CREATIVE NONFICTION
CHRISTOPHER REED
ON QUITTING
“How do you know when to quit?” she asked me.
We were in the middle of a fight. Same one we always had, just in another different shape. It would start the same way. Me, withdrawn, sullen. Her, tiptoeing, trying to get me to talk, about anything. Just talk. But I’d usually revert to backing off, hiding. You know. My tough guy facade. Couple of years of this, and she was finally fed up. Because who wants to try to get to know someone when the other person isn’t having the getting to know them business.
I was sitting across from her on the couch, looking down to avoid her eyes, petting the dog so much that even he was getting sick of me.
“I don’t know,” I told her. I honestly didn’t.
It’s not like I was totally empty. But opening up never felt quite right. Never felt comfortable. Like I was being held up and turned over in some giant’s hand for examination. Blame it on my shut off parents or my whole shut down life before. Opening up just wasn’t safe. But I didn’t want this to tank like everything else had before. I wanted this to work. It felt good, like light after a lifetime of dark. I was trying to find something good. For that to happen, I needed the right words. For me, though, words never come easy. And in that silence, it turned out not only were the right words not coming, no words were coming.
“Well lately you don’t seem to ever know,” she said, her face more sad than angry. “And the way I see it is, when enough bad things happen, I want to cut and run.” She tapped her fingers onto the end of her coffee cup, tink tink.
I felt a little ball of fear rise up in my chest then. “You can’t just quit when it gets hard,” I said suddenly, thinking of baseball for some reason. Players didn’t quit when it got hard. Some even thrive. I felt a glimmer thinking about it. “You can’t quit just because you’re down a few runs.”
She looked up. “Isn’t when you’re down so many runs why people leave before the end of a game? To beat the traffic so you don’t have to watch your team lose?”
“No,” I replied, pulling on the thread. “Not in baseball. No matter what the score is, as long as you have an out to give, you have a chance.”
“What if one of the guys is injured, can’t run,” she added. “You don’t keep sending them out to the field.”
I thought then of the 1988 World Series, as any baseball nerd would. I was 11 years old, watching the Oakland A’s play the Los Angeles Dodgers from southern Illinois on the little black-and-white TV I had moved from my parents’ bedroom to the kitchen counter. Growing up within broadcast range of St. Louis, the Cardinals were my team once I realized I didn’t have to like the Chicago Cubs just because we resided in the same state. But I watched the World Series every year in those days, no matter who was playing. And I liked the Oakland A’s because of the Bash Brothers, Mark McGwire and Jose Canseco, way before anyone levied an accusation about steroids. Canseco hit a grand slam in that first game, but he did not end up the hero at the end of it. And that’s what I thought about. Why couldn’t I just tell this to my wife? Why did the words always get jumbled in my throat?
She let out a long, familiar exhale.
“That’s not true,” I said, interrupting the silence between us. The words felt like they were building inside of my throat. Something that needed to come out. “1988 World Series. Game 1, Oakland A’s versus LA Dodgers at Dodgers stadium. Bottom of the 9th, two outs, and Oakland was up by one.”
She lifted one eyebrow. I kept going.
“Dennis Eckersley, the best closer at the time, a future hall of famer, was on the mound for the A’s. The Dodgers had a runner on first and the pitcher due up, so their manager, Tommy Lasorda–also a future hall of famer–called on Kirk Gibson to pinch hit.”
She was silent. Listening. I swallowed hard and kept going. “Gibson was a star hitter, but he was injured that day: a pulled hamstring in one leg and a torn knee ligament in the other.”
“And the manager still played him?”
I nodded. “He could barely walk up the dugout steps. But he did it. I watched it. He hobbled to the batter’s box and dug in, clearly uncomfortable even standing there. Gibson battled, laying off a couple pitches, and fouling off a couple more.” As I talked, I could remember the moment as though it had happened earlier that day. I was sure he was going to strike out. Everybody watching was. Or ground out to anywhere. He’d have been thrown out at first base from the outfield wall. “Every time he swung the bat, he lost his balance and nearly fell down, his legs struggling to hold up his body.”
She took a drink of her coffee, waiting.
“Finally, Gibson and the Dodgers were down to their last strike. But Gibson called time and stepped out of the box. Later, in an interview, Gibson recalled that time out. He told the reporter he looked across the field at Eckersley and said to himself ‘Buddy, as sure as I’m standing here, you’re going to throw me that backdoor slider, aren’t you?’
“What’s a backdoor slider?” she asked, leaning forward, like really listening leaning forward.
“It’s a pitch. It comes in one way, then moves at the last minute. Eckersley’s slider was his best pitch. Practically unhittable. It darted across the plate, hard. Gibson dug back in. And we all waited. Then Eckersley reared back and fired. The slider. And like in slow motion, I remember, Gibson swung, practically one-handed, wincing into it, and connected. He hit the ball hard, sending it into right field, up up, and into the right field bleachers for a walk-off home run.”
“He hit a home run?”
“I yelled at the TV, loud enough that the neighbor’s dog barked. The stadium was delirious. Gibson pumped his fist as he limped around the bases. The players all piled on him at home plate. And the Dodgers eventually won the World Series that year.”
“So you’re saying we’re Gibson?”
“Maybe,” I said, wondering if being a baseball fan could possibly convince my wife not to give up on us. “Or maybe we’re the coach and Gibson is our marriage. I’m saying that it isn't too late. I’m saying there’s still a chance.”
She looked over, with what I thought might be hope on her face.
“Okay? You’ll be my Gibson,” I asked, hope like a thing floating between us there.
“Okay,” she said. “I’ll be your Gibson. Just keep talking?”
I nodded, feeling a fist unclench from somewhere inside of me. “You got it.”
She sat back, and then I remembered something else. “One more thing. You mentioned leaving the game early. As the cameras tracked the flight of Gibson’s home run ball into the right field stands, a car’s taillights could be seen through the gap between the roiling sea of jubilant Dodgers fans and the roof over the stadium’s seats, the driver applying the brakes as he no doubt heard the outcome of the game on the radio as he left the parking lot.”
Her mouth dropped a little, and her eyes widened. “You mean someone left early? And missed that home run?”
“Dodgers fans are notorious for leaving early to beat Los Angeles traffic. Even if it’s the World Series. But how can you leave early and risk missing something great?”
“Well, that’s why I always say you never leave a game early, no matter what,” she quipped.
“As in life, with baseball you never know what can happen,” I replied. “And speaking of not giving up, do you know the story about the Boston Red Sox and how they reversed The Curse of the Bambino to win the World Series for the first time in 86 years?”
Chris Reed is a recovering baseball blogger who dabbles in poetry, prose, and screenwriting, always searching for the perfect vehicle (and still learning to drive). He lives in St. Louis with his amazing wife Allison and three adorable dogs.
