never
had. It was a possibility, the way death was a possibility, the way rain was a
possibility.
What
was he going to do? Run away, perhaps. Pick himself up from the banality of
this small chosen slice of life and go adventuring. Find a new route. Pack a
brown paper grocery bag full of clothing and head out on the road. Of course,
at forty-four years-old, with a house he owned outright and a hatchback that
had seen better days, all of this became as unlikely as say, suddenly
restarting his career in pro ball. The injury that had ended his career, that
had sent him into a brief and yet powerfully personal Hall of Blame, might as
well have crippled him physically. He could no more just pick up and leave than
he could throw a ninety mile-an-hour fastball right at the batter’s weak spot.
So
he answered truthfully, as had become his nature. Why lie anymore?
“I
don’t know,” he said. “Guess I’ll just have to wait and see.”
Lee
nodded. This answer seemed to please her, as if his uncertainty was deserved in
the face of her father’s death. He didn’t dare make assumptions, he didn’t dare
move up to take over for a man so great that no one, not even today, could talk
pitching without talking about “Wild” Billy Wells. Best of the best, cream of
the crop, top of the line. And Ben McDunnough, who had played a mere two and a
half years before his arm had given way, who had gone out not in a blaze of
glory but in a quick burst of agony, could no more claim the dead man’s place
than he could have out-thrown him while he lived.
“Well,
good luck,” she said, picking up the box and tucking it under her arm the way
she might carry a baby.
“Do
you want me to...?” He gestured to the box and she shook her head.
“It’s
not heavy,” she said and with a nod, opened the door to the office and slipped
dramatically away, leaving a trail of vanilla and gloom. Ben sat for a moment,
staring after her, half expecting her to reappear to claim something else of
Billy’s, the grim reaper of the small office. His chair, perhaps. The stapler.
But in the end, he had to come to the uncomfortable conclusion that the office
was, for the moment, his. Wandering over to the file cabinet, he jerked open a
drawer. It held only a few dark green hanging folders with nothing in them. The
next drawer yielded an empty manila folder labeled “Expense Reports.” Ben
smiled and gently pushed it shut.
What
was he going to do?
The
knock on the door was not completely unexpected. He had been sitting at his
desk for the last half hour, turning a pencil over and over between his
fingers, rolling it down his hands and then drawing it back up. Of course
someone would knock, he knew suddenly. That was what he was down here waiting
for.
“Ben?”
Sandy Miller from Human Resources poked her head around the door and smiled at
him. He could practically feel the ax swing above his head.
“Sandy,”
he said and motioned her in.
“Ben,”
she began, steering Billy’s old chair over to face him across his desk. “I know
you’re wondering where you stand.”
He
thought, oddly, that he knew exactly where he stood. It was where he was going
that puzzled him. But there was no point in trying to explain this to someone
like Sandy, with her little self-made career in academia. Should she be fired
tomorrow, she would know at least the direction in which the rest of her life
lay, like being able to see the path through the woods, even if the destination
is miles off.
“I
suppose so,” he answered.
“We
would like to offer you an opportunity to be heard, if you’d like one.”
“I
would,” he said, but wasn’t entirely sure what they expected him to say.
“Well
then, the Board...” she hesitated, as people always did when bringing up the
Board, “... will agree to hold a hearing to determine your fitness as a
candidate for head coach.”
Though
he would have thought seventeen years of assistant coaching, two College World
Series and
had. It was a possibility, the way death was a possibility, the way rain was a
possibility.
What
was he going to do? Run away, perhaps. Pick himself up from the banality of
this small chosen slice of life and go adventuring. Find a new route. Pack a
brown paper grocery bag full of clothing and head out on the road. Of course,
at forty-four years-old, with a house he owned outright and a hatchback that
had seen better days, all of this became as unlikely as say, suddenly
restarting his career in pro ball. The injury that had ended his career, that
had sent him into a brief and yet powerfully personal Hall of Blame, might as
well have crippled him physically. He could no more just pick up and leave than
he could throw a ninety mile-an-hour fastball right at the batter’s weak spot.
So
he answered truthfully, as had become his nature. Why lie anymore?
“I
don’t know,” he said. “Guess I’ll just have to wait and see.”
Lee
nodded. This answer seemed to please her, as if his uncertainty was deserved in
the face of her father’s death. He didn’t dare make assumptions, he didn’t dare
move up to take over for a man so great that no one, not even today, could talk
pitching without talking about “Wild” Billy Wells. Best of the best, cream of
the crop, top of the line. And Ben McDunnough, who had played a mere two and a
half years before his arm had given way, who had gone out not in a blaze of
glory but in a quick burst of agony, could no more claim the dead man’s place
than he could have out-thrown him while he lived.
“Well,
good luck,” she said, picking up the box and tucking it under her arm the way
she might carry a baby.
“Do
you want me to...?” He gestured to the box and she shook her head.
“It’s
not heavy,” she said and with a nod, opened the door to the office and slipped
dramatically away, leaving a trail of vanilla and gloom. Ben sat for a moment,
staring after her, half expecting her to reappear to claim something else of
Billy’s, the grim reaper of the small office. His chair, perhaps. The stapler.
But in the end, he had to come to the uncomfortable conclusion that the office
was, for the moment, his. Wandering over to the file cabinet, he jerked open a
drawer. It held only a few dark green hanging folders with nothing in them. The
next drawer yielded an empty manila folder labeled “Expense Reports.” Ben
smiled and gently pushed it shut.
What
was he going to do?
The
knock on the door was not completely unexpected. He had been sitting at his
desk for the last half hour, turning a pencil over and over between his
fingers, rolling it down his hands and then drawing it back up. Of course
someone would knock, he knew suddenly. That was what he was down here waiting
for.
“Ben?”
Sandy Miller from Human Resources poked her head around the door and smiled at
him. He could practically feel the ax swing above his head.
“Sandy,”
he said and motioned her in.
“Ben,”
she began, steering Billy’s old chair over to face him across his desk. “I know
you’re wondering where you stand.”
He
thought, oddly, that he knew exactly where he stood. It was where he was going
that puzzled him. But there was no point in trying to explain this to someone
like Sandy, with her little self-made career in academia. Should she be fired
tomorrow, she would know at least the direction in which the rest of her life
lay, like being able to see the path through the woods, even if the destination
is miles off.
“I
suppose so,” he answered.
“We
would like to offer you an opportunity to be heard, if you’d like one.”
“I
would,” he said, but wasn’t entirely sure what they expected him to say.
“Well
then, the Board...” she hesitated, as people always did when bringing up the
Board, “... will agree to hold a hearing to determine your fitness as a
candidate for head coach.”
Though
he would have thought seventeen years of assistant coaching, two College World
Series and
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