Chapter Twenty Rome
I T WAS A beautiful autumn day in New York City.
Our team felt relaxed as we started our late morning in the visitor’s clubhouse.
The guest chef for our clubhouse procured a delicious feast of enchiladas that we devoured.
The sun shone during our practice time outside, the temperature just right, all of us relaxed.
We took it easy after pregame practice. Most of us stayed together in the locker room talking smack or playing games.
I snuck a few texts out to Alex while I could.
In the week since the clincher, something had shifted in him.
Not for the worse, but not exactly better.
He was almost secretive. He told me his schedule was opening up soon.
When I asked further, he changed the subject.
I assumed he knew how important postseason was to me, so he cleared the way to watch most of my games.
When the time was right, we changed into our uniforms and filed out onto the field.
A pervasive feeling of dread permeated the air.
Brawler fans disliked us, but now, it seemed like they hated us.
The boos were stronger, accompanied by shouts of nasty words.
I kept my face placid and neutral, refusing to let them see how it affected me.
Brett stood beside me and let out a low whistle.
“Think they hate us?” he whispered.
“I know we’re rivals, but this is a bit much even for them,” I said.
The National Anthem ended and the Brawlers took their position on the field. I hung out with Brett, and we stood out from under the dugout roof.
“Dude. What the fuck?” he said after the pitcher threw the first ball and struck Kaminski.
I stood a little taller, then felt a surge of adrenaline as two of our players dashed onto the field.
A posse of coaches anticipated this and intercepted the two before they could make it any farther.
A few Brawlers leaped out from their dugout to join the proposed fight, but thankfully their own staff stopped them.
Our hitting coach was already strutting toward Kaminski and yanked the bat out of his hand, which he had been using to point at the pitcher as though he was coming for him.
“Well, we’re off to a good start,” Brett said. “Keep an eye out, will ya?”
“I’m gonna have to, apparently,” I said as I stepped out of the dugout and walked to the on-deck circle.
I slipped on my helmet and swung my upper torso as I observed the pitcher.
He had a fire in his eyes, a mission to do something unruly.
I refocused my gaze and let it fall on the Brawlers dugout.
Everyone sneered, as if a team of devils had taken their place and we were a crowd of innocent angels.
Moore singled on a line drive and Kaminski made it to second. My turn.
I stepped up to the plate as a righty. A tension I didn’t realize I had between my shoulder blades loosened, something I only felt when asking for safety and feeling the reward. Odd.
Whiff.
Darn it!
I hadn’t been concentrating on the throw. I stepped out of the strike zone to drain my brain. Now was not the time.
I stepped back in.
Second whiff, though it felt better. I knew what to do for the next one.
Crack!
Not my best, but I’d take it. I dropped my bat and pounded the dirt until I reached first base. Martinez walked up to the plate. With the bases loaded, he knew what he needed to do. We could start this game out right by—
“Fuckin’ Romo-the-homo.”
I spun. The first baseman, Quinn, had uttered something awful under his breath. “What did you just say?”
He shrugged and gave a stupid grin. I felt my face go red. “ What did you just say? ” I screamed and pointed at the man. Something within me unlocked. All my controls dissolving like sugar in the rain.
“Word gets around, homo Romo,” Quinn said. “ Fag .”
Everything went red. My sanity evacuated from my body and all that remained was rage.
From my toes to my fingertips, I felt fire .
I harnessed it, so easily, and slugged Quinn as hard as I could across the face.
He let out a resounding oof and stumbled back but recovered easily enough.
I had never thrown my fist before. I didn’t know what I was doing. But I was big, and I was strong.
Quinn charged at me and lowered himself. His shoulders collided into my chest and we stumbled backward. I drove my elbow down on his back once, twice, then swung my other arm up and under him to find his face again. I had no idea how to fight, I just knew that I needed to hurt this man.
Brett was suddenly there as he jabbed a kidney punch to Quinn. The man’s breath went out from him as Brett yanked him backward, tripped him, and sent the first baseman crashing to the ground.
Arms were on me again, this time from behind.
Someone held me tight while another, I think it was the Brawler shortstop, stepped in front of me and planted his fist into my belly.
