ONE CUP (Part 1)

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One Cup

Austin Jett

One Cup

Austin Jett

Copyright ©2016

Austin Jett

All Rights Reserved

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination and/or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

1

Nine years ago

Ray Garrett

It was the bottom of the fifth inning, I just hit my twelfth home run of the season, and it was only the middle of June. I was twenty-one years old, destined for greatness. The opposing pitcher glared at me as I rounded the bases. With a cocky grin, I nodded to him, tipped the bill of my batting helmet as I stepped on home plate. He said something, but I couldn’t make it out over the cheers of the hometown fans.

Pete Davis, our shortstop, who followed me in the batting order, shook my hand as I trotted past him, saying, “Atta boy, Ray!” on his way from the on deck circle to the batter’s box.

Back in the dugout, my teammates congratulated me with high-fives and slaps on my back. I sat down at the end of the wooden plank bench and began putting on my catcher’s equipment, “the tools of ignorance” as they are sometimes referred to in baseball circles. Mickey Johnson, our manager, came over and planted himself next to me. “Good knock, Garrett.”

“Thanks, Mick,” I replied. “Care to hand me the other shin guard?”

“You won’t be needing it,” he said. “I’m putting Spencer in for you.”

I was not expecting that. “What for?” I asked. “I threw a guy out trying to steal second a couple innings ago. I have a single and a homer so far. What’s the problem, Mick?”

“There’s no problem at all, Ray,” he said with a hint of a smile. “Not for you, anyway. As for me, well, I’m going to have to find myself a—”

A fastball zeroed in on Pete Davis’s chin, narrowly missing him as he spun out of the way and fell to the dirt. It was obvious retaliation for my showboating during my home run trot. Davis sprang to his feet and charged the mound. Both benches emptied. Mick Johnson hooked a hand over my shoulder in an effort to contain me, saying something like, “Not today, Kid!” but I pulled away and joined in with the others.

The fight lasted maybe five minutes. Unlike most bench clearing brawls, some punches were actually thrown. A few even connected. When it was all over and done, only one person was injured. I would spend the rest of the evening in the emergency room and the remainder of the season back home in Illinois, mending my injuries and feeling sorry for myself.

A lot of water has flowed under the bridge since then. Circumstances change, and life goes on. Ballplayers see their best years fade away. Some make it big. Others, you never even hear about. I fit somewhere in between those two categories.

2

Indianapolis, Indiana

6 weeks ago

Kayla Prescott

I had just finished interviewing Suzanne Fletcher, the first lady of the state of Indiana. The segment was intended to give the viewers an opportunity to learn more about her charitable work for the underprivileged members of the community. Her husband, Allen Fletcher, was up for re-election in a few months, and this was her contribution to the campaign.

We shot the interview in a church basement in the heart of the downtown district, where the two of us pitched in and helped serve meals on camera. Off camera, I got the impression that like me, she couldn’t care less.

I stepped out onto the sidewalk, waited for my cue. “When it comes to helping the needy, a lot of people talk the talk. As you can see, the First Lady of the State of Indiana is walking the walk. Perhaps, all the way to the White House. At the Faith of Deeds Interdenominational Church, I’m Kayla Prescott. Remember, we’re all in this together.”

“All good, Kayla,” the camera operator, Tamara, said. “Looks like we can call it a day.”

“Thank God,” I said. “I need to get home and take a shower. Have our housekeeper burn these clothes. The stink of those wretched losers will never come out.”

I turned to go, but stopped. A woman was standing across side of the street was looking at me. Being a celebrity of sorts, I am accustomed to people staring, but this was different. I knew her.

She gave me a slight nod, then turned and walked away. Tamara approached me and handed over an envelope with my name on it, saying, “Before I forget, I was asked to give you this.”

Upon returning to the station, I filed my segment to be aired on the evening telecast and left early.

My husband, Michael Prescott, is the star player on the Indianapolis Bobcats. The team was out of town for another couple days, and I had the house to myself. I poured a glass of wine, sipped it as I unfolded the note Tamara handed me, and read it for the tenth time.

Everything in place. Will proceed as discussed.

I smiled and poured another glass, then plopped down on the leather couch and flipped on the TV. The sound of a riding mower outside drew my attention. Derek, the son of our landscaper, was hard at work, shirtless, covered in sweat. I decided he needed a nice cold glass of lemonade.

