The Robins of Iverhill: Chapter 3 – Unwanted Returns

NOTE: the following story, which will be serialized on this blog, was originally written in 1985 as my senior project in creative writing at Hamilton College. 25 years later, it has been updated. New chapters will appear Monday, Wednesday and Saturday. Previous chapters are listed with hyperlinks below.

PROLOGUE
CHAPTER 1 – THE NEW MAN
CHAPTER 2 – ROOMMATES

My name is Eugene Raveler.  I played for five years with the Iverhill Robins, and now I’m back for a sixth season.  Whether I want to be or not.

And it looks like Wilson Field ain’t changed much since last season. And I’m here again. Standing next to those god-awful ugly bleachers, trying to see how every fan at an Iverhill game manages to get a splinter in his behind. So then I heard somebody walk up behind me.

“Hey, Ravs.  Good to see you back.”

I turned around. Virgil Trunks, the starting catcher. Good player. Friendly as hell. I still owe him twenty bucks. “`Sup, Trunks?”

“Not much. I’ve been running around lately trying to meet the new rookies.”

“Oh yeah? How many’ve we signed this time ’round?’

“Only two. There’s a new reliever to take some pressure off Phillipstern and Smokey – Clete Olson. Some wetnose out of Pennsylvania. That, and a guy from the Baltimore chain – Monty Mauntmaurency. Taking over third base from Sharaf.  He can hit.”

“Sharaf?  What happened to him?”

He smiled. “Oh, he and Davis are in the chain now.  Davis went to Montreal, he’s playing double-A ball in Wisconsin.  Last I heard from Sharaf, he was trying out at Indianapolis.  I guess when Davis got signed, we got Mauntmaurency in return.”

“I never heard of this Mauntmaurency guy.  Where did you say he played?”

“He says he’s from Baltimore, but I don’t know if that’s the farm system or where he grew up.”  Trunks looked up at the locker room clock.  “Uh-oh, forgot where the time went.  McCarling wants to see me.  I’ll catch up with you on the field for warm-ups – you are back with the team, right?”

“Yeah,” I groaned.  “I just can’t get away from Iverhill, no matter how hard I try.”

Not that I wanted to be rude to Trunks. He’s good. Smiles a lot, too.  But I just don’t want to be part of Iverhill any more.

“Eugene?”

I knew that voice.  Sweet and sassy and a body to match.

Treasure, my girlfriend, had gotten out of our car, and was looking for me in the locker room.  I actually met her a few weeks ago, when I was in Florida trying out one more time for the Red Sox in spring training.  I still don’t think they should have cut me.  They could have at least signed me to one of their farm teams.  So what if I’m 32.  That means I’ve still got seven or eight good years left for a major league club.

But even though the Sox didn’t want me, this girl did.   Listen, I’m a lucky man to find a girl that looked as good as her, especially with all the other guys she could have met that night in the bar.  She walked into the Wilson Field clubhouse with that nasty little sashay of her hips.

“Welcome to Iverhill, hon. This is Wilson Field, where I played ball for five years.  I know it looks like hell, they still haven’t fixed those broken fences in center field yet.”

“Gene, where’s the ladies’ room in here?”

This is a men’s locker room – but, even after being away from Wilson Field for so long, I knew what to do.  “Go into that building over there along the first base line.  That’s the team’s clubhouse.  There’s a restroom in there with a sign that says MEN on it. Flip the sign over so that it says McCARLING – and go in.”

“Thanks,” she said, kissing my cheek. My whole face tingled when she kissed me. Oh what a girl. As I watched her leave, I thought to myself how lucky I was to find her.  She said she was smart, working her way through college as a featured performer in that Florida nightclub.

“Sox didn’t want you again, Gene?”

That wasn’t Treasure’s voice.  That was Mizzz Jenny McCarling, the freezer queen of the baseball circuit.  The main cow in the dog-and-pony show known as the Iverhill Robins.  My on-the-field boss for the past two seasons, because someone in the Wilson Bread organization – the company that owns the Robins – thought a woman as a manager might bring in fans.

I mumbled out a grunt which could’ve passed f or a hello.

“I see you haven’t changed much.”

“Stow it,” I grunted.

“With that attitude, I can see why. Look, don’t worry. We’ve still got a place for you here at Iverhill.”

“Yeah, thanks. Say, you got plans for tonight?”

“Why?”

“My place. Seven o’clock. Whatever hotel the team’s in this time. Be there.”

No answer from her.

“Well? That a yes, no, or a maybe?”

She looked away, crossing her arms over her chest like she was mad at me for something. “Boston hasn’t changed you at all.”

“What’s that mean?”

“That’s the same line you gave me all last season. And the season before that.  It didn’t work then, and it didn’t work when you left the Robins with three weeks remaining in the season, and cost us fourth place and a playoff spot.  Chasing a dream with the Red Sox.  I don’t know why you would think it would work now.”

“Oh for-give me, coach.  Thought it’d work on a hot day like today.  Might make you warm up a bit.”

Jenny matched my shot with her own. “Oh yes. On a hot day, frigid women are supposed to melt into your strong, willing arms. Yes. I know the routine. And what was her name in Boston? The girl who claims you’re the father of her baby?”

“Nobody got pregnant! She was lying!  She slept with half the team, she did!”

“Yeah,” she said to me, “that’s why you never got to play in Boston.  They thought they were getting a utility outfielder, and all they got was someone who chased tail and drank till closing time.  Too bad you couldn’t hit in the big leagues, or they wouldn’t care if you slept with half of New England.”

“Hey, I hit line drives.  I can’t help it if they bounce off the Green Monster and I get thrown out trying to stretch what I thought was a home run into a double.”

That’s when Treasure came out of the clubhouse. Instantly Jenny saw Treasure, and vice versa. Both of them gave me this look like, “Who’s this woman, Eugene?”

And did I have to iron out a lot that day.

But it would have to wait until I got on the field and warmed up.  I headed toward the clubhouse.  I knew my Robins jersey – white with robin’s egg blue piping, “ROBINS” on the front in script – would be hanging from my locker, crisp and clean as if it was woven from wool yesterday.

On my way to the locker room, I saw a young boy – maybe nine or ten, I can’t remember – come up to me.  “Are you Gene Raveler?”

I nodded, continuing my walk towards the locker room.

“Can I get your autograph?”

“Oh please kid, not right now,” I grunted.

“But you’re my favorite player,” the kid pleaded.

I stopped for a second and looked at the kid.  Young boy, had on an old Robins souvenir T-shirt and one of those mesh hats with the plastic back clips that allow anyone from tiny head to huge head to wear the hat as a perfect fit.  “Okay, kid.  What do you want me to sign?”

He held up a game program from last year.  I gotta hand it to the Robins – they must have sold thousands of these game programs with me on the cover.  I pulled a ballpoint pen out of my pants pocket and started to sign the program.  “What’s your name, kid?”

“Terry, sir.”

“Terry, sir.  Okay.”  I wrote “To Terry, best wishes” in readable script on the program cover, then scribbled my name.

“Thank you, Mr. Raveler.”  The kid smiled and sprinted away.  “Daddy, daddy, I got Gene Raveler’s autograph,” he called out, waving the program in his hands as he dashed to a waiting car in the season ticket holders’ parking section of Wilson Field.

Gotta go warm up.  Gene Raveler’s got to return to the Robins, and I gotta at least earn that kid’s loyalty.  Maybe that autograph will be worth something some day.

If I can get to the major leagues before I get too old for this game.