The Home Team
The Home Team
Brig Berthold
In the last one-hundred-fifty years,
fewer than twenty-four thousand people
have played Major League Baseball.
He hadn’t pitched in two days and his arm still hurt. He pushed away the voice telling him that, at twenty-nine, he’d never make it. Clarke told himself to slow down. He was home now, and he could take care of his arm without needing to hide it.
With a deep breath, Clarke climbed from the car and circled to the passenger side. After reaching onto the floor of the front seat, he grabbed his equipment bag first, then the pizza. He kicked the door shut. His gear bag dangled from his left hand as he balanced the pizza with his right. He forced a rallying breath through pinched lips. The angle of his arm holding the box intensified the pain.
Clarke opened his front door. “Hey, guys!” He wanted to sound cheerful for his wife, Rachel, and their daughter, Lucy. The hallway led to a bland kitchen, separated from the equally bland living room by a wrought-iron banister. They’d stopped decorating at some point. After five years in the minors, they’d learned that a bigger house meant they’d want to fill it, have to clean it, and then need to move it.
“Do I smell pizza?” Lucy sat up from her cocoon on the couch. She held her tablet despite the television being on.
“You’re more excited about pizza than seeing your dad?”
“What kind did you get?” Lucy yelled.
“We eat pizza-flavored pizza,” Clarke said the words aloud, but Rachel stayed quiet. They usually said this in unison, then laughed—the old family joke.
“No, like, where did you get it, Dad? This is important.”
“Alfredo’s Pizza Cafe,” Clarke said. “You think I’d bring home a box of hot garbage?” Lucy laughed and Clarke smiled. Dropping the pizza box on the kitchen island relieved some of the ache in his elbow.
He walked behind Rachel, who stood over a cutting board, slicing grilled chicken breasts and an avocado. He wrapped his arms around her and kissed her between her neck and shoulder.
“Hey, babe.”
“How’s your elbow?”
She must have seen him wince. He reached to massage his arm. “It’s fine.”
Clarke opened the pizza box and swiveled onto a barstool. Rachel’s healthier option stood no chance against sausage, pepperoni, and cut vegetables piled on melted cheese atop a bed of garlic crust. Not bothering with plates, he laid flat the lid and pulled a slice onto the bare cardboard, trailing a line of cheese.
Lucy slid over the back of the couch and twisted onto a barstool beside him. True to form, she replaced the tablet with food but swiveled to face the TV showing the violent death of a zombie. Clarke was pretty sure Lucy’s brain would short-circuit if she couldn’t stare at a screen.
He shifted to address Rachel. “Do you think she should watch this?”
Without looking up, Rachel said, “You know it’s pretend, right, honey?”
“Yep,” Lucy said. “Can you get me some water, Dad?”
Clarke went to grab a bottle of water from the fridge. “Here ya go, kiddo.”
Lucy turned to grab the drink and must have noticed her mom hadn’t touched the pizza. “Come on, Mom. Alfredo’s is your favorite.”
“What’s up?” Clarke said through a mouthful of pizza.
Rather than speak, Rachel gestured to the pizza with an open palm and raised eyebrows. A look that said, You didn’t ask me? I made all this food. Instead, Rachel muttered, “I thought you were on a diet.”
She had suggested he try the ketogenic diet. It was supposed to be anti-inflammatory and she’d thought it could help.
They both knew what the pain meant. These days, nearly every pitcher injured their UCL and needed Tommy John surgery. The pain got worse as his pitching got better. Deep down, he worried he’d push himself past his limits.
Clarke reached across the table for Rachel’s hand, but she pulled away. He met her eyes and whispered, “You okay?”
Rachel shrugged and Clarke wondered what was going on.
He pulled his ringing phone from his pocket. The caller ID showed “Rick O’Neal,” his manager. He held up a finger, silently asking to pause the conversation.
“Hello. No, this is a good time.” He waggled his hand, pointing at the TV. Lucy got the message and lowered the volume. “Yes, sir.” Clarke listened. Focused. “You’re kidding?” Another pause as he listened. His eyes grew wide as a smile spread across his face. “Oh, my God.” Clarke leaned onto the cold granite of the kitchen island. He let out a breath that was half-laugh. “I’ll be there. Thank you, sir.”
