Elegy - Chapter 3

After our last band meeting, I’d started to let some ideas about a few new songs percolate in the back of my head. One had bubbled to the top and I’d given it a lot of thought during the hike with Sydney and over the rest of the weekend.

I shook off Monday’s weird encounter with Mr. Packer and finally sat down to write it down. I’d already been playing with a melody for weeks, not really thinking about specifics, and to my surprise it just kind of meshed perfectly with my song idea. The hook was a total departure from our usual classic rock-inspired sound.

I couldn’t pinpoint where the inspiration had come from, but it was clear that it addressed some of the concerns about our music, like Rowan’s warning not to get stuck with too many ballads. This new song definitely had a different sound.

I’m not even sure where it came from since it wasn’t the kind of music I listened to on my own. Maybe it was hearing people like Ronnie Ralston, who I never listened to, on tour. Wherever the inspiration seeped into my brain from, it did address some of the things I’d been thinking about our music. The closest one of our songs so far got to this was One Night Stand, but that was still a bit more metal than the sound I’d come up with.

“Hey, guys,” I said, walking into the garage. “So … I wrote a new song.”

“Great. You just talked about us needing more stuff for the tour. Play it for us,” Lyla said.

“All right, but a word of warning. It’s still a work in progress, and it’s a pretty big departure from what we normally play.”

“How big of a departure?” Marco asked, sounding less enthused than Lyla.

“Big,” I said.

“Now I really can’t wait,” Lyla said, shooting Marco a glare, daring him to complain again.

Ignoring Marco’s skepticism, I hooked my guitar up to the small amp and began playing. The lighter, more upbeat chord progression was a stark contrast to our usual hard-strummed bluesy riffs. Even the intro was shorter, though I admittedly missed the longer lead-in.

With the last few beats, I switched to short, staccato notes that mimicked, I hoped, the cadence of the first part of the first verse, which acted as a lead-in. Lyla was immediately on board, her head bobbing to the rhythm and her fingers playing an invisible bass. I knew I had her hooked. Her own song, One Night Stand, was the closest thing we had to this new sound, sharing the same energetic vibe, although her song was more aggressive.

Marco, however, seemed less thrilled. He pursed his lips, arms crossed, not really looking at me.

The first verse was about life’s little joys, with mentions of ‘laughter filling a room’ and ‘every flower’s bloom’. I knew it needed some tweaking, as it got a bit cliché in parts, but that was fixable. What I really loved, though, was the chorus:

A walk in the woods, holding hands too tight,

It’s the little things, the little things.

Lying in bed, on the phone all night,

It’s the little things, the little things.

Holding on to the little things,

It’s the little things.

The lyrics could use some work, but what I really liked was how the music progressed. In most of the music I normally wrote, I stuck with the traditional I-IV-V, usually with some variation, that was common in a lot of classic rock.

This time, I started with IV-V-VI-IV going from C to G to Am to F, but then varied it at the chorus, keeping the same progression but changing the key to E and finishing it with a I-V-IV progression before going back to C Major and the original IV-V-VI-IV progression. I also kept the tempo fast-paced through the chorus, and then slowed it back down for the verses, to add to the feeling.

The actual music side of song writing was where I was normally the most comfortable, so that’s where I usually spent most of my energy. I knew the lyrics could use some fixing, and we’d have to figure out how to get everyone else mixed in, but the bones of the melody sounded solid to me. The end result felt happy and upbeat, almost bubbly.

I finished and looked at them, guitar still in hand.

“It’s … different,” Marco said cautiously. “I get that we need to change things up, but we still need to sound like us. We’ve got one album out, and we’ve started building an audience. The last thing we want is to change who we are. The lyrics are okay, but we should find a way to fit them into our style.”

He gestured with his hands, as if trying to physically mold the song into a form.

“What style?” Lyla shot back before I could respond. “We have eleven songs on our album and like four different styles. Pop, country, classic rock, and one borderline alternative. Didn’t Warren say we need to hone in on one style instead of being all over the place? Rowan mentioned that too in the studio.”

“Yeah,” I agreed. “That’s what I was aiming for here. We need a style. I’ve been thinking, and classic rock isn’t where we want to land. I love it, but it won’t do us any favors. Kent would probably suggest mainstream pop, but I don’t want that either, or alternative.”

