Green Expectations by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
Chapter 2
Two appropriately concise rings later Dave was greeted by a just-out-of-high-school, female voice, attempting to sound efficient, friendly and helpful at the same time, like a cheerleader; “Law Awfices of Peter Jaffe.” (Pronounced jaffy).
“May I help yoo-ew?”
“Hi, Marsha. This is Dave Nelson. Is the man available?”
Dave knew that she was always favorably impressed with him. She either thought that it was a big deal to make idle chit-chat with someone famous or she was glad to hear it wasn’t another of Peter’s DWI clients, the mainstay of his practice.
“Oh, hi Dave. How are you today?”
“Okay, Marsha. How are you?”
“Just great. You know, I saw you pitch last week and I thought you did just fine. Those TV commentators and umpires don’t know what they’re doing.”
Dave recalled his last outing when he made it to the fifth inning before being yanked. He had no idea of what the TV
commentary was, but he remembered taking two steps toward the dugout in the fifth when he thought a taken two strike pitch caught a lot of plate for the third out. Cassady, who had a large plate up until then, called it ball three, and gave him that look of defiance, as umpires hate when you do that. So he came right in with a fastball and Jackson smacked it off the
left center wall on one hop. It cleared the bases and it was the end of his strenuous exercise for the day. Dave said; “Thanks, Marsha. You’re my ...... biggest fan.” He almost said “only,”
but caught himself at the last moment.
“Hold on a second, okay.”
“Okay.”
“He’s got a client right now. But, I’ll get him to pick up.
It’s just one of those drunks.”
Dave held for what seemed like five minutes, then he heard Peter’s hurried voice; “Dave, you’ve got two minutes.”
Dave heard a surge of water which ended in a gurgle. He said; “Don’t tell me you got one of those stupid fountains.”
“I’m sitting in the hallway toilet and the guy next to me just flushed. I was with the Mayor of Parsippany and the only good way to break away was to tell him that I had to desperately hit the head. I hope the hell he didn’t follow me. One minute.”
“Major trouble. The team has cancelled my contract.”
“What grounds?”
“I said ‘bullshit’ to a fan.”
“Big deal.”
“That’s what I thought, too. But, it gets into interpretation.”
“How many ways can you interpret ’bullshit?’”
“Well, it’s in the context of a sentence.”
“Are you on the road?”
“No, we’re at home.”
“Well, drive over here.” Peter hung up.
Dave was amused. He pictured Peter sitting on the public pot, wondering if his pants were up or down. He visualized him returning to the drunken mayor and wondered if the dignitary was belligerent. He had known Peter all his life. They were the same age and lived their childhoods three blocks apart, going to the same grammar and high school. Dave’s mother had often said that Peter was the dumbest kid in school during their grammar school days and this seemed to solidify Dave’s feeling of kinship for Peter as when his mother wasn’t saying that about Peter, she was saying it about him. Besides, Dave always thought his mother was wrong about everything; and worse, very vocally so.
Dave did what was suitable for public meetings. He showered and combed his longish black hair. Admiring himself in the wall length mirror above a congregation of sinks, he thought he was a throwback to Dennis Eckersley; at least on the top of his head.
He put on an almost new pair of blue jeans and a gray Crows shirt with his number, thirteen, on the back. He favored this topping for public outings as no one thought that a real baseball player would be caught dead in a cheesy, overpriced fan’s shirt. It virtually ensured that no one would ask him if he was a player. Because experience had taught him that if he
was asked and he told them yes and who, he would always get that grimace and a reply of; “Oh.” He considered that rude and he didn’t like to disappoint little kids face to face.
He walked out the player’s clearly marked entrance and went to his recent model black BMW. A group of pre-teens were excitedly jumping around waiting to get autographs on the day’s scorecard, the excess supply of which was given away free after the third inning. A boy of about ten called out; “Are you anybody?”
Dave said; “No,” and started his fifteen minute drive to Peter’s office. He turned on the radio to an oldie’s station, feeling it fitting today and smiled as he listened to Traffic sing a medley of their excellent non-top-40-hits. He parked in the sparsely populated, elevated lot of what appeared to be a suburban mall sprawling upward, actually a “professional” office plaza. Construction was commenced before the bust of 2008, so dog groomers and hair stylists joined the professional ranks, with more innovations yet to come as the buildings were still half empty, a tribute to innovative American capitalism.
While he waited for the elevator he thought of Marsha. She always treated him as if he were Roger Clemens and he couldn’t help but wonder if she was being playfully satirical in her pronounced adulation. In person it made him feel uneasy. Sure, every major league ballplayer, when in high school, was expected
to be the next Walter Johnson or Babe Ruth, truly one in a million. Most believed it themselves until they played against other pro prospects, but most fans took their abilities for granted, thinking that they, too, were capable of doing what an average, overpaid pro does.
He entered the empty, chrome lined elevator, seeing countless distorted images of himself, pushed the “3” button and he was on his way to the top floor. The soft whirr of the machine let him know what refrigerated lunch meat experiences; hearing that constant, unremarkable drone and feeling the numbing chill, incapable of freezing, but sufficient to induce cool preservation.
He entered the first door on the left and Marsha literally jumped out of her seat. Dave sheepishly smiled and said;
“Marsha, I hope you never meet anyone really good or you’ll get a concussion from the ceiling.”
