ࡱ> dfcy 7<bjbj .{{74&&$r^ @ Ҿ 0& F: Addled by Melissa O. Howley It was Troys first season coaching for the As, and already, from the get-go, he had to deal with geese. A flock of Canadian geese had gathered and nested, pecking at the infield behind Steeple Ridge Elementary. It was hard for Troy not to take a thing like that personally; their overconfident struts, the lumbering, broad backs the color of barn wood. Their mulish refusal to migrate. Unsportsmanlike, they outnumbered his Little Leaguers three to one, ripping up the grass; shitting all over Americas favorite pastime. Troy stood behind the backstop, one hand gripping the chain link, the other clutching a clipboard. For days he had stared at the papers attached to that clipboard, to the stats of six, seven, and eight-year-old boys from tryouts. Hed made a few draft picks, and then chose the rest of his team based on the sound of their names. Names like Skyler, Camden, Donovan. Names he liked. Then hed scribbled in the margins. What did he know about coaching baseball? In high school, he was a wrestler in the lowest weight class. Hed only volunteered as coach to spend more time with his son, Brayden. Heidi had laughed at Troy, standing in his driveway, when he told her he was going to coach. It was a laugh she probably didnt mean, one of practiced crabbiness. You con artist, she said, arms folded. You dont know any more about baseball than I do. I can learn, hed replied, looking over his shoulder. The apartment he rented above the used car dealership was cheap, but there was always somebody dawdling around the lot at all hours, peering into car windows. He felt he couldnt relax there, but he also felt that, like the cars, he was parked there temporarily, too. And despite the extra fifteen pounds of sobriety weight, the rough patches, the dings, he had to believe that he was still salvageable. That their relationship was salvageable. People can make all kinds of promises on Sunday nights, Heidi had said, getting in her car. She turned around to watch Brayden buckle up, then she rolled down her window. Tell me these things on Monday mornings, okay? Its already done. Im doing it. He searched Heidis face for anything that she no longer gave him. For Brayden. Most of the As arrived for practice on time, hopping out of minivans and truck cabs, with duffel bags, as big as their own bodies, slung over their shoulders and bat handles poking from the backs. Troy faced the boys and two assistant coaches, his sunglasses gleaming like beetle shells in the evening sun. On the other side of the elementary school, two girls, pot-bellied in tight sweatshirts, tumbled in the vacant soccer field. Behind it all was an Allegheny mountain ridge so ragged and purplish-blue, it looked sore. Troy clapped his hands together. All right, As. Bring it in here. The boys huddled closer, taking choppy steps in their new cleats. Over in right field, some of the other boys were more interested in the geese. One of them was gradually closing in on a goose, his hand stretched out in a catchers mitt. The goose raised up and beat its wings like it was stretching. The boys screamed. Hustle over here, Troy called. Dont worry about them. Theyll fly off soon as we get started. Brayden arrived and ran up to Troys side. He wore a new As cap that was too big. Troy lifted the bill to see his sons eyes. Wheres your mother? Brayden pointed toward a dark blue truck where Heidi was checking her mouth in the side mirror, one leg dangling out of the open truck door. Whose truck is that? Troy asked. Brayden shrugged. Guess Rances. Troy paused. What happened to the car? Brayden shrugged again. Well, hey. Troy stammered, trying to sound cheerful. He patted Brayden on the head. Whered you get this hat? I told you I had one for you. Packed away. All these months later, Troys things were still in boxes. The wind picked up, strong and chilly, on the ridge. The boys stuffed their hands in their pockets. Howd we get stuck with this field? moaned one of the Skylers, Camdens, or Donovans. Believe it or not, we got the best field, Troy told them. Other than the Canadian geese, the wind, and the fact that it was always two degrees colder on this field, Troy liked Steeple Ridge. It seemed to him like the backbone of the county. It was the school Brayden would attend if he lived with Troy. Get your gloves and partner