“Then what do you want?” Marco asked, frustrated. “Because you just listed like five different things that cover everything we do now. What, are we going to become an R&B band?”

“No, Marco. We’re not,” I said dryly. “So far, we’ve consistently mixed styles, but I think we’ve been doing it the wrong way. We’ve leaned towards ballads, which makes sense since that’s a big part of classic rock, but it’s not where we should be. I noticed during our gigs that the audience gets the most excitement and energy during One Night Stand. I think that’s true for most of our shows. People like its energy.”

“So, bubblegum pop,” Marco scoffed, rolling his eyes.

“That wasn’t bubblegum pop,” Lyla retorted. “If anything, it was like … rock pop, glam pop … I don’t know. I liked it. It was exciting and fun. Can’t you see that? Or are you too busy trying to smother anything that sounds even a little bit creative?”

“Guys, maybe we should …” Seth began, but Marco bulldozed over him.

“This isn’t about stifling anything, Lyla,” Marco snapped, his face turning red. “This is about keeping ourselves viable. And saying we’re running out of ideas is bullshit. I brought an idea, and you guys just ignored it.”

“Because it was a shit idea, Marco,” Lyla shot back, her fists balled up. “Your song sucked. It was unoriginal and boring. Everyone’s been too busy being nice to tell you, and I kept quiet because I knew Charlie didn’t want drama. But if you’re going to keep running your mouth, I’m going to tell you what goddamn time it is.”

“You fucking bitch,” Marco said, taking a menacing step forward.

To Lyla’s credit, she didn’t back down. Her fists were balled so tight her knuckles were white, and she was leaning like she was about to take a step forward, but I wasn’t going to let this get that far.

“Marco!” I shouted, using the tone Chef sometimes employed with me when I needed a reality check.

I shifted my guitar around behind my back, unplugging it as I did, getting ready to move in and intercept him. Thankfully, Marco backed off. I half-expected Lyla to start swinging anyway. She was always the most impetuous one of us, so I was pleasantly relieved when she didn’t press it.

As they glared at each other, I said, “We can talk about this, and I’m willing to hear your thoughts. But we need a direction for our music. In a year or so, we’ll need to think about another album. I’d like to record a single or two and release them in the meantime. This is my suggestion. Not all of our songs have to be this upbeat or be exactly like this, but I think this style will work off our strengths. It combines the best of the seventies with more modern stuff.”

I’d picked this direction partly because it offered plenty of keyboard options, giving Marco something to do. I also knew pointing this out would only antagonize him more, so I kept that part to myself.

“I don’t think it’s a bad idea, Marco,” Seth chimed in, casting an apologetic glance his way.

“Fine. Yeah. Whatever. If you guys all like this shit, then I guess we’ll do it. I mean, we’re just playing in Charlie’s little world, aren’t we?” Marco snapped before casting one last heated glance at Lyla and turning his back on us to fiddle with his keyboard.

Lyla started to say something in return, but she caught my eye and saw me silently shaking my head and mouthing ‘no’. She rolled her eyes, shrugged, and went to fetch something from her car.

I took a deep breath. At least it hadn’t all fallen apart.

Yet.

***

“Hey, Charlie!” David hollered, sprinting across the field towards me, his lopsided grin as wide as ever. “Ready?”

The first week back at school had us all easing back into the rhythm of things, with everyone who signed up for baseball practicing together. Carr’s policy was that anyone who wanted to join a team sport had to be allowed to participate.

Sure, joining a team didn’t guarantee actual playtime, but at least you’d get to take it as a class, earn your PE credit, and suit up for games. Even if it meant warming the bench.

I shrugged, “I’ll give it my best shot.”

Honestly, I was nervous. Last year, I’d done pretty well, making varsity after just a few games. But I hadn’t touched a ball or glove since the season ended. It’s not like I was planning on going pro or anything, but I’d enjoyed it, and I didn’t want to fall back to junior varsity after being on the varsity team. A lot of these guys either played football or fall ball, so I knew I’d be rusty compared to them.

“All right, everyone! Gather ’round!” Coach Dean’s voice boomed across the field.

