This is a tribute to the friendship of Darry and Two-Bit. I'd like to thank the talented AndThatWasEnough, for allowing me permission to borrow Two-Bit's Italian mother Maria and his cute little sister Sadie. She's also responsible for making Two-Bit a baseball catcher,which inspires this story.
REMIND ME WHO I AM
"I prefer my shirts light on the starch. Oh, and without the smoke and ash please," I sarcastically say to Soda, unable to stop my eyes from rolling when I see him standing over the board ironing away, shirtless, a cigarette dangling out of the corner of his mouth, his heavy cloud of smoke seeping through the clothes I've just brought in from the line.
"You'll get 'em how I give 'em," he says in his lazy drawl, tilting the iron back, whipping the shirt off and admiring his work as he quickly throws it on one of many hangers he has hooked to the door. Early on, Soda was made chief resident ironer once his talent was discovered. He's my biggest help on laundry day, despite his need to smoke like a chimney while he goes to town on all our clothes, running that iron back and forth, attacking those wrinkles like he's done it for years.
A shrill whistle announces Steve's approach up the backdoor steps and he quickly pokes his head through the kitchen door that he doesn't even have time to open all the way. "Clocked out. Gonna clean up. Back in twenty. Where we goin' anyway?" he asks Soda in their shortcut language, never bothering with hellos or small talk.
Soda's focused on spreading a plaid shirt out smoothly, methodically. Once satisfied, he looks up at Steve and takes this opportunity to pull out what's left of his smoke and stub it in the ashtray. "Don't care. Wanna just drive and see what we find?" All the gang's so used to seeing Sodapop at his ironing board, nobody makes fun of him anymore. Not that the ribbing ever bothered him anyway.
Steve takes off with only a nod, I guess to run home and fix that hair of his. "Hey, I don't want you lookin' for trouble tonight," I say in my best stern voice. "I can't be having your face busted up come Monday." This gets Pony's attention and he looks up from folding towels and jeans, but the question I know he's about to ask is interrupted by our brother.
"Why Darry? You planning on us taking some professional family photos?" Soda jokes as he sprays starch on Pony's one good button down that fits him. "Maybe we could all three pose in the park while we look off towards the sunset and… aw hell, y'all don't even need to be in the shot. Just get some solos of me." His grin is infectious but still can't break the tension that's written all over Pony's face.
I feel a headache coming on when Pony groans, "God Darry, is that bitch comin' again? Wasn't she just here?"
"Yeah the State wants her to come twice this month. At least she warned us. I'm sure it's nothin' to be worried about," I say to calm him. No sense in making him a wreck. He'll drive me crazy asking questions about it all weekend. "It just makes me look better if Soda shows up with his face intact," I aim towards Soda who's wrangling his next item into position.
"Darry you act like I lose all my fights," Soda says in mock offense as a blast of steam shoots out of the iron making him squint. "I ain't lost a fight since..," and I jump in to finish his sentence for him.
"Since in about thirty seconds when I plan on moppin' you up and down this kitchen floor and embarrass your ass right here in front of your kid brother."
Soda chuckles and reassures me, "Okay, geez, I promise I won't get in no fights tonight Dar." And when he finishes up the very last shirt he slips it on himself and yanks the plug out of the wall saying, "God you sound like Dad," and Pony nods in agreement.
"Speaking of tonight," and I can just see Pony's wheels are already turning, working for my permission to break out of here too. "Can y'all give me and Johnny a ride somewhere?" he asks Soda who's gathering up the clothes to deliver them to our rooms.
"Ponyboy do you really think I'm just gonna forget you're grounded?" I say looking up from the grocery list, shaking my head at him. Sometimes I wonder if that kid even has a lick of sense.
"C'mon Darry really? The whole weekend?" He's giving them sad eyes but they're never gonna work on me. I'd give anything to be able to send him out with the gang tonight just to get him out of my damn hair. All he's done is complain and pout for a straight twenty four hours. But, I gotta lay down the law like Mom and Dad would've done. This whole discipline thing has turned out much harder than I thought.
I've found by going tough and mean right off the bat, it nips shit in the bud. I give my best intimidating glare and try to channel my father. "If you breathe one more word about it Pony, if you even open that smart mouth, you're toast...and I'm real hungry for a big ole breakfast with a side of toast." I certainly ain't winning friends by all these threats but that's not my role unfortunately. Shutting shit down before things can escalate is the only way I know how to do it. And Pony bucks against it so hard, but I can't say I blame him. He's not the type of kid that responds well to that kinda raising. But that's the only kind I'm dishing out; it's all I've got in me. We have a long road ahead of us.
