Beaned

You’d let him hobble your brother. The sun scorched the back of his neck, Llewyn felt a burn bubbling up, rashing the skin, couldn’t much do anything about it now, sunscreen was back in the dugout even if he wanted to use it. Thankfully, Pop was on duty until 6, although he might still catch the last few innings if he didn’t dwell at Flojo’s. Llewyn had a notion what he would say over a bunch of gobbed up pharmacy mayonnaise on his neck and knew the burn was the preferable.

 2 seams, off speed catch ‘em digging, but it was too close, decent hitter would take him to the corn. The corn stalks swayed just beyond the fence, nothing but few dozen acres of cow corn, butting up against the municipal lots, but during the summer days like this, Llewyn was certain he tasted sweetness in the air, it was the only thing that anchored his body to that mound that night. 2 outs and the third was in reach, he knew he was done after. Recruiters didn’t want to see him evaporating his arm, certainly not going past the fifth, and he was already deep in six. Overdue and damn near expired, he tried to tune out his arm throbbing and begging for relief, albeit doing a piss poor job of it. Llewyn wasn’t done yet, on deck was Kline. Didn’t matter that they were both in that stall, only one caught the heat. Only one caught the heat, the shame, the disowning. Neddy was exposed. The anger clawed his fingers into the leather. 

Godawful buck teeth that caught the sun in all the wrong ways, turning off white into a mewling yellow. A small knot of dip tucked deep into the crevice of his cheek stained what was already a poor form. Kline wouldn’t spit until we was rounding second, wouldn’t chance a tar colored glob of flem in plain view of his parents. Had a boyish charm to uphold, same reason that stall only implicated one.  Same charm that Neddy found handsome, but as Llewyn crooked his thumb underneath the leather, he questioned whether such things were chalked down to matters of taste or rather inclination. There was a wrought iron, hayseed wiriness to Kline, but all the same never wanting for tenderness. It churned Llewyn’s stomach the wrong direction to think about a man in such a way. He heaved in a change high and tight, felt the muscles at the side of his elbow bulge against the force of the throw, barely hit pine off the knuckle, enough to send it spiraling down the baseline, but cockeyed enough to go foul. Llewyn had hardly returned to the mound when he saw a black and white kicking up stones in the lot. Supposed to be 6, must have avoided Flojo’s. Llewyn didn’t even tell him he was getting the start tonight. 

He cast a glare toward Kline, the batter on deck had forsaken the donut at the end of his bat and was now swinging to time Llewyn’s arm and nothing else. Didn’t matter the hours of practice him, Neddy and Kline had all spent together, time spent on the field until well past the sun had gone down. Kline likely knew his arm better than Llewyn did. Kline would separate himself entirely, pretend all those hours meant nothing to him, that Neddy meant nothing to him. Llewyn wouldn’t give him an opportunity to swing on him, even during a glorified scrimmage. Just a spat between queers, although Pop couldn’t hear it, or maybe just wouldn’t. Llewyn knew he suspected and probably already knew, certainly would never say a word edgewise, the nuance required was a skill he had never even thought to hone. Kline swung the bat and appearances need not ever change, never have the slightest chance of reassessment or hushed words. But the thought returned to him all the same, beyond the excuses, You can’t let him hobble your brother.  Llewyn took it personal, took it as a slight, but somewhere in his mind, he understood. Understood the weight that was on that boy and understood it was a weight that could not be so easily shrugged off by the joys of love’s nascent fumblings. The only thing Llewyn could never begin to understand was how deep absence dwelled. Kline swung the bat. 

His arm howled. Llewyn quick pitched another one in, knew it wouldn’t be a strike, knew he wouldn’t get his block knocked off. Every pitch tested his luck. He didn’t have enough. Couldn’t throw it light or he’d get taken deep, couldn’t throw it hard. Every second he remained was a second he chanced a meeting with Tommy John. He prayed he could make it, another wind up, another heave. He knew he would ride the ice tonight, wait until his arm was so numbed up he could manage to find sleep. It landed just outside, closer than he would have ever wanted. He felt the corn shift, heard the prongs of Pop’s duty belt scrape against the metal of the bleacher. Llewyn wouldn’t dare meet his eyes. It was full count. He wasn’t in this game still for himself, he was in it for Neddy. All he needed was two, two more pitches. He needed two for Neddy. They still had to triple tape his brother’s goddamn wrists so the stitches couldn’t tear while the two of them weren’t home, wouldn’t tear when the first hints of despair began to settle in again, he needed two. One to go and one to finish. Neddy needed someone to yank him from the stall, needed a brother when Llewyn couldn’t be bothered. He wasn’t there, but he could be now. 