He and Coach Cooper were already standing by the backstop, clipboards in hand. To my immense relief, Coach Bryant wasn’t there. He’d been reinstated last year, and I knew he’d worked with the football team, but I got the impression he wasn’t the head coach of varsity anymore. Maybe he was on the outs with the administration, despite his chumminess with Mr. Packer. Either way, I just hoped he wouldn’t be participating in baseball. I’d done my best to avoid him all year, and I wasn’t keen on breaking that streak now.

“Some of you have been through this before, and some of you haven’t, so I’ll go over the ground rules. If you’ve heard it before, just shut up and sit there while I tell the other guys. Got it?”

Everyone just nodded.

“Okay. We have three teams here: varsity, junior varsity, and a freshman squad. Coach Cooper and I will be in charge of the varsity squad. We’re still sorting out our coaching situation, but by the time the season starts, we’ll have coaches for the junior varsity and freshman. Until then, you guys will train with us. Just because you don’t make varsity doesn’t mean we’re judging your ability. We want all of our teams to be competitive, so if we have some talented freshmen, sophomores, or juniors; you might be put on junior varsity, even though you’re good enough for varsity. We expect you guys, especially the juniors, to help coach up the younger players. Like I said, we’re short-staffed this season, so it’s time for you to step up. Got it?”

“Got it,” we all echoed back.

“All right. Today, we’re gonna do some fielding and hitting to get a sense of your progress. We’re looking for skill and athleticism, but more importantly, commitment and team spirit. That last one’s huge for me. I expect everyone who plays for me to be a team player. If you don’t think you can handle that, then you might have more fun in another sport ‘cause you’re gonna get real tired of running laps with me. Got it?”

“Got it,” we echoed.

“Good. Now, half of you guys will go with Coach Cooper for fielding drills, and the other half will come with me for hitting drills. Make no mistake, you’re being evaluated. Every year, I get a few guys who say they wanna be pitchers and don’t think they should do either set of drills. Tough. We’ll give pitchers a chance to show us what they can do, but you still gotta do the drills with the rest of us. Got it?”

“Got it,” the parrots repeated.

“Good. A through M, you’re with me. N through Z, you’re with Coach Cooper. If you can’t tell which section your name is in let me know and I’ll see if I can’t knock the alphabet into your skull with my clipboard.”

He grimaced when none of us laughed at his joke and said, “All right. Get moving.”

David and I ended up in the same group, just like last year. He was a pitcher, but as Coach Dean said, everyone had to do the drills. We jogged over to the outfield where Coach Cooper set up a bucket of balls and a bat by the left foul line. We were waiting for him to catch up. Coach Cooper must’ve been seventy by now and was as mean as he was old, but he could still smack the crap out of a baseball, and knew more about the sport than any of us ever would.

“Quit foolin’ around and get out there,” he grumbled, picking up his bat and pointing toward far center field.

We did as we were told, spreading out a bit from each other. The guys who played last year called out their balls, and the rest of us held back, letting whoever called it first go for it. The freshmen, sadly, didn’t know better and tried for every one, which lasted about two hits before one of them smashed into one of the seniors. The senior was about to beat the freshman’s ass until Coach Cooper intervened, hauling the freshmen away and reading them the riot act.

“God, I missed this,” David said.

“Getting yelled at?” I asked.

“Sure. It’s all part of it. You know he doesn’t mean anything by it, and it wouldn’t be the same if they didn’t.”

“I guess,” I said, not entirely convinced. “I did miss being out here. The whole … I got it!”

I broke away from David and sprinted for a ball that was on a shallow loop, looking like it might reach the back fence. The freshmen were still recovering from their scolding, and the other guys let me have it, so this was my chance. It was a good ball too, moving fast on a shallow arc, which was harder to catch than a high pop-up.

I realized I wasn’t going to intercept it in time, so I pushed off as hard as I could, my glove stretched out as far as possible. With a satisfying smack, the ball landed securely in the pocket. I did a shoulder roll landing and popped back up. Grinning, I jogged the ball back to Coach Cooper.

“Not bad, Nelson,” he said gruffly, which for him, was the highest of praise.

We were just finishing up fielding practice when I saw something out of the corner of my eye and turned just in time to see Harry Torres and Paul Adams talking to Coach Dean. ‘Talking’ wasn’t exactly right; they were getting chewed out, with Coach Dean pointing at the field, then his wristwatch, and then the field again.