I can't stop myself from beating the dead horse. "Messin' with people's property ain't no joke Ponyboy. Unless you think spending time in the cooler is hilarious. Why don't you ask Dally if he's laughing. I just drove by him today out on the side of the road cleaning up trash with the rest of the chain gang." Of course I leave out the part that I honked and grinned when I saw him and he just glared and gave me the finger. It was pretty damn comical.
Pony hisses a breath through his teeth and if looks could kill I'd be a dead man. He makes sure the chair is nice and loud when he flings himself up, then takes off for his room to do whatever he does in there. "This looks like a fun way to spend a Saturday, but I think I'll pass," Soda says on his way back through the kitchen. "I'll be back by one," and he's gone outside to wait for Steve. And here I am, running my hands down my tired face alone in the kitchen. Our usual routine. And I don't know who I am anymore.
I'm out front now running a hose over Mom's neglected flower bed when Steve's worn down muffler announces his return to pick up Soda, Two-Bit in tow. Soda jumps right in on their heated argument that probably started two blocks back about where they're headed. Both Steve and Soda team up against Two-Bit who wants to track down some little Soc girl he's had his eye on. I just shake my head listening to it all, wondering how it must feel to even have such a conversation anymore, and I look at myself now, standing out in the front yard holding a water hose, just trying to keep these stupid plants alive and wonder what the fuck I've become. A depressing imitation of Dad I guess. All the bite but none of the fun.
Two-Bit breaks away a second and walks up to me, gives his usual slap to my shoulder, asking if "the kid" wants to tag along. He knows better than to invite me anymore. "Pony's grounded," I say bluntly and sigh, not in the mood to explain how I busted Johnny and Pony hiding out in the lot the other night just reaming the shit outta passing cars with eggs, the idiots. Our perfectly good eggs, not even near expired.
"I'm gonna steal one of your beers then," he says and heads in the house. I don't even tell him I'm out, just let him search the fridge and see for himself how shitty my night really is. I hear him inside making fun of Pony for being a bozo and getting caught, then he returns and says, "Bad news man, you're outta beer," as if I don't already know. "So, uh, Darry man, are you just gonna hang out and do some landscaping tonight? Maybe a little home redecorating?" he asks me like I'm nuts, like he's kinda concerned for my mental health. And I'm wondering if maybe he should be.
Just then the cheers of a little league game drift over from Crutchfield Park, and I know those long ago sounds are bathing Two-Bit in a million different memories, the same as me. We look at each other and don't even have to say a thing. But he does anyway. His face looks wistful as he stares off in the direction of our youth, and says, "Almost hurts to hear don't it?" He looks back into my eyes, and it's been a long time since I really looked into his gray ones. The ones who could always read me like the back of his own hand.
"Are you ready yet Tonto?" Steve calls to Two-Bit from the car and I can see Soda getting comfortable in shotgun position, cranking up the radio and the air while Steve slaps his hand away from the knobs.
"Does a bear shit in the woods?" Two-Bit calls back to the ever impatient Steve, but then he's giving me a sad smile, cause he's a good friend and I know he misses the old times, misses the old me. Hell I miss myself. But he heads out the gate and it's no surprise he forces Soda into the backseat and they're off, rumbling down the street, a few young guys in the hunt for a little action. And it seems so long ago when I was one of them.
I turn off the hose and slump down on the porch swing, where Mom always read. I try not to be jealous. I wouldn't trade places with either brother. And I definitely wouldn't trade places with any of the gang. We all have our own set of sorrows, tailor made to fit each of us a little too well. But I wouldn't mind being young again, the way things used to be, when I was carefree but cocky and always down for a good time. Just shooting the breeze with all my football buddies, my brother, and especially with Two-Bit. Of course I still see him daily, he's a fixture in our house. But it ain't like it was. And Keith and I, we go way back.
