Saving Throw, Part I

[DrewV]

Saving Throw, Part I


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“I’m standing at the warning track, left-center field.”

Ricky McCoy sat awkwardly, one foot over the opposite knee, one hand below his chin and the other methodically rapping the armrest. He sat in a small and sparse office space, the Duluth skyline revealing a very distant Doyle Buhl Stadium against the sparkling waters of a Springtime Superior.

Doctor Ben Kim listened from his overstuffed chair, leaning forward. Behind him, a half-decorated office space displayed a montage of beaming Korean parents with a recently-graduated son. In the center was a series of large, framed degrees—the price tags still on the frames. The young psychiatrist’s plaid shirt was too big, his slacks too short—and it gave the rather comical depiction of a Doctor of Psychiatrics that even younger than he already was. His hair was waxed and combed neatly over a wide crown.

“What’s a warning track?”

Ricky tilted his head, looking at the kid. The glowering clock on the wall ticked away above the hum of distant downtown traffic.

“It’s, ah, the dirt before the edge of the outfield.”

“Outfield,” Ben said with a wry smile, clicking his pen and making a few notes. “I know what that is.” Ricky snorted.

Dr. Ben Kim was friendly, chubby, and tall, with a tilted expression that gave the sense he was pleasantly surprised at everything around him. He had a boyish candor—amicable and curious. The only item on his desk was an old baseball, which he picked up and tossed to his client. “Go on, Ricky.”

Catching the ball, Ricky shrugged, looking at the baseball and staring down at his palms. He inhaled and sighed.

“There’s a runner tagging up at third.”

“Sorry—tagging up?”

“Are you sure you were raised in America?”

“Baseball’s dying, Ricky. E-sports are the future.”

“Baseball’s always been dying.”

“Is that supposed to be a counterpoint?”

“Hey, I’m paying you, asshole.”

“Sorry, sorry. Baseball will never die, western civilization will never decline, Yoko Ono never broke up the Beatles. Apple pie—”

“Alright, alright, smartass. He’s tagging up—you know, touching the base after the catch.”

“Why?”

“Why?” Ricky frowned. “That’s the rule. You can’t—”

“No, I mean, why third? He’s on his way to score, right?” Ben leaned back, drumming his fingertips on the cheap desk. “Why can’t he score, Ricky?”

“Because the other team will win,” Ricky answered shortly, shaking his head at the kid. “We’ve been over this, Ben. A walk-off is—”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever man. I mean what is ‘scoring?’ Why can’t he get a point?”

“Run.”

“Pardon?”

“It’s called a run, not a point.”

“run, point, snatching the golden snitch, who gives a shit? Who’s on third?” The kid spread a small grin, leaning back in his chair and placing his hands behind his head. “More importantly, Ricky, why do you have to stop him?”

Sighing again, Ricky slumped, working his hands and tapping his shoes. He fiddled with his tie, starting down at the low, industrial carpet. “They still teach Freud at John Hopkins, kid?”

“Let’s leave the psychoanalysis to the kid with the doctorate and fellowship at Lincoln, old man with BA in Army English.”

“English Literature.”

“Who’s on third, Ricky?”

“I never had much of an arm,” Ricky said quietly. “I could hit in my day—sure—and I was quick. But I couldn’t throw.”

Tapping his pen against his lips, Ben frowned slightly, looking aside in thought. “And in this dream, you have to make the throw?”

“I….I don’t fucking know, man.” Ricky let out a large breath, palms up to the ceiling. “I’ve tried…I mean, I’ve wanted…I don’t know.”

Giving a knowing nod, Ben adjusted his posture and folded his hands back in front of him.

“Let’s leave it, then. Had any drinks this week?”

“No.”

“Don’t fucking lie to me, McCoy.”

“No, really. I haven’t. Not even at home.”

“Good.” Ben nodded firmly. “Now let’s talk about—”

“I don’t want to talk about it, Ben.”

“I don’t mean the PTSD stuff, man. You’re too fucked up for my help.” He rose, walking around the desk and sitting on top of it. He lobbed the baseball softly back at Ricky.

They looked at each other and shared a small, bitter laugh.

“I’m serious, Ricky. You need to call your daughter.”

“I’ve tried calling her,” Ricky snapped back, shoving one hand in his pocket and slumping in the chair. He tossed the ball back.

“Try again,” Ben answered firmly, pointing an index finger down on the desk. “try harder.”

Ricky gave a rueful chuckle, shaking his head. “My dad said the same thing right before he died.”

With a minute sympathetic expression, nodded, observing the seams of the baseball in earnest. “Look, Ricky. I know you’re a good person. Well…you’re, at very least, a moderately permissible person.”

“Thanks, doc.”

“The point is, Ricky, I know that. But to the rest of the world you’ve distanced and ignored and martyred in the name of this Lost-Generation Hemingway bullshit persona you put on, you’re just another asshole.”

Standing, Ben pointed an admonishing finger at Ricky.

“You’ve got a living, breathing daughter out there who grew up without a dad.”

Ricky winced, still looking down.

“I’m your shrink, not your life coach—so this one’s for free. You need to accept that you miss the throw because of you, Ricky. Not because it’s impossible.”

Ben sighed, hands on his hips as he shook his head.

“You’ve made a lot of progress since you started coming here, Ricky. Even in just three months. But you’re stuck in this perpetuity of self-loathing–and the worst part is, you think it only hurts you.”

“I know,” Ricky said quietly, his eyes still downward. “I know.”

“You’re a smart guy, McCoy. You don’t want to say who’s on third. You don’t want to throw him out, because the person you’re throwing out is you.”

“Look,” Ricky ran a hand through his hair. “There’s a lot of pressure at work, Ben. More than normal. I have to do something I’m not sure I can do—”

“Not important,” Ben answered lifting a hand, “until you make the play at home, McCoy.”

Dr. Kim slung the baseball underhand back at Ricky, who caught it nimbly.

The kid pointed at the door. “Tell Tania I said hi.”

“I’m not your bellboy, Ben.”

“Make the throw, asshole. See you next week.”