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Authors: Tom Mendicino
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car traveling north. Asshole! the driver shouts through an open window. KC floors the accelerator, intending to chase the motherfucker, coming to his senses when he sees a patrol car approaching in the opposite lane. He makes a sharp right into the lot of a Dairy Queen and the cops continue on their way. He realizes he hasnât eaten all day and needs something in his stomach.
He orders ten bucks worth of food, thinking heâs famished. But he barely touches the crap on his tray, choking on a few bites of a cheeseburger. Heâs finishing his Coke, about to dump the rest of the greasy shit in the trash, when a boisterous group of boys, none older than twelve, storm the door of the restaurant. Their grass and dirt-stained jerseys are wet with sweat and theyâre wearing blue baseball socks and Adidas shower shoes, with black-and-white striped flaps. The Beaverton Grizzlies are celebrating a hard-fought victory. The coach, a good-natured middle-aged slob with a belly that droops over the waistband of his sweat pants, makes a futile effort to get them to form a manageable line. They ignore him and rush the counter like a litter of wild puppies, shouting over each other, confusing the young girl at the register trying to take their orders.
KC recognizes each of the boys from his own Little League days. Thereâs the fat kid, with power in his thick shoulders and arms, but too slow to reach first base safely unless he sends the ball deep into the outfield. The nerd with Coke-bottle glasses wonât be put in the game unless itâs a blowout, win or lose. The runt of the litter, a motormouth who is always talking trash, runs like a demon possessed and is the leadoff hitter on the team. Most of the boys still have the smooth, pink faces of childhood; a few have a faint shadow of hair on their upper lips. Some are gawky, with arms and legs too long for their bodies. The larger boys will soon develop the hard, defined muscles of young men. And one, lingering at the edge of the crowd, is clearly the leader, the captain, a boy who is deferred to, quiet, almost solemn, the player on the team who commands everyoneâs respect. KC knows that boy wellâthe one he used to be.
At that age, KC still believed that one day heâd stop being a lonely kid whose real name was Kevin Conroy, resented by his mother, beaten and abused by his alcoholic stepfather. He would be the Mighty KC, admired and envied, rich, with his face and stats on a Topps trading card. After heâd signed with the Rangers, his mother, a widow now, bitterly regretted how she had treated him. She seeks him out, sending letters pleading with him to write her a check because the house is in foreclosure or the carâs been repossessed. Mr. Freeman sends her a little money now and then. He calls it Christian charity and she always complains it isnât enough. But KC wonât return her calls, refusing to speak to her, punishing her for not protecting him from a childhood of drunken insults and fists. But now heâs not a ball player anymore. The Mighty KC is just the stupid name of someone he will never be. Heâs no one special. He can hear his mother mocking his failure, proving sheâd been right all along when she said heâd turn out bad. Heâs the loser sheâd always known he would be. And worse yet, heâs a fag she canât trust around her boys.
If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer. Matthew 21:22.
Coach Freeman believes the Lord never turns His back on anyone, but God doesnât answer everyoneâs prayers. He picks and chooses, deciding who is worthy of His attention. KCâs not among the chosen ones. Heâd prayed every day that God would change him, make him normal, unburdened by secrets and shame. But Jesus hadnât bothered to respond, knowing KCâs faith was never strong. Heâs not the Christian the Freemans believe heâs become. Heâs a
He orders ten bucks worth of food, thinking heâs famished. But he barely touches the crap on his tray, choking on a few bites of a cheeseburger. Heâs finishing his Coke, about to dump the rest of the greasy shit in the trash, when a boisterous group of boys, none older than twelve, storm the door of the restaurant. Their grass and dirt-stained jerseys are wet with sweat and theyâre wearing blue baseball socks and Adidas shower shoes, with black-and-white striped flaps. The Beaverton Grizzlies are celebrating a hard-fought victory. The coach, a good-natured middle-aged slob with a belly that droops over the waistband of his sweat pants, makes a futile effort to get them to form a manageable line. They ignore him and rush the counter like a litter of wild puppies, shouting over each other, confusing the young girl at the register trying to take their orders.
KC recognizes each of the boys from his own Little League days. Thereâs the fat kid, with power in his thick shoulders and arms, but too slow to reach first base safely unless he sends the ball deep into the outfield. The nerd with Coke-bottle glasses wonât be put in the game unless itâs a blowout, win or lose. The runt of the litter, a motormouth who is always talking trash, runs like a demon possessed and is the leadoff hitter on the team. Most of the boys still have the smooth, pink faces of childhood; a few have a faint shadow of hair on their upper lips. Some are gawky, with arms and legs too long for their bodies. The larger boys will soon develop the hard, defined muscles of young men. And one, lingering at the edge of the crowd, is clearly the leader, the captain, a boy who is deferred to, quiet, almost solemn, the player on the team who commands everyoneâs respect. KC knows that boy wellâthe one he used to be.
At that age, KC still believed that one day heâd stop being a lonely kid whose real name was Kevin Conroy, resented by his mother, beaten and abused by his alcoholic stepfather. He would be the Mighty KC, admired and envied, rich, with his face and stats on a Topps trading card. After heâd signed with the Rangers, his mother, a widow now, bitterly regretted how she had treated him. She seeks him out, sending letters pleading with him to write her a check because the house is in foreclosure or the carâs been repossessed. Mr. Freeman sends her a little money now and then. He calls it Christian charity and she always complains it isnât enough. But KC wonât return her calls, refusing to speak to her, punishing her for not protecting him from a childhood of drunken insults and fists. But now heâs not a ball player anymore. The Mighty KC is just the stupid name of someone he will never be. Heâs no one special. He can hear his mother mocking his failure, proving sheâd been right all along when she said heâd turn out bad. Heâs the loser sheâd always known he would be. And worse yet, heâs a fag she canât trust around her boys.
If you believe, you will receive whatever you ask for in prayer. Matthew 21:22.
Coach Freeman believes the Lord never turns His back on anyone, but God doesnât answer everyoneâs prayers. He picks and chooses, deciding who is worthy of His attention. KCâs not among the chosen ones. Heâd prayed every day that God would change him, make him normal, unburdened by secrets and shame. But Jesus hadnât bothered to respond, knowing KCâs faith was never strong. Heâs not the Christian the Freemans believe heâs become. Heâs a
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