At All Costs

“I have a competition in me. I want no one else to succeed. I hate most people.” 

In Little League, we play six innings win, lose or, God forbid, a tie, the old sister-kisser or something akin to that like dying by a thousand fastballs to the head. Losing is almost as bad, but losing is a wrong I can correct sometime later on, with intent and malice and I can put myself back on top and feel great. Losing is a great motivator, but tying’ll turn a nun to drugs within a couple of hours. I don’t give a damn if you’re playing tee-ball or in the World Series, no one likes a tie.

We go into the top of the sixth, our last opportunity to hit today, in a tie; Scottie was pitching and plunked two kids in the ribs, gave them a free base, then we lost our one-run lead on a lazy ground ball through the legs of our first baseman. I’m not even going to say his name, that’s how embarrassed I was at him. But, I’m due up third this inning. I’ll get a shot at ending the game, winning it for the whole team. I’m excited.

On my way into the dugout, I look for hi-fives or knuckles from my teammates and get none, which is fine because I don’t need that. I’m not here for that sappy stuff. I turn my attention to the stands from the team huddle, see Dad, hunched over with a dried out, crunchy towel across his shoulders, a towel he tugs on and twists into strings when I’m hitting or when I have a play in the field. He’s spitting dark saliva and bits of tobacco into the grass away from the bleachers where Mom sits, not even watching, trying to pick the right photo to post about how much fun she pretends to have at my games. 

I live for the tense moments, for my time to win. The game started at four in the afternoon, so by now the sun is winding down, finding its way back behind the trees out in left field. The field’s all orange, the dirt turning red in that sun, and the wind’s blown in a quiet buzz over the crowd, anticipation among parents and siblings and friends. Who’s in this crowd, though, isn’t important to me so long as I win this one, I beat these guys and stand on everyone’s shoulders, tallest out on the field. I need to be at least a head above the world here.

“I got Scottie leading off, Dean-O on deck, and Tommy in the hole,” Coach Denney calls out above the dugout, the cleats screeching across concrete floor and metal bench.

I’m due up third, sure, but I’m first out. Dad taught me that, to get out and time up the pitcher as best I can before my at-bat. I stand in the grass and grind it to dirt and filth under my cleat. Dad taught me that the field serves me, that it only exists because I do, basically. The whole world is for us, so if we cut into it a little bit to get ahead, it doesn’t mind so much. Mother Earth just takes it in stride, serves us, I guess.

“Do whatever the hell you gotta do to be the best,” he says and so I do.

All that I’ve learned has come from Dad, really. Deconstructive advice all the way home from games every week, malicious tips that I take in the chest and don’t whine about because that’s what makes me better. Superior athleticism comes from pain, a little suffering and I’m willing to endure that to win. I remember that as I loosen up. I think of Dad’s words and they give me chills that I shake out with a quick warm-up swing, a long breath to stay tuned to the task at hand.

I remember one time when I was 8 and I struck out to end a game and he hit me with a switch in front of my brother when I got home because I humiliated him. I just told myself I was getting better. I’m 12 now, but I still remember that every game. That’s what makes me want to be better.

Is Dad kind, respectful? No. And I’m a winner for that.

The field lights come on and everyone quiets down while they race each other to light up, left field foul line first and then the others in some order after that. I’m back in the dugout, watching and waiting for the first pitch. As the sun disappears and the sky starts to go purple, I drown out all the cicadas behind the dugout, refuse to smell the wet grass and the pine tar just behind me. All to watch this first pitch, watch my guy set the tone for the inning. I know, though, that it won’t matter if Scottie and Dean-O both strike out, I’ll save this one for us. Even if I’ve got to hit it into the parking lot in right field, I’ll make sure we win this one. Whatever it takes.

I hear field chatter from talking heads on the other team, faceless obstacles really and nothing more to me. Dad’s told me to separate myself from them, that the other team is only trying to stop me from being great and I should punish them for it, never say good game or chat on the basepaths. 

“Empathy is for losers. I didn’t raise a loser,” he says before most games, bottom lip overflowing with yellow, tobacco spit. 

I look back one more time, Dad starting to twist his browning towel into knots, into a filthy wreath around his neck. Mom looks up at me, smiles and waves, but doesn’t give good luck or anything because I don’t think she cares so much. She cared about my older brother’s football games, that’s for sure. And all my little sister’s stuff, she yells so loud at gymnastics meets and makes me stand up for standing ovations with her.

