Changeup
Sasha Bejarano wanted to disappear, like an audience member caught in the crosshairs of a stand-up comedian. But at 5’10” with a shock of purple running through a cascade of blonde hair, she had to make do with Plan B: hunkering down behind a menu, hoping the woman fumbling with an oversized wallet at the cash register would not turn around. Plan A, seeking refuge in the ladies’ room, was out, with its key dangling from a nail by the counter.
“One mocha grande to go,” bellowed a barista.
Realizing that Ms. Mocha-Grande-to-Go was unlikely to occupy the open seat across from her, Sasha snuck a peek. She couldn’t see her face, but observing the short, sturdy woman slip a go-cup into its java jacket and walk toward the door, braided ponytail swaying with each step, Sasha suspected there was a tiny gold hoop adorning her right nostril. Though not on a first (or last) name basis, the two were all too well acquainted.
*
“Steeerike one!”
Her lanky 12 year-old had swung hard enough to dislodge his oversized batting helmet. Groans from his teammates and their parents drowned out jeers from the opponents’ dugout. Even his coach was unable to suppress a smirk, something Sasha noticed before Kyle hid it by calling, “Atta boy, Chan! Pick a good one!” through cupped hands.
“Steeerike Two!”
This time the boy corkscrewed cartoonishly while remaining upright. Barely. The drooping heads of his fellow Tigers about to be stranded at second and third with the game on the line made her kid’s floundering all the more excruciating.
With the Tigers’ best hitter—3-for-3 that day—in the on-deck circle chewing the life out of a wad of gum, every supporter representing the other side rose to goad Chandler into a final anemic swing that would extinguish the furious eleventh-hour comeback.
“Hey, batter, batter, batter,” they chanted.
The southpaw stared in from the mound, shook off the catcher twice, kicked, and fired.
Dink.
Chandler’s nubber found a divot and skipped past the lunging pitcher’s outstretched glove. The lead runner, who had been moving with the pitch, crossed home plate, swiveling to watch his teammate lumber down the line, kicking up dirt with each stride.
Sasha’s world, including her own yelling, grew silent, much the way it had when she was swatting extra base hits for Michigan. Chandler would have coasted across the bag a hero had the infield not been drawn in. But it was. Deftly fielded by the shortstop, ball and runner converged at the bag, with Chandler’s streaking body obscuring Sasha’s view.
“Yerrrrrout!”
“Bullshit!” she screamed, fingers hooked through the chain-link fence. “How’d you miss that?!”
Spittle flew as Sasha’s language quickly degenerated from PG to NC-17.
“That’s enough, ma’am,” the umpire growled, advancing on Sasha, eyes devoid of patience, a tiny gold hoop in her nostril catching the light. “I’m not going to warn you again.”
“Mom,” pleaded Chandler. His hand was resting atop her clenched fingers, his face flushed with color. “Mom, please.”
His touch and the distress in his voice lifted her fog of outrage and made her suddenly aware of the reproachful glares from adults and kids alike.
“Alright, hon; let’s go.”
*
Nothing could pry Chandler’s attention from his shoe tops or loosen his tongue during their ride home. Not even the dangled prospect of a visit to Pasquali’s Pizza for his favorite Hawaiian Special with extra ham.
“That was a bullshit call,” she said, voice rising a bit. “Way to hustle, though.”
Stuck at a stoplight, Sasha ruffled his hair, at which the boy barely managed to flinch in protest. “Coach Kyle was proud of you,” she lied, adding a truthful, “So am I,” just before their Mustang peeled out a beat ahead of the green light. “I don’t know about you, but I’m dying for a scoop.”
Several high-speed turns later they were screeching to a stop in the Baskin-Robbins parking lot. Her Rocky Road on a sugar cone wasn’t nearly as sweet as watching Chandler accept a Jamoca Almond Fudge sundae and dig in, reluctantly at first, then with gusto.
“Thanks, Mom.” He smiled.
Sasha almost started to cry. Almost.
*
They were barely over the threshold of their two-bedroom bungalow when Chandler retreated to his room—past the TV and past shelves crammed with trophies and plaques and ribbons from Sasha’s softball heyday, a display he’d show off to any visitor willing to listen. To the left side was some space he’d made for awards of his own, space still awaiting an occupant.
Knowing better than to intervene, she watched him go, still wearing his jersey with the number 24 on the back (her number).
Later, the mournful voice of a muted trumpet drifted down into the living room, causing Sasha to set down a second generous glass of Merlot. Even she, who had fought pitched battles with her parents to escape taking piano lessons, recognized the improvement. Idly, she fingered a strip of black ribbon at the upper left-hand corner of a picture frame and smiled at the solemn-looking man in desert fatigues—seven years gone—returning her gaze.
“Too bad the kid can’t take that trumpet to the plate,” she chuckled, “or we might be looking at the next Babe Ruth.”
*
A steam engine whoosh from the espresso machine returned Sasha to the present and thoughts of wrangling a trio of first-time corporate volunteer groups at the County Food Bank along with everybody’s favorite crew of retirees. It was going to be a busy day.
Somebody close by cleared their throat. The empty spot at the table was no longer empty.
“He was out, you know,” the umpire said. “By a half-step. At least.”
Sasha’s smartphone clattered to the floor. “I’m…I’m…”
The umpire nodded at it, but Sasha let the phone sit.
“Believe it or not, I wanted him to beat it out,” the umpire continued, swirling her mocha. “That would have shut up those little shits.”
Sasha’s eyes couldn’t have opened any wider.
“What? You think I don’t see what happens out there?” the umpire said between sips. “Teammates can be heartless. And don’t get me started on the parents.”
