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I wasn't always this way, you know. My life could have been--should've been--much different than it is. No offense to you, but look where we are now. This isn't exactly the Ritz. Since you're asking though, here it is: This is the story of how I ruined my life.
When I was eighteen, I was invincible. I was intelligent, confident, and entitled. My father, a wealthy businessman from Hartford, had generously agreed to pay my tuition for my first year at Princeton. His dream was to see me inherit his company someday, and he had been preparing me for that very moment since I had taken my first step. I was his only child, the son he had always wanted. My future was a guaranteed success. The world was mine. The only thing that stood in the way was the summer. And baseball.
I grew up watching the greats: Babe Ruth, Roger Hornsby, Lou Gehrig. I emulated them. My grandfather would take me to the games, and I remember afternoons, seated by the radio, listening to the commentators spit out the play-by-play. I was hooked. When I was old enough, I begged my parents to enroll me in Little League. I continued to play for my school. At the age of fifteen, I was shortstop for the Farmington Rebels--the town's amateur league team. I lived and breathed the game, and I knew that someday I'd be at Yankee Stadium or Baker Bowl and the crowds would be cheering for me.
That summer, I was supposed to work at my father's office. He wanted me to have some real world experience that I could apply to my studies when I left in the fall. Instead, I pocketed my college money and bought a train ticket to Tallahassee. The Majors were holding a tryout camp, and I knew that if I could just get there, I was as good as signed. I packed my glove, left my mother a note, and skipped town late one Thursday night.
I never made it to Florida. The train had a scheduled stop in Nowhere, New York, and I deboarded to stretch my legs. The station had that time-worn look of abandonment and there wasn't a soul in sight. I wondered what the sense was in stopping so late at night in such a small town without the certainty of passengers. I could hear the faint sound of music coming from somewhere down the street. Curious, I rounded a corner and saw light coming from a small, brick building. A bar, I thought. I checked my pocketwatch, did some mental calculations, decided a quick drink wouldn't hurt, and began walking. I was just coming up to the entrance when there was a tap on my shoulder.
"Got a light?" a man's voice asked. I turned to meet it, pulling a book of matches from my pocket instinctively. I knew something was wrong as soon as our eyes met. He had a wild look about him and made no move to take the matches I was offering. He simply smiled and took a step backwards. I felt arms converge on me from different directions, a sharp pain, and then blackness.
I'm not sure how long I was unconscious. When I woke, all I knew was that I hurt. Badly. I dared not move. I wondered where I was, what had happened. My memory returned in bits and pieces. The mugging. I felt for my wallet and was greeted by a lightning bolt of pain, shooting down my arm. I steadied my breathing and tried to focus. I used my other arm to inventory the damage. My face was swollen and bloody, my clothing torn at the collar. I could move both of my legs, but no matter how much I willed my right arm to move, it remained limp by my side. The pain was unbearable. I felt nauseous and light-headed. The world around me faded once again.
The next time I woke, I was in the hospital. Someone found me stashed behind a pile of crates in an alley when taking out the trash the next morning. The doctor, a round-faced man with thick eyebrows and a receeding hairline, informed me that my collar bone had been broken. He had set the bone, but it would be a long time before I could use my arm again. I knew in that moment that my dream of playing baseball was over.
With no money to pay the medical bills, I resigned myself to calling my father. I imagined him sitting behind his desk, wrapping up the week's work, and sipping his coffee. It occurred to me that he probably wasn't even aware of my absence--it had been less than a day since I left. I dialed the number and he picked up immediately with his usual "What?" I told him everything: the tryout camps, the mugging, my injury, the loss of the money. He listened in silence. When I was done, he didn't answer immediately. Finally, he spoke. His voice remained level, though I could feel its fury through the receiver. He told me simply that he would pay the hospital for my treatment, but that he was done with me after that. I shouldn't bother returning home. He was being rash of course. He'd get over it in time, as he always did when he made those sorts of threats. Still, I was furious with him for not rescuing me in my moment of need. I vowed never to speak to him again.
I know how ridiculous this all sounds, but you must remember that I was just a kid. I was stubborn and foolish. I had lived a life of privilege and was--I'll admit it--spoiled to the core. Still, I haven't spoken a word to him to this day. I wouldn't know where to begin.
Anyway, I left the hospital a few days later. I was injured, lost, pennyless, and without anywhere to go. Sticking out my thumb, I began to walk. A few miles out of town, a truck passed me, then came to an abrupt stop on the shoulder ahead. A kid with the worst haircut I had ever seen stuck his head out of the driver's side window.
"Where ya headed?" he shouted over the sound of the engine. His bright orange hair jumped around in the wind as though his scalp had caught fire.
I told him that I didn't care. He told me to get in. He then told me his life story. The kid, whose name was "Matthew Ronald Hyde Junior" incidentally, talked for hours on end. He was running away from home and going to New York City to make his fortune. New York City sounded as good as any place to me. Matt ran out of words eventually and inquired about my arm. I recited my story.
"I've got enough money with me for a few days at least," he said. "If you want, we could stick together for a bit once we get there. You know, at least until we find jobs." I agreed, promising to repay him as soon as I could.
With some effort, we managed to secure a small room to rent over a deli. It was dirty and uncomfortably hot, but it suited our needs. Matt found work quickly. I had a harder time. No one wanted a guy with zero work experience and an arm in a sling. Each day I walked the city streets, going from business to business. It didn't matter to me what the job was--I needed money. I don't know if it was the constant hunger, or the heat, or my determination to repay my debt to this kid, but one day I just snapped. My perspective on life changed drastically, and I decided that I was better than this.
I began to think about the men that had robbed me. Was I any different than them? I thought not. Certainly, I was more desperate than I had ever been. Perhaps I couldn't leave someone a bloody mess with my arm as it was, but I wouldn't have to shed a drop with the right kind of persuasion. Looking around the apartment, my eyes settled on the knife I had been using as an all-purpose utensil. Perfect. I slipped it into my pocket and head outside to change my life forever. |