3

Kayla Prescott

I grew up poor. Daddy was a long haul trucker and lay minister. When he was on the road he served as chaplain to the other truckers at truck stops. Some places, they would let him hold meetings in their TV rooms, usually right next to tattoo parlors or video poker machines.

I remember one night when Daddy was home, he got a phone call from some fellow named Bill. Bill was a trucker Daddy met a couple weeks earlier in Alabama. He’d told Daddy about how he had a daughter who ran away from home and Daddy prayed with him at the truck stop. Lo and Behold, a few days later, while having some repairs done on his rig at a truck stop just outside of Kansas City, Bill found his daughter. What she was doing there was not mentioned. I always figured she was going from cab to cab in the parking lot.

“Hallelujah, brother! The Lord works in mysterious ways,” I remember Daddy telling Bill over the phone. Then, he hung up and went back to his Jack Daniels.

Daddy wasn’t home all that much. My mother was the restless sort, and I suppose I inherited that trait from her. It was only a matter of time until Daddy learned what his wife was up to while he was away. The difference between my mother and me is she aimed low, when she bothered to aim at all. Momma, rest her soul, would spread her legs for any man who came sniffing around. After the divorce, she had nothing. Daddy didn’t even bother to send child support, saying he doubted he was the father of any of her four children. Nobody had heard of DNA back then, so who’s to say?

I call him Daddy, but the truth is I haven’t seen him even once since he left Momma. If he’s still alive, I doubt he even knows who I am now. Kayla Prescott. Mrs. Michael Vincent Prescott. Rich. Famous. I spend more in a week than Daddy earned in his best year. I didn’t spread my legs for just anyone. I aimed high.

Living in the New Orleans area, I attended the Zephyrs

home games along with my cousin Sally. Not so much because I was a fan of AAA minor league baseball. I was a fan of the baseball players. Sally and I started going to the Zephyr games together when we were in our late teens. The first year, we hooked up with a few guys, had some fun, but nothing developed.

The following year was different. I aimed higher. I did my homework, used the Internet to research the hottest prospects, the ones with the best chances of making it to “The Show”—the term everybody in the game used when referring to the major leagues—I knew which players I was interested in before I ever got to the ballpark. I had a couple of players on any given team I would pay special attention to. That they would notice me was a given. With my looks, I was impossible to ignore, sitting close to the dugout or the bullpen, depending upon whom I was stalking, in my denim shorts and too-tight T-shirt tied in a knot above my belly button.

My criteria was really quite simple. For a player to make my list, he had to be:

1) A top prospect on the fast track to becoming a major leaguer with a megabucks contract, and

2) Single. Not that I had a problem with married men, per se, but I learned early on, back before I focused on professional athletes, men will tell you anything to get into your bed. I heard one sob story after another of marriages broken beyond repair. They would say they wanted to leave their wives for me, but there was always some reason it couldn’t be done “just yet”. It never failed to bore me. Besides, if I was going to be a home wrecker, the best I could ever hope for was a slice of whatever was left after alimony and child support.   

Then, the third year, I started praying more, and God saw to it I met Mike Prescott—Michael, as I call him. It sounds more sophisticated. Actually, as long as I’m being candid, it was Sally who first hooked up with Michael. I was sort of engaged at the time to another player, Bobby Ogden. Bobby was handsome. Just over six feet tall, with washboard abs. The kind you see on the cover of romance novels, or the cover of GQ. And, he had a Sam Elliot mustache. He was a nice guy, the kind of fellow a girl could go for if she was looking for love. Bobby was on track to eventually be called up. Only one person stood in his way—Ian McGregor, an Australian pitcher who’d been up to the majors and back down to the minors again a couple times already. Word was Ian would be recalled any day, and Bobby would have to wait. Maybe next season, they told him. I found that to be unacceptable.

Michael Prescott, he was the one with the superstar potential. He was the one who was going to be shitting gold bars. But, he belonged to my cousin, Sally.

4

Kayla Prescott

Knowing as I do that there are many young and beautiful women out there stalking athletes, I’ve always kept my man on a short leash. I talk with him several times a day whether he is at home or traveling with the team. From time to time, I will book a last-minute flight to whatever city the team is in just to surprise Michael. He never knows when or where I will show up. It keeps him off balance.