He hung up, putting his phone on the counter. Clarke’s face glowed as he became a crinkle-eyed man with a ten-year-old boy’s grin.
“What?” Rachel said. Quiet tension filled the kitchen.
“That was Rick,” Clarke said. “The Yankees called. We’re going to The Show.” His smile spread across his face.
He thumped the countertop with his palms, then skipped toward Rachel. He bent, scooping her into his arms, laughing as he spun her around. Putting her down, he felt the cold wet of her cheek against his.
Lucy squealed in celebration.
He remembered being bullied by his Little League team for being afraid of the ball, dropping the final out in his high school state championship, then committing to BYU because it was the only Division I school that’d take him. Four years of college, two Single-A teams in one year, a year in Double-A, and three years in Triple-A. Early mornings, late nights, endless weekends, anniversary dinners in small-town diners, and he’d missed Lucy’s sixth birthday. They’d all dreamt of this day as a family, as a team.
“When?” Rachel asked.
Clarke again reached for her hand.
“Tomorrow. I’m booked on the first flight to Boston. I need to be ready to take the mound the day after tomorrow.”
“Against Boston?” Lucy asked.
Rachel gripped his hand, squeezing it once, but then pulled away. Opening the trash can, she grabbed the cutting board, dumped the vegetables and chicken breasts, and left the kitchen. Everything he’d expected and hoped for in this moment, what should have been joyous, shattered as she walked away.
The suitcase lay open on the bed in the center of the room. Besides a full-length mirror and a dresser supporting a television, their room also lacked any flourish. Even this intimate space in their life seemed transitional.
Rachel emerged from the small walk-in closet holding shirts by their hangers, laying them on the corner of the mattress.
“What’s going on?” Clarke asked.
“I’m helping you pack,” Rachel said, emotionless. “You’re leaving tomorrow. The team needs you.”
“Am I missing something?” He did nothing to hide his annoyed confusion.
Rachel’s reply was muffled as she turned away into the closet. He followed her and leaned on the closet door. She pushed past him, dropping a folded stack of pants inside the suitcase.
“Babe, I got it. You don’t need to do that.”
“You’ll forget something.” That was true, though it made him feel foolish.
As Rachel turned back toward the closet, Clarke stopped her. With his hands on her shoulders, he gave his wife a hard, searching look. He tried to soften his tone. “Tell me what’s wrong.”
She wrinkled her face with a sigh. “Honey, let’s just let this moment be about you and your success. Can we just let that be it?”
“It’s our success, babe. Why aren’t you happy for me? For us? We should be celebrating.” He smiled but continued searching for whatever she wasn’t saying. “Everything we’ve been working toward is here. It’s now. I couldn’t have done this without you. Please, talk to me.”
Rachel didn’t reply.
“Dad.” Lucy stood in the doorway, presenting a pair of her jerseys. “Pinstripes or road gray?”
Rachel pulled away, but seeing the excitement on Lucy’s face buoyed him.
“That’s tough, girlie.” His eyes crinkled again at the corners as he smiled.
“I know, right?” Lucy charged ahead. “Because, like, it’s Boston. I say we just own it and that means pinstripes.” She held the white pinstriped jersey beneath her chin. “What are you wearing, Mom?”
“I don’t know yet,” Rachel said.
Clarke turned back to Rachel. He lowered his voice. “You guys are coming, right?” It had never occurred to him they wouldn’t. How could they not? This was the home team. He needed them.
“Lucy, get to bed,” Rachel said.
Clarke’s neck warmed and he stepped back at the wordless rejection.
“I have to pack first,” Lucy said. “What time are we leaving?”
“Go to bed.” Rachel wasn’t unkind, but her words left no room to negotiate.
Lucy retreated from the doorway, disappearing into the hall.
Uncertain where the conversation might go, Clarke pulled the door closed. “Let’s book your flights now. We could go to the airport together. Maybe we can get on the same flight.”
Rachel sat on the bed. “No, honey. I’ve had a long day. I’m tired and I just need sleep.”
“Did something happen? Talk to me.”
“Yes, something happened,” she snapped. “I spoke to Maria earlier. Do you know about Jimmy?”
