Chapter 2

I take a deep breath and give him a cut fastball, but he doesn’t bite. Strike one. He takes a high curve, then a change-up, so I lay in a fastball with all I’ve got. Has to be ninety something, but does it get past him? Nope. He nails it for a three-run homer. There’s no crowd roar since we’re playing at my home field in San Francisco. Tommy runs the bases as a few New York fans offer hoots and cheers. He passes me the usual “sorry” look.

When I’m pulled for a reliever in the fifth, I’m near grateful but don’t show it. I keep the blank look required of major leaguers, nothing on the outside while inside I fight humiliation. It’s nothing new. Every starter gets pulled early now and then, but it’s still a pain. I don’t stop in the dugout. It’s straight into the clubhouse.

It’s poor form to leave before a game ends, even if it’s ended for you, so I shower and change, then watch the game on TV. I nibble on the spread that’s been laid out, though I’m not hungry. It’s more something to do.

The game isn’t a long one. We lose seven to three, and afterward I face the press as a good player should. I smile when asked about Tommy having ownage, and muster agreement. Then I flee. My condo is in the new high-rise across from the ballpark, and I hustle over there. Nobody asks for my autograph.

Tommy will be along as soon as he can leave without attracting attention. I haven’t seen him in four months, and even though he arrived in town last night, he puts up at the team hotel the first night to keep up appearances. After that, he plays the ladies’ man, disappearing into nightlife. We’re discreet not because we’re ashamed of ourselves. We’re discreet because we’re on opposing teams, and if known, our relationship would be news and get in the way of the game. We spend the off-season together, four months in Europe mostly. This past winter, we rented a Tuscan villa and had us a time. Even that far away, we remain somewhat guarded in public.

I now slip into my blue terrycloth robe, nothing else because it’s time now for that other kind of ownage, the personal kind. I enjoy a beer while I wait, entertaining myself with thoughts of our beginning…

I was already at Triple-A Memphis when Tommy came up from Double-A. Guys come and go all the time in the minors, so there was nothing special with his arrival. I noted him good-looking, shook his hand, offered welcome, same as everyone else. And I didn’t give him much more thought until I saw him hit. It was a home game. He came in to pinch hit, and put the ball over the left field fence. In the dugout when we all jumped up with cheers, something else was going on with me, something that pretty much ran over me, happily so, if that’s possible. Even when he reached us after crossing the plate, enjoying high-fives and pats on the butt, this something was still at me, and I had to walk down to the dugout’s end, get a drink of water, and linger before I could look back at him. As I did, I wondered how in hell nobody else had been run over like me.

It was his swing that got me. I’ve always liked the look of a guy whose body is well balanced, who puts his legs, hips, back, shoulders, and arms into swinging the bat, the whole marvelous connection adding up to knocking the ball to the fence or beyond. The standard in the beautiful swing was Will Clark, who I watched on TV when I was a Little Leaguer in the late eighties. He knew his body and used it to perfection. His first major league at bat was a homer off fastball ace Nolan Ryan, which says it all. Now, here I was with the same thing happening in person, Tommy Knox looking every bit as beautiful as Will Clark.

“Nice swing,” I said to Shane when I sat down. I had to say something. If I held it in, I’d explode.

“Guess so,” replied Shane, and I had to clamp my mouth shut to keep from asking how he could miss such a beautiful thing.

Listening to conversations down the bench, I heard nothing of Knox. As for him, he took a seat and said not a word. I didn’t either after that, and when I went out to pitch the next inning, I was in a kind of fog. I’m still amazed I struck out the side.

A bunch of us went to eat after the game and I asked Tommy along. I didn’t really want the others around, but couldn’t give myself away. What I did do was sit directly across the table from him, and more than once, I let him catch me looking.