Foul Ball
Foul Ball
By Alex J. Barrio
“Can you take her please?” my husband Matt says as he hands over six-year-old Sienna like she’s a sack of rotten potatoes, his arms outstretched with his fingers under her armpits.
“I told you not to carry her in.” I set her down in the middle of the circle we form in the stadium concourse near the stairwell to our seats. She squeezes my leg, her tiny hands pinching my thigh. She hates crowds. We cannot get to our seats fast enough.
Concessions selling overpriced hot dogs, tacos, popcorn, every snack food imaginable, plus liquor and beer, line the walls around us. Men with coolers at their feet, beers and canned mixed drinks displayed on the floor, scream “Cold beer here!” Senior citizens shuffle past us, programs and pencils in their hands to track the box score like they have probably been doing for a half-century. A couple walks past, the man excitedly repeating behind-the-scenes player drama he heard on a podcast.
I used to love going to baseball games. White Sox games with my dad used to be one of the great joys of life. I loved the suspense behind every pitch, soaring like a droplet of moisture in a thick fog of hope, reminding fans that no matter what had happened up to this point, the losing team could come back with a few lucky swings.
When I first met my husband Matt and discovered this tall, brown-eyed dreamboat was also a fan of Chicago’s real team, I knew I had found The One. When we had kids, first Mabel and two years later Sienna, I imagined them going to games with Matt just like I did with my Dad, creating cherished memories that would shape them forever: juggling too many delicious snacks while we navigated the crowd to our upper deck seats, tossing Cracker Jack at each other’s mouths, and wishing with every swing of the bat that a foul ball would come our way. Our love of the game deepened our love for each other. I was sure Matt would be the same with our girls.
How wrong I was.
“Can I have ice cream?” Mabel asks.
“Baby, I don’t think so. How about a pretzel?” Eight years old, plump around the middle in the same way that my mother shamed me for when I was her age. I struggle to resist the urge to do the same. I see Mabel and reluctantly empathize with my mother. Dad once said our children reflect what we both love and hate the most about ourselves. Mabel was my mirror, as I was once my mother’s.
Matt thinks it is cute and regularly indulges our daughter’s sweet tooth. “She’ll hit her growth spurt and stretch out,” he has assured me, citing his own experience, ignoring my lifetime of self-loathing and the eating disorders I caught like Pokémon over the years.
Matt takes Mabel’s chubby hand. “A little chocolate won’t kill her,” he says to me, getting in line to nab her some soft serve.
“Fine,” I say, not wanting to argue, wondering if, like me, she will spend her teen years regretting every delicious lick of ice cream she ever consumed.
I glare at the back of Matt’s head. I thought he was a good listener and yet, here we are, once again, my parenting undermined by his obsession with being liked by his children. Dad was never like that with my mother. They were a team, always supporting each other’s decisions, no matter what they may have personally thought. Why did Matt make me feel like he was not on my team?
“Hey guys!” Jenny exclaims, materializing out of thin air next to me, trailed by her three sons and husband Gerald, Matt’s best friend. The game has not even started, but I can tell from Gerald’s bloodshot eyes that he is already at least two in the hole. He carries one of those baseball bat-sized cups in his hands, half-full of amber beer. He has a second one behind his back and makes a big, goofy stink about pretending to drink it before handing it to Matt.
I have known Gerald for twelve years and it is possible I have never seen him sober.
Jenny looks fabulous in a sunhat, black tank top that rides up to show off her perfect abs, and white shorts that barely cover anything. Her lips are thick with filler and covered in gloss that shines in the midday sun. She has not a bead of sweat on her. It takes all my willpower not to groan as I lean forward to give her a polite kiss on the cheek. “Hi, Jenny!” I say with the fake enthusiasm I have perfected in my years interacting with her.
“How are you?” she asks. “You look amazing! You’re so lucky you don’t have to wear make-up.”
“Thank you!”
I am wearing a full face of make-up.