He pointed at a spot by the backstop fence for them to stand, and then yelled at us to switch places with the guys who’d already been batting. David ran to catch up with me and then slowed down, matching my pace.

“Harry made it after all,” he said, nodding toward the pair moping by the fence.

“Yeah, but Coach ripped them a new one for being late.”

“Like it will matter,” David said. “I swear, those guys are untouchable.”

“No kidding.”

One night before New Year’s, Harry had gathered some of his football pals and tried to jump me outside the Blue Ridge when I’d stayed late to help Vinney close the place down. Thanks to all the training I’d done with Chef, I’d been able to handle them, and they’d done it in plain view of a camera Chef had in the parking lot, facing the front of the restaurant. It was enough for Sydney’s dad to arrest them on assault charges, even though they hadn’t even touched me; throwing a punch was enough.

Yet again, they’d skated through when the county DA, who also happened to be the father of Aaron Campbell, one of the bullies from last year who’d tried multiple times to get at me, decided not to press charges. They’d walked away without consequences, like every other time. No wonder they were the way they were. If you can go through life doing whatever you want and getting away with it every time, why change?

Harry was clearly still holding a grudge, his eyes locked on me the entire time I walked from the outfield to home plate. I could feel the confrontation brewing and knew he’d try something, or at least say something. And if I dared to respond, I’d end up being the bad guy. Coach Dean was all right, but Vice-Principal Packer was still looking for a reason to kick me out of school, and fighting during baseball tryouts would almost certainly qualify.

“You know the drill,” Coach Dean said. “You’ll take your turn hitting some balls out into right field. After a few hits, I’ll call for you to hit a few grounders, try and clip a few along the foul line, and bunt once. The goal is to see your range and how you control the ball coming off your bat. Don’t worry if you’re not able to get it just right; even in college ball, you’ll find most guys can’t really control where their hit goes. The big thing is that I want to see if you can adapt your swing if the pitch stays steady. Swinging for the fences is good, but ultimately, we want you guys to have a little more versatility than that. Don’t worry if you can’t do it. That’s one of the things we’ll try to teach you in junior varsity and freshman ball. After this, we’ll try some actual pitches and see how you do with some of the fancy stuff. All right, Tony, you’re up.”

The rest of us moved back to the fence by the backstop and waited our turn. I’d just turned my head to talk to David when I felt a hand push my shoulder back into the fence. It was so light, I thought maybe someone had bumped into me by accident, until I looked over and saw Harry standing over me, or he would have been if I wasn’t three inches taller than him.

“What?” I said, trying to control my tone.

“I’m surprised to see you here after you bailed on the playoffs last year. You thought you were hot shit, and when the team actually needed you, you were nowhere to be seen.”

“How would you know,” David said over my shoulder. “Didn’t you get bumped down to JV last year?”

“Shut it, Reid, unless you want to catch the smoke too.”

“What smoke?” I asked. “Last time you tangled with me, I put you, your boyfriend behind you, and the other guys you brought with you in the dirt. Do you really want to try that again? I’m not sure how many times Aaron’s dad can clear the charges on you, though. So you might want to think it through.”

Harry’s face turned red, anger clearly reflected in his eyes. “Yeah, and fuck you for that, too. My parents took my car because of you. You’ve still got to pay.”

“Your parents took your car because you assaulted someone on camera, dumbass. You’re lucky, though. If there hadn’t been cameras, you might have come off a lot worse. It’s hard to play for anyone if you can’t walk.”

His face went from red to deep purple, and he took a step forward. Even with my specific warning about him only getting off because of Aaron’s dad, he was ready to step up and do it again in front of students and coaches. He was so easy to bait, I almost felt bad about it, until I remembered his entire plan at Christmas was to beat me so bad that I couldn’t play music anymore, or the fact that he and Aaron had gone at me with baseball bats last year in a dark corner of the school.

I wasn’t going to make the first move, but I’d happily help him throw his future away if that’s what he wanted to do. Fortunately, or maybe unfortunately, Coach Dean had other ideas.

“Nelson, you’re up,” he hollered.

My name wasn’t next in the rotation, but Coach Dean gave me a knowing look as he handed me the bat, and I stepped up to the plate for my turn with the pitching machine. Coach Dean had always been cool with me, so I assumed he thought maybe I’d throw the first punch and was just trying to keep me from getting into trouble.

