FIRST PLACE IN LITTLE LEAGUE

        When I was 12 years old, I almost changed Dad one day. I played with matches when Mom and Dad weren't at home. Mom would just yell at me, but I never wanted to get caught by Dad. One time I lost track of time and was playing with them when I heard him walk in the door. There was no use trying to clean them up or hide them. I had them all spread across the kitchen floor. One match was burning in my hand. I froze when I heard Dad come in, allowing the match to burn my fingers. Regardless of how it was going to sound, I knew I had to at least try and lie myself out of this one.
        Dad came upstairs and threw his briefcase down. He looked at me. He looked down at the matches, then back up at me. His black eyes had a way of penetrating my brain, reading my mind, hearing the lies before I could even figure them out. "Go ahead, tell me what you want me to believe," I could imagine him thinking. I realized early on that he doesn't believe me even when I'm telling the truth, so what's the use? He'd beat the shit out of me regardless.
        I made up some story about the pilot light going out in the furnace and how I spilled the box of matches while trying to get one out. I could feel my ass start to sting, anticipating my beating. Nausea set in. My hands began to sweat. My voice shook. I felt it. He was coming towards me, ready to smack my face and knock me over, allowing him access to my ass.
        He walked over my way in his huge black dress shoes. The tassels shook with each step. I quivered with his every move, not knowing when to expect my punishment. He raised his hand to me. This time something inside forced me onto my feet. His hand froze in mid-swing. I breathed heavily, nostrils flaring. "Dad," I said calmly, sternly, "You don't want to do this!" It was like we were communicating with our eyes, unblinking. Our shoulders were tense. "I love you, Dad." He lowered his hand to his side, not changing his angry facial expression. His eyes told me that he wanted to kill me - that he would kill me if he felt like it. "And you love me." For a second I thought about how it wouldn't be so bad if he killed me.
        For the first time, the rage disappeared from his eyes and was replaced by tears. The tears congregated in his eyes, not falling down his cheeks, not even sneaking down one side of his nose. They were resisting - just like him, just like me. Neither of us was backing down. Someone had to win this battle, though. It couldn't stay this way forever. I slowly reached my arms out to hug Dad. He didn't move. I felt like I was trying to cure Dad from whatever was wrong with him. It was more than just avoiding a beating now - I was used to that. I just wanted them to stop because I knew it wasn't right - not just the beatings, but the whole situation. I had to make Dad better. I wanted us to be normal.
        I embraced Dad for the first time that day. He was skinny. I could feel his ribs. I nuzzled against his silky red and blue striped tie. He smelled like cigarette smoke. I felt myself shaking a little. Dad didn't move. I pulled away a bit to look into his face. As if coming out of a trance, Dad looked down at me - as if realizing for the first time that I was so close to him. Without warning, he kneed me in the groin, forcing me to the ground. I thought about what happened while I was on the ground, holding my crotch. I felt like I was so close to something. I wanted another shot at figuring Dad out. I wanted another chance to change him. I knew I'd have to wait a long time, though. Dad said nothing and walked away. I eventually picked myself up off the ground and cowered to my room, walked away from the matches, closed the door, defeated.
        I did most of my homework in our basement, which was unfinished with concrete walls and insulation sticking out. A tiny wooden desk was stuffed away in a corner. Dad used his laptop on this desk sometimes. He liked the basement this way. He always said, "It's finished to me." It smelled of dust.
                The basement was dark, damp, and cold. There were vents, but heat didn't come out of them. This basement used to be an underground garage. Dad converted it into a formal basement by replacing the garage doors with a supposedly water proof wall and replaced the concrete floor with tiled floor. Water still managed to get in, though. The basement had one huge light that did a poor job. Dad called this the main light. Four unlit rooms existed for storage purposes. Dad converted these into a bathroom, a laundry room, a bedroom, and a "solitary" room.
        In the solitary room was a mattress and box springs. There were two small strips in the heavy metal door - one for looking in and out, the other for receiving and returning food trays. This is the room where solitary confinement was spent, except in those unusual cases when Dad was in a good mood - then he would allow me to serve my time in my room. These situations happened only once or twice a year.
                At the top corner of the wall in the solitary room was a small window that had been painted over. This window was actually a crawlspace, which was about two and a half feet high and allowed access to beneath the living room floor. The exterminator would remove the window and spray into the darkness of the hole, never actually going into it.
        It was weird spending nights in this room for many reasons, but mostly because of that window. Even though it was painted over and no one was actually in there, I still felt as if I were being watched. Mom told me all about the crawlspace before she left, but she never told me how she knew so much about it.
        
