Green Expectations by Edward Drobinski - HTML preview
Download the book in PDF, ePub, Kindle for a complete version.
Chapter 3
Dave drove to the one bedroom Weehawken condo which he purchased four years ago when he signed to play with the Crows.
At the time it was advertised as having a Hudson River view, but since then high rise construction at river’s edge has all but obliterated any sightings of the black water. Dave found it useful as it was fifteen minutes to the stadium and over an hour from his parent’s apartment in Bayonne; far enough away to discourage pop-in visits.
He parked his black BMW in the lined parking lot behind the five story building in one of the two special spaces reserved for him. His 5C designation was an open exhibition of his condo status. Two bedroom units commanded three spaces and three bedrooms four. Still, he felt privileged to be on the top floor, where no one could dance on his head at 1AM.
He was surprised to get an empty elevator as it was near rush hour. The place was a flurry of activity for two hours in the morning and evening, when the bulk of the residents were going to or coming back from their 9-5 Manhattan jobs. He glanced at his watch and saw that he must have beaten the PM
flow of strangers by ten minutes.
He opened the double locked door and flicked the switch, which sent measly light into the living room from two adjustable black lamps. They provided the only illumination the room had
ever seen, the bedroom and kitchen having the windows.
Initially, Dave considered this an egregious architectural error, but now he thought the designer’s abilities insightful as the view of the roofs of a few old houses, the high rise parking lots and the high rise’s fat behind were not compelling. Or, maybe he was just lucky.
He dropped his bag and flopped on the L-shaped couch which lined half of two walls. He was attracted to it years ago because its darkish green color reminded him of Astroturf. He pushed the TV controller on button. Mainstream news entered the screen with a distraught, fortyish, former pretty boy with a severe case of New York lockjaw at the center of the screen. He was saying; “The only way to describe the situation is chaos and panic,” as he stood surrounded by Ivy League men with ties undone and the two top buttons of their white shirts open. They were fidgeting with laptops and seemed oblivious to the cameras amidst a floor strewn with crumpled papers. “Jeff Gold reporting here from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The selloff started at the 10AM opening bell, dropping the Dow 700 points in the first half hour of trading. A midday recovery was swamped by furious selling near closing, ending the day down 1,200 points.
Hey, hey, Sid. Can I have a few moments?”
A man who looked much like the shell shocked rest ambled over, nervously scanning north, south, east and west for the
next bomb. Jeff put his arm around Sid’s shoulder, not as a sign of friendship, but in an attempt to hold the man, who looked as if he was a late stage Parkinson’s patient, momentarily still.
Jeff said; “This is Sid Weinstein, Chief Trader at Parente and Simpson. Sid, thanks for your time.” Sid watched the floor and nodded violently like a relief pitcher being given last minute instructions from the manager. Jeff asked; “Can you tell our viewers what happened today?” Sid didn’t change his posture and rattled off; “Weakness in international banks spread to other sectors. Short profit taking middle of the day. Investor panic, mutual fund redemptions, caused more selling at the end.” Jeff had no follow up and said; “Thanks, Sid,” who did his relief pitcher bit again and lurched off camera. Jeff said; “Well, there you have it. This is Jeff Gold from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. Back to you, Tracy.”
Tracy Fullbright, a perennially smiling, soccer mom appeared alone on screen in the studio. Unlike her two predecessors, she sat calmly behind her huge desk, either because her grin masked that she didn’t have the slightest idea of what was going on or she had her money in annuities. She said; “Jeff, Jeff, before you go; what caused the bank weakness?” Jeff came back on screen with his finger apparently attempting to get somewhere into his ear. He said; “That’s a good question, Tracy. ......... Perhaps more sellers than
buyers.” Having taken a few Finance courses in college, Tracy tried to remain polite, but at the same time obtain a better answer. She minced words carefully, saying; “Well, Jeff. Thanks for your usual insight into the matter. But, have you heard any of the traders speak about why this perception changed today?”
The camera went back to Jeff who momentarily appeared successful with his ear implant operation, only to have the tiny projectile fall to the floor with the rest of the papers he fumbled. As he bent over and manically maneuvered to retrieve the apparatus in the midst of quickly moving feet, the camera went back to Tracy.
Her wide eyes, pupils north, smile deficient, quizzical round face betrayed her “warm and fuzzy” TV personae. She pointed her right index finger at her upper chest, perhaps breasts, nodded and then said; “That’s Jeff Gold, our financial maven, direct from the floor of the New York Stock Exchange. We hope to hear more from him after the technical problems are corrected.”
