|
The First Chapter of The Last Out by Chris Earl.
Cause there's music in the air and lots of lovin' everywhere, so gimme the night!
Royal Cutter always had a soft spot for music from the old days. As George Benson boomed out through the interior of his old candy-apple red Saab convertible, he felt the breathless anticipation of another season grabbing his collar.
"DOWNTOWN MILWAUKEE. NEXT FIVE EXITS."
That was his cue to head west. Royal rolled his Saab under the I-43 southbound tunnel until he came across the exit for I-94 west and Miller Park, the cathedral the Milwaukee Brewers called home.
After twelve years of banging around this business of baseball, where numbers trumped your name, Royal found himself on the opening day roster. He couldn't wait to hear the public address announcer in a few hours.
"Starting in right field, number 18, Royal Cutter." All of those years of slapping hits in Class A and AA towns, places like Stockton, El Paso and Tucson. All of the fear whenever the manager said, "C'mon in and shut the door." Nothing good ever came from that. He knew. He had been let go twice.
So come on out tonight! And we'll lead the others on a ride to paradise! Royal sang along with George Benson.
"Man, what is this, the retro cafe?" Ray Hamelin rained on Royal's parade from the passenger seat. Royal and Ray had been friends for only four weeks, since the start of spring training in Arizona. They had plenty in common. Both past 30, both from the Midwest and both sick of minor-league bus rides.
"It takes me back to the old days before life got all out of control. It's the music of my soul," Royal said after twisting the volume knob so he could speak softly.
Miller Park appeared in front of the dashboard, the butterfly roof arching into the gray Wisconsin sky. The thrill of this day made Royal's caramel skin melt into the tan driver's seat. His shiny head, with about a day's growth of hair patterned throughout, began to get a little warmer and tighter.
"They're already out, aren't they?" Royal said as thousands of tailgaters appeared.
"They'll be gone after today. Always are." Ray had a point. No one expected anything of the Milwaukee Brewers this year. Both men knew the fact that they were starting for the Brewers in three hours spoke volumes of the team's hopes.
"Look at that. Grillin' sausages and eatin' that relish." Royal slowed the convertible coupe to find the player's entrance on the south side of Miller Park. "There must be ten thousand people out here." He rolled down the window just to take in the aroma of tailgating.
"Royal!" A random, middle-aged woman holding a brat wurst yelled to him as he inched towards the security gate. Royal waved back as he checked in with the stadium guard. This had happened quite a bit since the previous August, when he finally cracked the big team. Royal's genes paved the way for women to swoon.
He looked straight out of an Old Navy commercial. Blessed with the combination of a black father and a stunning white mother, Royal had that physical appeal that made him look like Alex Rodriguez or Derek Jeter. Yet at 6-foot-2 and 210 pounds of muscle, his shoulders made the right fielder a body double for actor Vin Diesel. The combination of brown skin, green eyes and teeth whiter than fresh baseballs made Royal Cutter a top bachelor in Milwaukee.
Royal steered through the players' lot next to Miller Park and into an empty space. GMC Jimmy trucks, Lexus sedans and Mercedes coupes dominated the garage. Without a word to his roommate, Royal straightened up his forest-green sports jacket. His mother said to always dress classy when you go to work.
Ray led the way through an opaque tunnel until a steel door came into view. "BREWERS CLUBHOUSE" the sign read. They walked into the spacious room, complete with three dozen lockers and food everywhere, the same brats and hot dogs the fans were chomping in the cold. Baseball food. Always abundant and always bad for you.
"What's up, Ray?" left fielder Juan Casablanca said.
"Whazzup, fellas! Game time is here!" Ray yelled above the salsa music.
Royal saw the back of the necks of his teammates, no eyes on him, no greetings. That chill of the past came over him. Something was wrong. He knew it.
Austin Holdings made eye contact with Royal. That was especially bad. Austin was the manager.
"Royal, got a minute?"
Royal nodded and felt a bead of sweat drip in front of his right ear. Whatever the news was, it wasn't good. It never was when the manager called you in. What could it be? Sent back to Indianapolis on opening day? Traded? His dad finally bought the farm?
Austin walked into his office. "Shut the door."
Yup, something real bad.
"I won't bullshit around here, Royal," Austin said, his Texas twang undetectable when he was deadly serious.
"You've been traded. To Kansas City."
Royal let out a vicious sigh. Of all the cities.
"Yeah," the manager continued. "They simply gave us too much for you. Mark Biscotti and a pitching prospect."
"Damn, at least you got an all-star catcher out of it." Royal managed a smile.
