Cardenal? Plays for the Cubs, don’t he?”
Coach Groves tensed body slackened a bit. “That’s right. Outfielder. The Cubs are my fav—”
“I oughta drag your ass before the school board or file criminal charges, but my wife says no. She’s afraid that would come back to hurt Ham in some way. And she feels bad cause you and your missus is goin’ through a bad patch. So, against my better judgment, I’m not goin’ to go public, but dammit Trey, this better never happen again.” Thom Jeff said it with such conviction Ham believed it to be true. Evidently, so did Coach Groves, who was probably equally relieved to learn Ham and his family were not going to pursue disciplinary action with the school board.
“All right, Thom Jeff, I hear you.” Then Coach Groves said to Ham, “Ham, I’m sorry things got a little out of hand yesterday. I shouldn’t have broke Jose over your butt.” Ham thought Coach Groves sounded genuinely remorseful, but he thought it might be more for the loss of Jose than for any undue pain he had caused Ham.
“There are two conditions for me lettin’ this go. First, you’re gonna get an emergency room bill from us. I expect a certified check within a week of your gettin’ it.” Groves nodded.
“Second,” he turned the bat handle over slowly in his hand, “you ever take a paddle or lay a hand on a single hair of my boy’s head or any other student here, I will personally come up here and shove this handle and barrel so far up your ass you’ll be readin’ Jose’s name with the back of your eyeballs.”
Coach Groves’s eyes widened.
“Let’s go, Ham.” Thom Jeff said and abruptly left the office. Ham started toward the exit where the Studebaker was parked. But Thom Jeff walked across the gym to where the baseball coach’s office was. He found Coach Maynard leaning back in his chair, feet propped on the desk, reading the morning paper and eating a doughnut. Maynard jumped up when he saw Thom Jeff and his star pitcher.
“Mornin’ Mr. MacPherson!” Coach Maynard beamed. “Ham.” Coach nodded toward Ham. To Coach Maynard’s knowledge, Thom Jeff had never been to see Ham pitch during his three years on varsity, but Coach Maynard knew who Thom Jeff was nonetheless.
“How can I help you?”
“Ham won’t be playin’ tonight, Coach.” Ham was the regular Friday night pitcher; on Tuesdays he played first base.
“Why not, Mr. MacPherson?
“He’s injured.”
“Why, how did he get injured?” Coach Maynard asked. It had rained yesterday so there was no practice, and Coach hadn’t seen Ham at all yesterday.
“Why don’t you ask Groves about that?” Thom Jeff turned to walk away. Then over his shoulder said, “He may not be able to pitch on Friday either.”
Coach Maynard’s mouth dropped open, but before he could say anything, Thom Jeff and Ham were headed out of the gym. Thom Jeff muttered, “That oughta take care of that.”
Out of the corner of his eye, Ham saw Coach Maynard, who outweighed Coach Groves by 100 pounds, stomping across the gym floor toward Coach Groves’s office yelling, “Groves! Groves! What the hell have you done now?”
As they got into the Studebaker to go home, Ham realized he should not have had such unkind thoughts about his father, at least not this time. His father really did care about him, Ham decided, even if he had a hard time showing it.
Chapter 8
When Ham showed up late for poker night on the Sunday after the Coach Groves’s incident, he discovered his little brother, Michael Allen, had taken his place.
“Ah Ham, I thought you warn’t gonna come!” Michael Allen whined.
“Thanks for your concern little brother,” Ham retorted. He sat on another chair on a pillow he had brought to sit on. Even though it had been nearly a week, he was still very sore.
Carl asked him right away, “What happened to you, Ham?”
“Oh, it’s nothin’ Uncle Carl.”
“Sonuvabitch Trey Groves broke a baseball bat over his ass,” Thom Jeff said, counting out his twenty-dollar entry fee.
“What?” Bill, Mack, and Carl said simultaneously. Dubya and Brother Bob already knew the story. Thom Jeff proceeded to tell the story, ending with his threat to Groves.
Having heard the story several times, Michael Allen was bored with it. “Grandpa, go on with your story!” Michael Allen pleaded.
“What are y’all talkin’ ‘bout?” Ham asked, anxious also to change the subject.
“Mike Al wants to know how I started the poker group.” Dubya replied.
Ham knew that was a good story. “Go on then.”
“Well, like I was sayin’, I decided to ‘semi-retire’ ‘bout seven years ago. My first project was to turn this ole’ tobacco barn into a poker room. Always wanted one.” Ham thought Grandpa Dubya was starting to sound like Uncle Carl. “We warn’t raisin’ as much tobacco anymore and didn’t really need the barn. So I made two rooms—the one out there for my landscapin’ business,” he pointed toward the other room, “and this one for playin’ poker.”
“I brung a fridge and small freezer for ice cream and what nots. Your Grandma didn’t say nothin’. But when I installed the window AC unit over there, she got suspicious. Then when I brung this felt covered table over from the Cherokee Injuns, she come runnin’ down here. Says, ‘Dubya, are you makin’ a poker room?’ ‘Well, I do believe I am, Cornelia,’ I says. ‘I give up drinkin’ and cigarettes when we married, I just can’t give up seven card stud too!’ I knew she wouldn’t protest too much, ‘cause Cornelia likes a good game of cards much as anybody.” Dubya winked at Brother Bob. Everybody laughed.
Bill said, “Dubya ante up.”
“Oh yeah, sorry,” Dubya apologized and threw a blue chip in the pot. “Even bought these chips from the Cherokee chief. He got ‘em from the ole’ King’s Crown Casino in Las Vegas, what closed down six months after it opened in 1964.
“I promised her no alcohol and no cigarettes in the poker room, a promise I’ve kept all these years, despite resistance on some parts.” He looked at Uncle Carl and Thom Jeff. “And no cussin’.” He looked at Brother Bob, who informed Dubya after his first profanity-laced outburst that one of the most important lessons he learned in seminary was to distinguish between whom the minister could cuss with and with whom he could not! Of course, no one broke the no swearing rule more than Dubya himself.
“Then it was a matter of choosin’ the group. Handpicked ever’ one of you. I decided to call it the ‘Young Men’s Christian Association,’ case anybody got suspicious. Had a plaque engraved with that on it and the year it was founded 1969.” Everyone knew that because the plaque was nailed to the door of the tobacco barn. “And I put those blinds up in case the sheriff was to drive by.” Dubya pointed to the drawn blinds. He had an irrational paranoia about being arrested for illegal gambling. “Once Harold died, I replaced him with Ham here, who has turned into be a mighty fine poker player!”
“When