Though the words of her last sentence were of the declarative category, her phrasing made it sound as if it was more of a question. Back on track, she smiled and chirped; “After a word from our sponsors, we’ll have a live interview with Judith Saunders. You may recall that Ms. Saunders survived an attack by two alligators in the Everglades. She’s here to tell us her story.” The camera panned away showing Ms. Saunders sitting at
the other end of the large desk, stump up on it, attempting to correctly re-install one of her leg prostheses.
Deciding that he wanted to more “alternative,” but hopefully not “avant-garde,” Dave pushed a complicated series of controller buttons and got a public access channel run out of a curtained basement in Waco. The host-moderator, a sixtyish man in a baseball cap and an overall ZZ Top appearance ignored the other person present, whose head was surrounded by a black ski mask, focused his bloodshot eyeballs on the camera and with no inflection slowly said; “We cancelled our interview with PJ
Rogers to bring up somethin’ more of the moment. PJ, I hope those aliens don’t take yah for good before we can get back to yah, buddy. We got for yah a man whose name and identity must remain anonymous, so I’ll just call him ‘Ski.’ Ski, tell us why the market crashed today.”
Ski confidently said; “Al Qaeda, man. Simple as that.
Homeland Security, where I used to work leaked that the organization has targeted another major US facility. Of course they all shorted the market pre-leak.”
“How do you know all this?”
“I told you. I used to work there and I’ve still got some friends. My life is in danger saying this, but hell, the people have the right to know. They play games with information at the
public’s expense. It’s all going to come out in my new book;
‘Underneath the Underground.’ Publishers can reach me at ...”
Dave pushed one simple button; off. He decided that he’d even rather hear Lucretia. He dialed the number of their mutually shared Tewksbury house. After one short ring he heard the sharp female voice; “What is wrong with you?”
He always liked her inclination for getting quickly to the point. He answered; “You’ve got that much time?”
“Tell your psychiatrist. He gets paid to listen to all that crap.”
Dave did not visit a psychiatrist; at least not yet. He tried to respond in kind, so he smugly replied in a manner designed to “humorously” repel the attack, saying; “So do you.”
Lucretia didn’t want to get off on the well-worn tangent a direct response would revive. It wasn’t her strong suit. As she drummed her fingers on the granite kitchen counter she adopted her strained calm voice and said; “Okay, let’s start over
......”
Fun over and with no desire to start over, Dave cut her off and rattled; “I was stupid. Jackass pissed me off. I’ve already been to Jaffe’s. He’s filed papers all over the place and he says they have no case.”
Lucretia was silent. Dave said; “Jaffe told me to stick to the weather and what a great game baseball is. I intend to follow his advice. Okay?”
Lucretia mumbled something incoherent, then finally said;
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, but I’m beginning to get the idea. I’m referring to your investment expertise. Did you see what the market did today?”
Dave thought; “Oh, shit. Opened my big mouth again.” He soon realized that it didn’t matter as she was sure to find out about his baseball exploits anyway. “Might as well kill two birds with one stone.” He sarcastically answered; “As a matter of fact, I didn’t. I was just calling to say how much I miss you and that we’ll be together in a few more days.”
“Save that for some dumb bimbo. The market fell ten percent and OUR portfolio is off twelve. That’s outperforming in the wrong direction. What happened?”
Dave affected a mock scholarly tone and said; “I’m very glad you asked that good question. Though the vagaries of the Dow have perplexed the greatest of minds, I have it on excellent authority that today’s retreat was engineered by our crack Homeland Security Department. They leaked in select places that Al-Qaeda was imminently planning another attack on the US. The leakers went short and cashed in.”
“Well, I don’t care. I heard that there were more sellers than buyers. I’m putting everything in treasuries.”
Dave winced and didn’t want to open the buyer-seller box.
He said; “Well, I don’t care either. You asked. But, you always do this. First sign of weakness and you bail. When everybody says things are wonderful you buy. The net result is that you buy high and sell low.”
“I’m selling right now. And regarding that other stuff; I’ll call Jaffe myself.”
Dave was set to tell the story straight as when she calls Jaffe he gets pissy with him, but she hung up. He re-dialed the number and it was busy.
Dave thought; “No sense in chasing now. She’s made up her and our mind. Actually, treasuries aren’t bad. Can’t lose.