“Hey, Jenny,” Matt says, lowering his sunglasses like he wants a better look at her. Every time they are together, they share this intense eye contact that makes me wish for claws to scratch out both their eyes. They look into each other’s souls in a way that Matt has never looked into mine and I bet Jenny has never looked into Gerald’s. It is a magnetic stare, the rare and special kind I would see my parents share, like it would physically hurt to look away. Desire permeates the air around them like noxious gas in a trench. If I had not met Matt before he met Jenny, I have no doubt he would have stolen her from Gerald.
I confronted Matt about this once. He laughed. “You’re the only woman for me,” he assured me as if I were some idiot who could not see what was right in front of my own face. As if I were not the woman who knew everything about him, from the songs that made him cry to the smells of his farts. “Jenny? Really? That’s crazy. You’re being crazy.”
I showed him crazy that night, until he promised me a thousand times that nothing happened between them and nothing ever would. “Gerald is my best friend. I would never do that to him.”
“Him!”
“And you! My love! The love of my life.”
“Why did you say him and not me?”
“I thought it was implied by the fact that we are married, took vows in front of our families, are raising two wonderful daughters —doesn’t that count for anything?”
I wasn’t sure. My parents never fought like this. My father worshiped my mother like a priest devoting his life to the wishes of the Pope. Was it too much to ask for the same from my own husband?
Still, I trusted him, or told myself I did anyway, though whenever Jenny came around like a cicada emerging from its cocoon to mate and feed, I saw that glint in his eye and wondered if we needed to fight again.
“Down this way!” Gerald leads us to our seats after Mabel consumes her frozen yogurt in record time. Jenny and Matt follow close behind, while their three boys and our two girls walk without looking up from their tablets and cell phone screens. The boys are two years apart, oldest aged ten and youngest six. The first two are the spitting image of the short and thin Gerald, while the youngest sticks out: tall, nearly the same height as his oldest brother, with the same sandy brown hair and hazel eyes as my husband. Every time I look at that kid I want to steal a lock of hair and get a DNA test.
I know it sounds ridiculous. According to Jenny, he is the spitting image of her grandfather. No way this is Matt’s kid, right?
Right?
I wish I could ask Dad. He was always so good at bringing me back to the real world. We are at a ball game! I should be enjoying my family and the game, not following my imagination to its darkest corners.
Unless it isn’t my imagination?
My whole body feels sticky when we reach our seats. It is a sweltering Sunday afternoon in August. I scan the crowd and see it is about a 50-50 split between Sox fans and those of the visiting Mariners, with a sprinkle of people in random gear from other teams. I asked Dad about those people once and he said that most people only go to a game once a year and own only a few pieces of sports memorabilia, so it was not unusual to see people representing teams from other cities or different sports.
Both teams playing today are in a slump, so there is a rare air of optimism among the Sox fans. “So long as the bats are swinging and balls are flying, there’s a chance,” Dad loved to say. Today I hoped he was right. The postseason was out of reach, but it would be nice to end the year with a little bit of positive momentum.
We reserved two different rows, four seats for my family in front of five for theirs. “Why don’t the adults take these and the kids take those?” Jenny suggests.
“Great idea!” Matt says.
Great idea, I think to myself in a voice mocking Matt’s. Of course he thinks Jenny’s idea is a great idea.
Gerald takes the first seat and Jenny follows. I try to cut in to sit next to her, but Matt takes a firm step to stay close behind her so we are sitting Gerald-Jenny-Matt-Me. “Why don’t we switch seats so Gerald and Matt can sit together?” I suggest in what I believe is a friendly, helpful tone, hoping that I can get Gerald and Matt together on one end and wedge myself between Jenny and my husband on the other.
Matt looks at Gerald and says, “No, this is fine. Gerald likes to focus on the game.”
I place my hand on Matt’s tree trunk thigh and jiggle it. “I’m sure Jenny would love the extra leg room.”
Jenny laughs and leans over to place an unwelcome hand on my thigh. “It’s fine. There’s plenty of space. I don’t have strong, muscular legs like you.”
“Right,” I say through gritted teeth, letting go of Matt’s leg as Jenny lifts her hand from mine. I smile without showing the teeth I want to bite their faces with. I turn to my daughters, young Sienna on the end in a pink top and skirt next to her sister in denim, arms full of colorful bracelets. “Do you want something to eat?” I need a moment to myself to grab my own drink and consume something deliciously greasy in private.
