THE BLEACHERS

by Ravi Mangla

While some groped aimlessly, always unsuccessfully, for some smidgeon of spectator glory, to a coin the uncoined, a refrain unspoken within the realm of the diamond, tethering to the opposition's confidence like a lead donut, Mr. Dobbins was content with the classics: the recognizable, the trustworthy, the battle-worn. As he scrolled his hands around his mouth, cocked his lungs, he hoped - more than anything - that it would annoy the hell out of his wife. "Swing batter-batter-batter!"

He browsed the visor-handed crowd, finally finding her on the far side of the bleachers, next to Mr. Crosby's wife. The space in between her eyes was a sinkhole, engorging her eyebrows and the wrinkles across her sweat-basted forehead. He smiled impishly and slid his thumb and index finger across his lips: a pledge that the heckling had run its course, and she turned back to Mrs. Crosby, apparently satisfied. He reached his arm into the cooler by his feet and swiped one of the beers floating atop the lukewarm water. An hour earlier it had been a bed of plump, vigorous looking ice cubes.

"Grab me one of those." Mr. Neely said. Mr. Dobbins grabbed a second beer and combed his dark hair back with his wet hand. Dribbles of sweat slalomed down the pebbled ridge of his back. Mr. Dobbins and Mr. Neely clinked open their cans in duet. Mr. Dobbins rolled back his shoulders and rested his elbows on the higher bench, which simmered pleasantly against his thick, sun-bronzed forearms. He had the broad frame of a former high school athlete and burgeoning gut to remind him that middle-age was just around the bend. Mr. Neely had the gut also, and against his spindly body it looked as though he was smuggling a ham or turkey under his shirt. The Eagles were down by two runs in the bottom of the seventh – the last inning (Mini Mantle League rules). Mr. Neely's kid, Rusty, was next up to bat. The warm beer passed down Mr. Dobbins' gullet, loosening his tongue in transit.

"Five dollars says your kid will strike out." Mr. Dobbins said.

"You're an asshole." Rusty swung high on the first ball for strike one.

"His arms are like jelly."

Perhaps overcome with a sudden swell of pride for his only son, Mr. Neely acceded to the wager. "You're on."

On the third pitch, Rusty took a mean cut at a loopy bugger that bounced a couple of times in the dirt before reaching the plate.

"Well if this was cricket, there'd be no stopping him."

"Fuck you." Mr. Neely took a heavy gulp of his beer. "You're not actually going to make me pay it."

"Absolutely I am. Cough it up." Mr. Dobbins said, ushering his fingers toward his palm. Mr. Neely unfolded his wallet and handed Mr. Dobbins a rumpled five, having spent the afternoon steam-pressed between the hot bleacher bench and the sweaty seat of his shorts. Mr. Dobbins stuffed it in his pocket. With two outs, Mr. Dobbins' son, Charlie Jr., stepped up to the bag.

"Five on your kid now." Mr. Neely said.

Charlie Jr. whiffed on the fourth pitch and very nearly lost his footing in the process (but at least the pitch carried across the plate). The fin found its way back into Mr. Neely's wallet.

Mr. Cleary joined Mr. Dobbins and Mr. Neely the next game. They bet on everything from strikeouts to how many times in an inning the opposing coach picked the crease of his baseball tights out of his ass. Lincoln's became Hamilton's, finally Jackson's. By the following week they had recruited Mr. Wojanowski, Mr. Crosby, Mr. Chow, Mr. Reddy, and Mr. Martin. The men gradually flocked to one side of the bleachers as if having regressed back to the prepubescent years of junior high wallflowering. Hammered drunk by the top of the second, they made twelve sound like fifty, while across the way, having ceded defeat, the women sat bundled in conversation breaking inattention only to wave to their son in the outfield (or daughter, there was one girl on the team).

The Eagles played the Rangers in the league semifinals. The turnout was spectacular. Mr. Martin brandished a fat wad of cash in front of the men. Mr. Martin was a pleasant looking guy with big dewy eyes and a messy scrap of oak hair.

"Five thousand smackers." He said. "I'm buying the good madam a big diamond for our anniversary."

"Where the hell did you get five thousand dollars?" Mr. Cleary said.

"I worked hard, my man. Something none of you boys would know anything about."

"How much do you guys have?" Mr. Dobbins said. He pointed around like an auctioneer as the men peeked in their wallets and called out odd denominations of money. "It doesn't matter. I'll cover the difference. Your five thousand versus ours. You can even pick your team." The men seemed wary of the proposal, but no one was so bold as to speak up. And with the point of objection passed, they had no other choice but to adopt enthusiasm for the enterprise.

The Rangers scored two runs in the top of the first. "The offer's still on the table. Pick your team." Mr. Dobbins said.

"I'm not an idiot." Mr. Martin said in a whiny voice that seemed to intimate former standing as the youngest child in the family or smallest boy in the class.

"Granted, I'm no psychologist, but why else would you bring five thousand dollars to a little league baseball game and show it to all of us?"

"I just came from the bank and I'm buying the ring right after this." Mr. Martin said in his defense.

"Okay. But you could have left it in your car."

"Who leaves five thousand dollars lying around in their car?"

"You wanna bet it. It's burning a hole in your pocket. You know it, Jack. I know it. Let's not kid ourselves here."

He wavered.

"Screw it. Fine." He slapped down the roll of cash and the men cheered, even though their money was - against their will - on the line as well.

The Rangers held a two to one lead through the first three innings. The Eagles busted it open in the fourth however, putting up six runs (single inning mercy rule in effect), and four more in the sixth. Mr. Martin's face grew longer and paler as the game wore on - a small blotch of white amid the swarm of red, sunburned faces. He was frighteningly sallow at the end of the game as the Eagles stormed the pitcher's mound and heaved up and down in a sweaty, sun-dazed rapture, hooting and hollering at the top of their lungs. His eyes scaled back from the field and looked out onto the vanishing sun in a kind of vague reminiscence. The men were quiet. You could see them playing it out in their heads: Mr. Martin walking off silently, sticking the nose of a revolver in his mouth and blowing his brains out. Mr. Dobbins' face softened and he put a hand on Mr. Martin's shoulder.

"Don't worry, Jackie. It was a joke. It's fine." Mr. Martin was still wan and staring at some indistinct point on the horizon. "Are you okay? I said it was a joke." Mr. Martin smiled weakly and a little color returned to his face. The children shook hands with the Rangers and collected their equipment in the dugout. The sun was setting and the effects of the long, torrid afternoon began finally to seep in as the men slumped back in a drowsy, despondent languor. They were polite in their goodbyes but everything was different and they all felt it. For the finals they clung disgustingly to their better halves. And if, say, Mr. Cleary glanced over at Mr. Wojanowski or Mr. Dobbins at Mr. Neely, they would look away or pretend to be engaged in a conversation with their wives. Mrs. Martin showed off her new ring to some of the other women. They all agreed it was a beautiful ring. Mr. Martin was bashful as she showered him with affection. They shared Eskimo kisses between innings. The sun hammered down, the ring shimmering like a morsel of ice in the cloying light. The Eagles lost and by the end of the game everyone was just happy to get off the hot bleachers.

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Ravi Mangla lives in Fairport, NY. His fiction has recently appeared or is forthcoming in Elimae, Eclectica, McSweeney's Internet Tendency, Pequin, and Eyeshot. He blogs at http://ravimangla.blogspot.com/.