5 Excerpts from SWEET SPOT by Lorene Delany-Ullman

Lorene Delany-Ullman is a native Californian, and received her M.F.A. in English from the University of California, Irvine. She formerly worked as a technical writer for the Boeing Company and Impulse Research, a public opinion and marketing research firm. Her book of prose poems, Camouflage for the Neighborhood, is forthcoming from Firewheel Editions in Summer 2012. She currently teaches composition at UC Irvine.

The five posts excerpted here are from a work in progress tentatively titled, Sweet Spot. 

Lorene writes: ‘Sweet Spot is the memoir of my life as the wife of a minor league baseball player during the late 1970s and into the early 1980s. As a hybrid form of short prose pieces, this collection endeavors to tell the story from the wife’s perspective in language that is both lyrical and candid. The vignettes strive to address not only the domesticity, but also the adventure and tragedy of minor league life—from food stamps and league championships to murder and divorce.’ 

  

Excerpted from Sweet Spot (Spring Training)

 
 

Spring Training

St. Pete, Florida, 1979

For the first week, we rented a motel room with a kitchenette. No sink, a stove with two burners enough to warm the baby’s bottles. An hour into our stay, Denis left for practice, hitched a ride with another ballplayer. The woman who showed us the place told me to keep the screen door shut or the chameleons would get in. I didn’t know she was talking about lizards. I took the baby for a walk, pushed the stroller to the end of the lot, into the new world—flat and feverish

 

Excerpted from Sweet Spot (Good Cotton)

 
 

Good Cotton

          Little Rock, Arkansas, 1979

Marie’s pregnancy sent her home to Savannah. Her left-fielder husband was a power hitter; carried the gentleman of himself in his pocket. I borrowed his car just to smell his cologne. I let loose a sigh—it was easy—we were all hungry for something. His clothes were heaped in the front seat, freshly laundered. Fingering one of his cotton sleeves, I remembered what Marie said: it all comes out in the wash.

 

Excerpted from Sweet Spot (Sinker)

 
 

Sinker

          Little Rock, Arkansas, 1979

Hand over hand, I lathered and rubbed with water and soap, my kid climbing my leg. The groupie next to me washed, too, then smacked gloss between her lips. I’m gonna sleep with every player on the team, she drawled. I checked out the sink—its white notion of enamel and cast iron, the fine crack near the drain—listening hard. She and her friend giggled like girls getting ready for their Debutante ball. The sink being fine and all, I picked up my child, and quit.





   

Excerpted from Sweet Spot (Sacrifice)

 
 

Sacrifice

          St Petersburg, Florida, 1980

In St. Pete we studied the Bible. A dentist and his Mrs. called the players and wives together for devotionals. Because we rented a house with two couches, the lessons were held at our home. The shortstop came clean—he was looking for dope near a fence, and found a palm-sized Bible instead. His girl, Mary, came all the way from California to wed in a fan’s backyard.

The more schooling we had, the less we’d believe, the dentist said. He pinned a map of the holy land on our living room wall, pointed and smiled while we followed the feet of Jesus. That summer I asked Him to forgive me—we bowed our heads, held hands, and prayed to win.





 

Excerpted from Sweet Spot (Road Trip)

 

 

Road Trip

August 31, 1981

His mother was murdered—I called our Little Rock neighbors first, asked Liz to check on Denis. His older brother phoned him with the news. After nine innings behind the plate, Denis was alone, probably smokin’ a jay, a frozen bag of peas on his left quad. I was in California with our daughter and infant son. That night he drove straight through—Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico—must’ve stopped somewhere for gas—maybe all cried out by Arizona. Before Denis hit our state line, husband number seven had her cremated; later, Ray showed us her plans for their new house.

We never talked about her—only the yellow nylon rope around her neck, carpet fibers in her hair, the Arizona desert road where a man riding a scooter found her. How she was robbed of her cash and credit cards. Later, the words that meant the most were “circumstantial evidence.”

She’d bought life insurance a few weeks before. We bought a Volkswagen bus with the money she left us. The orange-brown plaid curtains swung with every turn.