(no subject)

[dewinged]

But even now, two years later, I still think about the ball I let get away. The weekend ball games stopped at the end of that one summer. With all the neighborhood guys going to different high schools, we ended up losing track in the sea of new friends and rival sports teams.

All the home runs, and I still forget those moments in favor of the catch I missed. Sometimes, it's what pulls at me. Why I get snappy with my friends, or my folks. Not that specific thing, but just that feeling that there are things that will never be resolved. Things that will never have an ending.

I believed that one, right up until that one Saturday morning, two years after the fateful missed ball...

I scribbled a quick note and left it on the dining room table somewhere around eleven that morning. My folks were already out, prepping for some luncheon or something they had today. And I was not in the mood to deal with them, especially after last night. Or, more specifically, very early this morning.

Goon had invited the guys from the team over last night, just to chill. Nothing big, because his parents were around, so it was more sugar and soda than actual alcohol, even though we were given free reign on Goon's basement again. We could have gone out, but it was August, and most of the places the guys wanted to go to needed people to be eighteen, and most of them (myself included) had another two years, at least. This happened often: the baseball team hanging out with each other in the off-season after school ended. I...well, I was on the team, so of course they wanted me around. It was Friday, and I wasn't doing a whole hell of a lot.

And honestly? I didn't want to go. I've been there, before. Done that. And it's not like Goon had a bad place, since his folks remodled the entire basement and it does look polished. And, there was plenty to eat and drink, which his folks paid for. I thanked them, of course. I think I might have been the only one who did. Always.

But I never enjoyed it, you know? Sure, everyone was hyper. Hell, Rob was bouncing off the walls, which he did when he got really excited. But it was just movies, food, and the usual stuff. Baseball talk, which I could hold my own in conversation. But, the rest was just talk: a lot og guys trying to prove their manhood by stories. Usually, I kept quiet about it. With a dozen teenage boys, if one person kept his mouth shut he could basically avoid having to answer those fucking annoying questions. I never did tell them I hated it. Absolutely hated it.

And, of course, after all the sugar and shop-talk came the porn.

We're teenage boys. We're supposed to do this sort of thing.

Someone would have a tape, or a home-made DVD. Always. And of course, they'd turn the sound low, all gather together and watch and chuckle at the actions on-screen. And then there's me. Someone who has a real issues when the story doesn't have an end watching a movie that has no plot. Frustration takes many forms, in its insidious flowering in the back of people's minds.

It was the talk among the guys that made me laugh more than the movie, even if I kept that under strict lock and key. It would start with an 'oo!' when someone actually showed a breast or lower areas, going into a full-on laughing fit during the actual act, which made me wonder if their stories were true. And one would always say 'Uhh, yeah, makes me want to whip it out right now and relieve.' And for all the talk about how one or all of them were ready to just go at it and bust a nut while watching the so-called movie, anytime anyone said so, it was quickly quashed.

And that was, by far, the most annoying part of hanging out in Goon's basement those nights. I deal with all of their crap, and don't say a word. But when they actually go near something I'd actually /want/ to watch, bam, nothing. All talk, no action.

And yeah, I knew what that said about me.

I heard what the guys used to say. Made a man learn quick how to hide his eyes so he wasn't caught peeking. For the last couple of years, I became a pro at it. Decent grades, Varsity Outfielder: a nice perfect little drone like folks wanted to see. It was easy to do it. I liked ball, and classes didn't bore me to death all the time. You'd be surprised how much better you did in class if you actually did the fucking work instead of whining and saying how hard it all was. I decided to 'do the fucking work,' which is why I wasn't flunking anything.

I think I blew the class' mind in English the school-year past. Including the teacher's. See, I can learn stuff, easy. Made sense if I put effort into it. But you get to a subject I knew about, and I could go on for hours if I'm not stopped.

Hell, I think I scared Ms. Jaeger that time. It was part of the class: the myths of King Arthur Pendragon and the Knights. The Round Table, the Lady of the Lake, you name it. And you know, I'm not even sure where I pciked it up. I think I saw some movie about it I liked when I was a kid, and just ran out after that and found everything I could about the subject. The bookcase in my room was packed with novels, studies, movies from God knows when. I just liked it. Always did. And I knew all of the variations, so when the teach sprung Malory's L'Morte D'Arthur on us, she had to face someone who'd read it. More than once. Before he was twelve.

What was supposed to be two days to cover the readings in class became a week-long debate between the teacher, and 'that quiet jock kid by the window.' It was a battle in and of itself, and I think she respected me after it, for at least showing I like the subject where so many other students before and after me were bored shitless by it.

