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Vindicate Me	By : msmartinez Category: Individual Celebrities > Athlete/Sports Misc Views: 2091 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. I do not know the people written about in this fanfiction. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

Chapter List
- 1-Vindicate Me
- 2-Ch 2
- 3-Ch 3
- 4-Ch 4
- 2
- 3
- 4
Chapter 3********

Jason Barry burned me bad. I was filled with hate at his stupid suggestion for me to dope. What kind of idiot would risk his health and career by doing that? Apparently, dickfaces like him would.

But the idea wouldn’t leave me alone. I watched my son roll a baseball along the floor to Dutchie Reid and I thought of what it was like to pitch. Dutchie Reid looked up at me and smiled. “Looks like Rickey’s gonna be just like Daddy,” she said.

Yea, just like Daddy. Just like a loser who can’t get it together. I smiled back and nodded.

I went to the weight room more. Jason was there, always there. To me, he looked like a man who knew some big secret, only I knew it too. The other guys didn’t notice, I don’t think. I guess we did know some big secret. He never said another word to me about doping but every time I saw his eyes, he was telling me what I wanted. I did want to get my arm in gear, but never, never would the juice be the way.

The season ended and for Dutchie Reid, symphony season was in full swing. The club came up with the idea to send me to a winter league for rehab. After two years of futile rehab, sure, why not a trip to some godforsaken Latin country?

I lucked out. Dutchie Reid supported my shuttling to the Hilo Stars, some little team in the Hawaiian Winter League. “Only till January, right,” she said, a little sad.

“Yea, but it’ll help. I think. I hope.”

“Anything to help, baby,” she said.

I smiled. “You’re great, Dutchie,” I said. “What are you doing with a pud like me?”

“Mrs. Pud stands by her man, Matty.” With her words and support, I left for Hilo.

Sitting on the bench in St. Louis for two years was painful. Sitting on the bench in Hilo was worse. These players were either peach-fuzzed kids or washed-up vets, and they couldn’t do a damn thing; and what they could do, I could do better. But what could I do? Show them how it’s done?

December came, with the rain cold like the water in the shower. Not cold enough to freeze your bones. Cold enough to be refreshing. I sat on a beach in the rain. I missed my son, my wife, my arm. I wanted to burrow into the sand and not come out for a few years. The end was getting closer. I didn’t know if I could handle not having baseball. But a man has to know when to step away.

The rain poured down on me, but I saw someone else walking on the beach. I was surprised to see someone out in the nasty weather. I was displeased to see it was Jason Barry. He nodded to me in his way. Why was he here? Why hadn’t I seen him since I’d been here? “Jason,” I called after him. He turned back casually. “How much are we talking?”

His sly smile came again. “I knew I’d break ya, Matty,” he said. “Let’s see what we can do.”

His hotel room at the Ramada was like the others in the hotel, I imagined, but it just felt seedy. “I’ll give you a sample, for fifty, then you can tell me what you think. If you like it, you can see me for more. If not, well, you’re only out fifty and we can both go on to life as usual. Aren’t I a guy?”

“You’re definitely something,” I muttered.

“What’s that, Matty,” he asked. He was busy with a hypodermic needle.

“Don’t call me that,” I said. “It’s what my wife calls me.”

“Wife. What’s her name?”

“Dutchie Reid.”

He laughed shortly. “Dutchie Reid? What kind of name is that?”

“Back off, asshole. She’s from Georgia. It’s some Southern family name.”

“Is she hot?”

“Fuck you! Don’t ask me shit like that.”

“Drop your pants.”

“What?”

“This goes in your hip, close to your ass. Drop trou.”

I loosened my belt, unzipped my pants and slid them down to the floor. “Slide the waistband of your draws down a little, too,” he said. I obliged. He swabbed something cool on my hip. “Kids?”

“Yea, a son. Rickey.”

“How old?”

“A year, almost two.”

I looked back over my shoulder and saw him bent over. He placed one hand against the small of my back and pressed my body into the wall. “This’ll hurt.” The tip of the needle pierced my skin. I wasn’t prepared for the strong pinch. The needle went all the way into my muscle, to the hilt. I felt the rush of the drug in the needle and Jason finally, thankfully, pulled the needle out. He wrapped it in a tissue and tossed it in a nearby wastebasket. He opened the sliding glass door to the patio and pulled a pack of Marlboro reds from his pocket. He lit one up on the patio. “You can put your pants back on.”
I carefully pulled my pants back up, my hip sore from the shot. I had to shift my wallet to my left back pocket. I remembered the fee. I counted out fifty dollars and braved the smoky patio to pay Jason. “Pleasure doin’ business with you. Smoke?” He offered the pack.

“No, just one poison today,” I joked dryly. What I had done actually hit me. I’d just shot up steroids. I’d done a drug that could send me further into baseball oblivion, jeopardize my health, set a shit example for my boy, and infuriate my wife. It could also be the answer to my prayers. “I’ll see you around,” I said.
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