        * * *
        
        I remember the last day I spent with Mom was on my 13th birthday. I was at the kitchen table with her on a rainy weekday afternoon when Dad was at work.
                "What was your Dad like?" I asked her, chewing my nails.
                "Nothing like yours!" she yelled. "Now quit talking and eat your damn breakfast. I didn't fix it for my health!"
                Mom was a short woman with red curly hair. She was chubby and I never saw her without an apron on. In looks, she reminded me of the traditional 50s housewife. In spirit, however, she was a bitch. She constantly yelled at me for not coming to the table on time, not washing my hands after I had used the restroom, and any other excuse she could think up. No matter how mean she was, though, she never came close to being as mean as Dad.
                After talking briefly at the table, I finished my day with the usual homework and headed off to bed. That night, I woke up to the sound of a hard thud against my bedroom door. Getting up to see what happened, I cracked the door a little and looked out into the darkness. I could see nothing. There was a ringing in my ears. Other than that, the house was completely silent. I shut the door, but felt a resistance at the bottom. I turned my light on to see what was blocking the door. It was Mom, her head resting on the floor. She was unconscious. I knelt down to help her.
        "Mom?"
        No response. Had she been drinking again? I shook her. Nothing. Was she really sick this time? My eyes slowly adjusted more and more to the darkness. I smelled Dad's cologne - he bathed in it - and Mom's cheap perfume. I was slapping Mom with one hand in an attempt to wake her up and digging into the carpet with the other hand out of nervousness. I looked up halfway and saw Dad's feet in front of me. A sharp blow to my head was all I can remember after that.
                The next morning, I woke up in my bed. I didn't remember much. My head ached. I walked around the house, dizzy, and found Dad, sitting in his rocking chair, rocking, slowly. He was just looking out of the big living room window.
                "Dad?" I said softly, shattering the silence that engulfed the room.
                "What?" he asked, with his mind obviously some place else.
        "Where's Mom?"
        "The police," he said, after hesitation, "the police came and picked her up."
        "Why?"
        "She went nuts and tried to hurt me," he said, distracted. "I had to defend myself." I believed Dad, but knew that he wasn't telling me the whole truth. Mom had tried to hurt Dad before and he never called the cops - instead, he just beat her. Even so, I went along with him.
        "When is she coming home?" I asked.
        "I don't know," he said. "We'll know more later, I guess."
        I went back to my room and lay down, praying that my head would feel better soon. It had a huge knot on it. Mom didn't come home that night. I asked Dad about her twice the next day. The first time he said she was "in jail for assault" and to not ask him about her anymore. The second time I asked he smacked me to the ground for not listening to him the first time.
        A week passed - no word about Mom - I got up enough courage to ask Dad about her, hoping that enough time had passed that he would allow at least one question about her. "She went nuts in jail and they had to put her in the mental hospital."
        I figured she had left him and me, packed her bags and went to live with some other man. More months passed and every time I asked to visit Mom, Dad would tell me some extended version of the original story. The last time I asked, she was "in a mental hospital somewhere out of state, with no phone calls allowed, and she wouldn't know us anymore because she's so out of it." I cried, but regardless of the reality of the situation, I always believed she was okay. I would see her again and she would finally love me. Dad never said why he knocked me out that day and I knew better than to ask.
        