I choked up on the bat and took my stance. Maybe talking to Harry had messed with my head a little more than I wanted to admit, because when the pitch came I whiffed so hard I practically spun around in a circle like a cartoon character.

I could hear Harry and Paul laughing it up.

“Focus, Charlie,” Coach Dean said softly from my left.

I needed to get my head in the game. I wanted to be on varsity, and I wasn’t about to let Harry be the one to keep me out. I thought about Chef and his lessons about meditation. Specifically, breath control, which was a big part of meditation and actual fighting, since proper breath control could calm you or give you power. I slowed my breathing, consciously focusing on the in and out. As the machine whirred, the ball being loaded from the hopper into the shooting arm, I took in a deep breath, watching as the ball was released and sailed towards me. Letting the breath out, I swung, turning with my hips as I did, the bat sailing in a straight arc across the plate.

The thwap of the leather ball hitting the wooden bat told me I got all of it. The ball practically leaped off my bat, making a slow, steady arc down the left side of the field, soaring through Coach Cooper’s practice before clearing the rear fence by three feet.

“Hey!” Coach Cooper yelled and then waved in annoyance as no one on our side cared.

I’d been the first one to clear the fence today, and everyone, or at least almost everyone, was celebrating.

“That wasn’t exactly where you were supposed to put it, but I can’t be mad at a hit like that,” Coach Dean said. “You give me a bunch of those this season, and we’re gonna have a good year.”

“I’ll try, Coach,” I said, unable to keep the grin off my face.

The rest of my swings went just as well. I hit the line drive perfectly between where the outfielders would normally stand. Then I bounced a ball straight down the foul line, which stayed just fair, the entire time.

I went back to the fence and got slaps on the back from David and a few others. Harry seemed to take my doing well, personally. He and Paul stayed further down the fence, but he spent the next five minutes glaring at me while other kids got a go at bat.

Coach actually had to say his name twice when it was his turn, I guess because he was too busy mugging at me to hear clearly. He jerked the bat out of the hand of the kid who’d gone before him and stomped up to the plate, getting a frown from Coach Dean.

I’ll give it to Harry, he might be a jerk, but he was usually a good ballplayer. Maybe because he’d worked himself up being pissed at me or maybe he let the pressure get to him, but he completely tanked his at-bat. Three pitches down, three missed swings, and with a pitching machine, that was hard to do. He was the only one who didn’t connect all day.

Worse, he didn’t control himself once. After the last ball whiffed by, he threw the bat down, the end bouncing off home plate causing the whole thing to spring back up, missing Coach Dean’s head by inches.

“Watch it!” Coach said in surprise.

“Fu…” Harry started to say before he realized who he was talking to and stomped off instead.

Paul did better, connecting with two balls, landing both more or less where they needed to be. He tried to smirk at me as he passed by coming back to the group, I guess thinking he’d done something notable. He might not have whiffed as badly as Harry, but there were still a bunch of guys that hit better than he did.

We finished up the day with everyone gathered together batting against Coach Cooper, who threw a variety of pitches. I didn’t do as well on this as I did with the pitching machine, notably whiffing completely on the curveball, but I still felt I did okay. Harry managed to redeem himself a little bit, although he didn’t have a stellar performance even after calming down.

“All right, everyone,” Coach Dean said as he had us all gathered back on the bleachers. “That’s a wrap for today. I saw some great talent out there, but I also saw some attitudes that need adjusting.”

He didn’t look directly at Harry, but several kids did turn to look at him since everyone knew that’s who he was talking to.

“Remember, being part of this team means showing dedication, sportsmanship, and teamwork. If you want to be on this team, you need to demonstrate that you’re taking this seriously.”

I think it finally hit Paul and Harry that their antics might keep them off varsity as the two looked at each other, noticeably worried.

“We’ll go over everyone’s performance here today and results will be posted next week. Keep in mind, as we practice over the next week we’re still watching and evaluating you. So keep pushing, keep trying to do better, and remember that we’re a team. All right! Get out of here.”

He and Coach Cooper went to collect all the equipment while the rest of us scrambled off the bleachers and headed inside to get our school bags and everything. I was feeling good, and was pretty confident that both David and I would make the team.