Page 18 of The Road to Home Base
And yet. Our first year together was hallmarked by endless,endlessphysical affection with long nights and short days. Heshowered me with everything he had. I watched every fight in person if I could, from home when I couldn’t. He rose through the ranks and habitually went to Vegas. But, like many gay professional athletes, Ricky lived his life in the closet. When we were seen together, it was in a cluster of people so as to remain hidden under the guise of “one of the boys.” Any time I mentioned him coming out, I saw a spark of something sinister ignite in his eyes, something fueled by shame.
I should have known. Should have seenalllllthe signs the universe presented me.
I took the stairs two at a time after sliding through security. A great corridor would lead me to the varying levels of outdoor seating, but a sign grabbed my attention and told me to head down a different direction where a second set of security waited. I presented my name and photo ID to a large man in black, who checked a tablet and waved me through. A bank of three elevators, the middlemost ready and waiting, brought me up to a carpeted and wonderfully air-conditioned hallway. Another security guard waited outside the elevator and personally escorted me down the hall to a double door that he pulled open for me.
I feel like a celebrity, I thought as I stepped inside a wide but shallow room brimming with food-covered surfaces and a bar (and bartender!) wedged in the corner with luxury, leather seating filling all the gaps. One wall was entirely glass overlooking the view above first base. A smattering of people stood around, but the majority were outside in the private seating area. I pulled out my phone and grabbed a quick pic before anyone would notice. This felt like a once-in-a-lifetime thing, this level of luxury. I also checked the time on my phone—minutes to spare. I grabbed a beer from the bartender and gave her a tip.
“You must be Alex,” someone said behind me as I finishedstuffing the bill into a glass jar.
I spun around and became, for only a second, utterly confused. I thought Rome was here with me and not down in the clubhouse getting ready. But no, this man was a head shorter than Rome, with longer dark hair he kept swept back, and bright blue eyes instead of ocean deep like Rome’s.
“I’m Joe,” the man said and held out his hand. “Rome’s cousin.”
“Nice to meet you, Joe. Wow, you guys look a lot alike.”
His smile was the same as Rome’s. Cleft chin and all. “That we do. Rome told me to find you here and take care of you.”
My heart palpitated at Rome’s thoughtfulness. “Well that’s awfully nice of both of you. Do you usually come to his games?”
Joe nodded. He gestured for us to walk toward the glass wall overlooking the outside seats. “I’m a contract advisor for his agent. I try and hang around as much as possible.”
I turned out my lower lip in appreciation. “He likes to keep things in the family, I take it?”
“Rome is a Moretti treasure. We all do our part to keep him safe.”
He gave me an odd look when he said that. An assessment. A keeper-of-secrets divining potentials for a kindred spirit. I wanted to say, “You mean to keep his secret?” but the retort would serve us nothing. Instead, I said, “So I take it you can help me understand the game?”
Whatever shrewd assessment he had exacted on me vanished, replaced with a mocking joviality. “Absolutely. Now, in baseball, there’s a batter, a pitcher, a catcher…”
I laughed. “Got it. This is the one with no high-sticking, right?”
He snapped. “Bingo. All right. Here we go. Tell me if I’m overkilling it with all the details.”
He did, but I didn’t. I needed to dive into the waters ofbaseball if I wanted to get to know and understand Rome.
The Brawlers scored three hits during the top of the first. I watched Rome react to a sharp line to centerfield from the first batter, an angry looking fella named Perez. Rome got a replay on the jumbotron while chasing after the ball and throwing it back. He had to dive to retrieve it and I saw him cross himself when he popped back up. I wanted to ask Joe what that was all about but found the question awkwardly invasive to ask.
The Riders scored no hits at the bottom of the first. I delighted in listening to Rome’s walk-up song and stepped out into the private seating area to hear everyone chant, “Ro-mo!” and listen to the synced clapping to the song. Unfortunately, his first hit flew high to the center fielder, who caught it for an out.
“Does he get sick of that song?” I asked Joe when Rome finished batting.
“Never. People try and play it for him all the time outside of the game but he refuses to hear it. He says he only ever wants it played when he walks up to bat. That way, it stays special.”
I never planned on playing the song for him, but I made a mental note about that quirk of his.
The Brawlers scored another hit at the top of the second and the Riders finally gained a run afterward. That’s when I noticed tensions rising. The cameras didn’t shy away from showing the Brawlers’ blatant stare downs of Riders players. A cluster of Brawlers fans managed to secure a stronghold by third base and the jeering back and forth reached a worrisome decibel. What’s more, Joe kept wincing and explained how pitchers sometimes throw high and tight at batters, something called brushback pitching.
The batter who came after Rome, Adams, didn’t like that. He had made it back to the dugout and the cameras stayed on him as his mouth went off. A replay showed the ball almost knocking Adams’s head. I didn’t blame his reaction, but wondered if herealized how much the cameras zoomed in on him for the drama.
“Does Rome ever get like that?” I asked Joe. “Adams doesn’t look happy.”
“Rome is an iceman. The only emotion he ever shows is joy. That’s why the fans like him. He’s never started a fight or shown aggression toward anyone on the field.” Joe snickered. “My uncle would tear Rome’s head off if he ever did that.”
Tensions continued to rise at the top of the third as the Riders pitcher intimidated from the mound, as well. Three of the four batters struck out and only one made it to base with a walk. We scored another two runs at the bottom of the next inning. A base steal from my familiar friend Brett didn’t help the animosity in the air. I saw some smack talking between him and the third baseman. I thought a fight would break out at any moment.
Things soured further as the Brawlers again scored no hits. The top of the fourth passed smoothly enough. I was on my second beer when the bottom of the fourth happened, a stretch in sports time I would never in my life forget. Something ignited within me as I sat outside with Joe. I came out of my seat at one point to lean against the railing. I could see his smile out of the corner of my eye, but my focus stayed mostly on the field and watching, in awe, as the Riders showedup. Finally.
A pitching change happened at the start of the bottom of the fourth and Joe told me to buckle up. The first hitter, Baker, ended up walking to first. The second hitter, Garcia, hit a double with a fly ball to center field and Baker made it to third. Third up, Harris, reached first on what Joe told me was a “fielder’s choice,” a term I blatantly ignored to focus on the bases. With Harris reaching first, Garcia made it to third, and Baker made it home—New England up another run. In the chaos of it all, Harris stole for second base and made it. We now had runners on second and third.