up. Were gonna practice throwing and catching. A boy with a blonde buzz cut punched a fist into the unbroken leather of his mitt. What about the geese? Theyre fine. Forget about them. Theyll fly off, Troy said. He glanced over and saw Heidi standing near the dugout, watching. Spread out! He slashed his arms in the air, but the boys clustered up in the infield. The geese scuttled off toward the outfield, honking. Only two of them remained, a few yards beyond first base. Troy took his clipboard around and met with each of the parents. He approached Heidi last. She was wearing the hood on her sweatshirt pulled up against the wind and sunglasses half the size of her face. Troy fixed his gaze on the clipboard. Hurry up. Heidi shivered. I want to go back to the truck and turn the heat on. Troy tensed his eyebrows. He ran his finger along the columns of the page. What number will Brayden want? Heidi didnt answer, so Troy looked up. On his jersey, his favorite number? She paused, her lips tight. Troy slammed his palm down on the clipboard. Damn it, dont give me this now. How many every-other-weekends do you think there are in a year? I dont know. Seven I guess, she answered, her voice thin and detached. She had been watching the boys on the field run and dive for the balls they couldnt catch. This was Heidis way now, afraid to give an inch. I meant the jersey. She looked at Troy. Seven. An assistant coach yelled for Troy and pointed to a boy a few feet away from the geese. The boy was locked up, his arms drawn to his chest. Theyre hissing at us! the boys throwing partner cried. Troy sighed and threw his clipboard down. He strolled along the baseline. It had rained overnight and the sand was the color of paprika; it clung to the bottom of his sneakers. When he reached the boys, he stomped toward the geese with his arms spread out. Go on! Get! One of the geese dipped its neck down and hissed at Troy, with an open mouth and an arched, pink tongue. It threw open its wings and charged. All of the geese honked in alarm behind them, like a chorus of rusted porch swings. The boys crowded behind him. Back up, back up, Troy told them. Jesus. He stalked back to the dugout. A man in dress pants with a cell phone clipped to his belt asked, You all right, man? Troy kicked a bat out of his way. Fine. Heidi followed him. Hey, she said. You okay? Troy turned around and saw a hint of something stronger than resentment in her face. Fear. He knew that she meant would he crumble; would he go home and drink. Im just fine, he said, his back turned. Before Brayden was born, Heidi used to drink with him. They partied every weekend. It was just their thing. And the next day, when they both felt like a jumble of nerves, Heidi would follow him around the house until the anxiety lifted. Its nothing, Troy would say, rubbing her back with a shaky hand. Itll be fine. And it was. It always was. Until, suddenly one day, it wasnt. The other coaches lined the boys up along the foul line to take practice swings. Troy bent over behind the backstop and slung a bat bag over his shoulder. He stood there for a moment, watching his son let it rip. Brayden was growing into that big, tin-man body shape of Heidis father. There didnt seem to be much of Troy in him. Brayden even had the ballplayer attitude down, the confident crouch and hover in the field, and the wind-cutting swing of the bat. Heidi walked up and stood next to Troy. Hes good, huh? she said. Rance has been working with him. She glanced down at her cell phone. Troy stared straight ahead. He didnt move or blink. I think I should call him about the geese, Heidi said. Troy clutched the backstop. No, dont. I Heidi put the phone to her ear. Troy grabbed the bat bag from the bottom and threw it down hard, the loud clinking of aluminum against aluminum. Brayden saw his mom on the phone and ran over. Mom, you calling Rance? Heidi nodded and put one finger up. Brayden waited around, bouncing from one foot to the other, kicking his bat with his cleats. Hey, you let me worry about those geese, Troy said. You, he steered Brayden around by his shoulders. Practice. Hey, babe, Heidi said into the phone, before turning and walking out of earshot. Babe? Troy muttered. Ever since Troy had gotten sober, memories seeped to the surface like sweat; all of those little things between them that had seemed to vanish, thin and wispy