Green Expectations by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
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Chapter 10
TEWKSBURY, NJ 1-25-13
On the twelfth of the month winter set into rural New Jersey with a vengeance usually reserved for a child killer. The overnight lows dropped below zero and the day’s straw colored sunlight produced highs in the teens. To add insult to injury a steady northern breeze menaced the area, producing a situation where no one left their homes unless it was absolutely necessary. The existence and necessity of jobs, food runs, drug replenishments and insanity kept Tewksbury from appearing abandoned. Dave tried pitching to his hearty mattress, but soon lost feeling in his fingers and was relegated to occupying the house with a fidgety, cranky Lucretia. He rolled up socks to the size of a baseball and threw them to the couch. The grip was feeling more and more natural for him, but he was frustrated that he couldn’t tell if the ball was moving or crossing the plate. If the punishment kept up much longer he was making a solo trip south, probably to Florida.
The phone’s ring jangled already frayed nerves and Dave and Lucretia, both raced for it, hoping that something on the other end would break the cabin fever before a new version of “The Shining” was played out. Lucretia won the race and Dave pulled up short, looking at her with unblinking eyes as cold as the
outdoors. Instead of a plain “Hello” she said; “Acme frozen meat locker.”
Response.
“No, no. You have the right number.”
Response.
“Yes, this is Lucretia. What other female answers this phone?” She eyed Dave the same way he had done her.
Response.
“Fine, how are you?” She didn’t sound convincing.
Response.
“Hold on. I’ll get him.” She dropped the phone on the wooden coffee table, making the caller think of a small car crash and said; “It’s for you.”
Dave picked it up and said; “Hello.”
“She all right?”
“Dad! My apologies. Lots of ice here.”
“Yeah. I figured I’d give you a call to pass along some good news. You always say I don’t do that.”
“This might be a first.”
“Did you see the Jersey Bulletin today?”
“No.”
“You ought to get a subscription and find out what’s happening in the world.”
Dave had no intention of becoming a maven on murders, fires, floods and other disasters, but said; “Maybe I will.”
“The Crows have been purchased and Harry Manuel is going to manage them next year.”
“Contracts reinstated?”
“No.”
“Shit.”
“Harry Manuel has invited all players on last year’s roster to come to spring training camp.”
Dave couldn’t think of a response.
“At least you’ll have something to do in February.”
“True. I was thinking about going to Florida anyway. The cold here has been devastating.”
“Mom said not to marry her.”
“I’m not able to safely say anything.”
Dad laughed and said; “I know. Go devastate them with your new pitch.”
Dave smirked and said; “Thanks. Say hi to Mom for me.”
“Okay.”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
Dave put the phone in its cradle and called out; “Hey, Lucretia, wherever you are, I’m going out for the paper. The Crows have been purchased.”
Lucretia abandoned her hiding spot behind the open door and sauntered back into the room, hips seemingly the recipients of an overdue lube job. She purred; “Contracts in force?”
“Not necessarily.”
“Oh.” She picked up the rolled up socks and threw them to the couch, not demonstrating any velocity, location or movement.
She creaked as she sat on the couch in a manner reminiscent of Kharis after a long day. She stared at the socks as Dave donned his green quilted jacket and went out the front door. Since he wasn’t going on a food run, replenishing drugs or off to a job he joined the ranks of the insane.
His BMW handled the icy roads without a slide. He picked up the Bulletin at a local overpriced “convenience” store. In no rush to get back home, he read it in the car.
CROWS PURCHASED BY SECRET BUYER
HARRY MANUEL TO COME OUT OF RETIREMENT TO MANAGE
JERSEY BULLETIN 1-25-13. Major League Baseball spokesman Carl Fitzsimmons announced late yesterday that the Crow franchise has been purchased by an undisclosed investor who desires anonymity.
The financial state of the franchise was said to be poor with a difficult short term outlook as the nearby New York Giants draw from the entire tri-state area. The Giants have been steadily competitive for the past ten years, finishing first or second in the NL East each season. They have gone to the World Series five times in that span and have been champions three years. As a consequence the contracts that were dismissed in the bankruptcy will not be assumed by the new owner.
Asked if he was going to run a 1960’s Mets-type operation, hoping to get fans by being terrible but cute, Harry Manuel responded that he had never been involved with losing operations and didn’t intend to start now. He said; “You can quote me on this. We’ll give Baltimore a run for their money this year and next year I guarantee that we’ll be in the playoffs or I’ll quit and pay back every cent I’ve been paid.” Harry has a long history of his team clearly improving under his tutelage which has been demonstrated in Detroit, Chicago and San Francisco among other places. Every team he has gone to improves on their prior year’s record by at least ten games, a distinction which cannot be claimed by any other manager in baseball history. The fiery helmsman has had trouble staying anywhere very long as he demands to be in charge of every aspect of the game, in some cases being officially designated as General Manager as well as Field Manager, ultimately conflicting with the owner.
Harry said; “I personally invite all players on last year’s roster to attend spring training. It will be in Jupiter this year, not the old Port St. Lucie facility. If you’ve got what it takes I’ll see that you get a new contract.” ...................
