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  “We’re going out to dinner to celebrate,” he said. “It’s been thirty-four days since you were late, and I think we can safely assume you’ve learned your lesson.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “There will be no more late fees, but I reserve the right to reinstate the program at the first sign of slacking.”

  “Agreed, sir.”

  “Meet me in the parking lot at eighteen-hundred hours,” he said.

  “On the dot,” I said.

  “Exactly. Dress appropriately, Shirttail. We won’t be going to a burger joint.”

  At home, as I showered and chose suitable attire, I couldn’t help but think that the general had made a dinner date with me, however one chose to look at the situation. Even as that thought crossed my mind, however, I immediately pushed it out and sternly lectured myself about backing wrong horses of different color in midstream. Regardless, I felt a rush of excitement as I drove back to the base.

  I arrived a good thirty minutes early, just to be safe, leaving me thirty minutes to pace, check my watch, and worry before the general pulled into the lot precisely at six in a stylish dark-blue hybrid, immaculately kept. I’d never seen him in civilian clothes before. He wore dark slacks, a charcoal sport jacket, white shirt, and maroon tie as elegantly as his dress blues, and great God! He was even more handsome. For once, he chauffeured me, and I was surprised when he parked at one of the fanciest restaurants in town.

  Our meal began with appetizers and a bottle of white wine, and after one glass, I’d never felt so relaxed in his presence. In civilian clothes, we might have been mistaken for two friends enjoying an evening out. As effortlessly as the general could make me shake in my boots under his frown, he could put me entirely at ease, as if anything were open to consideration. I felt confident enough at last to compliment him about his accent, which I’d come to love.

  “Awwww, shucks. That ain’t nothin’,” he said, stretching his words like molasses taffy.

  We both laughed.

  “My dad’s job relocated him from Boston to Knoxville just after he married my mother. That’s where my sister and I were born and raised. I made an effort to lose the twang when I started college,” he said. “I didn’t want my fellow cadets at the Academy to think I really was a hillbilly. I worked at it hard for a while but I got bored. It’s too easy to get lazy when you’re self-improving.”

  What was left mixed his old Southern with just a salting of nondescript Midwestern. It was peculiarly and endearingly his own, its timbre as deep as Christmas and as insinuating as a bribe, promising twice as much loot in exchange for the right kind of cookies and milk under the tree. He could talk all night, and I would be content to listen.

  He shared some family history about all four of his grandparents being first-generation Americans, right off the boat from Ireland in the early years of the twentieth century. How his mother insisted on a traditional name for him, even if most people mispronounced it. “Nowadays,” he said, “I get a kick out of it when somebody calls me ‘SEE-mus,’ but when I was a kid in east Tennessee, it drove me crazy.”

  Over chicken Kiev with rice pilaf and roasted vegetables, our conversational well never ran dry, ranging broad, far, deep, and easy, through literature (I urged him to read Moby Dick, my choice for the greatest American novel) and music (he insisted that Tchaikovsky’s Fifth was the pinnacle of symphonic achievement) and movies (we both liked old westerns) and travel (he’d visited all seven continents yet had never been to Paris, one of my favorite cities), even sports (he loved listening to baseball games on the radio, a habit he’d learned as a boy from his grandfather).

  I asked when his mustache had made its first appearance.

  “I started cultivating it in high school,” he said. “My senior portrait is proof that it wasn’t much, but I was certainly proud of it at the time.”

  “They let you keep it at the Air Force Academy?”

  “Not until I’d completed Basic Cadet Training. After that, it was tolerated but not encouraged. I had to trim it nearly every day. It was tedious business. I don’t have to worry about it anymore.”

  “Why is that?”

  He arched an eyebrow. “I’m a general.” His all-purpose excuse again. I had to laugh. “If I trim the damn thing to conform with the Air Force regulation, I’d look like Hitler,” he said. “That’s not going to happen.”