Llewyn kicked his leg up and… a walk. The pitch scuttled against the dirt and second took third. Runners at the corners. Coach Wallis yanked his arm sleeve down with a grimace, the last bit of goodwill and trust vanishing from his expression. Go home, go home already and stop this fucking around. They wouldn’t change him out in a dirty inning. They could for all he cared, it was a fucking scrimmage. Finish this shit he thought, knew he couldn’t, not until Kline stepped in the box with those godawful buck teeth. Llewyn nodded, a courtesy of acknowledgement not of agreement. Kline whipped the donut against the chain link fence. He took to the box, grinding his heel into the dirt as the last bit of throbbing subsided in Llewyn’s arm. He let the pain well up, let it build and steady itself, allowed himself to become comfortable with the realization of what it was. It was a buoy. 

Kline took a practice swing and Llewyn’s evaluation of the man had no kindness, he wasn’t a man, a man would stand resolute in defense of what mattered, of who mattered to him. A man would fight for love and not abandon it out of social convenience. He wouldn’t leave it out of despair. He heard the weight of Pop shifting, Llewyn wagered a gaze and found stern blue eyes looking back. Go on now. Kline shimmied in the box, same as he had on the two previous at bats. Llewyn had lost his nerve then, found it evaporating against the strain of his arm. What was a scrimmage had never been nothing more, but now, with those fucking buck teeth staring back at him, knew it had become more. 

Every single time he kicked his leg up, his mind went to Nolan Ryan. Llewyn had stolen the wind up, made it a personal contest against himself to see if he could wedge his knee against his nose, but that didn’t bring him to Nolan. Pop told him Nolan possessed the plate, the batter merely rented it out for a handful of pitches. He would protect it from all threats foreign and domestic, mow it down and it didn’t matter if Nolan only had two pitches, the two were so unyielding that they endured for 5714 strikeouts, 7 no hitters, and 27 seasons. Llewyn knew his arm would blow out far before 27 seasons, knew he would never throw half as many strikeouts, but when he thought of Nolan, he hoped he could possess that plate, just for a moment. 

When he released it, Llewyn realized that there was a part of him that could rationalize intention and reality. It could have slipped, gotten loose and gone wild. Hell, even if it had been deliberate, there was an ocean between evil and malicious. However, there was somewhere in the grey matter that told his fingers to make it a tight four seamer, the same signal that sent a message through his nervous system and told him the ideal point of release. It was the same block of grey matter that was scarred by the thought of Neddy, lying in a hospital bed, weak and pale, and anemic. It was that same block of grey matter that had said one thing, good riddance.  

It drilled Kline against the temple and although the radar gun that they so often used to calculate speed had been charging in the dugout since the top of the 4th, Llewyn knew his arm well enough to guess that pitch topped out in the low 90’s. Kline fell to the ground in a heap, his buck teeth chattering like they were carrying icicles. Llewyn knew the pain, or knew the pain that he hoped Kline was feeling and wouldn’t dare wager an insult, even in the safety of his own mind against the boy whimpering on the ground. In an instant, Kline was flanked by a litter of coaches, players, and all other concerned adults, all of them tending to the boy, flashing fingers in his face and querying about the  president. Llewyn knew he had to make a show of it, of finding that well of remorse. He gave a step toward home plate, but caught a glimpse of his father, standing upright with thumbs lodged into the loops of his belt and knew that leaving the mound wasn’t his place.

 The scent of corn filled his nostrils, but it was soon replaced by that of a grease laden, gristle streaked Hofmann hot dog. Llewyn remembered the summer nights Kline, Neddy and himself had spent at the ballpark, venturing out to Heids long after the lights had gone out and the sun had barely set. Kline’s teeth continued to chatter and a trickle of blood had even began to make its way to the dirt. They wouldn’t share another after this.