I stand sideways on the dusty mound, my glove up, hiding my other hand as I position my fingers for the knuckleball that Keith just signaled. A drop of sweat travels a zig zag pattern down into my left eye, now stinging, and I squeeze both shut for the moment, to relieve them, to concentrate. There's so much riding on this game and my stomach's in knots. I tune out the crowd. I now only hear Dad from the fence, in his position far away from the stands, too nervous to sit, yelling out his encouragement. "C'mon Keith, let's go Darry. Y'all got this," and for a moment his thick backwoods accent mingles with the smooth, graceful Italian accent of Maria Mathews as she calls out to her son in a language only he can understand. But I look at him and can tell he doesn't hear her. Instead his gray eyes, always on guard, are shooting over to his right, and I know he's ready to change the pitch when he flashes three, then two fingers twice between his bent legs, and a quick pat on his inside thigh signals that he wants a pitch out, that Garcia's about to steal.
I trust him and quickly throw wide, right where he wants it, in ball territory. The sound of contact on his leather glove rings out and Keith's up like a dust devil, his strong arm launching the ball to second, being carried along by the crowds' wild screams as Garcia tries to beat it, but the play works. Their best runner is tagged out and we're even closer to victory. Keith lifts his mask and shoots me that shit eating grin.
In the 1950s, Tulsa youth baseball was in its glory days. Turns out the east side of town didn't need all those west side fancy establishments willing to dole out their sponsorship for teams, their own kind, giving the rich kids those sleek uniforms with their names on it, and all the best equipment money can buy, to use as they wished in all their upscale, manicured parks. The east side had something better; its own twisted version of Little League. A shady network of middle aged bookies who were always searching for new things to bet on, decided to create their own league, made up of different teams representing every area of the East, stretching through every crappy neighborhood from north to south. And they put a lot of time and effort in stocking every team with the most athletic players they could mold into their best, even recruiting off the streets, where we, the disadvantaged kids were just happy to play stickball.
That's how Keith and I became a small part of the biggest, toughest gambling ring in town, at an age before our voices had even changed. We never laid eyes on the powers that be. It was the underlings who made the teams, hired coaches, sat in the stands for every game, taking down the stats of every player, smoking their cigars. They were the bookies. But I never once saw money exchanged at the park itself, they just watched everything we did closely, and even if you messed up, their faces never changed. Believe me, I looked right at them when I had my first fuck up, sick that I'd gone and let these big men down. But nothing. They just marked their books like nothing happened. So I never felt threatened. They'd created our baseball world, but kept their own darker world separate from the kids. And we had a blast.
If you were lucky to have parents that cared in this neighborhood, they just turned a blind eye. I don't think Mom ever even knew what was going down actually. Most mothers were just happy their kids were off the streets and getting their shot at America's Favorite Past Time, almost as if Norman Rockwell had graced our seedy corner of the world and brushed it with his paints. Corruption had somehow managed to spawn a touch of innocence in our community. And as for Dad, of course he knew. I could tell he was just happy I was getting the chance to be groomed under coaches that weren't volunteer dads; they were coaches actually getting paid out of the house winnings to make us better. But after several seasons, I was old enough to suspect Dad had some of his own bets tied up in it. I tried to block that out, and just hoped he'd never bet against me.
They made Keith and I a duo, despite our two year age difference. Keith was big for his age and the best catcher in the league. The best at stealing bases. The best at entertaining the dugout. The best trash talker at the plate. The best mind reader. The best at finding out every single nuance of every single opponent. So good that the coach didn't even have to call plays for him. He left it all up to the kid who knew everything about everybody. All those qualities that have been flowing through Two-Bit's blood since he could walk and talk, and all those things he was and is, the town gossip, the thief, the people person, the smartass, are exactly what made him great at his position. And I loved to pitch to him.
We spent every hour of all those summers together, practicing pitches and learning signals. He dragged me to watch games all over our side of town, just so he could learn other players' behaviors, when they'd swing and when they wouldn't, so he'd be prepared when we faced them. That's how we knew to walk Timmy Shepard when anyone else was on base, cause he could knock pretty much any pitch clear out of the park. He still calls us pussies to this day for that.
When we'd walk around town, we could tell who the betting men were when they'd shout out "Good game, boys" and we felt important. Basically we spent a whole bunch of time together, practicing, playing, and talking. A lot. This was not long after Keith's dad had left. And he told me all of his fears, how hard it was to be the man of the house for his mother and for his baby sister Sadie. I learned what kind of a person he really was. And I was impressed.
And so in 1959, my last season at fourteen, my last because my football coach was making me quit baseball to protect my throwing arm, that final game was important, but not for just that reason alone. We had to go out on top. It was our last chance to be bigger together than we were apart. More than that though, I'd let Keith in on my worries over the hunch I had. That my Dad had some big money riding on this game. And I was terrified. But Keith wasn't gonna let me do it alone. Two-Bit Mathews shouldered that entire game and every bit of my stress. I was floored at that kid's cool calm. Hell, he wasn't a kid. He was a man at twelve years old.