“I don’t know,” Sienna whines.
“What do they have?” Mabel asks, a rim of chocolate around her lips.
“Pretzels, hot dogs, chicken fingers,” I rattle off automatically. It is the same food that has been served at games like this for generations, all preservatives and salt eager to settle inside your fat cells.
“Chicken fingers!” Mabel says.
Fried breading, of course. “Sure. Fries?”
“Yes, please. And ketchup!”
Don’t even know why I ask. “You got it. What about you, Sienna?”
She shrugs. “I don’t care.”
“Chicken fingers and fries it is.”
“No. I don’t want that.”
“Hot dog?”
“Okay,” Sienna replies. Unlike her sister, she never wants to eat. I picture her dissecting the hot dog, nibbling the ends of processed meat separate from the bun, her tiny hands slathered in condiments over a mess that hides the fact she barely touched her meal.
I envy her ability to do that.
“Can you get me another beer?” Matt asks, finally looking away from Jenny for five full seconds. He holds up his half-full beer container.
“Sure.”
“Me, too!” Gerald chimes in, waving his nearly empty one.
“You got it!”
I head straight for the nearest drink stand. The line has about a dozen people, mostly couples swaying in each other’s day-drunk arms. It takes twenty minutes to get to the front. I have to shout over the national anthem to order. “Double vodka on the rocks and two of those giant beer baseball bats.”
“One drink per ID.” The bartender, a heavyset man missing two front teeth, speaks with a thick Midwestern accent that merges the last two words into a barely discernible “pridey”.
“I’m getting the beers for my husband and his friend.”
“Stadium policy, ma’am.”
“Come on, it’s hot out here,” I plead.
“Sorry lady. We got kids out here and gotta make sure there’s no underage drinking.”
“What if I down the vodka? Then can I get at least one of the beers?” Maybe Jenny will get off her bony ass and get her husband his own damn beer.
“You’re not allowed to consume drinks at the bar, ma’am. This is for ordering only. If you want a second drink, you will have to consume your drink elsewhere and get back in line.”
“Are you fucking kidding me?”
“Ma’am, that language is unnecessary.”
“Sorry,” I grumble. I turn and the drink line has doubled. The waiting customers look angrier with each passing second. “Fine. I’ll take one beer.” Get this, get food for the kids, then come back and enjoy a drink in peace.
The food line is just as long. It takes all my self-control not to chug Matt’s beer myself.
We are in the second inning by the time I get back to my seat and I am annoyed I missed a whopper of a first. The Sox gave up five runs, though they managed to get one to enter the second down 5-1. We are now back at the top of Seattle’s hard-hitting batting order. Despair fills the air. A family in matching jerseys stands in a prayer circle. A few rows down, a little boy cries while pointing to the scoreboard as his father fails to calm him. A man big enough to take two seats looks through binoculars a few rows up from us, head shaking in disgust.
Gerald is on the edge of his seat, twisting his White Sox cap in his hands. His nervous energy and focus reminds me of Dad, watching every game like his life depended on the outcome. Jenny and Matt are laughing, oblivious to the action on the field below. Her boys are all on their phones playing video games, and the youngest is resting his feet on Matt’s shoulders like he is an ottoman. The boy’s sandals are off. His second toe is nearly twice as long as his big toe, just like Matt’s.
Just like Matt’s.
I push the thought away. Stop self-sabotaging a good time, I order myself. “Here,” I say as I hand the beer to Matt.
He takes a sip. “It’s warm,” he says with a sour face.
“Lines were long, and I had to get food for the girls.”
“Where’s mine?” Gerald asks.
Don’t you have a wife? I want to ask him. “They said only one drink per ID. I need to go back and get one for myself.”
“I didn’t have that problem,” Gerald says, like I’m lying.
Matt takes another sip and winces. “I’m sorry, honey, I’m not sure I can drink this.”
Gerald reaches over. “Let me see.” Matt hands it off. “Oh, God, that’s terrible.”
I want to pour it over their heads.
“Here you go, girls!” I hand them their food. “I’m going to get a snack.”
