Baseball Dads

Advance Praise for Baseball Dads

"Sex, drugs, blackmail, and little-league baseball. Matthew S. Hiley takes readers on a dark, twisted, and hilarious journey into the perilous world of parenting with Baseball Dads. This motherfu**er is a homerun!"

—Brandon Christopher, author of The Job Pirate

"From Casey at the Bat to the Bad News Bears and Bull Durham, there’s a long tradition of baseball, humor, and telling insight into the psyches and psychoses that fuel what many of us still consider the national pastime. With laughs and diamond-sharp observation on every page, Matthew Hiley’s Baseball Dads is a worthy addition to the short list of great baseball tales."

—Chuck Thompson, former features editor for Maxim and author of Better Off Without ’Em: A Northern Manifesto for Southern Secession

"Baseball Dads is a story any parent who has survived little league baseball will find insightful and cathartic. Not to mention funny."

—Boyd Taylor, author of The Hero of San Jacinto

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, organizations, places, events, and incidents are either a product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by Greenleaf Book Group Press

Austin, Texas

www.gbgpress.com

Copyright ©2015 Matthew Hiley

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without written permission from the copyright holder.

Distributed by Greenleaf Book Group

For ordering information or special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Greenleaf Book Group at PO Box 91869, Austin, TX  78709, 512.891.6100.

Design and composition by Greenleaf Book Group

Cover design by Greenleaf Book Group

Cover image credit: ©Shutterstock.com/Davydenko Yuliia

Ebook ISBN: 978-1-62634-204-0

Ebook Edition

This book is dedicated to the men and women

who raise their children properly . . .

It is also dedicated to my lovely wife,

who puts up with my insanity on a daily basis,

and my children, for whom I will hoist

the black flag and slit throats any day . . .

Lastly, if you are a pretentious turd who

feigns outrage at the drop of a hat, please

take this book and plant it firmly in your anus.

I wrote this book about you, not for you,

so kindly be on your way . . .

Let the adventure begin . . .

Every normal man must be tempted,

at times, to spit on his hands,

hoist the black flag,

and begin slitting throats.

H. L. Mencken

1.

JESUS TAP-DANCING CHRIST, UMP! IS HE PAYING YOU ON THE SIDE? DID YOU FORGET YOUR ANTIPSYCHOTIC MEDS TODAY? MY BOY WAS SAFE, GODDAMMIT! GET YOUR GODDAMN VISION CHECKED!

Russ Paisley was at the end of his tightly strung rope from horrible calls by the head umpire, Dave, at Jenny Field. Jenny Field was the swankiest little league ballpark in Fort Worth, Texas. If you lived in Fort Worth and belonged to high society, then your kids damn sure better have played baseball at Jenny Field if they didn’t want the shit beat out of them in the cafeteria every day.

Dave the umpire was a familiar and imposing figure at the ballpark. He had thin, dirty-blond hair tucked under a black ball cap, stood about six feet four inches tall, and weighed in around 250 pounds. Tattoos covered his forearms, and a snarl was smeared across his pockmarked, unshaven face. Dave loved the power that he held over the snooty, upper-crust families while they were in his arena. He never hesitated to display that power.

Dave rushed to the fence where Russ was standing. Dust flew up behind him in the wind as he approached. He got to where their noses were so close that only a single chain link in the fence separated them. Dave stared down at Russ, who was only about five feet nine inches tall.

I won’t hesitate to throw your monkey-ass outta here, Russ, Dave growled down to him. It’s Friday night. Been a long week. Don’t push me.

Russ held his gaze until Dave turned and walked back to home plate. Both of their faces were beet red. Russ had obviously not forgotten to take his daily coke bumps that day. He kicked the fence before returning to the outfield side of the dugout, where he and the rest of his crew watched the game. They were the true baseball dads on the team—the guys who never sat down, never went to take a leak, never went to the concession stand.

They stood there intensely, with their fingers tightly gripping the railing along the top of the chain-link fence. They drank from their water jugs, spat sunflower seeds, and bitched about how much better the team would be doing if they were coaching.

Great, Russ muttered to the others. Three goddamn outs again. This coach is a goddamn joke. And where’s he gonna send my kid now? Right fucking field. And your kid, Dwayne? Left fucking field. This is absurd. Meanwhile, his kid is about six goddamn inches from being a full-blown retard, and he sticks him at shortstop.