  “So your mustache will remain disobedient, sir?”

  “Wayward and threatening mutiny. I wouldn’t be surprised if it didn’t bail out and set off on its own with no warning. One day, I’ll wake up and find it gone.”

  “There is much head-shaking and disapproval wasted on your mustache, sir.”

  “I’m well aware. My command chief master sergeant has a fit every time he’s in the same room with it. You would think our whole air and space force is in danger of collapse because of my black haystack.”

  “I imagine you chop it down a little when it gets too threatening.”

  “Occasionally,” he said. “With a scythe.”

  “You don’t think flaunting the regulation sets a bad example?”

  He beamed. “Everyone should aspire to attain a position in life where he can flaunt the rules without consequence.”

  “Someday, maybe I’ll earn the right to wear one like yours,” I said.

  He chuckled. “Could you handle that much responsibility?”

  “I have none of your firepower at my disposal right now,” I said, “so I am forced to landscape my mustache according to regulations. But don’t let this well-manicured evidence fool you. My mustache yearns to mimic Mark Twain’s, and it will not be denied forever.”

  I’d never seen him laugh so heartily.

  When our leisurely three-hour meal ended with coffee and dessert, I felt as if we’d really gotten to know each other. I couldn’t even guess at his intent, but I was grateful just the same. I thanked him for his generosity, and he merely wagged his eyebrows at me. When the waiter brought the check, the general paid in cash, all ones and fives.

  “Don’t thank me, Bankroll. It’s your treat.”

  I was learning him by heart.

  *

  By mid-April, softball season was in sight. The general marked our first practice on the calendar and reminded me that I would be on the team. Reluctantly, I purchased a mitt at the base exchange, though I was annoyed that the cheapest one available cost nearly thirty dollars. I turned out for the first practice, my stiff new glove conspicuous among everyone else’s well-worn ones, veterans of hundreds of games.

  At least I’d get out of the office an hour early once a week.

  Attired in sweatpants, ball cap with NAF patch, team shirt, and cleats, the general was the most committed player on the team. He’d played at the Academy, as he reminded us repeatedly, though his mere presence ensured at least minimal concentration from the other players. The general was not the actual coach, but he might as well have been. He spent a lot of time in the batting box discussing strategies and substitutions with the poor major who nominally held the position. The general leaned hard on the coach, who usually caved in, much to the derision of the rest of the team.

  Our boss proved reasonably adept at first base, being a good catcher with quick reflexes, though, on more than one occasion, he’d been guilty of more enthusiasm than skill. I recall him crouched next to the base, glaring from under his ball cap, with all the potential energy of a cocked trigger. Batting was another story. A lefty, he was unreliable and knew it. He’d rarely strike out, but someone in the field usually caught his graceful pop flies. “Damn it, not again,” he’d mutter. “At least I’m consistent!” he’d yell in response to the catcalls. “That’s more than I can say for most of y’all sons-o’-bitches.”

  Practice was useful to me, as I’d had little experience. No one had ever instructed me on the finer points of the game. Simple things like keeping an eye on the ball. How to hold the bat. How and when to swing it. How to throw hard and fast and far wi
thout spraining one’s arm. I kept my dad informed of every detail of our practice and our games, and I knew he was equally proud and mystified at my sudden interest. I didn’t admit I hadn’t been given a choice.

  The general was as hard on me at the diamond as he was in the office, and he had a mostly new audience to watch the show. To be fair, he refused to let up on anyone who didn’t give one hundred percent, but everyone else on the team was a veteran of seasons past and knew how to behave. When the gap between my enthusiasm and my skill level proved too wide to ignore, the general spent a good half hour in his office with me one afternoon, the door closed, a rolled newspaper in my fists, attempting to follow his instructions as he explained the logistics of gripping and swinging a bat.

