Home Run: A Novel by Travis Thrasher

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    For the first time in his life, Cory sat and listened to the song all the way through, draining his glass and then filling it again to drain it one more time. The sax and the guitar soared, and Rafferty’s laid-back, cool voice sang about life and loss and dreaming big.
    Then a wave of goose bumps drifted over him, and Cory got it. He suddenly heard the song not the way a kid might listen to it on the way to school as his father blasted it from the truck’s tape player, but the way a grown man might listen to it, thinking of the man who was once the same age he was now.
    This Baker Street wasn’t a place, but a fantasy. It was a dream of hope imagined by a restless, troubled soul. A man who was trying but could never find the home he was looking for, even though it was right there in front of his face the entire time.
    Suddenly Cory didn’t like how he was feeling. His amusement was gone.
    The booze wasn’t working the way it should have. The picture next to him mocked him. The sun outside beat down and cut through the blinds. Cory changed the track. But he couldn’t find his own personal theme song to soothe his troubled soul.
    He was far beyond that, and he knew it.

The moment she walks into the room, Emma bursts out crying.
    “Hey—come on—I’m not dying or anything.”
    He still feels drunk and surely sounds the same. She walks over to the side of the bed and puts her head against Cory’s chest.
    “If you think I look bad, you should see the other guy,” he continues to joke.
    “The cops aren’t going to file any charges.”
    “I know,” he says.
    The bar fight was stupid. Cory knows the only guys who would’ve been arrested were the two who helped make his pretty face look ugly. He could’ve gotten a drunk-and-disorderly, but they’re letting the baseball star of OU go.
    “They just wanted to take a look at me,” he says. “It’s just a concussion. First one I’ve ever had.”
    Emma looks at his right hand, which is bloodied and cut up, especially around the knuckles.
    “Good thing I’m not a pitcher.”
    “Cory.”
    “It’s all good,” he says. His way of apologizing.

Chapter Fourteen
    Infield
    Cory looked like a bona fide Little League coach, dressed in his red Bulldogs polo shirt and matching baseball cap, all thanks to Helene. She had stopped by his motel shortly before the practice to give him the gear. She’d also told him to clean himself up and look like the Cory Brand in the magazines and not the Cory Brand in the tabloids.
    Now he was back on a field, though this one was a little different from the one he was used to playing on. Helene was directing everything; she shuffled and moved photographers around as Cory greeted his nephew with Karen by his side.
    “Hey, big man,” he said, smiling and greeting the kid like he was his own. “Looks like you’ve got your nose on straight.”
    Carlos was still wide-eyed and excited to see him, though the same couldn’t be said about his mother. She forced a polite smile on her pretty face. It was just for show, like everything else going on.
    There were a couple of duffel bags full of Denver Grizzlies swag that Helene had brought for Cory to give to Carlos and the rest of the team. Right now, she was making sure that the shots of Cory greeting Carlos were just right. Cory knew that they were being watched, not just by the photographers, but by the other parents. He made a big deal of stepping up to Carlos and offering his hand to shake.
    “I am so sorry about that.”
    “Aw, that’s okay,” Carlos said in a voice that was a little more audible than last time.
    Cory smiled and shook the kid’s hand, and the clicks of a hundred photos being taken went off. Helene, who looked dressed more for a night on the town than for a Little League baseball field, nodded approval.
    “I got some Grizzlies gear for you and some other stuff you might like,” Cory said as he opened one of the duffel bags.
    “Awesome,” Carlos