Russ had no time for Dave the umpire, and even less for Coach Ricky Dale, with his permanent shit-eating, bleached-white grin and leathery tan skin. He’d taken control of the baseball operation at Jenny Field, calling most of the shots via major monetary donations. Many of the outfield signs were advertisements for Ricky Dale Furniture, his wildly successful string of inexpensive rent-to-own furniture stores.

Russ was about to blow a gasket as he watched the time expire on the game clock. They were headed toward yet another huge loss.

Goddamn daddy baseball, he grunted.

Russ Paisley, a notoriously mouthy hedge fund manager, did business with the titans of Texas industry. He had made over $100 million in the previous year for putting together a national chain of storage facilities, inflating their values, and taking them public. He was on the board of directors at the local country club and was a deacon at the other major social club in town, the Westside Church of Jesus.

Also, he most likely snorted an eight ball of blow before lunch every day, and it was more than apparent in his constant enthusiasm.

Russ was thirty-nine years old, a little overweight, with hair covering every bit of his body except his head. He had attempted hair plugs a couple of years back but stopped after the front was finished because of the pain. He now slicked back the thin row of hair that traversed the front of his head in an unsuccessful effort to fool everyone.

Due to his inability to keep his penis in his pants, Russ had been married four times. His current wife, Jade, was a twenty-two-year-old former stripper whose penchant for cocaine use nearly exceeded his.

I’ll bet you that son of a bitch is a Democrat, Russ barked, referring to Coach Dale. Who else would run a team like that? It’s goddamn affirmative action.

Um, excuse me, Russ, Tommy Johnson interjected. "If it were affirmative action, I’m pretty sure TJ wouldn’t be sitting his happy ass on the bench right now. He is pretty much the only black kid on the west side of Fort Worth, you know."

Gimme a fucking break, Tommy, Russ replied. I’m talking about affirmative action for retards. I won’t even begin to get into what little sense it makes to leave a black kid on the bench on a sports team full of white kids. Jesus Christ. Don’t get me started.

Tommy shook his head. I’m gonna give you a pass today because you’ve obviously lost your mind again, Tommy said.

Tommy Johnson, close to six feet tall with a medium build, thin beard, and bifocals, was literally the only black guy in town. He was a successful plastic surgeon who had moved to Texas from Beverly Hills to try and give his son a life that seemed somewhat normal, comparatively speaking. Tommy and his wife, Kelly, a gorgeous woman even though she was 90 percent nonbiodegradable, were secretly agnostic (and also possibly Democrats), but they attended the Westside Church of Jesus with all of the other upper crusters on the west side of Fort Worth. It had proven a great place to meet clients for his plastic surgery practice.

Leave it to Russ to bring politics into a little league game, Steve jumped in. My boy Jonathan has been on the bench more than anyone this season. He’s also been last in the batting order for every single game. I’m not saying you guys don’t have a reason to complain, but come on. Johnny’s getting screwed more than any of your kids.

Yeah, well, Russ chose his words carefully, "that’s probably a little more understandable than the other situations."

Russ let his statement hang in the air for a bit before Steve responded.

What the hell is that supposed to mean? Steve asked.

It’s just that… Russ stammered. "Well, come on, man. I don’t wanna hurt your feelings, but let’s face facts. You and your wife are goddamn bleeding-heart liberals. It’s amazing Jonathan’s stuck with it this long. He’s just not that good, you know? Okay, fine. He fucking sucks. But let’s just say I bet he’ll be an amazing fashion designer, or some shit like that. What choice did you give him?"

Fuck you, Steve replied flatly, in an almost unfazed manner.

Whatever, dude, Russ said. Your wife is a goddamn social worker. What did you expect?

Steve Winwood was a high school principal who hated his name and the confusion it brought with it. He had been left with an enormous trust fund after graduating college and had always felt the need to do something positive with his life. He was in charge of the roughest high school in North Texas and was beaten to a pulp at least twice each semester. He never pressed charges, blaming society instead of the heathens who hospitalized him.

Steve stood about five feet seven inches tall, was thirty-five years old, and weighed in at a whopping 127 pounds. He had somewhat of a long brown white-man afro. He always attempted to dress hip in order to earn the respect of his students. But he always fell short. He was nervous by nature, as was his wife, Judith, who volunteered her time at battered women’s shelters and animal rights organizations.

At the end of the line of baseball dads gripping the fence, Dwayne Devero stood quietly, taking it all in. Dwayne’s son, Alex, was probably the most talented baseball player in the league. Alex had been dividing his time between left field and right field the entire season. Every other season he had played shortstop or first base. It killed Dwayne to see his son wasting his time in positions he hated to play.

