Page 22 of The Art of Catching Feelings
It was starting to feel like that was what was happening here. He just couldn’t figure out quite what the setup was yet.
“Uh-huh,” he said.
“Here’s the wild thing,” Greg continued, his eyes lighting up. “That heckler? Turns out she’s the sister of Donovan Brink, Layla’s husband, who works for Guest Services. And, even wilder, turns out she actually has a background in broadcasting, studied it in college.”
“So it was all a ploy to get on TV?” He wasn’t sure he understood what Greg was trying to say. That sounded like a lot of coincidences all stacked up.
“No, no,” Greg said, his gaze cutting over to Marv. “We have no reason to believe that. But the point is, that we think we could make something out of this. Do an All-Access pregame segment where she interviews you, where you talk a bit about what happened. Keep it light, show there’s no hard feelings on either side, baseball’s fun, that kind of thing.”
Chris glanced at Marv, who was looking at him expectantly. They were framing it like he had a choice, but he really didn’t.
“Layla said she already floated the idea,” Greg said. “It would be good for the heckler, too, when you think about it. Cut down on some of the harassment she might be getting in the community, show that it’s all good now.”
Chris remembered the brief glimpse he’d gotten on that video of her in the bar, the hunted look on her face. He had no idea if that was the kind of thing she was facing on a daily basis, but he certainly didn’t think it was right for people to make her life hell just because she’d yelled one thing at a sporting event.
If they even knew what she’d yelled, they’d probably find it funny. Now that he was out of the heat of the moment, he could admit that there was something kind of hilarious about her heckle. Who referenced Winnie the Pooh at a baseball game?
“Fine,” he said. “Just tell me what you need from me, and I’ll be there.”
Greg pressed his hands together as if in prayer, making an obsequious half-bow gesture that irritated Chris. He stood up once Greg had left, figuring that was the end of the meeting, but Marv signaled for him to sit back down.
“Your walk-up song,” he said. “Who’s it by?”
Of all the questions Chris thought Marv would ever ask him, that had to be at the bottom of the list. If he tried to imagine Marv listening to music on his own time, it would be an old record of some 1960s classics or something.Etta James, the wife’s favorite, he’d say.
“Glass Animals,” Chris said slowly.
Marv nodded before picking up the phone at his desk and dialing a few numbers. “It’s Marv,” he said shortly to whoever must’ve picked up. “Tell the DJ to take that Glass Animals song out of the rotation. We’ll get you Kepler’s new walk-up song before his next at-bat. No, not tomorrow. Against McCullers.”
He grunted once, some acknowledgment of something the other person had said, and then hung up.
“I’m sick of hearing that song,” he said. “You’re in a slump, fine. There’s a lot of season left. Get focused, work on your swing, and for the love of Christ turn that dial to something else.”
Chris opened his mouth to say something before he realized that a spirited defense of Glass Animals’ repertoire was not in his best interests here, especially when Marv had casually dropped him out of tomorrow’s lineup. “Okay,” he said. “I’ll find a new song.”
“See that you do,” Marv said, shuffling some papers on his desk in what was clearly anow I’m done with yougesture. “Or we’ll pick one for you.”
—
By the time Chris let himself into his condo later that night, he was exhausted. He’d stayed at the clubhouse almost as late as he would’ve if he’d had a night game, and would have to turn around and head back there first thing when he woke up.
His dad called him while he was heating up some chicken in the microwave. Chris briefly thought about ignoring the call and answering it tomorrow, but he knew he’d already put off his dad a few times and it was better just to get it over with. He put the phone on speaker and set it on the counter so he could hear while fixing his dinner.
“Hey, Dad.”
“Where are you? You sound like you’re in a tunnel.”
“I have you on speaker. How’s it going?”
“You’re asking me that question? That’s what I’m asking you. You catch that foul ball yesterday, you end the inning, Dodgers wouldn’t have scored, your team could’ve stayed in it.”
This was typical for calls with his father, which was one reason why he dreaded them so much. Chris happened to know that his dad kept a notepad by the phone, and would make notes of things he wanted to talk about. Not that he needed any reminders—he had a memory like a steel trap.
The play his dad referred to now hadn’t been a fuckup. It hadn’t been an error. But it had been a missed opportunity, and this time last year, maybe he would’ve made that play. He knew it wouldn’t help to go into any excuses.
“I know,” he said, taking the wind out of his dad’s sails. “I know.”
His father was silent for a few moments. Chris always wondered what would happen if he filled that silence, if he said something like,I miss Tim.Or if he asked his dad something like,Do you think about Tim, Dad?