I cried out and doubled over as I lost the wind from my lungs.
My entire body exploded in pain. The shortstop tried to strike me again, but Brett was on him.
I wrenched free from the guy holding me, spun, and shoved him away.
And then chaos erupted all around me. The navy blue and bronze of New England charged onto the field as the deep red of the Brawlers ran to combat them.
A phalanx of baseball players collided with me and Brett trapped in the middle.
The entire stadium broke out in a roar, egging on their home team while the Riders fought for dominance.
A gang of three pounced on me, but Brett stayed at my side to fend them off, springing like a cheetah, his arms moving lightning-fast to protect me.
Hands on me again. Fully activated and ready for another fight, I turned and drew back my fist but stopped myself when I realized it was Hiroshi. He grabbed a handful of my jersey and yanked me forward. “You need to get out of here! Now!”
A horde of bodies pressed against us, blue on red, a churning mass of testosterone fueled by an age-old rivalry that started for who knows what reason.
Hiroshi made a hole as my wits returned to me.
I realized my fist ached, my stomach even worse, but my soul felt bruised beyond repair.
Had I actually done that? Had I thrown the first punch to get this mess started? My father would be ashamed.
Hiroshi got us out from the rabble, only for us to come across an umpire screaming with a face redder than a Brawler jersey.
He ejected me from the game.
I had a perfect record. Not once had that happened to me. I was a gentleman on the field. I was known for it. Mr. Amicable had just been thrown out.
Someone guided me away from the field. Stadium security had wedged their way into the fighting and while the noise sounded something fierce, the physical confrontations abated. My escort helped me down the dugout stairs and into the tunnel.
“Devin,” I realized as he walked with me. “I… I don’t even know what happened.”
“Did that first baseman say something to you? It looked like you two were arguing.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. The cacophony of the roaring stadium traveled down the tunnel and hit us as susurrous whispers. “I’m not a violent person, Devin. I swear. I’ve never punched a person before in my life. I’m not —”
“Hey, hey, hey,” he said and grabbed me by the shoulders. “I know you’re not. You don’t have to worry. You’re not Ricky, all right? You don’t need to worry about that right now. Come on.”
He redirected me away from him and helped me down the tunnel and into the locker room. He turned around and went back toward the stadium when he saw Joe standing there in the silence of the room, his arms crossed.
“What happened?”
?
The four-hour drive home felt more like four days.
Joe drove a black Audi RS 3, something his slightly smaller frame could fit in but mine could not.
My knees bunched up the whole time and I knew I’d have cramped and wobbly legs by the time we reached Lexington.
Joe had morphed into an agent-like entity after finding me in the locker room.
He convinced the coach to let me leave entirely instead of staying until after the game for a post-mortem.
Joe stayed politely quiet while I spent a solid hour on the phone with Alex explaining in detail what had happened.
I apologized profusely as if it were Alex on the field that I hit and not Quinn.
Everything within me needed Alex to understand that I was not a violent person, that my reaction was borne from a sudden prejudice I had never before faced.
Blessedly, he understood. He said we’d talk through it more, in private, once I got home and that he’d be waiting with dinner ready. Joe declined an offer to stay.
A buckle around my chest had unstrapped itself after speaking to Alex.
Knowing that him seeing me fight on the field didn’t impact the safety of our relationship meant more to me than I realized.
Joe congratulated me in a tongue in cheek manner after I let vent a jet of steam that carried the weight of the world with it.
“First time ejected from a game in your MLB career and you’re worried what your boyfriend thinks,” Joe said through a laugh. “Classic Rome.”
We got to laughing about that. Joe kept digging at me and I let him just so I could enjoy the humor of it.
That came to a full stop when my phone rang and I saw Emma’s name pop up. I slid my thumb to answer the call, then put her on speaker. “Emma, hey. I’m in the car with Joe. He can hear you.”
“Hi Rome. Hi Joe,” she said.
“Emma,” Joe added.
She let out a short sigh. “Okay. So. Let’s hear it in your own words before we dive a little deeper.”
I told the same story for the third time in just as many hours. I had perfected the tale by then. Emma only gave me the perfunctory “uh-huhs” and “yeps” as I spoke. When I finished, she let out another sigh.