...... Well, that is if they’re short term. You can lose plenty if they’re long term. Shit. If they were long term they’d be called treasury bonds. Maybe she used the wrong parlance.
Doesn’t matter anyway. She’s going to do what she’s going to do.
I have got to get some control over my life. I first remember thinking that at age twelve. Only twenty-one years have elapsed.
Still plenty of time.”
With no work on the docket for the remainder of the season, Dave chose to pursue one of his childhood goals; to join a
millionaire men’s club. His early viewings of “Twilight Zone”
episodes made the endeavor seem quite attractive. Serenity; excellent manners; servants on call, but without the hovering; eccentric people; practicality disdained; and an abundance of unique games seemed the way to go. He decided to take Peter’s advice and repose in the dugout. Dave suited up for the rest of the end-of-season home stand. It required a number of contentious discussions and agitated phone calls, but he was triumphant in being allowed to occupy one corner of the dugout; fortunately the one furthest from the frenzied activity of the nouveau bat rack. The other players received instructions to act as if he wasn’t there. Dave found this amusing in a silly way and while he didn’t say anything he contented himself with making childish faces when he thought that he may have caught an errant peek. He became adept at external tongue positions, slack jaw deviations and crossing his eyes.
The experience was an enlightening one. For the first time he paid full attention to the game, which he viewed with only minor impediment. The chain link fence lining the dugout, which protects the endorsement minded pros on cell phones from wayward foul balls, appeared to be sacrificing banal clarity in the pursuit of making some nouvelle vague, après-garde, parallelistic statement about terrorism, very 50’s in approach with a 40’s subject matter. The lime, vertically paneled walls
displayed only one work of art; a photo of Madame Psychosis adorned in leather bikini and open jacket, apparently ripped from “15 Magazine.” Dave thought that Marilyn Monroe would have been more fitting. At times he thought of getting a dunce cap and facing the wall, but didn’t know where to find one in an era where, armed with internet factoids, everyone thought that they were smart, and that it was the height of cool to pretend stupidity. He made a mental note to get some “Ramones” CD’s for his car. He could play them whenever the urge struck him to be more “contemporary.”
The games were uneventful, both teams playing out 2012’s string with modest interest in front of a stadium predominately populated with concessionaires. What was interesting to Dave was how many of the players tried new approaches. Their stats and market value already established some hitters experimented with new stances, where they held the bat and proximity to the plate.
Having been in the majors for a decade he knew the “book” on all of them and he was interested to see how their new trial approaches were an obvious attempt to compensate for their weaknesses. If successful their former strengths became the new weakness.
Craig Nichols, a seasoned .240, 20-25 home run, left hand hitter was notorious for not being able to handle anything outside; middle of the plate in he kills you. He had always
positioned himself near the middle of the batter’s box, but now he was standing as close to the plate as one is allowed. Claude Dimsley, the Crow starter either didn’t see this or wasn’t paying attention. In effect Nichols new foot position made the outside corner strike into one right down the middle. After smacking two shots to right center, Dimsley was still going away and Nichols hit it out. Dave thought; “He should have gone against the ‘book’ and jammed him hard inside.”
As he watched the adjustments other batters were regularly making he wondered if this was truly end-of-season experimentation. Maybe it goes on regularly and he was just too lazy-minded to do anything other than what Dimsley did; mindlessly do what the “book” said.
In fact the “book” is now computer precise, breaking the strike zone into nine quadrants. Its makers can unequivocally state that if Nichols hits a low outside pitch he bats .068 and if he hits one center high he bats .512. Undeniable. But, they don’t adjust this for where he stands. Nor do they make any ramifications if Nichols is taking his “home run” swing or his
“two-strike-protect-the-plate” slap. It ignores situations. Dave remembered his father telling him that Yogi Berra was always known as a clutch hitter and there was one big simple reason for it. He normally tried to pull everything, but in a key spot he’d go the other way.
Dave found this intriguing. Watch the other player. In one of the world’s most ego-centric professions, don’t focus on yourself. Watch the other player. Could this possibly be right?
He saw hitters frequently taking differing positions, some times during the same at bat. One even moved his feet as the pitcher was winding up. Some were completely different when there were men on base. He spent the rest of his quiet season, fully alert in his “ashram,” pretenses to artistic characterization forgotten, meditating on the manner in which “The Great American Pastime” is secretly played by the unspeaking best. He thought;
“They can choose to not advertise, but they can’t hide what they do. Revolutionary.” Baseball was again starting to be interesting.