I’ve gotta fight for her affection, though. I get the feeling that if I don’t hit a home run here, she won’t say a word to me all the way home, will probably just give me leftovers for dinner instead of stopping off like she does for my sister. And Dad will just voice his shame, call me a loser.

I’m not a loser, though. I’m a champ, I know that. 

Scottie watches the first strike go by him and I can see from the dugout that we aren’t cut from the same cloth. No one works harder than me to be the best, to win at all costs. Another strike to Scottie and I look down the bench at the rest of my team, excited at the prospect of winning for them, of taking this into my hands and reminding them who the best player on the team is.

“Battle now for us, Scottie!” I shout. 

Inside, I hope he strikes out. I hope he leaves this for me.

One more strike, this one a lazy and fearful swing, like a chop to save his life. But, Scottie strikes out. Dean-O heads to the plate and I go to the on-deck circle to get warm for my at-bat.

As Scottie walks by, I can hear his Mom from the stands, “It’s alright, buddy! Keep your head up!”

Scottie’s starting to cry on his walk back, frustration and disappointment buried in those bottom eyelids. What a loser. 

I don’t cry, haven’t probably since I was a baby. I’m immune to tears. Dad doesn’t allow shows of weakness and Mom…well, I don’t know if she’d tolerate it. She doesn’t cry very much, and she hugs my little sister when she cries, but I don’t think she’d hug me. Not even for a second. Maybe I just choose not to cry in front of Mom. I don’t think I’d like what would happen.

“Okay, Dean, let’s get it done!” Coach Denney calls from the third base coaching box.

Dean-O steps in and I don’t even look. I know he’s about to strike out because I know Dean-O and I know my team. Since I joined this team, I’ve been the only guy whose Dad makes them stay after practice and take extra batting practice. I don’t hang out with the guys because I’m always working, always trying to be better than they are. I don’t need friends, I need to win. Buddies, teammates, friends, none of it worth it if it doesn’t make you a better player.

I hear a groan from the stands and look up. Dean-O’s hunched over at the plate, the ball at his feet because it just hit him in the back and he gets a free base. Coward’s way on to first base. The pitcher even looks over at him and gives him an apologetic thumbs-up. I cringe at that, resent that Dean-O nods like it isn’t a problem he just got his kidney blasted.

“Alright, Tommy!” Coach Denney shouts from third again, gives some signs.

Competition is where I thrive because everything I do is to win, winning is the only thing, winning is who I am. These are things I tell myself on my way to the plate. On my way to my at-bat that I know will put us ahead. I look quick to the dugout, sort of hoping to see my teammates cheering me on from the fence, but they’re all seated, all cowering away from the moments that I shine in.

I think I saw Coach Denney give Dean-O the steal sign there, tell him to try to take second base. I’m trying to tell him with my eyes that it won’t matter because I’m about to take this pitcher deep. I’m gonna break the tie and be the hero and get all the praise and hi-fives and love in the dugout. That’ll be nice.

In the stands, Mom says, “Come on, Tommy!” and nothing else.

I hear Dad spit again.

My feet dig into the box, my hands get tight around my bat, and I’m ready to go. Whatever this guy throws me, I’m taking it out of the ballpark. I’m putting us up, I’m winning this game. “Team sport” my ass. Right now, it’s just me.

The first pitch to me goes wide, into the other batter’s box and Dean-O is slow trying to steal second. The catcher behind me comes up throwing and I know Dean-O, who’s so slow and bad and doesn’t want to win enough, is about to be the second out on second base. But, the catcher’s throw goes way high, over the fielder’s head and into the outfield. Dean-O doesn’t even slide, just tags second base and blows through onto third.

Just like that, the go-ahead run is just a base away. I could hit a ground ball or a fly ball deep in the outfield and he will score and I’ll still get all that glory. But, I’d have to sacrifice my home run, sacrifice a greater glory for something easier. I don’t hit because it’s easy, though, so I dig in again on a one-ball-no-strikes count, ready to put us ahead and then close it out in the bottom half of the inning.

The pitcher stares me down, but I see right through him, I’m already seeing the end of the game, when I’ll be lifted up on shoulders and shake my Dad’s hand and my Mom will finally hug me and tell me she’s proud, when he comes set. This time the pitch is in my wheelhouse, a fastball high and tight that I slam into right field. It stays on a line, not a home run, but a drive into right field for a hit.