“No?”
“They sent Jimmy for an MRI. He needs surgery.” Rachel paused and took a slow breath.
“Shit,” Clarke whispered. “I’ll call him.”
“Goddamnit, Clarke.” She stood. “You asked me if everything was okay. Well, it’s not. Not even close.”
A brick of concern dropped into his stomach like the first piece of a crumbling wall.
“You’re always gone. Then you come home pretending everything is okay. Nothing is okay.”
“I’m doing my job.”
“You play a game, Clarke.”
“How can you say that? You used to think that was the best part.”
“I never thought it would get this far.”
That sent him reeling. Did she believe he couldn’t do it? Had she been pretending all these years? Had she been lying?
“You don’t believe in me?”
“Don’t do that. Don’t start feeling sorry for yourself.” She waved her hand through the air, pacing. “Your elbow is not right.” She thrust an accusing finger at his arm, raising her voice. “Every time you pitch, it’s getting worse.”
“My arm is fine,” he shouted.
His arm was a conversation killer, a no-fly zone. Rachel always approached the subject obliquely but never head-on. The last time she’d tried, she suggested he see a doctor. Someone disconnected from the team, just to rule out the worst-case scenario. He’d shut the conversation down almost before it could begin.
Rachel’s voice rose as she swirled around the room. “No, it’s not fine. You won’t tell anyone. You can’t even admit it to yourself. And you won’t see the doctor because you’re afraid it will end your career. Well, what if it does?” She slapped her arms against the sides of her legs. “What if you go to Boston and try to do too much?”
“I won’t—”
“You’ll go to the hotel in agony and continue pretending things are fine. And what if that’s it for you?”
“Babe, stop—” She cut him off with a wave of her hand.
Clarke clenched his fists, turning with a grunt of rage to lean on the wall.
“When you can’t pitch anymore, what then? Who will that Clarke Morris be?” He stood beside the door as Rachel moved back and forth, yelling at the carpet. “Do we stay in Wilkes-Barre? Back to Provo?”
“Everything will work out,” he shouted. His words echoed from the walls, mixing with hers.
“You don’t know that, Clarke! That’s what I’m saying.” Rachel held her head in her hands, eyes now on the ceiling. “This is not a life, Clarke. It’s a fantasy.”
“A fantasy?”
“It’s not a life,” she said. “It can’t be a life if we never stay anywhere longer than three minutes. Lucy and I can barely make friends. When we do, you move up. Now it’s happening, again.”
“You have friends. The whole team is in the same situation—”
“Those aren’t friends I get to choose. I have to be friends with them. I want us to have choices.”
“What do you want me to do?” he shouted. This time, his words didn’t roll over hers.
“I don’t know what to do anymore.” Her voice hovered above a whisper. Sorrow ran silent tracks down her flushed cheeks. “I think a few more days apart will be good.”
“Tell me you’ll be in Boston.” The plea shocked him. Why did he need to beg his wife and daughter to be there? “Tell me you won’t miss this.”
“I’m sorry I ruined your big moment.” Rachel walked into the bathroom and Clarke heard the small snap of the door’s lock.
At midnight, Clarke leaned over the back of the barstool, squeezing the stress between his shoulders. For two hours he’d stared at the twin blinking lights on the oven’s digital clock.
Years of effort and dreaming were supposed to have all led to this moment. He’d known his life would have one major dividing line, the years before the big leagues, and everything after.
The Yankees drafted him in the sixth round out of BYU. The call came, then the shock, and then joy. Even the then-four-year-old Lucy felt the celebration.
They’d waved goodbye to Provo, Utah. Since then, he’d been waiting for the second life-altering call.
For ten years they’d chased this one moment and all along she thought he’d fail. A dark cloud of resentment spread through his chest.
How could she even consider not being at that game? He needed her and Lucy with him. He loved baseball, and a piece of him hated every game he played where he couldn’t look into the stands and see his home team cheering him on.
Clarke stood and grabbed an ice pack from the freezer.
From the cabinet, he got an elastic bandage wrap, pressed the ice pack to the inside of his elbow, and tried to bind his arm. The wrap unraveled and the ice pack fell. “Fuck,” he said.
“Let me help.”
