Chapter 79
Seventy-Nine
My friends and I trade exuberant grins after settling into our seats at the Oakland Coliseum. It’s Major League Baseball’s Opening Day and Terry Walton is in the house for his first game as an Athletic.
Vinny’s on my left, and Remy and Jeremy sit on my right. There was no chance of us missing his debut, whether he winds up playing today or not.
Terry’s career fills us with a possessive pride, and none of us will ever forget the fateful day we met.
Awkward ten-year-olds who showed up to play Young America youth baseball.
Our friendship began that season and only cemented itself since.
We’ve logged a lot of time together on diamonds through the years, but Terry is the standout with genuine natural talent.
He broke base-stealing records when he played for Cal, and he’s been a solid performer and starter in the MLB with the Pirates organization.
And coming home to represent in the city where we were all born and raised? That’s nothing short of dream come true for all of us, especially Terry.
Very apropos, John Fogerty’s “Centerfield” pumps throughout the arena. We munch on footlongs smeared with mustard and ketchup under our green and yellow A’s ball caps while the stadium slowly fills.
Terry jogs onto the field in his uniform, number forty-three, and we let out loud, boisterous whistles and cheers, fixated on his every move during the warm-up.
Jeremy leans forward on his knees. He’s toned down his polished style today, wearing jeans and a jersey, but his white-blonde, pretty boy hair is right out of GQ. “Can you believe we wound up here after all these years?”
“You mean despite how ugly you are, that we’ve all hung together?” Remy snarks.
Jeremy rolls his eyes. “You wish you had one tenth of my looks—and my dick size.”
I bark out a laugh.
“Guys…keep it G-rated,” Vinny scolds. “This here’s a family environment.”
I elbow him. “Says the father-to-be.”
Vinny smiles and I’m honestly happy for him and Stephanie. The pair complement one another, and they’re already expecting their second child after only recently bringing the first bambino into the world.
“What’s your excuse?” I prod Remy, whose wife is pregnant with their first.
Jeremy scoffs. “Think Red’s going to outgrow being a loudmouth because of impending fatherhood? Please. I predict the offspring from hell—and it would serve you right.”
Our guffaws cut through the air and land with accuracy. I can only imagine what Remy’s kids will be like. I secretly hope they give him a run for his money.
My thoughts drift while my friends rib each other.
It’s true a lot’s transpired since the five of us met.
After years of seesawing in recovery, Remy’s clean and sober, about to pick up his two-year chip.
Sherry’s stood by him, as did I, and they’re on stable footing.
As shocking as their sudden engagement and wedding was, the two truly are ideally suited.
Jeremy serves as a senator in the California State Legislature, and I have no doubt he’ll wind up in the U.S.
Congress sooner than later. He’s still single and happily sampling the smorgasbord of ladies at his beck and call but someday, I’m betting a woman will lock him down.
Vinny’s happily married, and an assistant manager for an automotive service center in Berkeley.
And Terry, of course, is making his debut for the motherfucking Oakland A’s.
A professional baseball player—and still a player off the field too.
He admitted he’s got hot, gorgeous women throwing themselves at him—and he’s not turning them down. Can’t blame him a bit.
My life isn’t where I planned, but I’m managing.
The past few years, I’ve found satisfaction in making custom surfboards, and I’m obsessed with building my first wooden boat in my home workshop.
That commandeers most of my time and energy outside of work.
I think my mom’s given up asking me about my love life.
I’m doubtful I’ll ever find a woman I want to spend my life with, especially since I sure as fuck don’t want any kids, but none of that worries me in the slightest. I’ve made peace with it.
The announcer introduces Seattle’s starting lineup to scant applause. After a booming musical intro resounds throughout the stadium, the announcer’s voice turns animated as he announces the A’s and their starting lineup.
The four of us lean toward the field in unison. I rest my forearms on my thighs, the suspense killing me—even while reminding myself it’s a long shot.
Each name thunders through the arena. Finally, it’s time for the outfielders, left field first, then…
“In center field, making his debut for the Oakland Athletics…TERRRRRRY WALTONNNNNNNN!”
We’re off our feet, losing our shit, screaming and howling like lunatics, pumping our fists in the air, and grinning so hard it hurts.
People around us stare.
“That’s our friend, that’s our friend!” Vinny spews to anyone who’ll listen.
Un-fucking-believable!
My heart rate’s jacked, soaring at the enormity of this monumental moment. He did it.
The rest of the team is announced, and we’re asked to rise and remove our hats for the National Anthem.
We’re already standing, and it’s hard to calm myself enough to listen to the words.
Forget not smiling or shaking my head in absolute wonder.
Forget not stealing glances at Terry instead of watching the flag.
Forget not recalling the day I laid eyes on this guy for the first time on that tiny baseball diamond in Montclair Park.
He really fucking did it.
The A’s do their final warm-up, and I settle in as much as I can, but this rush is all-natural and refuses to abate.
Seattle bats first and the four of us sit glued to the action.
Oakland jumps into the lead in the first three innings.
The Mariners answer in the middle innings, when Terry gets a hit—a monster line drive down the third base line that gets him a double—and later scores, thanks to an RBI by Mark McGwire.
This 1989 team is solid, especially Jose Canseco and McGwire as powerhouse hitters, poised to make a pennant run if they play as predicted.
It’s a tense game, but when the A’s win 3-2, we’re so damn proud. Terry totally held his own, and I can’t wait to watch what he does this year. This will hopefully be the first of many home games the four of us attend.
Standing and stretching our limbs afterward, we’re not in any hurry like the fans leaving the stadium in droves.
When enough rows have cleared out, we make our way to the players’ exit, where Terry’s expecting us.
When he emerges, he’s interviewed by the press while we wait off to the side.
Other well-known athletes also field media questions, and I’m a little star-struck, if I’m honest. Terry flashes us a megawatt smile once he’s free and we swallow him in backslapping hugs and congratulations served with a ration of shit-talking that will always be present among us.
Two days later, Terry is dead from a cocaine overdose.
I’m mired in mind-numbing grief. It suffocates like a tight-fitting weighted vest, filled with guilt, remorse, and blindsiding shock.
All these years I’ve worried about Remy—not even realizing Terry was still in the thick of it. What could I, should I, have done?
The sorrow is inescapable. Unrelenting. Debilitating.
And the added mindfuck? Witnessing this brother of mine reach the pinnacle of his career only to see it implode, irretrievably over.
Pointlessly wasted.
Gone.
All that remains are memories. Terry’s bigger-than-life smile. His cannonballs making the biggest splash. The way that dude could steal the bases. A triple threat. His generosity. Friendship. Brotherhood.
A life cut too short.
The world a little less bright.
An empty space where his friendship should be.
And my foolish ideas we have forever. We have time.
We don’t.