“Unfortunately, none of the boom mics were pointed at you. Cameras were, but reading lips isn’t provable. Which means it’s Quinn’s word against yours.”
“Quinn is a jerk,” I said. “He’s been ejected from games before for fighting. I’ve never been ejected. My track record is way better.”
“I understand that. But for whatever reason, the umpires and officials are siding with the Brawlers on this one. It doesn’t matter what he said. You threw the first punch. I can’t believe I’m even saying this to Romolo Moretti. Never thought I’d live to see the day.”
I grunted. “So what’s the punishment?”
“Five game suspension.”
The car went deadly quiet. Joe toggled between following the highway and looking at me. I let her words bake in my mind. Five games . An absurd number.
But she was right. I threw the first punch. I started it. It didn’t matter what bigotry Quinn threw at me. I should have had better control over my actions.
Emma broke the silence. “Your first game back will be on the twenty-fourth against the Annapolis Hawks.”
I would have the next five days off. Practically a week of free time. I should have been more delighted, but it sat in my stomach like bad take-out food.
“You ready for the next part?” Emma asked.
“Oh, jeez. What now?” I asked. Then it hit me before Emma spoke. “The rumors. They’re out there.”
“And how,” she said with an extremely sarcastic tone.
“The good news is that the Riders are all well aware and it won’t impact them in any negative kind of way.
The bad news is that this is being saddled all on you .
Word is already spreading. The Brawlers aren’t shying away from opening up the rumor mill to anyone who wants to visit.
It’s already spread enough that tonight’s recap shows will discuss, but I doubt they’ll use the words that Quinn did.
It’ll be enough to really churn up the situation.
You’ll need to be MIA for the next five days.
You’ll likely go to Annapolis but I doubt the coaches will let you play. ”
A touch of heat. A flourish of anger. I could recognize that now. I swallowed whatever eruption threatened to come out of my mouth. An outburst wouldn’t help anything.
“Hey, man,” Joe said, “five days off. Not the worst thing that can happen. Rhode Island is beautiful this time of year, too…”
“Alex is probably working,” I said sheepishly.
“You sure?”
I looked at Joe. Did he know something I didn’t?
“Needless to say,” Emma continued, “we’d like to keep a lid on things until your suspension has passed.
Stay off of social media. Stay away from recaps or reviews.
I know it’s easy to say, but really try and take it easy the next five days.
Joe is right. Maybe head home to Rhode Island?
I’ll keep you updated but only in limited amounts.
We’ll need a refreshed Romo when this is done. Sound good?”
“Yeah,” I said, though the words came out halfheartedly. “Sounds good. Thanks, Emma.”
I ended the call and let her words rebound in my head as Joe stayed silent for a few miles.
“How’s your fist?” he finally asked.
“Hurts like heck,” I said through a laugh. “Does punching always hurt?”
Joe shrugged and laughed back. “Wouldn’t know, cuz. Maybe you should ask for pointers from Lorenzo.”
We both chuckled at that. Another cousin, and a hotheaded one who had been in more fights than we could count.
“Is he back yet from Sicily?” I asked.
“I think so. Maybe you can see him when you head back home tonight?”
I snorted. “You seem to think I’m able to get there. I promised myself I wouldn’t bully my way into Alex’s schedule anymore.”
Joe smiled and sighed. “You’re a good man, Rome.”
We made light conversation for the rest of the way home. My stomach rumbled as we pulled in past the gate and up the driveway to my little place. I got my bags out of Joe’s trunk, thanked him again, then tapped the roof of his car before he reversed and left.
Alex was already at the door and I started to throw myself at him but stopped when I noticed a collection of bags surrounding him. Fear lanced right through my heart. Was that all his things? Was he leaving? Did he just placate me on the phone and realized he—
“ Stop ,” Alex said. “Jeez, I can practically see where your head is going.”
“I don’t understand. Are you…?”
“Yes, I’m leaving. And you’re coming with me.” He reached behind him and produced a stack of to-go containers. “I know you’re hungry. You can eat on the way. I’ll drive.”
My eyes narrowed. “Where are we going?”
“Rhode Island. We’re taking you home. It’s time I meet your family.”