In the movies or in stories, baseball teams are collections of misfits who manage to pull off a big win. I guess nobody can believe that people who play games for a living could possibly be normal. I don't lose much sleep over it, but sometimes I find myself wondering what it is that I actually do.
Anyway, we're no misfits. Most of the guys on the bus aren't married or anything, but they don't blame anyone or have crying fits about how lonely they are. If they're lonely, they're lonely, and that's that. It's part of the price you pay to get on the bus and to do what you like doing.
About half the bus is asleep. The rest talk quietly among themselves. Sometimes a brief rattle of laughter jumps above the dull roar of the bus. Mike walks past me, headed for the rear of the bus. The familiar smell of the chemical toilet wafts through the compartment.
The bus driver hunches over the wheel like the villain's assistant in an old horror movie. I saw "The Fly" on the motel TV last night and thought of when we saw it together, you and me, your hand reaching out suddenly for mine, gripping it tight, like a hot grounder you didn't want to let get away. Well, I didn't want to let you go either.
Anyway, that was a long time ago, and you said you couldn't stay with me any more. "You're never here," you said, and then, "God that sounds pouty." and I picked up my gym bag and left, so you wouldn't be embarassed by me seeing you cry.
But I lean my head back on the hard vinyl seat and close my eyes. The roar of the bus sounded suddenly loud, though it had been there all along. I wait in the dark, my loose sweatshirt ruffled in the breeze from Joe's half-open window, wait to open my eyes from a dream of you and find it true, or if it isn't, to sleep so deep and so long that it might as well be.