  “Damn it, Strikeout. Do it again. Line up your knuckles. Like that. Swing it level. Bring the bat all the way around and shift your weight onto your right foot.” I tried. He watched and railed. “Shift your weight, damn it, and follow through. Swing level! Do it again.” He grabbed the rolled newspaper from me and demonstrated. “See? That’s half your power right there. You get it right, and the ball will go twice as far, but you want it to feel natural.” He handed the newspaper back to me. “Do it again.” He sighed, deep. “Level swing, I said. Jesus. You’re not even trying!”

  Finally, frustrated at my inability to follow his instructions, he moved behind me. In a moment, he folded himself around me, his body molding to mine. The unexpectedness of the motion startled me. As we stood with our arms twisted around each other in an odd embrace, I looked around and up at him, curious. He merely grinned, and his eyebrows shot up and then down in a fraction of a second that spoke volumes.

  “Easy, Sandbagger,” he said. “My intentions are honorable. I’m just trying to make you into a ballplayer. Now move with me.”

  He was close enough to me that I could smell his aftershave, just a hint of it, so subtle I don’t think I’d noticed it before. It suited him. And he suited me at that moment; his confident physicality, his body pressed firmly against me, and his strong hands covering mine, were enough to give me an erection, the first time I’d ever connected those particular dots with him. I was grateful he was behind me and didn’t notice. But I didn’t have the time to worry too much about it, because he got right down to business, reducing bat-swinging to basic principles of physics and geometry.

  I moved with him. Willingly. He did the best he could in this single instance where I could not accommodate his being left-handed.

  At the end of our batting session, he said, “Be careful, Sandbagger.” I felt that he wanted to say more, but I wasn’t sure what he was chasing. He fumbled with his pipe and finally, he just said, “Watch out for yourself. Don’t get yourself hurt. Promise, now.”

  I couldn’t imagine how his curious remarks related to softball. But I promised.

  I could smell the faint, exotic musk of his aftershave on my shirt all afternoon. And I wonder if we are all left-handed in our various ways, trying to make our way in a right-handed world.

  *

  Not long after that, I visited the local batting cage to see if I had learned anything. The unrelenting machine shagged its balls at me, and I tried to recall everything the general had told me about stance, grip, swing, and following through. Without the inconvenience of having to run each time I connected with the ball, I settled into a groove. Before long, my bat slammed against the ball consistently with solid contact. At the end of a hundred balls, I was tired but satisfied. Even if my arm and shoulder muscles were stiff and sore for a few days afterward, I felt somewhat more accomplished.

  To the surprise of everyone except the general, who took full credit, I became a reliable hitter. Near the end of the season, one of the other players would point out to me that I had the highest batting average of anyone on the team. Though I rarely parlayed those hits into more than a single, at least I’d never struck out or popped out.

  The offset was my lack of skill in the field. If I’d been even inconsistently useful out there, life would have been perfect, but I never got the hang of catching balls lobbed at me. The team could count on me to drop those crucial flies when they headed in my direction. The coach put me in the outfield as a rover, wandering between right and center field, where I could do the least damage with a decent player in the primary positions.

  So I prowled across my assigned territory, but I kept an eye on the general. Watching him was my favorite part of those afternoons. I didn’t even mind when he hollered specifically at me as he stood at the fence, occasionally encouraging but usually berating, chastising, and beseeching, his mustache working furiously, reaching absently under his shirt to scratch some itch.

  Our team was hardly well-prepared for our weekly games. Faced with an actual opponent, we usually fell apart regardless of the strategies we’d built up during practice. Before the games, the general tossed grounders, flies, and curves my way in a valiant effort to kick-start my fielding instincts. He yelled himself hoarse at each of the games, trying to pump some spirit into the lot of us.

  Julia attended occasionally to cheer us on, and I appreciated her support. She was there during our third game when I managed to pull off my single instance of better-than-adequate fielding. We were losing by a run or two, and we had one more at-bat as soon as we struck out our opponents. I was parked between center and right field, and the batter socked the ball right to me. I could not pretend it was anyone else’s responsibility. Not feeling particularly hopeful, I nonetheless stuck my gloved hand into the air.