Alex was a good sport, though. He never once complained. He had made it on base almost every time he’d been up to bat and was the only kid in the league to hit a ball over the outfield wall. He couldn’t stand Coach Dale, though.

Coach Dale’s inept son, Ace, played shortstop. The assistant coach, Pete, had a talentless son playing first base. Coach Dale’s close friends had kids who ranged from decent to talentless at every infield position on the team of ten-year-olds. It was true daddy baseball.

There were eleven kids on the team and nine positions. For every game all season long, the only boys who sat the bench were the sons of Russ, Tommy, Steve, and Dwayne.

Dwayne noticed Estelle, his wife, heading his direction as time expired on the game. He braced himself.

2.

I guess you’re not going to say anything again, are you, Dwayne? Estelle Devero snapped at her husband. He knew it was coming. Estelle bitched about everything. At least Russ has the balls to yell when things aren’t going right. But you just stand there. It’s so embarrassing. It’s almost as embarrassing as that goddamn truck you have to park in the parking lot for all of the Westside parents to see. Do you have to remind everyone that you’re a glorified lawn guy at every social function?

Jesus, Estelle, Dwayne snapped. I own a goddamn landscaping company. I didn’t have time to grab my car after a long day at work. I would’ve missed the game.

Estelle refused to acknowledge that Dwayne’s glorified lawn guy business made her lifestyle possible. Dwayne’s work ethic had taken him from having nothing to building a small empire. He had all of the major landscaping contracts in town, including Jenny Field. Lately, none of that mattered much because Estelle kept him strapped with debt. Dwayne struggled to make the tuition payments for Alex’s private school. The membership dues to the country club, the Mercedes and Audi payments, the massive mortgage for the house in the affluent neighborhood, and the almost insurmountable credit card bills racked up by Estelle made every month a challenge.

Whatever, Dwayne. I’m going to meet the girls at the club for drinks. Please have that truck gone first thing tomorrow. I’m having Bible study at the house, and the last thing I want is for the girls to see that awful thing parked out front.

Estelle turned and walked away in a huff. Dwayne looked at the other baseball dads, whose eyes were fixed firmly on Estelle’s ass.

Damn, bro, Russ said as he stared over the top of his sunglasses. "I’m so gonna hit that when you’re not looking. With an ass like that, I bet the bitchy attitude is almost worth it."

What the hell are you talking about? Your wife is still in high school, Steve blurted out.

Dwayne ignored them. He looked at the scoreboard as he waited for his son to come off the field. It read 14–1. That one run was from Alex, who’d had an inside-the-park homer in the third inning. Dwayne shook his head.

He wasn’t raised to quit, though. It didn’t matter that he could no longer stand his bitchy, superficial wife and her toned little yoga body. It didn’t matter that she was probably sleeping around with any number of the rich guys she shook her bikini-clad ass for at the club. It didn’t matter that his world seemed closer to crumbling to pieces every single day. It didn’t matter. He’d keep working harder. The only thing he cared about was Alex. Alex was a good kid, through and through, and he wasn’t going to let him down.

Okay, fuckers, I’ll see you on the golf course at 8:00 a.m., Russ yelled to Dwayne, Tommy, and Steve as he walked toward his bright red Ferrari in the parking lot.

Jesus, Russ—language, please, Tommy snapped.

Oh, goddammit, I’m sorry.

The men all went their separate ways in the parking lot, consoling kids who had become unfortunately accustomed to losing. They all hated this part of this season—the quiet walk to the car and the offering of assurances that while the team may have lost, the boys individually had played well.

As Dwayne threw Alex’s baseball bag into the bed of his truck, he saw Coach Dale, his assistant Pete, and a few of the other parents laughing and backslapping. The others were kissing Coach Dale’s ass so that their kids could continue to play the good positions.

We’ll get ’em next time, Coach, Dwayne heard one of them say.

Dwayne and Alex were the last to leave the Jenny Field parking lot, with the exception of Dave, the head umpire, who was sitting in his old, rusted Honda smoking what appeared to be a very large joint. They were a couple of miles down the road when Dwayne passed Russ’s Ferrari headed back toward the ballpark. A few seconds later, Dwayne received a text from Russ.

Jackson forgot his glove, C U in the morning, fucker.

When Russ pulled back into the parking lot, he didn’t even notice the old Trans Am parked beside Dave’s Honda. He left Jackson in the car with the beautiful Italian-tuned engine running and ran to the dugout.

