#Wattys2015 The Ghost of James Fitzpatrick

Chapter 7

When I rode my bike away from the house on My Last Day, it wasn't what you might be thinking. It wasn't dramatic, there was no yelling, no tears, in fact, I began to feel better than I'd felt all day. I was glad it wasn't a secret anymore, and relieved my mom knew I'd been cut from the team. Though I never acknowledged my mom's last words to me, nor did I reciprocate her hug, she had given me a real sense of peace in those last few moments. 

Right now, it was just comforting to feel the bike pedals beneath my shoes and the cold night air on my face. The house had felt hot and closed in. There were no tears in my eyes, and those that threatened to fall earlier would be the last ones over the subject. I was seventeen, not seven.

I began the familiar incline up Lilac Avenue toward Riverside Drive. The closer I got to the Bridge, the clearer my perspective became, which is why I headed there in the first place. It's why most boys found themselves atop its concrete shoulders, smoking cigarettes and shooting the shit with one another.

Tonight, of course, there were no other bikes here at the Bridge's main tower. It was too cold. I wore an extra sweatshirt under my jacket, and I could see my breath in light gray bursts. I climbed up the usual iron footholds so familiar to my feet and took my place on the wall. Far below me the river rolled quiet and swift like a thick artery moving life-blood through its earthen body of Missouri farmlands. I closed my eyes and tried to imagine what my life was going to be like without baseball. I thought of myself as a naturally optimistic guy, so I decided to focus instead, on what I had not been doing because of baseball.

I sure could spend more time with my little brother. I could throw balls in the front yard like we used to with dad. I pictured this in my mind and I saw Tom smiling, and I heard myself give him pointers about fielding a ball and stealing a base.

There were a couple of pretty girls in my English class; I could maybe try talking to someone other than my coach and my asshole teammates. I imagined myself walking up to Linda Boggs, with her Farrah Fawcett hair and her lips the color of Double Bubble, but I felt shy even in my imagination. There was little hope.

I looked at my watch. It was 9:20; I'd been gone almost an hour and a half, and it was colder than a well digger's ass. I turned on my haunches to go, and saw one of my teammates roll up to the main tower on his Huffy. J.J. was so tall, the bike look like a toy beneath him.

"What's up, Fitz?" J.J. had not referred to me as "dipshit" tonight. I surmised he felt some degree of pity toward me after the coach posted the new team roster this morning.

"Not much, asshole," I replied with a smile. He climbed halfway up the side of the wall and we shook hands.

"Sorry about your bad break today Fitz," he said as he looked down and shook his head, "This shit really stinks."

"Yeah, well, I'll live. Worse things in life than not playing baseball," I smiled at him, "but I can't think of anything right now."

We both laughed.

"Hey, I could kick somebody's ass for you," said J.J.

"Nah, it's okay. I'm actually not pissed." I replied. It was the truth.

"Fuck you, Fitz," said J.J., "Coach fucked you up, man".

"Thanks," I said. I didn't really know what to say. We were both silent for a minute as we watched the lights of a little boat putt its way beneath the Bridge a hundred feet below us. Suddenly J.J. jumped up and climbed back down to his bike.

"Check this shit out, Fitz. I just scored this about an hour ago."

He headed back to his Huffy and dug around in a bag he had tied to its handlebars. I couldn't help but wonder what the hell he was going to pull out. Knowing J.J, it could be anything from a bottle of Jack to a screech monkey. The guy was about as predictable as a spring tornado.