“What are you going to eat?” Matt asks.
“I don’t know. The girls have plenty of fries, though. Girls, share with your dad.”
“You boys hungry?” Jenny asks her sons. They nod eagerly. She reaches into her purse under her seat and pulls out a gallon-sized Ziploc bag full of thick chunks of salami cut into triangular slices.
“That looks amazing,” Matt says.
“Here,” Jenny says, cupping a handful before passing the bag back to her eager boys who tear into it like hyenas on a carcass. Matt literally eats out of the palm of Jenny’s hand, and I wish for nothing more than a foul ball to come flying and knock them both upside their heads.
“Looks good,” a male voice says from behind my kids. I look up to see a guy in a Blue Jays hat and jersey sitting by himself. He is sweaty and glistening in a way that makes me think he smells terrible.
“Don’t talk to the kids,” I snap.
Blue Jay leans back, hands up like it’s a robbery. “Whoa lady, relax. I’m just trying to be nice to the people around me.”
“We’re sorry, sir. It’s just a hot day,” Matt says.
Blue Jay tips his cap to Matt. “No problem. Totally understand.”
Matt stands up and leans down to whisper to me, “Are you going to be okay?”
I lean away from Matt, hoping Blue Jay can hear me. “Me? I don’t want any weirdos talking to our kids.”
“He seems fine,” Jenny chimes in.
I roll my eyes. “Whatever. I’ll be back.” Blue Jay gives me a friendly little wave as I walk past. I resist the urge to flip him off.
It’s the bottom of the third when I get back to our seats, having gotten my drink, used the bathroom, and circled back for another. My head feels light and airy. I finally feel ready to enjoy the game.
The men are drinking fresh beers and eating my kids’ leftover fries. Jenny sips something colorful through a tiny straw, her eyes looking into Matt’s, her expressive hands hovering over his legs while she talks, their knees touching.
I announce my presence with a fake cough. “Hi honey. French fry?” Matt asks.
“I’m good.” I sit down, agitation skittering back like a cockroach. Maybe I will get in a better mood if I ignore everyone and get into the game.
This is when things completely fall apart. The Mariners score three more runs in the fifth and the Sox cannot respond. A grand slam in the seventh leaves us in a 9-1 chasm entering the 7th inning stretch. More people leave than sing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame.”
I am considering joining the exodus. Gerald is obliterated. Every few minutes he starts to nod off before bolting upright, watching the game until his body repeats the cycle. The boys are still on their phones, ignoring the real world around them. The Ziploc bag is at their feet, its contents reduced to nothing but hot meat juice. Mabel plays on her tablet while Sienna rests her face on her fist, breaths heavy with boredom.
“Honey, maybe we should go,” I tell Matt.
“Come on, one more inning! You never know.”
“Fine,” I tell him, frustrated that he would use Dad’s words against me to keep us here so he could continue his little flirtation with Jenny, who has probably not watched a single pitch the entire time she has sat here.
The Sox miraculously pull a run out of their asses at the bottom of the seventh, so now we enter the eighth with a score of 9-2. Down, but not completely out.
Blue Jay, mostly silent since I told him to leave the kids alone, is suddenly animated. “Let’s go White Sox,” he begins to chant. “Let’s go White Sox.” He claps along to the rhythm of his words. The chant becomes an earworm digging into my brain.
Unfortunately, his voice seems to have the desired effect on the game. The eighth inning starts with a Mariners strikeout. The mood is jubilant again. A pop fly is the second out, and the reliever ends the inning with another strikeout. The White Sox come back up to hit and have a chance to reduce the distance between themselves and their opponent.
“Three up, three out!” Gerald triumphantly yells.
“Let’s go White Sox.” Blue Jay continues without pause. “Let’s go White Sox.” He stands up. People a few rows back join him. I look around the stadium and it’s happening: people are getting back into the game right at the end. Even the kids are up, chanting and clapping.
“Let’s go White Sox.”
A home run starts the bottom of the eighth and we are at 9-3. A soft breeze blows, as if signaling a shift in the game’s momentum.
“Let’s go White Sox.”
