Rain On Tin
Part Three
Jon shut off the TV. The two
boys lay shivering and silent, pulling their blankets up under their chins;
their silent ruminations lingered heavily, as perceptible as the ghostly fog of
their breaths dissipating into the blackness, made blacker still by the thick
layer of steam coating the window, blocking the orange streetlamp glow.
"I
remember the day coach cut him from the team, sophomore year," said Sean, breaking
the tenuous silence. "I skipped fall tryouts that day because I couldn't be
around to bear witness. I knew he had it coming. Coach had it in for him. I had
to visit him that night."
"It
was ugly," replied Jon, quietly. "Even he knew it was coming. I never saw anything like
it. If he had lost any more of his composure, I swear he would've started
crying out there on the mound. Pitch after pitch he threw in the dirt, bounced
off the plate...shit, he even let one fly to the backstop..." and his voice trailed
off as he offered a sad "hmph."
"It
was..." said Sean, "...like seeing a friend die—like a premonition to
everything that happened. I've never seen such shame and pain as I saw in his
eyes. He kept saying, 'I'll never face my father again, my grandfather, too,
everyone's going to be so disappointed in me. I can't face up to them.' The kid
couldn't face up to anyone. He couldn't talk to girls he liked, always worried
what the guys on the team thought of him." Sean sat up and placed his hands in
his lap, and stared at the wall. "I swear to God if you ever saw him look in
the mirror, you could see the shame—he hated himself."
"No,
man, he didn't hate himself," said Jon. "He just couldn't control the way he
was. He wouldn't have died if we were with him that night."
"What
he did was suicide!"
erupted Sean.
"No,
he just didn't know when to stop. He didn't know any better."
"It
was like
suicide...it was like he wanted to die. But he was unsure of that, too."
---
Coach
cut six eligible returning players in the fall of Sean's sophomore year. The
night after the news was posted on the locker room door, the six expatriates
gathered at the field at midnight. They shattered the lock on the storage shed;
a bucket of practice balls plus home plate and all three bases were dumped into
the nearby river; the rolled-up field tarp was inscribed "Fuck You!" with a
pocket knife; the batting cage was demolished with a rake and a spade. Someone
took a shit on the mound.
"But
that's just how those guys dealt with it," Sam explained the next evening. Sean
nodded slowly, sitting in a folding chair in Sam's bedroom. "All I could do was
just watch, and even though I'm angry...and sad...it's nobody's fault but my own.
What good would it do? It's over. I feel like I've died."
---
"Jon...after
the funeral you pretended like Sam never meant a thing to you. Seemed like
everyone at the school—all those assholes who didn't give a flying
fuck about
Palmiteri—they all acted like he was their best friend. You didn't even
think about him."
Jon
moved uncomfortably under his blankets and kept his pensive gaze fixed to the
ceiling. He exhaled deeply, nervously, like he'd been led to trial.
"I
think about him a lot," he said, finally. "I didn't like how thinking about it
made me feel, so I shut it off. And, one day, I realized I couldn't pretend any
longer. I knew him well—I mean, I didn't spend too much time with him the
last couple years, but for a while it was us three...you know, until he got cut
from the team."
"Sad
how those things go."
Jon
didn't seem to hear.
"I
really did know him pretty well. He stayed at my house in Brooklyn and I talked
to him every time I saw him wandering around campus. I talked to him the day he
died. I have dreams about him sometimes, and he'll be the same old Sam, only I'll
know, in the dream, that he's dead and that even though I'm talking to him—even
though I'm listening to him—something is very wrong, and only when I wake
up do I realize what it is."
---
Sam
couldn't convince the pretty waitress to serve him a beer. Sean couldn't care
less. It was Sam's idea to drive down to Milford for dinner, to try and take
Sean's mind off the girl who'd broken his heart that day. He sat silently
ignoring Sam's jokes and pointless chatter.
"You
know, Sean," said Sam, matter-of-factly, "when I first met you I thought you
were a real asshole."
Sean
looked up, surprised. Sam finally had his attention.
"Yeah...the
first week of fall baseball, out of all the new recruits, you were the last one
who ever talked to me. You were always quiet and serious-looking and you never
smiled. And I just thought, man, that kid is a total dick. You acted like you
thought you were better than anyone else."
"Hm,"
grunted Sean.
"But
then I got to know you...and you're my best friend on the team."
Sean
slowly nodded, a sour frown frozen on his stone face. Sam continued, undeterred
by his friend's non-response.
"I
don't get it, man. I don't know why she ditched you like that. I don't
understand why you have such a bad time with girls. You know...you're a good guy.
Not a scumbag like me. Not like all the guys I live with. You're a nice guy,
Sean. You know that. You're quiet and smart, and, you know...you're just a good
guy," and he spoke embarrassedly, looking downward at his fingers as they
twirled a straw wrapper, visibly startled by his own candor.
Sean
looked at him and nodded. "Fag," he said under his breath, and the two quietly
laughed, waiting for their plates to arrive.
---
Click here for Part Four of Rain On Tin