But, anyway. I ended up having to run from Goon's basement a little early, and I ended up back home around two in the morning. Some of the other guys stayed over to sleep, and I lived close enough where I could go to my own bed, my own room, and my own thoughts in which people backed up their words with actions, if I so chose. And I did, and got nailed when I walked into the house, mostly because I forgot to tell my parents where I was going to be, how long I'd be there, and when I was coming home. And I did forget: I admit that. And it wasn't that far away so I didn't get gounded again. But I got lectured, and yelled at about being responsible, and checking in so folks wouldn't worry about me, and all the usual guilt stuff.

And what pissed me off? If I had actually had /fun/ I wouldn't have minded the yelling and lectures. I would have considered that payment for enjoying myself. But the fact of the matter was that I was in the doghouse with the 'rents for being someplace I didn't even like with people I found I was starting to like less and less. That would piss anyone off. So, while the folks were out, I was going out too. Maybe for a run, even if Just showered. Or just for a walk, just to cool off the non-sleep I got last night.

I found myself back in the park again. With school, and the teenager social life, I hadn't been there...in a very long time. Parks were for kids and old people, weren't they? Real adults, real Men, never hung out in parks. So, since I was part of the Team, I skipped it. But I was alone, this time, so I could go whereever the fuck I felt like. In my head, it sounded like a willful child, which made me wonder about myself and my mental state. 'Well, I want to go to the park, so I'm going to go to the park! So there!' Well, not exactly those words. This was New York: It's required by law that you had to add a 'fucking' or two for emphasis. Still.

I mean, if I had to have that mindset to make my own decisions, just to rationalize going to the Park...what does that say about where I was? Emotionally, I mean. Hell, even socially. When did doing something you like, or being someplace you enjoy become a secondary need?

Screw the secondary. I dedided to go for a walk.

And, I didn't mind the crowd on one of the main paths, this time. The path was a familiar one, with rows of bushes that hid clearings where I used to play ball, which felt like a lifetime ago in and of itself. The path was brick, swept clean again and patterned out in alternating rows, leading to one of the main paved areas of the park again. I remembered the place. And it was a lot of kids, old people, as well as hot dog vendors, pets, rollerbladers. But, it wasn't that unbalanced as people would have one believe. People went to the park. It happens.

I chuckled to myself, jamming my hands into the pockets of the denim shorts I threw on before going out. I'm not sure why, really. I just found it all funny. Like those little hair-covered yappy dogs, what seemed to drink coffee every morning with the way they'd jump around. With nineteen sugars, no less. I was even tempted to shoot for a hot dog, just for kicks. But, I continued to walk, looking at little things here and there. In one part of the circle promenade, one of those little yappy dogs I mentioned was barking out some bigger dog, and the bigger dog was cowering behind his master's legs as the humans attached to them talked it up. A young couple was teaching their three-year-old kid, clad in enough padding and helmet-gear that even a meteor strike couldn't hurt her, how to 'blade. In the far area, there were some of the older men seated at the tables, playing checkers or chess. That, I noticed out of the corner of my eye, and I found myself smiling at the memory of a dropped fly ball, the cooling shade of bushes, and a shade of blue that existed for one day only.

Now I knew what nostalgia meant. Or at least I thought so. And, to give the memory one more handshake before I finally let it go, I took one last glance over there. One last look.

And there he was. The chess-playing kid from that day.

Like I said, there were not mistaking that shade of blue that his eyes held. Even two years later...it was a memory I held close to the chest, like that one moment you're dealt a Royal Flush. Never show it, just know. But even though it was years ago, I still would have known. And it was. I was sure of it.

He hadn't changed much. The face was clear, but there was a little touch of darkness to his cheeks, like he was just about to start shaving, or had. His hair wasn't teased up in the front, but left flat, and a little tousled that I was sure was deliberate. He looked taller, but I wasn't sure. He seemed smaller than I was; his arms were thin, from what I could see peeking out of the white T-shirt with light green rings on the collar and sleees. His shorts were baggier cargo short, in a dark, almost Army-color, green, with slender legs ending in Birkenstocks.

I had grown a little myself, in the last two years when puberty finally kicked in. I sprouted about six inches in height, keeping me at a close hover to an even six foot. And, I worked out, but was still a little on the lean side; I wasn't bulky, but I didn't look like was not being fed at home, either. My hair, still that white-like shade of blond from too much sun and swimming-pool chlorine, I kept with a simple style, with a casual part on the left side of my head. I didn't go for shaving myself bald or anything really drastic. Fuck, I never did anything really drastic. I looked like an average jock at school. The fondness for the Arthur myths and the closet homosexuality were just a few added bonuses.