Two moms rocking strollers hovered nearby, eyeing their seats. The umpire’s YOU MIND? glare sent them scurrying to some stools at the counter.
“Look,” she continued, tone serious but not unkind, “Your son has heart, but he’s no ball player.” Anticipating Sasha’s reaction, she raised both hands like a coach signaling a runner to stop at third. “I get it. You’ve probably coached him since T-ball and attended every game since he was six. But at this level it’s about winning, not participation trophies. That’s not something you want him learning the hard way.” One final sip. “And cussin’ me out ain’t gonna make it any easier for him.”
The clatter of mugs being swept into a plastic tub echoed through the café, so the umpire leaned in close enough for Sasha to smell the mocha on her breath. “Help your boy move on. For both your sakes.”
“Who the hell asked you?” Sasha snarled.
The umpire rose to leave. “Nobody. Another mom did this for me. Pissed me off, too… at first, anyway. Now I’m returning the favor.”
Only after she had gone did Sasha reach down and retrieve her phone.
*
Echoes from that encounter refused to fade over the next few days despite Sasha fielding endless variations of how Chandler’s strength and coordination only had to catch up to a recent growth spurt. She recalled her own early struggles on the diamond along with the taunts and jeers that came with them until an unshakable I’ll show them disposition and ten added pounds of muscle began paying dividends. It was only a matter of time before he started giving pitchers sweaty palms.
That hope ran aground on three straight hitless outings and Sasha coming perilously close to going nose to nose with a pack of dads behind the visiting dugout whose raucous laughter at Chandler misplaying a pop fly could not have escaped his notice.
*
“Goddamn Kyle! What the fuck’s he doing at practice?” Sasha muttered to nobody in particular at Walmart later that afternoon, scattering fellow shoppers and drawing the attention of a hovering assistant manager. Out in the parking lot looking for her car ten minutes later, she reluctantly admitted to herself that Kyle used many of the same fielding drills favored by her college coaches, drills she had personally demonstrated for him and the team.
Calmer moments found her in church beseeching God to allow Chandler just one taste of baseball success—a shoestring catch, fist bumps from his teammates, a single walk-off highlight for them to share—entreaties that went unanswered. Eventually, a prayer that he’d ask for permission to quit slipped out unbidden, prompting Sasha to lunge for the spiritual recall button.
*
“Sasha?” asked Jean, lead volunteer at the Food Bank, in front of eleven concerned regulars stuffing mesh bags with carrots and onions. “Want to join us for lunch? We’ll be playing Boggle.”
Sasha declined politely for the third time that month, retreating to an empty office with a tuna sandwich that might as well have been stuffed with Styrofoam. Even the cup of chamomile that appeared on the table with a “Thinking of You” card signed by the entire morning shift had little effect. A Louis Armstrong rendition of “St. James Infirmary” wafted from the PA. The trumpeter’s mournful tone got her head out of her hands, but it was his words that lingered for the rest of the day.
I went down to the St. James Infirmary
Saw my baby there
Stretched out on a long white table
So sweet, so cold, so fair
Let her go, let her go, God bless her
Wherever she may be…
*
“EVEN YOU THINK I SUCK!”
Chandler’s imaginary accusation filled the darkened bedroom. It made no difference how gently or bluntly Sasha pictured approaching this come-to-Jesus conversation, their relationship always wound up writhing on the floor next to their shared passion, one she’d nurtured with care.
But the umpire was right. No amount of grit and dedication was going to spare Chandler from riding the pine, at best, or absorbing soul-killing ridicule, at worst.
To avoid watching the bedside clock mark the approaching dawn, she changed and slipped out to jog away what remained of the night. Fifteen minutes had passed before she caught herself humming the melody to “St. James Infirmary.”
*
Light from the rising sun illuminated a pair of boxes sitting open in front of the Bejarano trophy case. Still draped in sweats damp from her run, Sasha set to work. Ribbons followed plaques followed trophies into their cardboard sarcophagi. Half a lifetime of memories was sealed away with packing tape and summarily relegated to the garage beside the leaf blower and some cross-country skis.
Next came the wall above the hearth and its array of family photos. Around the horn Sasha went to the sound of muffled trumpet scales. Out came 3-year-old Chandler throwing a wiffle ball to his grandpa in the park, replaced by a shot of the 5-year-old version with his dad hoisting a couple of lunkers at the Huron River. Mother and son ice skating a few winters back were subbed in for Chandler playing T-ball while she cheered in the background. Mementos from various other stages of Little League met similar fates. Only a photo of the Bejaranos in their days as a threesome at Tiger Stadium wearing matching caps survived the purge.
That left a framed Detroit Free Press headline trumpeting the Wolverines’ NCAA softball championship from her senior season. She lifted the framed memento off the wall and considered it at arm’s length before finding it a new home in the office off their kitchen. Into the pale rectangle that remained she hung a newly framed photo of the Coleman Young Middle School jazz band. In the last row with the other tall kids stood Chandler with his trumpet.
Fortified by a strong cup of coffee, Sasha selected a collection of jazz classics at random on Spotify. Then she pulled up the website for the community college and registered for “Jazz Appreciation for Non-Musicians.”
MATTHEW SNYDERMAN lives in Northern California with his wife. He enjoys swimming, watching old movies on the big screen, and participating in the occasional Moth StorySLAM. His work has appeared in The Avalon Literary Review, The Berlin Literary Review, Bristol Noir, Bare Back, Fabula Argentea, Killer Nashville, The Loch Raven Review, The Lowestoft Chronicle, The Opiate, Punk Noir, Twelve Winters, The Twin Bill, and The Yard.