A hit that scores the run, that makes me the champ, just like I said. 

In the stands, I can make out Dad slapping the old towel against the bleachers like a whip, making noise enough to almost drown out Mom, screaming at the top of her lungs. I can hear her jumping, too, and some of the other parents are clapping. I love that, the feeling of validation, of respect. The consummation of my pride.

I love it so much, that I don’t stop at first, I’m not satisfied with a single that scores the run and puts us ahead. I round first and head to second, try to leg out a double. When the throw goes right to the second baseman, right in front of me and I’m not even into my slide yet when he catches it and tags me out.

I’m out, the second out of the inning. But, the run scored and it was all because of me, had very little to do with Dean-O stealing so slow and lucking himself into an extra base. I got the run and when we close out the next half-inning, I’ll be the hero.

I pushed the tag away, pushed the second baseman right behind it, just to remind him who was top dog. Violence and willpower as my practices of dominion and the second baseman backs off, takes the hint that the run scored and he’s losing now.

Except when I turn around to head back to the dugout, smiling and relishing my moment, I feel a hard shot to the back of my head, right in the helmet. I go down to all fours, the thrown ball from the second baseman turning my vision to all black for a second and I wonder if contempt is the price of victory.

When my vision’s back, I turn to see him running at me, glove off and fists raised. I realize that losers hate their own nature and to have it rubbed in. Losers don’t like winners and I’ve got to show this guy what’s up. I try to stand and he swings as I get up, a cheap shot that clips my helmet, but knocks me back down. Losers don’t fight fair, either. It’s in a loser’s anatomy to practice disrespect and spite to their betters and now I have to show him up.

I’ll show him who’s boss as soon as my teammates get over here and help, as soon as the peel him off of me, swinging and spitting and cussing. I don’t tolerate any of that garbage until it’s used against me.

So I say, “Bitch!” and move my hands from my face to hit him. I land one shot on the nose, feel it shrink under my hand and know blood is on its way. Even from the ground, I’m better.

Then, his team comes in. I feel a metal spike in my side, another landing on my helmet before lesser hands pull it off my head so they can kick and scratch and claw at the one who’s responsible for their inferiority. At me.

So I curse again, waiting for my teammates to come end this, save the guy who saved them from a loss or a tie. But, nothing. No one is coming. I’m all alone here, a busted lip now, ribs broken and bleeding onto my jersey. I know my nose is broken, too, but I can’t even track when that happens. This, pain, must be the price of victory, right?

Finally, kids start pulling away, disappearing from view and I see my Dad. Just Dad, all alone, pulling other kids off of me, throwing people on the ground and swinging wildly at anyone who comes near. Those wild strikes land once, a scrawny kid who sat the bench getting clubbed by an older man’s closed fist, but once was enough. 

That’s when other coaches come out of their dugout and it’s mayhem. Instead of Dad fighting a Little League team, he’s fighting their coaches and parents, too. Still alone. I stand and start on the players, but just get knocked down again, someone using the ball again instead of their fist and I feel my jaw fall out of place. I crumble, no longer feeling pain, just bleeding and bleeding into the dirt until it turns black.

Then, I’m knocked out. Dirt and field and players and coaches and victory and defeat, all black.

I wake in a hospital. I’ve never been in one before, never been this low in my life. In my mouth, I can feel that I’ve lost teeth, that there’s gaps on the top row. I can’t reach the bottom and I realize that’s because my jaw hasn’t been set yet. Everything is sticky with old blood, newly cleaned. A winner’s blood, at least.

Next to me is Mom, playing on her phone. She doesn’t even notice when I look up.

“Did we win?” I ask and my voice sounds far away, like my ear isn’t working right.

Mom stays in her phone, texting or tweeting or angrily answering a comment, ensuring that she gets the last word of an argument at all costs. So I turn, look up at the ceiling and measure tiles against each other, trying to find the biggest and best one. But, where’s Dad?

“The game was called, a double forfeit,” Mom says, still looking down.

“A tie?” I groan.

Mom nods, stands. “I’ve got to go get your Dad.”

“Where is he?”

“Jail,” she says with no intonation, no emotion whatsoever, just a recitation of a word from her phone.

Mom sighs and I feel that hurt again, the need to be liked and wanted and important to her. For the first time all day, she looks down at me, broken and bleeding, and says, “This is all your fault, you know. I’m disappointed in you.”

Then, she walks out without looking at me and I know that this is the price of winning: shame.