        * * *
        
        If weather permitted, I was generally allowed one hour of recreation per week. I always used it to play basketball on the patio. The last time I ever played was a nice summer day.
        Our house was on a huge hill, overlooking a field and a creek. The angle of the hill made the distance from the field to our backyard look much greater than it actually was. These older kids happened to be walking along the creek bank at the time and decided to make fun of me.
        "Look at the geek trying to play ball!" they screamed.
        The one thing I could count on, the only thing really, was that Dad wouldn't let me get picked on. Even though he would probably mess me up for starting it, at least I knew he would either contact their parents or call the police. Most kids knew who my Dad was, too, and knew better than to cross us. Knowing this often gave me a false sense of security.
        I screamed "Fuck off!" before I threw the ball into the garage and gave up on basketball for the day.
                They looked up at me, then over at each other, and then they started to run up the hill. I felt like a deer in one of those wildlife documentaries. I knew something horrible was going to happen unless I retreated, but I had no choice at that very moment than to just contemplate everything going on around me - like something magical was going to tell me what to do to make everything okay again, the way it was five seconds ago. The kids were on their way, screaming, "You're gonna die, motherfucker!"
                I eventually ran inside the house. Dad was sitting in his chair, watching some science program on public TV, pretending like he knew exactly what they were talking about. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned the first button, and looked over at me suspiciously.
        "What are you up to, son?"
        I could hear the contempt in his voice.
        "Calm down and find something to keep yourself busy," he said.
                I went into my room and closed the door. I turned on the TV, trying to forget about the kids who had to have made it up the hill by this time. I was hoping that they would just forget about the whole thing and start trouble somewhere else. I was dreading the inevitable knock at the door. I knew it was going to happen. I could feel it.
                "Get down here!" Dad screamed, his voice giving me chills. "I said get your ass down here!" I opened my bedroom door, slowly, as if slow motion would give me the time I needed to piece together some kind of excuse for what happened.
                Downstairs, Dad was still sitting in his recliner, rocking slowly back and forth. I stood beside the chair, waiting for whatever Dad had to say. I looked outside and didn't see anything. For a minute, I thought I had gotten lucky - that the kids really did leave and that I was getting in trouble for something completely unrelated. Then a brick came flying through the glass door, inches from our feet.
        "Fuck you, too!" one of the kids yelled from outside.
        I guess Dad really was going to scream at me for something else because he seemed as surprised over the brick as I did. I knew something was going to happen, but I didn't envision the kids destroying our property.
                Dad jumped up and grabbed the brick. He raced outside to meet four kids, all of whom looked like they were around 17. Their pants were baggy, their hair was cut short, and black t-shirts clung tightly to their bodies. "You're messin' with the wrong motherfucker," Dad yelled.
                "What are you gonna do about it all, bitch?" the ringleader asked, laughing with his friends immediately afterwards. "Don't do too much," he said, "you'll get your suit dirty."
                "You think I give a damn about any of this shit here?" Dad screamed, walking up to the ringleader, whose eyes started to fill with fear. One of the other boys stepped back from everybody, as if getting ready to make a run for it. "All I care about is breaking your neck with my bare hands," Dad said, as he drew the brick back, and surprised everyone by throwing it into the windshield of his brand new car.
        The ringleader looked over at the car, shocked. Dad kneed the ringleader in his crotch, forcing him down to the ground, where he placed his huge hands around the ringleader's head and slammed it back onto the concrete - fast - just once. The ringleader lay there, still. The other boys were long gone. Dad smacked the unconscious kid across the face, stood up, and walked back in the house. I remained still, stunned.
                I stared outside the broken door, looking at that kid. I wondered if he weren't dead. Out of nowhere, Dad grabbed me by the back of my neck and threw me into his chair. "Now I wanna know how this all started." I sat in the chair, hunching down.
                We remained silent for about 30 seconds, then Dad walked over to the fireplace and picked up a poker. "Don't make me ask you again," Dad said. Dad was skinny. His dress shirts always looked too big. He was short, too, so his ties always hung down way too low. These were the kinds of things I noticed when I knew I was about to get fucked up.
        We continued to sit, hanging our heads down. I noticed that Dad was sobbing, as he looked back and forth from me to that kid outside. He put his head between his knees and then held his face in his hands. Tears were running out from between his fingers. "Get down there to the room," he said, his words muffled by his hands. "Get down there!" he screamed. I sat there, too afraid to move. Dad got up, his eyes red and bloodshot. He grabbed me and threw me down the steps. He forced me into the room and closed the door. I sat balled up in a corner. There was nothing but darkness and silence now. My eyes adapted to the darkness after a few minutes and I could see the bed and the painted over window. Light began to seep in from beneath the door and around the edges.
        