Marsha walked around the desk to greet him wearing a tight pink blouse and a white, knee length skirt. She bashfully touched his forearm and said; “Dave, you’re always so gloomy. If you weren’t married I’d cheer you up.”
Dave appreciated the flattery of the nineteen year old, shapely bubble. He raised one eyebrow and replied; “I’m getting a divorce. That’s why I’m here. I know this little Italian place, not far from here ......”
She held his hand when she cut him off saying; “Sweet talker. I know why you’re here. I saw it on the internet. So, follow me into Mr. Jaffe’s office.” She led him through the open door where Peter was sitting behind his desk, feet resting on a bottom opened drawer with his hands clasped behind his head, watching Rip Fitzgerald being carried from the field. She said;
“It’s Mr. Nelson,” turned and left as Peter revolved toward him.
Peter energetically rose and extended his hand. They shook hands and Dave took a seat. Peter re-sat, shook his head and said; “Can’t even be the big news when you stupidly get into trouble.”
Dave had no problem with being called stupid by an old friend, especially when that was precisely how he felt when he wasn’t comfortably numb. He made a snort of a laugh, extended his arms to the sides and sighed. He said; “That was the greatest closer I ever saw.”
“I saved the film on the computer to show my kiddies when they get interested in sports. I saw and heard your part too.
You just had to go and say something, didn’t you? You know how badly they want an excuse to cancel your contract.”
Dave furrowed his brows, still felt stupid and said; “If I had any brains I would have been a lawyer. The question is;
‘What are you going to do about it?’”
“The question is what I’ve already done about it.” He pushed a few computer keys and the wall screen displayed a message. It said; “I apologize to all the good fans for my frustrated use of an objectionable word. The statement, itself was an overly competitive response to a dismal performance. I was trying to convey that I thought it unfair that fans have to pay their hard earned money to be shown something this poor. I’m sorry for the outburst and the bad show.”
Peter said; I’ve already released that to the press, the team, the league and certain baseball web sites.”
“Fantastic.”
“I’ve filed a demand for payment with the team and a request for review by the arbitration board and league management.”
“You’re beautiful, Peter. Should I just go home?”
“No, no, no. Go to the rest of the games. Suit up and shut up.”
“How will we do?”
“I think we’ll win. Worst case, something unexpected happens and we’ll settle for two of the three years coming salary.”
Four million dollar loss was what registered with Dave and he squealed; “What?”
“Just kidding. They have no case. They probably did this to see if you would say more stupidity and give them one. So assume everyone you talk to is wearing a recording device, including your wife and mommy, and stick to the weather and baseball’s been very very good to me crap.”
“You’re still mad at my mother for saying you were stupid in grammar school.”
Peter wrinkled his brow and made a second grader’s grimace before saying; “Yes. And if you get one of these silly compulsions to tell the truth call me. Privileged conversation; inadmissible.” He stood up to indicate the meeting’s end, quickly joined by Dave. They shook hands at the door and Peter said; “Be careful. All you glory guys wind up dead.”
Dave nodded and as he walked away was compelled to have the last word, saying; “I guess everyone else lives forever.”
Peter’s bristle squared the shoulders of his Brooks Brothers, off-the-rack, pinstriped dark suit. He thought about the security of his ten percent cut for negotiating the contract, wishing that he had the power to render Dave mute.
Marsha heard Dave coming and when he reached her desk she was standing with a goo-goo eyed grin on her round face. She nervously brushed back her wine colored long hair, simultaneously jiggling her tightly covered breasts. Dave said;
“I really did talk to Peter about getting a divorce.” He looked
at his wristwatch and continued; “You must be getting off soon and that Italian place ......”
Marsha clucked her lips and said; “You better be careful.
Someday somebody’s going to take you up on that stuff.”
Dave wondered how she could read his mind. He said; “See
‘ya Marsha,” and kept walking.
When he reached the hall door she called out; “Hey, Dave.”
Dave stopped and turned to her. She said; “Do you remember a week ago when you were pitching to Ramirez with two on base and two out and he hit a liner down the left field line bringing in both of them? Why did you throw him a two strike curveball?
He always shortens his swing in that situation. You should have blasted him with the hard one.”
Dave laughed and said; “Everybody’s a critic. Actually I have three reasons why I went with the breaker. Ramirez is one of the best hitters the game has ever seen, so I figure he’s going to make contact. I didn’t want to risk him nailing a fastball and hitting it out, so I threw the sinking breaker hoping he’d ground it somewhere. He’s also a smart hitter who knows I like to throw the fastball with two strikes, so I tried to out-think him. You may recall that the count was 3-2 and I didn’t want to walk him, loading the bases for their power guy.
I actually control the breaker better than I do the hard one.”
Marsha didn’t understand the purported logic and had stopped listening somewhere around “three reasons.” She shook her head negatively and said; “You really shouldn’t try to over-complicate things.”
Dave raised his eyebrows and observed the dropped tile ceiling. He said; “Okay, I’ve got a fourth reason.”
Marsha winced.
Dave said; “No, no. You’ll like this. And it’s true. Greg (the catcher) called for the breaker and he really gets pissed when I shake him off.”
“See, I knew it wasn’t your fault.”
Dave briefly considered another lengthy explanation, but decided that it was easier to agree with Marsha. He said;
“Right,” and left.