

National Treasures

by Ryan McCord

Copyright 2011 Ryan McCord

Smashwords Edition

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CHAPTER 1 THE DREAMERS

With Florida's calm April skies cloaked behind a cloud formation as far as the eye could see, NASA is about to launch a rocket carrying a team of astronauts into orbit.

In Brevard, about 20 miles north of the launch site, 28-year-old pals James McEwing and Gerry Galloway idle themselves in lawn chairs next to a pond. In order to help pass the time, they engage in a brief discussion concerning health care reform in the United States.

Directly behind them is James's white Mazda pickup. The canopy-capped bed of the vehicle primarily functions as a shelter for the nomad at this stage of his life. James is a journalist by trade; unaffiliated but aimed to build a career out of writing about the world of sports.

On the other side of the pickup is a chain-linked fence with a baseball field behind it. The very same fence that Gerry, eight hours from now, will be working in front of with a baseball glove, wearing a Washington Presidents uniform. Gerry is an affiliated minor league baseball player with hopes of making it to the Big Leagues some day. This marks the fifth spring training he has participated in with the organization.

James completes his stand on the health care conversation.

"For 40 years we have been voting nothing but false prophets into major political office, and will probably continue to do so for the next 40. So all I'm asking is, if they're going to continue to: A.) Work us to death B.) Feed us poison C.) Take our money and D.) Stress us out; then we should be getting some kind of annual, remedial thank you in return.

"For years I have been teetering the hemorrhoid line because I can't afford quality toilet paper, let alone running water. Is the right to a bi-annual, 5-minute examination too much to ask?"

These two educated Americans are closing in on their 30's, respectively. Neither one of them have the slightest clue where they will be living or working a year from today, let alone next week when training camp breaks. The inevitable final boarding call for the flight back to "Settlesville" is being made by now, isn't it?

"We can't afford it," Gerry starts, taking a brief time out from wolfing down host family evening leftovers of fish sticks with ketchup. "So the question is...if a certain empire, let's say the United States of America...shows serious signs of crumbling...would the rest of the world just go on?

"I can't imagine us, the King of the World, allowing that to happen."

Just in the nick of time, one of those catchy Jimmy Buffett tunes begins to play on the truck's satellite radio, sending a cheap wave of fun into the air.

James shrugged, "I'll let you know when I'm teaching Eng-rish in tucked away Korea." He reels in his bass fishing line while bobbing his head along with the tune.

Like many young and untested Americans certain of grabbing hold of their butterfly ambitions, James has had a difficult time finding an employer and consequently a consistent lifestyle he can anchor to. It doesn't help when the investment of a college degree has yet to return enough to purchase a loaf of Wonder Bread. He's searched the web high and low for entry-level jobs in his respective field of print journalism, and must have applied for nearly 500 openings since earning his BA from Washington State University in his hometown of Pullman.

His stubbornness to succeed is a byproduct of The McEwing family Mission Statement growing up. You've probably heard it before, as it goes something like: You can do anything you put your mind to.

Until the other day, thanks to the Mission Statement, James' drive was fueled by the underpinnings of the following self-centered life goals: 1. Become a Manhattan-based sportswriter someday and 2. date super models and A-list actresses.

If only James' parents, anthropology professors at WSU, had known that their adapted Mission Statement was actually formulated by a group of people they happened to be separated a full seven degrees from. It all started during the early 80's, on a 5th of May in fact, halfway through an eight-ball gathering hosted by a collaboration of part-time community college students and full-time pizza delivery drivers somewhere in upstate New York. A high school drop out turned future motivational speaker happened to be in attendance. He couldn't sleep or eat pizza for two nights. He ended up betting his career on the idea, and now he is sipping pina coladas made by one of his young wives, on his own tropical island.

James finally finished school at Wazzu (because his tuition was free, he managed to milk his junior and senior years out of a single Bush term), and took the first job that he was offered: a carpenter's assistant for the summer. That lasted three years before he managed to save enough, thanks to Gerry's wisdom that he filed away (and living with his parents for 27 years) and decided to take on the role of entrepreneur-in Las Vegas.

Gerry had been telling James for years that in an economy hiring more computers and Chinese youth than their own countrymen, creativity that allures the masses is where the occupational advantages await.

So James moved to Vegas in order to write a sports gambling blog, where he would bet on sporting events for 365 days, for an average wager of $5 a day, for an entire year-with one simple goal: finish ahead of the house. The problem behind this move was that Sin City was already dealing with the second highest unemployment rate, per capita, in the country. James arrived with only $2,000 in overhead, no job, no place to live, knowing nobody.

The blog, infused by the intricacies that grew to define his daily plight, was original and fun to read. It probably could have become commercially successful had it lasted 365 days, but James couldn't even get a job waiting tables. Financially strapped, the project lasted only a few months. He managed to leave Vegas feeling vindicated as a sports writer, only to fall victim to bad luck and poor timing.

