In the Pinch

Every man has a bar, even the ones who don't drink. They have a place out there where they'd feel at home, even if they don't know it yet, or how to stare straight ahead over a double-whiskey among a tired row of men doing the same as if using the urinals at Grand Central Station. Harry Morgan was no saint in denial, though; he knew his place, or thought he did. Knew his friends just the same, same stipulation attached. After a double-shift at the tennis ball factory where he worked that double-whiskey sounded quite appealing. It wasn't hard to force the wheel in the direction of the Rusty Rail's parking lot. Those friends of his were already there; he knew their cars. As the front door of the bar squeaked open the four faces he expected to see turned ninety degrees to greet him. "Hey, Har," they half-heartedly grumbled in unison. It was a routine they'd stuck to since reaching the legal drinking age twenty-something years ago. Traditions don't change much in small towns like Buxton. Traditions don't change much, and word travels fast.

"Let me buy this round," Harry said as he bellied up to the bar. It used to be a longer trip, but his wife's cooking had improved exponentially and he was a firm believer in positive reinforcement. The drinks were doled out dutifully by Doris, the chain-smoking bartender, and various forms of forced gratitude were expressed. Harry had the smallest income, but always bought the most rounds for his friends. That's how that goes sometimes.

The conversation picked up where it had left off when the door opened. "That kid barely knew which way to run around the bases..." Dick Bagg started back up in his trademark superior tone. He was the most successful of the bunch and wouldn't let anyone forget it. "...but by the end of the season I had him knocking them out of the park." Dick was the long-time coach of the Buxton Bucks, the local junior high baseball team. His ability to lead young men to athletic victory had saved him from the typical factory and construction jobs that most men in the neighborhood struggled to maintain. All he had to do was take attendance for eight hours, pass out basketballs, blow a whistle once in awhile, and then drill some fifteen-year-olds in the finer art of America's favorite pastime until dark. The thought of him having summers off made most of his peers sick. His attitude convinced the rest to follow suit. Still, in a place like Buxton with that invisible glass dome, one tends to stay friends with the people one grew up with, regardless of their actual personality.

"Yeah, but don't count on getting that lucky again this year," said Sam Stickler, the local realist. Sam was to Dick what gravity was to their rapidly aging wives-- a constant reminder of the painfully sober truth. A man like Dick needed to be grounded and Sam was just the man to do it. "I saw that bunch of sissies you had running around the track. Ain't no all-stars in that line-up, man." Sam sipped his drink as if to seal some secret deal.

"Hey, now," spat Johnny Stevens, the Buxton's biggest drunk. "My kid's on that roster, Sam. You best watch what you say." Johnny's kid deserved to be on that team more than anyone if only to get him away from his alcoholic father for awhile.

"Mine, too!" exclaimed Frank Muller, slamming his palm down on the oak next to his crumpled pile of singles. It suddenly became obvious to Harry that his friends had been there awhile. He hated working the double-shift for that very reason.

A strange silence hung in the air, one that only Harry's two cents could break. No one looked in his direction, but he could feel their souls' eyes bearing down on him. He knew what they wanted to hear. He wasn't ready to give it to them yet. "Another drink please, Doris. Just for me this time, these boys seem to have had enough." The chorus of drunken laughter that came as request's response reminded him of how right his father had been about just one thing: kill them with kindness.

A few frustrated glances were shot back-and-forth amongst his friends as they settled back down. This was an important juncture in the dance, the next step would be important. Someone had to pick the bat back up and take a swing. Leave it to the coach to go for the rebound.

"Well your kid didn't even try out this year, Sammy-boy," sneered Dick. It wasn't Sam he was talking to. Even Doris knew that from her spot next to the register.

"No kidding. That's 'cause he's playin' for a traveling team this year. Didn't want him to be embarrassed off the field next to a bunch of snot-nosed brats led by the biggest fraud in Buxton." Sam sure knew how to get under a man's skin, four men at once even.

It was Harry's turn again. It was always Harry's turn, he just didn't want to take it. Instead of giving in he ordered another whiskey.

"Jesus, Harry. There a hole in your boot tonight?" asked Johnny. It seemed a bit hypocritical, considering its source. Johnny was known to be found sleeping on the lawns of various neighbors from time to time.

"I used to think you were dropped, Johnny. Now I think you were thrown."

"Maybe your daddy should've thrown you, Har. How is the old geezer anyway?"

"He died two years ago, Johnny. You would've gotten the invitation to the funeral if you were sober enough to walk to your mailbox." The sly smile on Harry's face told his friends that it was OK to laugh, but Doris knew better as she wiped a dirty pint glass with an even dirtier rag.

That was how the game was to be played for the sake of dodging another bullet. He wouldn't let them get the best of him so easily. He owed that to his son, Dave, who was fast asleep at home after a discouraging week. There were three things not to be toyed with: a man's vehicle, a man's livelihood, a man's family. Harry was known to care most about the third.

Dick, Sam, Johnny, and Frank carried on about several topics that were constantly discussed in bars across the globe. Somehow, though, it always went back to that stupid junior high baseball team coached by Mr. Dick Bagg. It was no coincidence, and it was cruel. Harry shot the whiskey back and pretended to have an itch on his earlobe; he was really trying to rip it off.

"Say, Mr. Morgan..." Dick taunted in his increasingly obnoxious voice. It was evident that he was about to go for the jugular out of full-count desperation. "You ever bring home any of those tennis balls you make so well?"

"I see plenty of them at the plant, Dick. No need to bring my work home with me."

"Well maybe you should. I mean then your kid could learn to throw a ball correctly."

There was that silence again, though this time everyone feared what Harry would say next. They feared it as much as they yearned to hear it. An image of Dave's face when he walked through the door and said that he didn't make the team was burned in the front of Harry's mind.

Again, good old Charlie Morgan's advice came into play, God rest his soul. Harry's eyes smiled brightly, half a glow on his sweaty brow.

"Friends are cheaper in bulk, Coach Bagg," Harry said, killing the last of his whiskey in a single gulp. "Just like those tennis balls I make all day."

This time only Doris laughed. Harry tipped her heavily and headed home.

"You're a real piece of work, Dick," Sam said under his breath.

"Last call!" proclaimed Doris as if the four men in front of her didn't know the routine.

Harry did. He always left before being asked to. That was rare for a Buxton boy.