Page 153 of When There Was You
She nods.
“That’s my friend Terry. He’s a professional baseball player. Isn’t that cool?”
She shrugs, watches all of sixty seconds, and runs off. Apparently not that cool.
Even Butch doesn’t totally get it. He grew up in Virginia, where there are no professional baseball, football, or basketball teams. In fact, many other states on the east coast don’t have teams. I realize how fortunate I was to grow up with several in the Bay Area.
Sports united our city, which splintered into factions over crime, class, racial divides, culture, and more. And on a personal level, they bonded my father and me during those early, difficult years.
Needless to say, I’m vibrating with excitement.Terry made it home.
I’d give anything to be at the Oakland Coliseum watching him live, and I wonder which of our friends are at the game. Mick and Remy? Kendra? Vinny? Jeremy? I hope they’re all there cheering him on. A flash of grief washes over me, and I pull the bowl of popcorn onto my lap and shove a handful in my mouth. No crying over the past. The players finish warming up and I only recognize some on the roster: Rickey Henderson, Jose Canseco, Mark McGwire, Dennis Eckersley.
It’s an exciting few hours of shrieks, pride, and glee—enough to make Hemi abandon me eventually too. Oakland jumps into the lead in the first three innings, and Seattle answers in the middle innings, but the A’s prevail 3-2. Terry gets one hit and scores, thanks to an RBI by McGwire. I leap into the air once it’s over—I’m so proud of him, elated he’s back in our hometown, and riding the high of a real success story. The guy couldn’t deserve it more.
Two days later, Terry is dead.
Seventy-Five
Terry’s death by cocaine overdose dominates the news. Sportscasters discuss rampant cocaine abuse among MLB players. Calls for drug testing resume. Various general managers and players weigh in on how player drug use has affected performance and cost them games and pennants.
I’m utterly drained, a gaping maw of grief left in the wake of my sobs. Leaning against the kitchen counter, I massage my forehead as a headache threatens.
Butch’s hand strokes my back, and I meet his tender gaze. “I’m going home for the funeral.”
He wraps his arms around me for the hundredth time this week. “Want me to come with you? I will in a heartbeat.”
My whispered “no” is muffled by his soft cotton T-shirt, and I sink into the familiar scent and reassurance of his stable presence.
“You sure?”
I angle my face toward his. “Yeah. I just need—want—to be there, and I’m overdue for a visit with my parents anyway.”
“I understand, although…”
“What?”
“It sounds trivial in light of everything, but it would be nice to meet your parents before our wedding day.”
He’s not wrong. It’s weird that he hasn’t…but this isn’t the right time. I can’t face the collision course of Terry’s funeral, my past, and parental interaction with the stress of introducing my fiancé around too.
If I’m honest, Butch seeing behind the curtain of my fucked-up home life holds zero appeal. It’s safer if he meets them out in the wild—for our wedding in Virginia—instead of in their natural habitat where alcohol and Valium and infidelity and bitter unhappiness prevail.
I book a flight, rental car, and hotel for the following day. It might be shitty, but I don’t let my parents know. I don’t want to field questions or deal with my folks until after the funeral. Next I call Kendra, and we decide where to meet the morning of the service. I graciously accept her invitation to stay with her afterward for as long as needed.
As I pack, a growing current thrums through my veins, gaining volume and speed. A lingering question. A small sliver of light that will not be snuffed. A tiny, reawakened voice.
Mick and Remy.
I know they’ll be at the funeral. They’re among Terry’s closest friends.
And I’m not sure how I feel about seeing them.
But by the electricity sparking my cells, it’s got unfinished business written all over it. And the guilt hits me like a hammer. I’m engaged. Why do I have questions? What does this mean? What’s going to happen when I see my dynamic duo? It escalates my heart rate enough that I sit on the bed and put my head between my knees.
Butch jogs up the stairs and finds me in this position. “Are you okay?”
Fuck.
