Heather? Wish he’d drop that user. I question her brainpower, too, voice like a knife skidding across glass. Maybe someday he’ll learn there’s more to life than getting laid.”
“I agree with all of the above, but we can’t go near that, he’s too old to be getting advice from us.”
Sam Clevenger started spring training with the Major League club, but once the severe wildness appeared they sent him to their Triple-A facility, a minor league park that held eight-to-ten-thousand people. The stands were empty, and Sam was on the mound ready to pitch batting practice. The first batter stepped in. Sam threw, and the ball bounced in front of the plate. The next pitch tipped off the leaping catcher’s glove. Sam delivered again and the batter ducked a pitch near his head. Another one jackknifed him. He said, “I forgot my cup, Sam,” and walked toward the dugout.
The next batter came out of the dugout flexing a bat, dressed in full catcher’s gear, including mask. He stepped in and took a few practice swings. Sam laughed, tried to hit him with a soft throw, walked off the mound and sat in the dugout. The manager, who had a basketball-size potbelly, came in from the field, sat beside him and chewed on a blade of grass.
“Sam, this been going on since you got to spring training, now down here. Go home, get a fresh scene, season doesn’t start for a few weeks. You got a girl? Maybe you’re lonesome or somethin’?”
“I’ll try and forget about it, empty my head, that’s not hard.”
“Now don’t get all pissy,” the manager said. “Here’s the number of a couple people you should talk to, a shrink and a sports psychologist.”
“I hate that psychology crap. You know, I got a hunch everyone’s screwed up for the same reasons, and if it all came out the shrinks would be out of business.”
“Prob’ly true, but you’re a special case. On your way to the show and somethin’s messed you up. You got to lose what? We couldn’t help with mechanics. They sent Lawson over here to work on, he made things worse. Maybe one of them couch doctors can figure somethin’ out. What the hell, the big club’s payin’ for it.”
“In other words, they want me to go.”
“I’m not gonna bullshit you, Sam. I’m askin’ for your own sake, and I’m on the hook too. The Big Guy calls me and says, ‘Clevenger’s the best prospect in the organization, maybe in all baseball, can’t-miss starter up here, we’re plannin’ by July. Now he can’t pitch for shit. Fix ‘im, or I’ll find somebody who can.’ ”
“I’m callin’ that dickhead up and tell him it’s not your fault . . .”
The manager gave Sam a sideways look.
“Okay, okay, I’ll go.”
When the manager handed over a tape Sam asked, “What’s that for?”
“It’s you pitchin’ before and after this wild stuff started. At least show it to the sports psychologist, maybe he’ll see somethin’. Now get the hell outta here, and come back throwin’ strikes or we’re both up shit’s creek.”
NOTE: This story was adapted and excerpted from Larceny of Love, a provocative print and eBook novel that traces the interwoven careers of three men in jeopardy and the unforgettable women in their lives.
“Finally, a book with many people you care about. I knew that as soon as I finished one chapter, the next had a good chance of being even more surprising. Larceny has dramatic episodes and imaginative writing of the first order.” -Patti O’Halloran, Long Beach, California
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