A reliever comes in for the Mariners. Two quick outs and there is just one merciful inning left. I fan myself with a program. The heat is thick like a sauna and worsening as the afternoon wears on. I catch a whiff of myself and wish I had deodorant in my purse. I wonder how Jenny smells and make myself angry with the knowledge that if I ask Matt he will be able to tell me.
“Let’s go White Sox.”
Blue Jay’s chant continues as the game tumbles off the rails. Another Mariners grand slam, and a solo home run, takes us to 14-3 at the bottom of the ninth. “Are you ready for the craziest inning ever?” Matt asks our daughters, capturing a manic fan energy to overcompensate for my unusual quiet in this special place.
“Let’s go White Sox!” Mabel shouts, out of sync with the steady, rhythmic chant of Blue Jay, now chanting alone as a hush falls over the crowd. The first batter line-drives a single and makes it to first base.
Ecstatic screams ring. Hope returns.
“Let’s go White Sox.”
The next batter hits a pop fly. The crowd groans in unison. One out, two to go.
“Let’s go White Sox.”
The guy on first steals second, and then makes it to third on a single from the next batter.
“Let’s go White Sox.”
The next batter strikes out. One out left, with runners on first and third.
“Let’s go White Sox.”
“Enough!” I stand and yell at Blue Jay. “We’re down 14-3! It’s the end of the game at the end of the season! We’re the worst team in baseball! What are you even doing?”
Blue Jay turns his head but appears to stare right through me. “Let’s go White Sox.” A rhythmic, monotone, flat cheer that feels like a drill driving into my ear.
“Honey, relax,” Matt says with a hand on my arm.
“Are you okay?” Jenny asks.
“Fuck off, Jenny.” I am so sick of her perfect face and her perfect voice and her laugh and perfect everything. If Matt weren’t here I might take my rage out on her instead of Blue Jay.
“Jesus,” Matt says.
“Let’s go White Sox.”
“Don’t talk to my wife like that!” Gerald slurs, pointing at me.
“Oh, now you’re talking? Whole game your wife is sitting on my husband’s lap and you’re half-asleep, but when I speak out to tell this weirdo to shut it, that’s when you decide to talk?”
“Let’s go White Sox.”
“Honey, the girls . . .” Matt says. They slouch in their seats, covering their faces.
I am embarrassing my poor girls. I feel terrible now. Dad would never have made a scene like this. “I’m sorry-,” I begin before being cut off by-
“Let’s go White Sox.”
I want to smack him in the mouth. His chant is a smoke alarm with dying batteries, a squeak rendering it impossible for me to string together a coherent thought because of its loud, steady, piercing interruptions.
“Let’s go White Sox.”
I take a deep breath and turn back to the game, as Dad would have probably recommended. “The game is all that matters at the game,” he would say whenever some stranger, usually drunk, bothered us.
During my fit, I missed a double that sent the two base runners home, bringing the score up to 14-5. Shit. I am angry that I missed a good play.
The batter has two strikes. He hits a foul ball that comes straight our way. “Watch out!” Matt yells, leaning away from me, pressing against Jenny as the ball glides past my face to the row behind the kids. It bounces and lands in Blue Jay’s lap.
“Will you look at that?” Blue Jay says. He holds up the ball. He looks at the children, all of whom now have their hands out with anticipation. He looks at me and asks, “Is it okay if I give the ball to one of the kids?”
“That would be great,” Matt says. “Thank you.” He nudges me. “Wouldn’t that be great?”
“Yeah, thanks,” I mutter, Blue Jay’s voice still echoing in my brain, boiling my blood.
Let’s go White Sox.
We hear celebratory cheers. The batter hits a home run, bringing the score to 14-7. There is still hope. We are going to stick it out here a little longer, even though all I want to do is go home and curl up in bed. I am so tired of the noise and the crowd and all the memories, all the feelings, this place brings up.
Blue Jay looks at me. “Which of these kids is your favorite?”
“Excuse me?” I feel like I heard him wrong. There is no way he just asked-
“Which of these is your favorite?” he repeats.
We all stand to face Blue Jay. “All our children are our favorite,” Matt says.