So out of money, with no job, now it was time for James to go back home and get a job working at the University. That would have been the conservative thing to do. James' parents thought it was the only thing to do. Just a few phone calls had to be made and James probably could have landed any full time job opening he was even the least bit qualified for.

But James was still wrestling with a psychological dysfunction far more detrimental than any of his lofty career goals would suggest: he loathed the idea of settling. And furthermore, the only thing he loathes more than settling, is settling back home. James' longtime attitude towards having the luxury of growing up within a culture riding high on free enterprise would suggest that settling back home is the downright antithesis of the Mission Statement.

So after Vegas fell through, James decided to utilize his family connections for a quick bundle of cash in the private sector, via the Alaskan fishing industry. James landed an assembly line job in a salmon processing plant during the summer migration run, in Bristol Bay, AK. James would work 16-hour shifts, everyday, for six weeks straight. No cocktail hour. No beaches. No days off. Most of the time he cleaned the guts out of belly sliced salmon with a shank spoon. Fish after fish after fish, James spooned out guts. He spooned out so many guts that summer he was even dreaming about cleaning fish guts.

On his last night in Alaska, James drank a lot of beer. He drank like a fish. He had pocketed around $4,000 for that six-week period. Everybody was celebrating that night. Everybody had graduated from a sort of twisted intensive labor camp. There was Ben from Duluth, Jenson from Arizona, Carlo from Guadalajara, Zach from Sacramento, the trio from Boston, and Big Game James from Pullman. That night of celebration, nobody had a care in the world. After all, they all had acquired short-term financial freedom. They were all best of chums that last night. They worked, ate, shared cigs, and slept within three feet of each other for half a summer. In the end, with the exception of the Boston boys, they will never see or speak to one another other again.

James did a lot of thinking while he was gutting fish. He decided by that second week in Alaska, that when it was all over, it was time to attempt a permanent move to New York City. This was the right time in his life to take his sports writing talents to the media capital of the world. He had a dependable car. He had a degree. He had a body of writing work he was proud to show to potential employers.

James went on to pedal The New York Daily News, part time, in the Washington Heights neighborhood of Manhattan at the corner of 168th and Broadway. This was as close as he could get in becoming a sports writer for a New York based newspaper.

Theoretically, James was nothing more than a water boy for The Daily News. He figured that by being employed by the media outlet, it would keep him in the company's internal employment loop.

But James's circulation advisor informed him that he was nothing more than an independent contractor for the company, and therefore, he would not be receiving any kind of internal employment information. This did not completely send James's morale into a tailspin, however, because he did need the money and he was still riding the emotional high of living in The Big City for the first time. At $40.07 a week, The Daily News gig kept him busy for three weekday mornings.

James witnessed a lot of strange human behavior during his Daily News tenure on the streets. He saw schizos try to court pigeons for spare change. He saw schizos try to catch house flies in January. He even saw schizos help themselves to handfuls of snow for breakfast. He saw them count those obtuse black spots on every sidewalk panel nearby. He even saw schizos sparring with nobody but the space in front of them.

Incidentally, many of these same guys once sought the very same job at the Daily News that James had occupied.

What separated James from the rag tag crew of local street people was the ability to count change. The supervisor presented each individual the same hypothetical scenario: give the vendor one dollar for one newspaper. The newspaper costs 50 cents. Three guys put the dollar in their pocket, one of them replied, "God Bless you." Another guy tried to buy a toothpick from the supervisor with the dollar. And another guy gave a quarter back to the supervisor, pocketed the other quarter, and proceeded to walk away with the newspaper mumbling, "It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swang. Do wop-dee bop, do wop-dee bop."

James's primary means of income came by the way of Arastar: a company that manages a variety of local business needs, including managing the hygiene duties of professional work uniforms. For 18 hours and $125 a week, James would assist the driver in picking up and dropping off laundry for local hospitals, restaurants, etc.

In order to afford living in The Big Apple, James figured he had to make at least $200 a week. Thanks to Junior, a Dominican-extracted co-worker at Arastar, James learned of an opening for weekend help at nearby Heavyweights Moving Company. He took it with little muse.

This job proved to be very dangerous, though. Often times, the moving crew had to deliver office equipment like a one piece, 15-foot long filing cabinet. How do you fit a 15-foot long horizontal filing cabinet that needs to be dropped off at the 15th floor, through an elevator? You don't. You drop the elevator to the basement and slide the cabinet through the hallow elevator doorway on the first floor until it rests secured by two men already standing on top of the elevator itself. The man inside the elevator presses the 14th floor button. You reverse the process from the 15th floor elevator door, and sign here, please. James did not have to ride the elevator the first time, as the experienced workers took care of that. But there seemed to be at least one new guy every other weekend. Within a month's time, James would be one of the senior workers qualified to ride the elevator. By James' eighth weekend on the job, his supervisor, Raul, looks at him apprehensively and quips, "Que onda?"