After he grabbed the glove, Russ began to jog back toward the Ferrari. Suddenly, he noticed Dave and another rough-looking individual having what appeared to be a heated conversation by the dumpster at the far corner of the park. He crouched behind some bleachers to watch. The other man talking to Dave was holding a large baggie containing some kind of powdery substance.

This is bullshit! he heard the man yell at Dave, as he threw the baggie to the ground and poked Dave in the chest.

For the blink of an eye, the setting sun caught on a shiny object in Dave’s hand. It seemed to disappear into the other man’s stomach. The man slouched over and dropped to his knees.

A knife. The shiny object was a knife, Russ thought to himself. Holy fuck.

Then, Russ saw Dave grab the man’s head and twist it. He wasn’t going to stick around to see what happened next. Russ ran toward the parking lot, hopped in his Ferrari, and left a patch of rubber from the tires about a quarter of a mile long.

3.

Tommy, Dwayne, and Steve practiced their short game on the putting green next to the first hole at River Oaks Country Club as they awaited the habitually late Russ Paisley. As 8:30 a.m. approached, they saw Russ’s Ferrari come sliding into the lot and pull diagonally across two parking spots.

You know, Dwayne said to Steve and Tommy as he missed yet another putt, I don’t pray for much, but when I do, it usually has something to do with praying that someone keys his goddamn Ferrari for parking like a total jackass.

A golf cart with Russ’s clubs placed in back met Russ at his car, and he sped toward the other three golfers. He bounced out of the cart and pulled his T-shirt off as he prepared to throw on a collared golf shirt.

Jesus, man, that’s just disgusting, Tommy remarked, referring to the quantity of hair on Russ’s chest and back. You’re like one big 1978 bush walking around here. That shit just ain’t cool these days.

And if you can afford a Ferrari, I’ll bet you can afford a treadmill, Steve added. You’re just, like, this jiggling mass of hair. Like black mold on Jell-O. It’s just so awful, man.

Russ threw the golf shirt over his head and pulled it down as if he hadn’t heard a thing. He pulled his glove out of his back pocket and slipped it over his left hand, wiping some white powdery residue from his nose. Russ didn’t give a shit that the others could tell he’d just done a few lines.

Guys, you’re never gonna believe what happened last night, Russ said as they all approached the first tee box.

Your wife got some new crayons and drew you a picture? Steve replied.

She made the JV gymnastics team? Tommy popped off.

She found a couple hundred bucks stashed in her ass from when she worked the VIP room at Dirty’s Cabaret? Dwayne jumped in.

All of the men looked over at Dwayne in stunned silence.

My bad. Too far.

Russ cracked open a beer and chugged half of it as he glared at the others, mainly Dwayne. He lit up a cigarette.

Are you guys done yet?

No.

Nope.

Not at all, dick.

Fine, Russ stormed toward the tee box and placed his ball on a tee. I’m going first.

Russ stepped up to his ball without taking a practice swing. He hovered over it, concentrating. He then reared back his club, swung as hard as he could, and sliced the ball over a large house in the neighborhood to the right. There was a crash, followed by a dog barking.

WHAT THE FUCK?! Russ yelled at the top of his lungs.

Russ was known for his short temper. This had a lot to do with why his friends gave him a huge ration of shit. He stormed off the tee box and back to his cart, where he sat behind the wheel with his arms crossed. The others could barely contain their laughter.

After the other three teed off, Dwayne offered an olive branch to Russ by pretending to be interested in what he had to say about the previous night. So, Dwayne asked with mock sincerity, are you gonna tell us what the hell happened last night?

I’ll tell you guys on the green. I’ve gotta get my head straight. I can’t lose another round of golf to this group of amateurs.

Russ hit the gas pedal on his golf cart and took off down the fairway. The other three watched in anticipation as he drove away, knowing that Tommy had unhooked the strap that held his golf bag onto the cart. As Russ made his first turn after fifty yards, his golf bag came crashing off the back, spilling clubs everywhere until it finally rolled to a stop.

Russ didn’t look back at the others, who were doubled over in tears laughing. He punched his steering wheel twice, stood up, and gathered his clubs. After placing them back on the cart, he offered a middle finger to the guys before driving toward where his ball had gone out of bounds.

By the time the foursome reached the green, Russ had regained his composure. He managed to put together an amazing shot from far down the fairway, and was now going for a par. Okay, guys, so what I was trying to tell you is . . . He paused to line up his putt for a moment, leaning down toward the green and finding his line. Last night, I saw Dave kill a guy at the ballpark.