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Dave was almost elated to read the news in black and white, laughing at himself as he recalled hearing how people put more credence in written words than spoken ones and how the knowledge of that provided no immunity. He now knew what he’d be doing and where he’d be in February. He always hated that month for being the coldest in rural New Jersey and environs, with sheets of ice on the hilly roads at the most inconvenient places. Now he knew that he would be in sunny, warm and flat Jupiter, Florida. He wasn’t fond of the idea that in effect he would again be “trying out,” this time at age 34, but what other option was there?
Besides, his new pitch, the cut splitter might afford him an
easy time of it. The few pros who were able to consistently throw anything like it for strikes were able to play until they got some debilitating injury or decided that they had enough years of travelling. It was difficult for his father to even catch, never mind hit. Of course he had never thrown it to a major league hitter.
“Harry Manuel,” he thought. “The guy is known to ask a lot of his players; like paying attention to the game. He’s gotten into fights with a few, and despite weighing 160 pounds, has won them all. On the other hand he gets results and makes sure his guys are taken care of.”
He drove slowly and took the long way home, through deserted streets.
Sitting at the kitchen table with a half glass of lukewarm coffee, he heard his wife’s footsteps in the adjoining living room. He called out; “Hey, Lucretia. Great news. Look at this.”
Before she ambled to the kitchen, she dryly said; “Don’t tell me. Your father is here again and you’re going to play catch.”
“No, read this.”
Lucretia stood at his side and scanned the article. As she walked away she said; “You better hope you’ve still got what it takes.”
Dave said; “Do you?”
“Yeah, I hope so.”
“No. I mean do you still have what it takes?”
Lucretia put one hand on a hip and deadpanned; “You tell me.”
Dave shrugged and turned the page.
Over the next few days Dave diligently went out into the cold and threw his new pitch wearing gloves. Initially he just wanted to get out of the stale house air using the “work” excuse as the splitter was difficult to control with bare fingers, and impossible with a glove. He spent time in the unheated barn happy to be out of the wind, perusing old magazines, comics and books that he left there rather than the trash can, in a showing of his “pack rat” side. He soon realized why these items were in this remote location. He had gradually lost interest in all of them. The investment weeklies, anti-super-heroes and retirement paperbacks were museum pieces from a strange and distant time; 2009-2012.
He loaded a peach basket with baseballs and set out to see how long he could be out before he lost feeling at the knees.
Wearing gloves he clumsily threw them at the freeze-proof mattress and was surprised to find that the longer he did it the better he got. He thought; “Why do I find this so amazing? My
father always said; ‘Just keep doing it.’ Though he never told me to wear gloves, isn’t this just like what a batter does when he waits on deck swinging a weighted bat? When he goes to the plate without the weight, the bat seems light and easy to get around. This has to be some kind of silly illusion, but every single hitter does it. Are they all crazy? If they all are, I suppose that’s normality.”
He kept using the glove though he was torn between finding out if it would now be easier to throw the cut splitter barehanded and keeping the hopeful illusion by not putting it to the test. Though some pitches flew off to Saturn, more and more were going where he aimed. He quit when his frozen feet made it impossible to stride.
He did the same thing the next day, the next and the next and on the twenty-ninth an unobstructed sun married to an early southern breeze raised temperatures above freezing and Dave knew that prolonging the hope was over. It was time for the unhidden truth.
He drew out his bacon and eggs with black coffee breakfast to the point of finishing with ice coffee. He even sought out a conversation concerning money with Lucretia, who batted her feigned tired eyes and dismissed him with one word answers.
After asking questions that required no asking he said; “You
might be interested to know that my new pitch is working well and I could just well be off to another grand beginning.”
With her eyes glued to a re-run of “The Wheel of Fortune”
she deadpanned; “I’ll check the bank account for confirmation.”
Dave pulled a Crows sweatshirt over his head and went out the front door. His right hand felt colder than the winter morning air. He opened and closed his fist hoping to stimulate circulation. The bloodless appendage made no response as its frozen state was not due to any physical impairment, but was controlled somewhere in Dave’s head, which was filled with apprehension; as after all, his ability to throw this pitch was a good candidate for the most important event of his life.
He took a peach basket containing twenty baseballs to the imaginary mound and threw easily to the mattress. Not sure if he was again delaying finding out the naked truth, he threw slow fastballs, rather than the cut splitter as if he was warming up before a game. It is a prudent proven procedure pursued by practiced pitchers, but Dave’s piqued pejorative predilections primarily pre-empted the promotion of prudence.
But, today was different. He tossed a basketful, felt the fractioned fingers come alive and re-loaded. He thought; “Cut splitter breaking left,” and threw. It sank a foot and a half and went away from a righty. He thought; “Cut splitter breaking right,” and threw. It went two feet down away from a lefty. He
thought; “This is too good to be true,” and kept pitching for an hour. He was very pleased. “Maybe the glove was the final ingredient. This seems easy now. Florida, here I come.”