  Now and then, we get one of those spectacular moments as a reward for other hell in our lives: the perfect ice-cream catch, a scoop of dirty vanilla plopped perfectly into the leather cone of a mitt stretched up to the blue sky. Maybe it was simply an accident, a bonus meant for someone else. I don’t know. But it didn’t matter. The batter was out, and we were up.

  As our team trotted off the field, the general grabbed my hand and pumped my arm. “You’ve been holding out on us, Pipeliner,” he said. “Good work!” It made the whole effort worthwhile, as far as I was concerned. We didn’t win the game, but I felt like a hero that night anyway.

  Afterward, we drank beer in the parking lot, provided by those who had struck out during the previous game. The general put an arm around my shoulder. His mustache brushed against my ear as he whispered, “You’re getting better all the time, Dodger. You’re my greatest success story. I’m proud of you.” That’s all I needed to hear. I only wish he’d said it loud enough for the rest of the team to appreciate as well.

  “My dad wants you canonized for getting me interested in softball, sir,” I told him. “He thinks you’re some kind of miracle worker.”

  He chuckled. “I am.”

  Chapter Six

  My dad has a vested interest in softball and such things.

  He’s managed a sporting goods store in our Ohio hometown for years. It’s a great fit for him. He’d been hired as a clerk at the same store when he was still in high school, and in the years since, he’d worked his way up to being a half owner in addition to manager. The place does great business, supports the home teams, keeps up with the trends, and gives him some flexibility with his time.

  I was more interested in academic pursuits as a kid. I preferred to spend a sunny Saturday with a book rather than a ball, and my dad never pushed too hard. In high school, I tried out for the track-and-field team because he insisted I get involved in an activity that required physical exertion outdoors. I had the build for running, so it was the logical choice. Once I overcame my initial reluctance, I rather enjoyed it. Longer distances proved to be my forte. I picked up a first-place trophy for the mile run at a regional track meet and pulled off the same feat at the state level as well.

  My dad and I have come a long way since then. We’ve traveled some rough terrain, mostly mapped by my refusal to budge once I’d announced unequivocally that I was queer. I used to wonder if we’d come through the woods alive, but we did. We don’t talk much.
We’ve never needed to.

  He’d been drafted into the Army at eighteen, sent to Vietnam for combat duty in the waning days of the war, and sent home at twenty. He rarely mentions his hellacious, harrowing tour, but after I was commissioned, I asked him if he would consider telling me about his experience. He looked at me for a long time, thought about it, and nodded. We will find the right time.

  He has been a passionate fisherman since his own father began taking him to rivers when he was four or five years old. Dad tried to do the same with me, but fishing bored me as a kid. I didn’t realize how important the sport was to him until I was in college. By then, I wanted us to spend more time together, and the easiest way was to find activities we could share.

  He was frankly amazed the first time I asked him if he’d take me fishing, and he had the pleasure of showing me how all over again. I paid close attention, and I learned how satisfying it could be, getting up at four a.m. for the drive in his old Ford pickup to one or another of the lakes within a short distance of home, launching the skiff just before dawn, and catching our limit if we were lucky.

  The night before any of our fishing trips, he generally spends hours preparing, choosing the proper accessories for the tackle box, testing the reels, tying off extra hooks. We could, I think, catch anything from a goldfish to a blue whale with the gear he loads into the pickup, though we’re unlikely to find anything but good-sized rainbow trout, bass, walleye, pike, depending on the season. It’s his passion, and I would not interrupt it or criticize. He’s the most talented angler I know, and I will never stop learning from him.

  We’ve grown closer through our fishing trips, but that bond has absolutely nothing to do with pouring our souls out to each other in conversation. We hardly say a word. The silence is its own generous instructor, as it can be anytime two people share a task that both enjoy.