Disclaimer: See Ch. 1
A/N: We're starting to head into darker waters. Sorry about that, but it was kind of inevitable...
11...
The notes of the song faded away and all that was left was silence and the falling darkness outside the window. Silence and darkness. He'd been avoiding them for years. It was easier to keep moving, to keep talking, and ignore the past. Sure, the good memories surfaced. He'd take them out and relive them for the kids, for Angela, for Mona. There was always a message in there, something someone could learn from. He had a million stories to tell, and though the kids would groan and say they'd heard it all before, they'd still listen. But there were things he never told. Things that he didn't think about didn't want to be a part of him. It was silly though, because every bit of his past was a part of him: the good, the bad, the ugly, and the really ugly. Would anyone think less of him if they knew? Samantha knew some of it. He'd alluded to it with Angela and with Mona. No one knew the whole story.
The golden years. It's funny that I think of them like that. It seems impossible that a dream you've held on to for your whole life can come true with one phone call. I know I worked hard to make it happen, and I know it didn't just come to me overnight. I wasn't playing the lottery, although luck was involved. But really, that one phone call changed everything.
In my dreams at night, I often come back to the day I played my first game in the majors. It was one of those life-defining moments. Everything about that day stands out to me, bright and clear. The low hum of chatter and motion rippling through the stadium. The damp, earthy moisture of the air as I walked from the dugout to home plate. I remember breathing deeply, trying to control the nervousness, the surge of adrenaline flowing through me. I tried to focus on the cool metal of the bat in my hand, the instructions from the coach, and the way the pitcher stood with his hands gripped tightly around the ball. I prayed that I wouldn't mess this up. All I wanted was a clean hit, good enough to get me on base. Good enough that I wouldn't be disappointing all the people who'd had faith in me. People like the ones in section J-59. My dad, Marie, Samantha...
What a rush it was to have my family there with me. My dad had spent two days driving up from the city, just for me. He may have been a Met's fan his whole life, but on this day no one cheered louder for the Card's than him. It was such a high point for him, seeing his kid playing in the game he loved. There were other high points later on, like the time we played in New York and he bought out an entire section just so everyone in the neighborhood could see how good I'd done for myself. How good he'd done for me. This day though, this day was one for the record books.
Marie and Sam had stayed in Saint Louis with me for spring training, keeping me sane through the endless practices and training sessions. But now that the regular season had begun, they were heading home with my dad. Back to our friends and apartment, back to the life they lived without me. We told ourselves it was for the best. It wasn't as if I'd be around much if they stayed with me, so better to be in a place with people to support them. We'd made the decision together, but already I could feel the loneliness creeping up on me, even before they'd gone.
I watched the ball spiral through the air towards me. There'd been two balls, a foul, and a strike already, but this time, this time I knew that the ball and the bat would connect. I swung smoothly and felt the ping of contact shoot through the bat. The ball flew into the air and the only thought in my head was to move. So I ran, energy pumping through my muscles, propelling me forward. First base. I'd made it. I was safe.
Two players later, we had our third out and I was only standing on second, but it didn't matter. I'd got on base. This was it; I was a pro ball player.
After the game and celebration, after my dad's vivid retelling of the whole event, and after the lingering goodbyes, I watched my family pile into the car and leave. The silence and darkness threatened me then. I was alone. Left to an empty apartment, left to the temptations of the road. See, I've never been good with flying solo. I've always, always, had someone to turn to, to make me laugh, or distract me when the loneliness set in. But this was different. There were so many girls, so young and vibrant, along the way, and I was ambitious, I was reckless, I was young, and I was Italian. It would've been so easy to give in. I almost did. But I stopped it. I closed my eyes and pictured my girls and I knew I couldn't give them up. Not for anything.
I think Marie sensed my struggle, though she tried not to hold it against me. I hope she never doubted my love for her. I don't know. It was just another thing we never talked about. We should have, I know that now, but back then it was easier not to speak, to give voice to our doubts. I was away too much and we grew apart, although we still loved each other a lot. But things in life change, relationships change. So much of our lives were spent away from each other while I was chasing my dream and she was raising our daughter. How can that not affect a relationship?
I played ball with the Cards for two and a half seasons. I wanted more. I wanted to make a
big enough name for myself that the Met's would see me and hire me. Maybe then I could be at home more and things would be better for my family. And I could be the toast of Brooklyn. And I could make enough money that we'd never want for anything. My dad could quit the garbage route and we could move out of our cramped apartment into a house. Things would be perfect then.
My chance came one night in Minnesota. The game was tied 5-5 and we were in the last inning, two players left at bat. If I could make it to third and then home on the last hit, we could win and be in the finals. I would win the game for the team. The hit was short, little more than a bunt and I knew I wouldn't have much of a chance, but Coach waved me on. So I ran, already sensing the ball flying through the air behind me, and I knew without seeing that I didn't have the time, so I made a desperate lunge for the base. I felt the heavy impact of my body as it hit the ground hard. A searing pain shot through me and the air rushed out of my lungs. Everything stopped then. Everything. I could see mouths moving, people running, but there was no sound. I looked up and saw the base lying two inches out of my reach. I had failed. Then it all came back. In an instant, the rush of noise assaulted my ears and the pain began again. Faintly, above the clamor, I heard someone say, "You're out." So much for Micelli's big save.
Later on, I woke up in a hospital, still foggy from the painkillers. There were doctors and nurses moving in and out of the room, not really paying attention to me. I wanted answers. I could feel the pain radiating out of my shoulder and I wanted to know what it meant. The doctors and the physiotherapists, they talked a lot. They told me a lot of things, but the one thing they couldn't tell me was that I'd be back out on the field again. Instead, words like surgery and anaesthetic and physio were thrown around.
That's not to say that they didn't try to give me hope. They told me that with time and hard work, I might regain full use of my arm. There's always a chance they told me. So I pushed myself every day to get up and work through the pain. And I made leaps and bounds and I held on to that last shred of hope. But months passed and I still felt the twinge, the ache in my shoulder, as I tried to throw a ball, and I knew. I knew, but I wouldn't admit it. I mean, it couldn't all be over just like that, could it?