The game’s tied. Two outs, bases loaded. This is it: Jackson’s chance to save the day for the Orioles in spring training. It’s gonna be a beautiful day in the Grapefruit League.
First pitch, the Tigers’ kid swings wild. Ball’s up, arcing toward third base; falls just outside the line. Foul ball; strike one. Second pitch, another long foul; strike two. Jackson’s shifting his weight — ready. “C’mon, c’mon.” He moves up, up, up — about even with where the second foul landed.
Swing, crack, the ball’s airborne and coming his way. Wait. Wait. The wind catches it, it’s closer than Jackson expected. He starts running, arm outstretched, glove ready.
Suddenly, he’s falling — tripping over his own feet. The ball hits the ground about a yard from where Jackson lies. He crawls to the ball, grabs it and throws it to… well, it doesn’t really matter. The men on second and third score. Game’s over.
The fans cheering for Detroit go wild. The fans cheering for the Orioles groan.
Jackson sulks through the dugout, into the locker room. He’s not alone. “We need to talk,” the coach says. Stan Hayes, the manager, is right behind the coach. “What happened out there?” the coach asks. “No, no. You don’t have to tell me. I saw it all. With my own eyes. Just like the fans saw it.” He moves closer to Jackson. “What the hell were you thinking? Were you thinking? Or are you drinking again?”
“I’ll take it from here,” Hayes says, gently moving in front of the coach. “Jackson, we’ve known each other a long time. Heck, I knew you in West Virginia, when you were playing ball at Bluefield High. I’ve seen you move from the minors to the show and back — four times now.
“I gave you one last chance. But now you’re out. I’m sorry, Jackson. I really am.”
Jackson kicks the bench, then walks over to his locker. Instead of showering, he changes into jeans and is about to pull off his jersey, when he thinks, “Fuck it.” He leaves the park still wearing the sweaty, dirt-stained uniform jersey — the color of the sun, which certainly set on his career today. Fell over his own goddam feet! Maybe Ringling Bros. will hire him as a clown. Nope, not even Ringling. They’re outta business.
He’s in his car driving and driving and driving when he sees the Sunshine Bridge and realizes he has no idea where he’s going. Anywhere north, anywhere away from Sarasota. He turns on the radio, loud. Just his luck — a sports call-in show. Jackson hears his name on the air. The caller and the host are actually laughing.
He changes stations. Country Western, that’s better. A song ends and an ad comes on. “Visit the historic Waves Resort beachfront bar, where Joe DiMaggio vacationed with Marilyn Monroe and sunsets are served up nightly.” Good a destination as any, Jackson figures.
By the time he pulls into the Waves, he’s calmer — slightly. He parks and heads for the bar. Just in time for the sunset, but it’s overcast. A few hopeful patrons are seated at high-tops facing the water, cameras and iPhones on the tables in front of them. A jazz combo plays at one end of the deck.
Jackson turns his back to the view and to the music. He faces the bartender. Cute brunette. “You got Old Scout?” he asks.
“Don’t get much call for it, but, yeah. Straight up or on the rocks?”
“Straight up. A double.”
The drink is the first of many. The bourbon goes down smooth, reminds him of home — the mountains of West Virginia. His dad used to take him to minor league Bluefield Orioles games as a boy. The Baby O’s. Boog Powell got his start in Bluefield. So did Cal Ripken; the Iron Man was only 17 when he first walked out on the field. A year older than Jackson when he made the varsity team at Bluefield High.
Most of the time, his dad’s best friend, Stan Hayes, went to the games with him. Sometimes Stan even came to the games at Bluefield High. The same Stan Hayes who became an Oriole himself, first in the minors, then in the majors, and eventually the manager. The manager who just fired Jackson.
By the time Jackson graduated, his dad was gone, dead from black lung, just like Jackson’s granddad. His dad missed seeing him named Bluefield High’s Most Valuable Player. But Stan Hayes was there. It was Stan who encouraged Jackson to try out for the minor leagues.
Jackson knew his dad would have been happy that baseball had kept his son out of the coal mines. But while Jackson avoided black lung, he didn’t avoid the family’s penchant for alcohol. Every victory on the field called for a night at the bar. Every failure on the field called for a night at the bar.