The voice from behind startled him. Turning, he saw Lucy.
She grabbed the ice pack from the floor. “Here,” she said, “hold it.” Lucy held the end of the elastic in place with one hand and pulled with the other.
“Not too tight.”
“I know.” Her voice crackled.
“Why aren’t you asleep?”
“I don’t know.” Lucy tried to sound casual.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah.”
She was not convincing. Even in the dark, he saw her far-away look as she wrapped his arm.
“I’m proud of you, Dad.”
The black cloud in his chest turned to a soft, white glow. He didn’t expect her to say that. “Thank you, honey.”
“I mean, you’ve been doing this your whole life. You should feel awesome.”
He didn’t feel awesome. Lucy slid onto the next barstool. The word “but” floated between them like a looping curve as Lucy pinned the bandage together.
“But?” he asked.
“You’re gone a lot, Dad. I miss you.”
“I miss you too. I wish you guys could travel with me.”
“Yeah,” Lucy said. She dropped her head.
There was more and, this time, Clarke waited for Lucy to get it out.
“Mom’s been different lately,” Lucy said.
“What do you mean?”
“Hannah’s parents are quiet and ignore each other. She says it’s like that every day, not just when I’m there. Mom’s like that when you’re gone.”
Clarke was glad she had a friend. Everything is harder when you’re lonely. Lately, he’d been lonely with his wife in the same room. Rachel must feel the same way. Why hadn’t he asked her? When had they stopped having real conversations?
“I’m sorry, sweetie. I can see how it’d be hard on you.”
“Yeah, and moving sucks. But it’s going to happen. I know it will. You’ll show them how good you are and then they’ll have to keep you. And we’ll have to move to New York.”
“Are you worried about living in the city?”
“It’s scary and there are too many people.”
Clarke laughed and hugged her. They’d spent the last three seasons in suburban Wilkes-Barre, Pennsylvania. Of course, they’d gone to New York City a few times, but living there would be scary for her at first. He hoped they’d be there long enough for her to get over that fear.
“We can do anything together.” Clarke kissed the top of her head. His emotions competed for space as he scolded himself. He’d let his priorities shift somewhere along the way. He needed to do better, to be better. He whispered into her hair, “I love you.”
“I love you, too.” Lucy leaned away. “And I’ll make sure we’re in Boston for your game. Mom’s lost her mind if she thinks I’m missing this.”
“Hey,” Clarke said and snickered. “Don’t talk about your mother like that.”
“I’m serious.”
“I know, kiddo.” He loved Lucy’s spunk. “Head off to bed.”
She began shuffling away.
“Hey, Luce?” He waited for her to face him. “Pinstripes. Super duh.”
Her smile nearly lit the dark kitchen. “Yeah,” she said, “super duh.”
Lucy sailed away and, on the same breeze, Clarke’s emotional fog returned. The ice stung and tingled his skin in a way he’d taught himself to enjoy. He decided that if something was necessary, some part of the process, he might as well enjoy it. But nothing is ever that simple.
His career had become a process of endless examination and execution. He had to be constantly focused on the details, always improving, forever tweaking this or that, here or there. The contrast was one of the things he loved most about his family. At home, he didn’t have to care so much. He could take his foot off the gas. He had to give Rachel credit for that, as well. She’d helped him stop nitpicking everything and beating himself up for not getting better at life. “It’s not a sport,” she’d said. “There’s no score.”
Clarke’s elbow was numb from the ice and his eyes burned when he closed them. He tried to fight a yawn and lost. He decided there was no way his family would miss the game. That meant he’d need to get them to Boston. After that, he’d figure out how to fix things. One thing at a time.
He pulled out his phone, searching for flights.
Brig Berthold is a US Army Veteran whose work has appeared in The Twin Bill, The Under Review, The Good Men Project, and Military Experience & The Arts. Brig is co-host of the Baseball Together podcast and a member of the IBWAA. He lives in Spartanburg, SC.
Elliot Lin is a college student who spends their free time musing about sports and how they shape or reflect identity. You can find their other baseball-related illustrations here, on Twitter, Tumblr, and Instagram.
The Twin Bill is a nonprofit organization with 501(c)(3) tax-exempt status. You can support The Twin Bill by donating here.