“If you’re going to be a dick, keep the ball,” I say.
The batter on the plate swings and misses. Strike one.
“I’m not trying to be a dick,” he insists. He waves the ball in front of the kids’ faces. “I just don’t want to give it to a kid who is grounded or something. Don’t want to step on your parenting toes.”
Sounds like bullshit to me, but Matt accepts his word. “Thanks, but it’s fine. They’ll share it, won’t you, girls?”
Pitcher throws one down the middle. Strike two.
Blue Jay leans over to Sienna and hands her the ball. “You look miserable.”
Miserable? Matt laughs, says something about her not being a baseball fan, but I can barely hear anything over the din of my rage.
Miserable? These kids have everything. I give them everything they want. We are at one of the great American institutions on one of the most beautiful days of the year in one of the world’s greatest cities.
Miserable?
What am I getting wrong that Dad got right?
Batter swings. There is contact. The ball goes up, up, up, and . . . lands in the glove of a Mariners outfielder.
“Aw, Mariners win,” Blue Jay says. “Enjoy your evening, folks.”
I grab the ball from Sienna. “Hey!” she exclaims. I launch the ball at Blue Jay’s head. It soars past him and bounces down the exit steps.
The crowd leaving the stadium stops. They all stare at me, waiting for me to say something, to apologize or justify my actions.
I do not know what to say. All I want to do now is really go home and I am angry at myself that I erected a stumbling block by tossing that ball. I want to disappear and forget this persistent feeling of failure in trying to manufacture a day of fun without the one person who made these days special in the first place.
Matt, always uncomfortable in silence, speaks, “Sorry, everyone. Her dad just died.”
“Matt!” I scream. My entire body heats up like a broiler turned to max. I smack him on the arm. The burn on my palm from the force of the contact is exhilarating. “That’s no one’s business,” I choke out.
“I lost my dad, too,” Blue Jay says. “I’m sorry. Enjoy these moments with your kids.” He turns and leaves down the hallway exit. Seconds later I hear him yell, “Hey! That’s my ball!”
Let’s go White Sox.
“I’m sorry, honey,” Matt says. What are you sorry for? I want to ask him. All I wanted was to have a nice normal day, like I used to, a day where I could both honor my father’s memory, and show myself that it was possible to be happy and enjoy the things he and I used to do together, without him. It is a failed experiment, a catastrophe that has left me surrounded by strangers, and my family, and people I don’t like, staring at me in anticipation of the waterworks I desperately fight to hold back. My body feels like it is pressed against a crack in a dam. I do not want these people to see me cry but don’t know how to stop them.
I remember coming to this stadium with Dad, younger than Mabel and Sienna, and crying every time the Sox lost. My father would laugh and put his arm around me and assure me we would get them next time.
He would never do that again.
Blue Jay returns and hands me the ball. “I think you dropped this,” he says with a wink.
“Thank you.” My shoulders shake, chin quivers. A thousand baseball games with Dad and the fouls never sailed our way. My first game after his death and I finally get my own little round piece of cork and rubber, wrapped in yarn, stitched in cowhide. A foul ball is a miracle, Dad said. They happen every day, at every game, yet only a lucky few get to experience them.
“We’re going to go,” I barely hear Jenny call out. All I can think about is the ball in my hand and how happy Dad would be to hold this thing. My family is frozen, standing in a circle around me, waiting for direction. I take a deep breath, the threat of tears subsided. I tuck the ball in my purse.
“Let’s go home.”
Alex J. Barrio is a Cuban-American non-profit consultant and progressive advocate living in Washington, DC who helps people harness the power of their personal story to advocate for positive change in their community. He can be found on Twitter @AlexJBarrio. His stories have been published by Barrelhouse, Roi Faineant, The Colored Lens, Four Palaces Press, Bullshit Lit, Hearth and Coffin and others.
Matt Lawrence is a Spanish/ESOL teacher in Baltimore, Maryland. He is the father of two young men and has been deriving joy from making art for decades. You can check out some of his work on Instagram @Mattymarcador.
The Twin Bill is a nonprofit organization with 501(c)(3) tax-exempt status. You can support The Twin Bill by donating here.