Twelve years in pro ball wasn’t a bad record. Jackson swishes the bourbon around in his glass. Who’s he kidding? The Orioles sent him to rehab twice. He made the trip to spring training four times. Even got to fill in for a few outfielders in the regular season. But he always ended up back on an O’s farm team. Until now.
A gruff voice stirs him out of his dark reverie. “Hey, go O’s, man!” says some guy who spots Jackson’s jersey. “Wait, wait — Jackson. Aren’t you the player who… You are that guy.”
Jackson spins around on his barstool, ready to take a swing at this bum. A hand reaches over the bar and pulls his arm back. The guy hightails it out the door.
“Whaddaya think you’re doing, hon?” Jackson slurs at the bartender, removing her hand from his arm.
“I think you’ve had enough. And my name’s Carrie,” the bartender replies. “Time for you to go home. I’ll call a cab.”
“I’m not from around here, and the team slammed the door in my face today. No home to go to.”
“If you drove here, you’re not driving now,” Carrie replies. “I’ll see if there are any rooms in the hotel.”
As she picks up the phone, Jackson says, “Honey, er, Carrie, what do these rooms cost? ’Cause, frankly, I don’t think I can swing it.”
“They’re $200 a night,” Carrie says.
Jackson grimaces.
In the corner, the jazz musicians are putting away their instruments — closing the lid on the piano keys, covering the bass, packing up the sax.
“Howard,” Carrie says to the sax player, “you’re a baseball fan, aren’t you?”
“I coached a little back when I was teaching high school music,” he says. “Why do you bring that up?”
“We’ve got a Major League player here,” she replies, looking at Jackson’s dirt-stained jersey. “He needs a place to sleep this one off. Any ideas?”
Howard walks over and takes a seat at the next bar stool. “Orioles, huh? I’m going down to Sarasota next week to see you guys play my home team, the Red Sox.”
“Well, ya won’t see me, buddy. Nobody’s gonna see me on the field. Ever again.”
Howard takes another look at Jackson. “Hey, you know, I think I’ve seen you play. You weren’t bad. Listen, I’ve got a little place down the road. We can walk it from here. You can spend the night on my couch, then pick up your car tomorrow and be on your way.”
“Naw, naw,” Jackson answers. “Don’t wanna put you out.”
“It’d be an honor to have an Oriole in residence,” Howard insists.
“An ex-Oriole,” Jackson says.
“Whatever,” Howard says, helping steady Jackson on his feet.
“I owe you one,” Carrie calls after him.
The walk to Howard’s place is more of a stumble for Jackson. He almost trips over his feet — again, but Howard keeps him vertical by slinging an arm around Jackson’s shoulders, as if they were old friends.
Inside the condo, Howard maneuvers Jackson to the couch. The ballplayer passes out as soon as he’s horizontal. Howard takes off Jackson’s shoes and turns out the light.
When Jackson wakes up the next afternoon, he can’t remember where he is. He looks down at the dirty jersey — which he still has on — and it all comes back to him. He stands up, finds the bathroom, then realizes he’s alone. His host has taped a note to the mirror.
“Running an errand. Help yourself to juice and coffee. —Howard.”
Jackson takes a good look at himself in the mirror. Bloodshot blue eyes, day-old beard sporting some gray stubble, sandy-colored hair now a greasy brown. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before. But the jersey — he’s never been so wasted that he’s fallen asleep in uniform. Or, for that matter, worn the thing outside the ballpark.
He pulls the shirt over his head and walks over to the kitchen trashcan. He drops the shirt in, then notices a felt-tip pen on the counter. He pauses, lifts the orange shirt from the can, smooths it out on the counter. “Thanks, Howard,” he writes on the back of the jersey.
He’s just about to close the door behind him and head to the Waves for his car, when he turns around. He picks up the felt-tip again, pulls the jersey over and adds: “Roger Jackson, Orioles, 2004-2016.”
Read more about the winners and finalists in the CL Writing Contest here.
This article appears in Mar 16-23, 2017.