And it goes without saying we baseball wives have our own spy network. Just like the players all seem to know someone on each of the other teams, at least one of the wives also knows one or more of the wives on another club. In today’s world, what with the Internet, e-mail, texting, and social media, if a player is “being a player” on the road, the news will get home long before he does. Alimony is a bitch when you make eight figures a year.

I can’t claim credit for the original idea. It actually came from Vanessa De La Vega, whose husband was one of Michael’s teammates. She and I became friendly when our men were playing for San Diego. God, I miss San Diego. Vanessa once mentioned to me she’d spoken to a divorce attorney when she suspected Jose was cheating on her. The attorney then hired a private investigator to try to catch Jose with the other woman. “I find out my Jose have a girlfriend, I cut the bitch!” Vanessa told me, tracing a line with her index finger down the side of her face—and I believed her. Later that night, I told Jose what was going on, and we cooled off our extracurricular activities for a while. Fortunately, Vanessa’s investigator found no evidence of infidelity.

My own safety notwithstanding, my conversation with Vanessa De La Vega caused me to start thinking. What I really wanted was a divorce. I was bored with Michael. He didn’t satisfy me. I wanted to find someone I liked better. And, I wanted to pursue my career in television. I was born to be a celebrity.

That I could live without Michael was never in question, but I must admit I have become quite accustomed to the lifestyle. The prenuptial agreement his attorney insisted upon provided me with $5 million. Excuse me, but that’s chump change.

There were two provisions which could eliminate the pre-nup agreement Michael and I had signed. One was the birth of a child. I did not want children, but from the beginning decided it would be easier to just tell my husband I was unable to conceive. Whenever he would bring up the subject, I would break down in tears. Michael, like most men, couldn’t deal with tears. He would drop the subject, and it wouldn’t come up again for another year or so.

The other way to break the pre-nup was for me to prove Michael was committing adultery. And, I was certain he was not. So, I had four choices:

1)           End my infertility charade, have a kid, and divorce him later;

2)           Accept that my divorce settlement would be chump change and learn to live with it;

3)           Go on living with the man;

Or …

4)           Find another way.

5

Four Weeks Ago

Ray Garrett

It was late August, the end of yet another frustrating summer in the minor leagues. The good news was I played that day. The bad news was I committed two errors and went hitless in three at bats as we lost the last game of our losing season. On the positive side, I did manage to lay down a perfect sacrifice bunt in the bottom of the third inning to move a runner into scoring position—the only thing I did well all day. Of course, true to the fortunes of our dismal season, the runner I moved over to second base fell victim to the old hidden ball trick, and was tagged out moments later.

In the locker room after the game, I tossed my catcher’s mitt into the trashcan. I was done with baseball. Or maybe more to the point, baseball was done with me. I’d stuck it out until I turned thirty. I still hadn’t been called up to the majors, and now . . . well, I didn’t know what now. It was time to call it quits. That much was certain. 

A few years ago I was up to Triple-A for a while, but after suffering a hyper-extended elbow, dislocating my shoulder, and tearing some ligaments in the bench-clearing brawl—the same day I was supposed to have been called up to the majors—things began to unravel for me, career-wise and otherwise. It was a long time before I could throw a baseball again, and I didn’t have the arm to throw out runners like I could before. My injuries never did heal completely, but with the help of painkillers, I was able to hang on, playing ball at the lower echelons of the minor leagues, clinging to the elusive dream.

Playing only seemed to aggravate the injuries, yet not playing would surely spell the end of my career, not to mention kill a part of me I wasn’t ready to let go of. I couldn’t afford to take a full season off for rehab. So I said nothing, took the painkillers, and played through the pain. Not surprisingly, my stats declined. I was sent back down to Double-A, and later tossed in as an afterthought in a couple of trades as the “player to be named later”. I had a couple of mediocre seasons, but by then the Indianapolis Bobcats—my new owners—had a fresh crop of hot young prospects making their way up through the farm system.

All these things conspired to push me back down to the Single-A Sunshine State League, as a second-string catcher and utility infielder for the Cocoa Beach Barracudas. We traveled to  away games on a dirty, broken-down bus with ripped seats and balding tires and played in towns with names like Boca Raton and Deerfield Beach. We slept two to a room in fleabag hotels while on the road and had to arrange and pay for our own accommodations in Cocoa Beach. The conditions may have been lousy, but at least the pay sucked.