But there I was, stopped dead in the middle of the promenade, peeking around those pedestrians and walkers who were just Getting In The Way to catch a glimpse, seeing if the sugar rush from last night and the whacked-out heat from the late-summer sun weren't making me hallucinate. Was it him, or I was I just imagining what he'd look like now? Or, was I imprinting a memory I never felt was ended right onto some random passer-by to fulfill my own resolution issues?

Fuck that, I thought. I never got an ending.

If I was wrong, I was wrong. I'd cope. But there was no game now. No lost ball, no hiding. No friends to pull me back. Which made me feel weird when I thought that. But I didn't care. If anything, I would find out a name. I wouldn't even mention spotting him through the bushes. Two years to a teenager was a fucking lifetime, and I already felt weird for still remembering it so clearly. Just a name, tack it to the memory, take out the memory to amuse myself when I'm old and gray, of a time more innocent than my present.

I never took my eyes away as I approached the table at which he sat, by himself. He was setting up the chess pieces, which I had seen before. It made the table open to whoever wanted to play against him, and I felt my pace snap up, to make sure no one got there.

And when my shadow fell across the chessboard, I saw him look up at me and smile. That same boyish, teeth-flashing smile. And I felt my insides sieze up, like some fourteen year old boy who lost a baseball and was caught staring.

"Hello," he said, leaning back in the chair, and folding his hands across his stomach. "Did you win?"

I had no idea what he meant, of course.

"Win?" I asked. "Win what?"

"Your baseball game," he answered, and I saw something in those brilliant blue eyes. It was a message. "After you got your ball back."

The message was 'I remember.'

"My..." I found my throat closing down, and my conscious mind ready to call it an early day and fly to Tahiti. "M-my..."

"Yep," he interrupted my stammering with. "Did? You? Win?"

He remembered? But...I was supposed to be the freak who never let go of memories. How could he remember it, too? I mean, the emotional shithole I threw myself in after that, questioning what was in my heart, and...oh, God. I wanted to, reach out my hand and poke him: I was sure I was hallucinating. I focused, and decided to sit down. If I was seeing mirages, and talking to nothing, no one would care. Like I said, it was New York.

"Y-yeah," I said, still dumbfounded all to fuck. "We did."

"Good," he said. "I was waiting to see if you'd tell me."

"What?" I said that a lot.

"I wanted to know if you won," this...odd young man answered me. "Always wanted to know. You deserved to win, with that sunburn you had. You'd get a hat for next time?"

"Yeah," I responded. "But how did...I mean...that was a long time ago. How do you remember that?"

He looked surprised at the question. "And you didn't?"

"I did," I said.

"And you knew I was me," he added. "Today. You wouldn't have come over if you didn't."

"How do you know? What if I came to play chess?"

Those blue eyes pretty much nailed me to my seat. "You never played chess in your life."

"I..."

"Come on..."

"Nope," I said. "Never did."

"But you recognized me."

"Yeah."

"I was waiting for you to. You stopped coming here."

"So did you."

"You picked the wrong days."

My brain just stopped working, at that point. "I...what?"

"You saw me on a Saturday, right?" he asked.

"Yes." My mouth was dry. No more words with too many letters.

"So you kept checking, every Saturday, didn't you? To see if I was there."

My eyes felt dry, now. It all turned to sweat on my forehead. "Yeah."

"And it was summer," he added. "And I found something else to do. On Saturdays. Any other day...hell, you could have asked any of the regulars. Even Jamal."

"Jamal?"

"Guy who runs the hot dog cart," said this dark-haired, fascinating guy. Even if I was creeped out a little. "He has the cutest daughter. She's three, now."

"I didn't ask anyone about you," I said.

"Why?"

"Because I think they'd have looked at me funny if I asked if they had seen you, or if you ever were around."

"Pah," he said, with a laugh. "Shit, they know me. I'm like the adopted grandson to most of those who don't have any, or don't get calls from the ones they have."

I started feeling my head break again. "I had no way of knowing-!"

"You could have asked."

"I didn't know."

"And you know now."

"But," I said, sinking into the chair in utter defeat. "I didn't even know your name."

"Noah," was his answer. "It's Noah." His smiel spread a little further. "You could have asked anyone..."

Comments

[gamerguy.livejournal.com]

Man, you were on a total roll :) Excellent dialog.

And 'Awwww'.

[blytheteach.livejournal.com]

this is way better than the crappy book i just finished! this is great!

[ninjakitten]

::beams::