as vapor, came back to him this way. Like how Troy used to walk quietly down the hallway at night, passing Heidi on the couch, her back to him, and shed ask, While youre up, can you pour me some water? Well, what about Rance? Does he bring her the water? After several minutes, Rance pulled up in Heidis car with a fluffy Australian Shepherd-Border Collie mix named Talbot, black and white with brown feet. Talbot darted straight for Brayden first, while the boys cheered and dropped their bats when they saw him. Rance trailed behind his dog. He was a farm boy type, quiet and deliberate. He stuck his hand up, stationary; wavingto who? Troy lifted his hand and waved back, frowning. Cmon, boys. Were still practicing here. He wished he hadnt seen Rance; he wasnt ready. His heart raced. Lets let the dog do what he came to do. Rance lifted his hand and led Talbot out onto the field. The male goose raised up and hissed, then flapped its wings and lunged for Talbot, but Talbot hunkered down and squared off against him. The geese gave way, flying ten yards away to regroup, but Talbot rushed at them again. This time they glided into the tree line for protection, honking. Distressed. Troy was helping one of the Skylers, Camdens, or Donovans. Swing level, he told him, getting the hang of this coaching thing. He saw Rance walk back to his car and return with a gallon jug of corn oil. Whats that? Troy asked him. Whats the oil for? Addling, Rance answered. Cmon. He tilted his head. Ill show you. The boys threw down their bats and walked out with Troy to see what the geese had left behind. Beyond first base was a nest made of dried field grasses, lined with their own downy feathers, gray and airy. Four eggs lay in the sunken middle, undisturbed. The boys saw the eggs and made faces at one another. Some backed up. Some leaned in closer. Brayden hovered over the nest, his hands on his knees. Rance dropped down beside Brayden, taking an egg into calloused hands. His were steady hands that understood this kind of thinghow to destroy humanely. They were rough hands but capable. One by one, Rance smothered each egg in corn oil. This keeps the eggs from getting air, he explained to the boys. Then he laid them all back down in the nest, their shells slick and golden. But what will that do? Brayden asked, mouth agape. Rance leaned back on the heels of his working boots. Well, that just means theyre not going to hatch. Brayden stared down at the oil-covered eggs. Then, not able to grasp the concept or even how he should feel about it, Brayden peered into Rances void expression. Troy turned and wandered back toward the home plate, a heavy hum inside his head. Nothing made sense anymore. He was being erased. He watched as the other coaches set half of the boys around the field like chess pieces, and then to Brayden, playing short stop, Troy heard himself say, Its going to come at you, son. Okay? You ready? His voice strained; he was sick of the sound of it. Youve got to be ready. Brayden nodded and crouched with watchful eyes, elbows to his knees. Talbot stayed behind after Rance left, in case the geese tried to slink back. They didnt. They peered from the tree line, beady-eyed, honking the most god-awful cries. Talbot, prowling the field, caught a pop fly and took off with it in his mouth, and all of the fielders dropped their mitts to chase him. Soon the team would leave for the night, and Brayden would go home with Heidi and Talbot, and the geese would wander back, the female unknowingly nesting on top of her addled eggs, while the male stayed at her side like a sentinel. But this was all that Troy had left. The sun went down, but the As practiced on. Parents climbed behind the wheels of their minivans and trucks and started their ignitions. Troy told the boys to stay put, and he strolled up to the batters box. All the balls, he yelled, stretching one hand up in the air. Here to me! The boys searched the ground, wound up, and lobbed all the stray baseballs. Troy caught some and bent to gather the rest, dropping them into a five gallon bucket at his feet. He tossed one ball up and smacked it with the bat, breath heaving up from deep in his ribcage. The ball flew high and fast, and the boys in the outfieldwide-eyedbeheld the incoming ball, their mitts raised in the air like big, heavy cups. 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