No time was wasted on goodbyes in the locker room after the game. Like many losing teams, we weren’t a particularly close-knit group, and none of us wanted to linger any longer than necessary. Benny Gonzales, a hard-throwing Dominican pitcher who couldn’t find home plate with a GPS, summed it up best when he said, “I jus’ wanna make like a tree, an’ get da fock outta here!”

I put on my street clothes, left my uniform and my spikes on the floor in a heap by my locker, and departed without ceremony. My dust-covered but otherwise white Buick LeSabre waited patiently for me in the parking lot. The air conditioner didn’t work these days, and there was a huge dent in the driver’s side front door. The rear bumper was held in place by clothes hanger wire. Despite all that, the Buick, which was about to turn over 300,000 miles on the odometer, had served me well during my glamorous life as a professional baseball player. Someone—no doubt one of my teammates—had applied a bumper sticker which said

MY OTHER CAR IS A PIECE OF SHIT, TOO!

I slid in behind the wheel to begin the journey of my life.

6

Ray Garrett

I could have made it to my hometown of Sumter, Illinois with about sixteen hours of hard driving, but it was late, and I was in no hurry. My baseball days were done now, and it might be a long time before I would again have any reason to travel more than an hour or two from the family farm. I might as well take my time in getting there.

Like most Midwest farm boys, I longed for adventure, and could not envision myself driving a tractor for the rest of my life. Nothing wrong with that, but most of us at Red Hill High School wanted to get out, see the world. Some went into the military service. They’d seen the world, alright, or at least the shittiest parts of it. A couple, one being my older brother, were killed in action. Another one of our hometown boys lost his legs and thought himself lucky to be able to walk with prosthetics. That may not be an accurate statement. I doubt he truly felt he was lucky. As for the others, the ones who made it back in one piece, well, they too, were forever changed. My best friend from high school, Lonnie Crowe, put a gun in his mouth two months after returning from his third tour in Iraq. My point is, somehow, thinking about them kept me going whenever I felt like giving up on baseball. As long as I was in the game, I still had a chance. But now . . .

7

Ray Garrett

After about an hour on the road, I turned on the radio. Travis Tritt was singing Where Corn Don’t Grow, and it really got to me. So much so I had to pull over to the side of the road and get out. I walked a few yards away from the car, sat down in the grass and buried my face in my hands. I was washed up, a failure. It wasn’t supposed to have turned out like this. I sat there, sobbing as traffic whizzed by on the busy interstate.

I was a better-than-average baseball player in high school, and the Kansas City Royals chose me in the fourth round of the free agent draft in the spring of my senior year. As impressive as it may sound, let me assure you there is a huge difference in the signing bonus money for a fourth round draft pick as compared to that of a player chosen in the first round. Even so, I had a few bucks in my pocket and some big dreams in my head when I left home. Dad, who made no secret of the fact he would have preferred for me to have gone on to college, cautioned me about managing my money and myself, but I didn’t listen. Dumb farmer, I remember thinking, what the hell does he know?

I really believed—no, I knew—I was going to make it to the major leagues, and all indications were it would happen soon. I was the top catching prospect in the Royals farm system. I had a good arm—not many runners could steal off me—and I was hitting well with the wooden bats we used in pro ball. You’d be surprised how many so-called sluggers in high school and college, where the bats are aluminum, can’t hit in the minors. The kid who was drafted number one overall and signed for a multi-million-dollar bonus the same year I was drafted couldn’t hit more than .160 – in the Rookie League! They stuck with him for a couple years, but eventually cut him loose. I never did hear what became of him.

Halfway through my first season, they moved me up to AA ball in Wichita. When we broke spring training camp the following year, I was assigned to the AAA team in Omaha. I had a heck of a year. Batted .315 with twenty-eight home runs. Set a league record for most runners thrown out by a catcher. My future was all mapped out, and it was bright—or so I thought. Then, early in my second season in AAA, came the brawl.

After I homered and the opposing pitcher threw at the head of one of my teammates, and the benches cleared. I charged the mound, lunging toward the pitcher. I did not make contact with him, but someone else sure did make contact with me. I don’t know who did it or how, but I was slammed to the ground. Next thing I remember, I’m on all fours, with the wind knocked out of me. There’s no fight left in me. I’m struggling to get up, but I can’t do anything until I get some air into my lungs. And then I see someone coming down on top of my right arm. My throwing arm. The arm that could cut down the fastest runners who dared attempt to steal a base on me. The arm that was supposed to make me a multi-millionaire.