        * * *
        
        Seeing Dad take the law into his own hands for the first time prompted me to look for an escape. I wondered if the crawlspace led outside or if there was something in there I could fight with. Seeing Dad cry like that made me feel for the first time since that day with the matches like I could actually win.
        I was hoping that maybe there was another window at the other end of the crawlspace, one that I could break through and escape - I didn't care where - anywhere away from Dad. I stood the box springs up and punctured the thin fabric underneath. The holes and springs would serve as steps. Crawling up the box was difficult and I fell many times. I eventually reached the window and managed to get it open with little force.
        An extremely foul smell and total darkness made for an unpleasant experience as I forced my way into this crawlspace. I thrust myself into the window and began to gag. Dust entered my mouth and nose, making me sneeze and gasp for air. The ground was cold and made of fine gravel. Crawling on my stomach, I didn't get far when I came upon something hard, stiff, and cold. It was large. It was a presence. I couldn't see a thing. All I had was touch and smell. I felt fabric, then a cold, hard surface. I felt the necklace Mom wore. I recognized it immediately - it had a huge heart on it - then I touched Mom's head, feeling her hair and eyes and nose and mouth.
        I screamed and vomited on Mom, gagging and heaving erratically. I heard Dad's heavy footsteps right above me. Dad stomped downstairs and opened the door, turning on the main light. My feet were still sticking out. Dad removed me from the crawlspace. I didn't resist, just held onto the necklace, which came down with me as I met Dad. "You little son-of-a-bitch," he screamed in my face as he shook my body with his hands. "You just couldn't leave it alone!"
        Dad threw me outside the room and came out with me. He struggled for words. My face was blank. Vomit dripped from my chin and fell onto my dusty shirt. Dad looked at me and fell to his knees, begging me, telling me that he was sorry. "What happened, what happened, what happened?" Dad kept repeating, tears running down his face.
        I ran upstairs and sat on the couch. Dad eventually joined me. We sat in our respective places, weeping and sobbing from time to time, but never saying a word to each other. Dad got up, crying. He walked out to the front porch, where he took a seat on the second step. I got up and looked out beyond the broken glass. I looked at the brick and wondered if I should use that. I was planning, plotting. It was going to happen.
        I was looking down on Dad as he sat on the step outside. He was crying. I wasn't anymore. I finally saw things through his eyes. I was the powerful one now. He was weak. He was the wimp, sitting outside, crying. A body lay on the concrete, blood pouring from the back of his head. Tears came to my eyes, not out of fear, shame, or guilt like usual, but this time, because I knew that I had finally figured it out. I knew what I was supposed to do. It was all about me now.
        I picked up a trophy, one that was pointy and sharp, from the living room. I walked outside, opening the door quickly. He didn't turn around. He had no reason to fear me. I had never shown aggression. He suppressed that part and most other parts of me years ago. This time, that all worked in my favor. I walked up behind him and aimed at his bald spot, which sat right at the crown of his head. I raised the trophy with both hands, took a deep breath, and slammed the sharp points of the trophy directly into his head with all of the fear that had been bottled up inside of me for so many years. I heard the piercing of his scalp, the cracking of his skull, and the sinking of the trophy into his brain. I released the trophy. He fell backwards and slid down the rest of the steps, onto the ground. He was dead.
        I was now looking at two bodies. Blood was pouring from both of their heads. I couldn't stop thinking about Mom's body, which I could only visualize based on what I had felt in the crawlspace. That visualization stayed with me and caused me to shit my pants every time I thought about it. I kept expecting Dad to get up. He didn't.

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