"Please don't tell Ray about this yet," Austin said. "Let me handle it." Ray was just minutes from finding his catching position filled.
"Sure." Royal understood the business. He paused to let the news sink in. "I guess it's no surprise Kansas City wanted me. Not everyday you get to bring in a legacy to generate interest."
"That's for sure," Austin said. "Say, you've technically got until game-time to collect your things and leave. Since this is on opening day, if you want to stick around ‘til this afternoon, that's fine by me." The rotund manager stood up. "Just show up at the Midwest Express terminal and you're good to go."
"Thanks. I'll be gone in a few minutes." Royal only had the clothes on his back to carry out plus a handful of bats in his locker. "I'm more worried about my stuff at home."
"Don't sweat it, Royal. Your new team will pick up the tab for that," the manager scribbled down a few phone numbers. "This is the Kansas City GM. Harvey Whirlson. Below it is the clubhouse number. Clint Merkel's number is on the bottom. Clint and I rode buses together around the Mexican winter league back in the seventies. He's a good guy, easy to play for. You get the same salary. It's my understanding that they don't need you until tomorrow. They're at home all week. That should make things a little easier."
Royal looked at the floor as his former manager put on his satin jacket. "I'm not sure if anything will make things easier this week."
The two men shook hands and Royal strolled out of the office. His locker was five steps in front of him. "18 - CUTTER" the sign read. Royal had arrived in Milwaukee the day before with the rest of the Brewers. He had nothing in the locker that belonged to him except for his eight bats and four fresh pairs of cleats.
Royal sat with his back to the locker and looked out at his ex-teammates. He wanted to shout out to Ray and tell him of the trade. Don't do it, he'll find out soon enough. If you bounce around baseball long enough, nothing is a surprise. Royal scratched his scruffy head, pulled out his cell and began the process of moving. Again.
As always, Sheryl Cutter was the first call on Royal's list.
Royal Cutter was fiercely loyal to his mother. As he grew up, Royal watched Sheryl Cutter fall from a player's wife to a social leper in Kansas City. Sheryl enjoyed the country clubs and the lazy summer afternoons in the most prominent circles before the downfall. He remembered the day Sheryl finally left his father. After all of the drugs, all of the relapses, all of the embarrassment, Sheryl kicked him out and moved them north to Wisconsin.
As a nine-year-old boy, Royal also saw the physical differences. He couldn't help but notice when the massive house out in Leawood became a two-bedroom apartment in frozen Eau Claire, Wisconsin. The Cadillac turned into a rusty Subaru.
All because of Jimmy Cutter's fall from grace.
"Dane County Job Training. This is Sheryl. Can I help you?" the voice cracked in Royal's left ear.
"Mom." Royal said hesitantly.
"Yeah, what is it, darling? You okay?" Sheryl had heard this before. She could tell big news was on the way. "Are you still playing today?"
"Nope," Royal said quietly. "I've been traded to Kansas City."
Royal heard his mother drop the phone on a hard surface, and pick it back up. But her voice was already calm when she said, "Can you turn it down?"
"No," Royal said. "I don't have a lot of bargaining power with only 27 games of major league service to my name."
"True." Sheryl admitted. She understood the ways of the players' union. "Well, when do you leave?"
"Today. I have a plane ticket but I think I'll just drive it. I don't have to report until tomorrow afternoon, I guess."
"Does that mean you're stopping by on the way down?"
Royal managed a smile. "Be there in a couple hours."
After finishing with his mother, Royal peeked through the window into Austin Holdings' office. He could see the manager talking with his hands while Ray Hamelin held his head in his own hands. Royal wanted to say goodbye to his roommate but he could see anguish wash over Ray as he got the news that the Brewers had just traded his job away.
* * *
Royal Cutter popped in his mellow music as he cruised, windows up, past the Miller Park tailgaters to go home collect his things. "Feels So Good" by Chuck Mangione. The lively trumpeting helped squelch the inner trauma.
Kansas City manager Clint Merkel was Royal's next call. The manager said the team had big plans for him and that he would probably start every other day in right field. Merkel confirmed that Royal was not needed in town until four in the afternoon the following day. They would have a uniform ready plus all of his bats.
"Just be here by four. That's all I ask," the manager said before hanging up.
As Royal drove toward Lake Michigan on I-94, he found himself not so much angry with the trade but angry that he would have to move just hours after setting up shop in a new apartment. One year in the majors, even at the league minimum of $312,000, would allow him the opportunity to save money and buy a house the next year. Now Royal was getting thrown back into the transient lifestyle of a ballplayer. Thirty-two and still living like a college kid.