I almost feel faint with the pressure, and with exhaustion. My arm muscles are burning. I don't dare look at my Dad leaning on that fence. I don't want to see his worry if it's even there on his face. I catch a glance at Mom who's not even watching. She's yapping to Mrs. Mathews and Sadie. Ponyboy and Soda are enjoying some snow cones. None of them have a clue the pressure we're under. The men with cigars are talking to each other but staring at me while I swipe at the dirt with my cleats, packing it down.
It's the bottom of the ninth, we're up three to two, man on second, two outs. Danny O'Shay is up at bat and has two strikes. He's a jackass but can really make'em fly. It all comes down to this. I let out a shaky breath between my lips while I wait for Two-Bit to take his position and call it. I zero in on his fingers, flashing his signals, but I don't think Danny Boy needs my curveball. I shake my head. I wait for Two-Bit to change it up, but he flashes the same damn one, a two, then a three to the side, a pat on his inside thigh and a swipe. I shake it off again. And now I'm getting pissed he flashes it a third time. Still concealed but wildly now, his fingers repeat their pattern. I do the unthinkable and shake him off again. He calls time and starts heading over, and I already know he's gonna let me have it.
He keeps his mask on and I keep my glove up to hide this conversation. "Damnit Darry what the fuck are you doing?" I don't even have the opportunity to tell him why I think it's wrong. He just keeps repeating, "This is the throw you want. You've gotta trust me, Darry." His eyes are locked in with mine, and I find myself nodding and leaving it all up to him. Everything. The call of the pitch, the win or the loss, the money that's on the table for all the men that are counting on me, the pride or the disappointment. All of it. Whatever way we're going out, I'm going out putting all my trust in my catcher. I say a quick prayer while he goes back, but I can't stop my lips from moving with the whispered words.
I watch Two-Bit say a little something for only O'Shay to hear and I'm sure it ain't pretty. Then he takes his stance and confidently gives the signal he believes in. I lick my fingers. Time stands still, I line my hand up for a curveball and throw it, and its out of my reach now, my fate. My brain has cut out all noise but my own breath, and everything's in slow motion. The ball glides exactly as it should, right down the middle, and I sense O'Shay make that split decision to go for it, and right about when he starts his swing, the magic of the curve takes effect, and Keith catches it off to the side, and the swoosh of the bat as it slices only air is the best sound in the world.
I was glad to get out of the league when I did, and I never found out if Dad was a winner or loser that season, or who knows, maybe he never had a horse in that race. It'll remain a mystery. Two-Bit and I never played together again, but it turns out we didn't need baseball anymore to sustain a friendship. He remains the only person that's ever made me laugh so hard I puked. And all these years later, he's by my side at every turn. But it's not the same cause I'm not the same. I see his eyes when I yell at Ponyboy sometimes, or when I can't even seem to offer up a smile some days. He doesn't know anymore if I'm twenty or forty, if I'm a pal or some strict dad. I water flowers for Christ's sake. But he hasn't given up yet.
I've been out on this porch reminiscing for awhile now, the noises from the park have quieted, the sky's grown dark, Pony's tv show is lighting up shadows across my face. I stand up and stretch, and I hear someone whistling a tune up the street. And they're getting closer, and I smile cause I recognize that song. And I make out his outline, his swagger, and speak of the devil, he's back. And I know I would never admit to anyone I'm this happy to see him. I guess he sensed I needed a break from being old tonight. Two six packs of beer tucked under his arm, he opens the gate, as familiar to him as his own and yells out, "You can't go out and party? The party comes to you. You aint rid of me yet Darry Curtis."
A/N: The Outsiders by SE Hinton
I completely made up the corruption of the Tulsa Little League. I'm sure they ran their youth baseball program with honesty and integrity. As far as I know.
With little baseball knowledge going in, I tried to research it, so please go easy on me if I've screwed up some lingo or something! But after learning something about the pitcher and catcher relationship, I'm actually a little more interested in the game. I know this was long. Thanks for reading, especially if you hung in there and don't like baseball. I just wanted to explore Darry and Two-Bit and where it began. Thanks again to AndThatWasEnough , who's always up for crossing paths. And thanks to those of you who are always up for reading me :)