Russ pulled back and took the shot, sending an almost impossible sixty-foot putt on its way toward the hole. The ball broke at just the right time, rode the lip of the hole, and fell in the back side.

Fuck yeah! Russ yelled as he threw his arms in the air. Back door, bitches! Suck on that, Lawn Boy! Who’s your daddy now, you friggin’ liberal shitbag? What’s up now, token black guy? Oh yeah! I’m back in this bitch! Russ offered a few pelvic thrusts as he did his victory dance on the green.

Dwayne, Steve, and Tommy stood in silence, unable to comprehend what they had heard before the shot.

What the hell is wrong with you guys? Jesus, gimme a high five or something! That was beautiful! Russ said with disappointment.

Dude, Dwayne said. Did you say that you saw Dave kill somebody? As in Dave the umpire?

Yup. Stabbed him, then twisted that fucker’s neck like a beer cap. It was crazy. Scared the shit outta me. He’s lucky I didn’t call the cops.

The guys stared at Russ while he nonchalantly pulled his ball from the hole, wiped the dirt and grass clippings from it, and lit a cigarette.

"And exactly why didn’t you call the cops?" Dwayne asked.

Are you guys gonna putt, or what? Jesus. You have seventeen more holes to hear the story. I gotta finish it now? Russ snapped, secretly satisfied that he now had them all rattled and not into their golf games.

4.

Steve, Dwayne, Russ, and Tommy had not been lifelong friends. They weren’t friends because they worked together, shared similar interests, or recognized any deep connection with one another. No, they were friends because their kids played baseball together. Their kids had all become friends, so the parents were forced to tolerate each other. That forced tolerance developed into a sort of baseball-dad clique through the seasons.

The relationship had evolved into an odd—but actual—friendship. The men began to hang out from time to time, going to sporting events, playing golf, and so on. They didn’t know each other on anything other than a somewhat shallow basis, however. They were still getting to know each other. So, when Russ mentioned that he witnessed a murder and didn’t think to call the police, it threw the other three for a pretty good loop. What kind of guy does that?

The foursome walked up to the second tee box with balls and drivers in hand. Not much had been said since Russ made his revelation. Russ cracked another beer, slammed it, and threw the can over his shoulder as he stared down the fairway, analyzing his next move.

So, Russ, Dwayne said, trying to digest what they’d been told. Why would you not call the police if you saw someone get murdered? That doesn’t make any sense, man. This guy Dave is three feet from our kids several times a week. Help me understand this.

Yeah, I’m having a little trouble with that too, Tommy added.

Hang on. Russ placed his ball on the tee and stepped up to it. He checked his feet to make sure he was lined up properly. After no practice swing again, he pulled back his club and swung with all his might, sending the ball careening down the left side of the fairway and into a large pond. A small flock of ducks was immediately rattled into flight.

FUUUUUCK! Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, FUCK! he yelled. "This is such bullshit! FUCK this game! Russ pounded at the ground with his driver, wiping the sweat off his forehead, still staring at the pond. I need a new goddamn driver. This club sucks."

Dwayne, Tommy, and Steve wondered if Russ had any intention of finishing his story and answering their question about the police.

Russ turned and noticed them awaiting some kind of closure. Oh, right. Why didn’t I call the cops? He paused for a moment. Well, you know, my first thought was to get the hell out of there. Jackson was waiting in the car, for Christ’s sake. Then when I got in the car I was gonna call, but I didn’t want to startle Jackson. I figured I’d wait until I got home. Then I got home, and Jade had popped a little ecstasy. She’d gotten her nipples pierced and wanted to show them off, so you know how that goes, right?

Russ looked at the guys for confirmation. He received none. Okay, fine, never mind. Amazing, but whatever. After laying some pipe, I got into the vodka. So I got a little buzz, and I got to thinking . . . I don’t know . . . maybe a guy like Dave is someone you want to have on your side, as opposed to someone you call the cops on. I know, this sounds crazy, but . . . I just started thinking that maybe a guy like Dave could help us with our baseball predicament. I mean, how much longer can we put up with this ‘daddy-baseball’ bullshit? Tell me that somewhere deep inside you that doesn’t make some sense.

Again, Russ turned to them, searching for some level of reassurance. Again, he received none.

No, man, Steve jumped in without any hesitation. There’s absolutely nowhere inside of me where that makes sense. I’m pretty sure I speak for all of us when I say that.

What the fuck are you saying, man? Tommy inquired in