After exiting on Silver Spring Road north of Milwaukee, Royal zigzagged through suburban Glendale. He pulled into his driveway, tossed off his jacket and jogged to the entry of the two-story apartment. He peeked at his silver Armitron watch. Just after eleven. Most of Royal's possessions were still in taped boxes. Royal found a blue Sharpie and marked ‘RC' on them. This would turn out to be the easiest moving job in his life.
That was saying a lot. After playing for thirteen different teams since high school, Royal found he could fit most of his stuff in a dozen large boxes. He knew the routine, clothes in two boxes, kitchen in one, books take up three, knick-knacks in the rest.
Royal changed clothes and placed the jacket and slacks in the back seat of the Saab. He was now down to his
"GOPHER BASEBALL" gear from his college days.
He used the Sharpie for one final note.
"Ray- Sorry to just bolt out but KC needs me as soon as possible. I'm sorry that they're bringing in Biscotti. You're a damn good catcher. Keep working and I'm sure our paths will cross again. Maybe the All-Star Game?? Take care of yourself. - Royal."
After writing his cell number at the bottom of the note, Royal had one last call to complete before heading out for good.
"Mom. I've leaving Milwaukee now. Be there before you know it."
* * *
Royal Cutter steered the Saab back past Miller Park and west on I-94. He popped out his CD to listen to the Brewers game on the radio. He let the driver's side window down. The cool breeze tickled his ears as he basked in the afternoon sunshine.
Even as Milwaukee's early 3-0 deficit to the New York Mets filled the car's speakers, Royal could not help but think about his father. His own images of Jimmy Cutter were the same everyone else saw. Speedy right fielder for Kansas City during their playoff runs in the late 1970s and early 1980s. Not an All-Star but not far off. Sheryl would drive little Royal out to the stadium before each home game and they would hang out with Dad before batting and infield practice. Even nearly two decades later, Royal could remember the warm evenings on that worn, light green turf at the stadium.
Royal knew the firestorm would hit him the moment he stepped out of his Saab in Kansas City. All the chatter about his dad. What happened to the once-great outfielder, they would all ask? When did it go so horribly wrong?
The questions would be endless.
Just after two, Royal pulled into Mount Horeb, a sleepy town twenty miles west of Madison on Highway 18. The year after Royal left Eau Claire North High School to play baseball at the University of Minnesota, Sheryl had moved to Madison for a better job with the state.
Sheryl still struggled financially. Royal may have been a major league baseball player, but the 27 games the previous year paid him just under $50,000 for the season. He was still a few years from buying his mother that dream house.
"Mom!" Royal called out as he walked to the front door.
"In here!"
Sheryl Cutter always held her head high. Two years past fifty, she still kept the stunning shape that landed her a ballplayer at the age of nineteen. With flowing brown hair, the Italian girl was still evident, back when she was a college student at Creighton University in Omaha known as Sheryl Pugliasi.
Royal put down a suitcase and hugged her.
"Here, sit down, it's not everyday you come on by," Sheryl said to her son as she fiddled with an earring. "I got out early since you were coming through."
"Thanks, Mom. It's great to be home."
Getting called up by the Brewers the previous summer was a dream, except that Royal did not get the chance to actually go home often. Royal spent half of September on the road and most of the off-season in Florida and Mexico, sharpening that swing against his long-time nemesis, the major-league curveball.
Royal poised himself for one more round of rehashing the past with his mother.
"Kansas City it is?" Sheryl said, easing into the conversation.
"Yes, I'm supposed to be there by four tomorrow," Royal answered. "I figure if I leave here by seven in the morning, I'll get there in time to stretch out and be ready for game time."
"They still play at the same stadium?" Sheryl asked.
"Different name but it's the same place."
Sheryl looked away from her son and out the kitchen window. "Your father and I had some great times there. It's just that I've never had the desire to really go back. Too painful. I wish he could have kept it together. For your sake."
"I know. Any word on his, uh, status?" Royal asked.
"No clue but I'd be lying if I said I really didn't care. I do care. I still love your father, loved what he was when we met. It's just that the drugs...". Sheryl's eyes filled and her voice quivered. "The drugs stopped everything. They helped throw everything away. We had so much." Another sniffle crept out.
Royal put his right arm on her left shoulder. He had heard the story before.
"Royal, it's just that I'm worried about you going there," Sheryl said after she regained her composure. "I remember what life was like on the road with your father and I don't want the same kind of people to come after you."
"I know, Mom. Look, you always made sure to keep me aware of alcohol and drugs and all that stuff. Don't think I didn't listen."
Sheryl forced a smile. "I know. You were a good kid. Always have been the role model. Just be careful down there. Please promise me that."
|