James knows what he's getting at, but plays the communication barrier card and shrugs in coy.

"Your turn, primo," Raul smiled.

So James was working seven days a week in order to make ends meet. He rented a room in the Kew Gardens district of Queens. People in Washington Heights would look at him like he was a two-headed monster and ask, "Why are you working here and living all the way over in Queens?" To James, the answer was simple: for $600 a month, utilities and a window included, it was all he could afford at the time he moved to New York. And if people only knew just how pristine the neighborhood of Kew Gardens really was. James never had to worry about locking the door every waking second. Most forms of lowlifes were non-existent. The neighborhood presented all the New York bachelor staples with just a stone's throw away from the apartment: a laundromat, a few bars, a liquor store, a diner, a bakery or two, a grocery store, Chinese food, a delicatessen, a coffee shop, a movie theater, a newspaper stand and an old world pizza parlor.

James loved Queens. By comparison, however, he only liked his apartment, in which he shared with two single women around his age.

"They're cat ladies," James would often bemoan.

People looked at James like he was inventing a new cultural stereotype or something, and often responded with, "What do you mean?"

Most of the straight males he spoke to on this subject simply could not justify why he's so opposed to sleeping with at least one of them.

"I mean they are nice girls and everything, but there is a reason why they are single, and nobody will have the heart to tell them its because guys don't care for cats," James would lobby.

"If you have one, fine. But that's it! You can't have four or five cats lying around a tiny apartment. These are animals that crap inside.

"And think about this: the cats sleep in bed with the chick. If you're the guy who is going to sleep with one of them, prepare to cough up hairballs the next morning courtesy of Trinka, the one who likes to scratch."

James is allergic to cats as well, which made matters a little socially awkward around the apartment. But because he was competing with a few other prospective tenants when applying for the room itself, he never told his roommates this. He just knew that because the neighborhood was perceptibly flawless, and the rent was affordable, he had to live there and he was willing to deal with the elements for it. He had a dream to be a sports writer in New York after all, and in order to realize your dreams you have to sacrifice and suffer. What made the situation awkward at home was the fact that James never kept the door open in his room. Not even cracked. He actually went out of his way to make sure it was shut even when he stepped out to use the restroom. To his roommates, this was perceived as sort of an antisocial vibe. If the ladies had actually known that James was allergic to cats, the perception could have been one of understanding, ultimately.

James was never home during the day, and by the time he got home at night, he was often ready to relax and fall asleep. In other words, he rarely spoke to his roommates. His eyes began to water, and nose began to itch just seconds after entering the apartment.

So by the time his lease was up in February, the roommates respectfully asked James if he could find somewhere else to live. The landlord, who was a friend of a friend to one of the roommates, informed James that he would receive his security deposit back, but assured him that he would not be granted another six-month lease. He tried to explain the circumstances under which he was living, but by then it was too late. The roommates, since they didn't know him very well, still felt mildly insulted and just viewed his explanation as an excuse to veil an antisocial nature.

James packed up his car then took the subway to the Museum of Natural History, his favorite think tank. After three hours of wandering, gazing, marveling and mulling, he decided it was time to rest in front of the Big Horn Sheep exhibit. He wanted to call home, but not until he gave his spirits a jolt, which always seems to happen after chatting with Gerry. Gerry really valued talking to James about being a professional baseball player. James followed Gerry's career and often went out of his way to see him play on multiple occasions.

Here's a look into that conversation, in summation:

Gerry: (Answers by whistling their college fight song.) Big Game James! How's the Big Grapple?

James: I got my health. I'm logging 40 hours a week. I can afford a monthly subway pass. Who can ask for more?

Gerry: Sad to say, I know folks far better off financially than you are, yet I can't stand to be around them. Nothing's ever good enough for some people, you know?

James: I hear that.

Gerry: You've been reading and writing a lot?

James: Reading more than ever, since I'm commuting roughly two hours a day.

Gerry: I'm sure it's worth it.

James: (facetiously) Oh, I pinch myself all the time! But I called because I wanted to get an update from you, man. These are big days, huh?

Gerry: Yeah you're right about that. Well we don't start (Spring Training) for a week. But I love getting down here early. Working on my swing. Taking some jee-bers at first. Flies in right. Getting on the clubby's good side and all. I'm in the best shape of my life, without question. Man, I wish you were here to experience this!

James: Well that's another thing I wanted to talk to you about. I got a few extra bucks recently and I was thinking about road-tripping for a week down there.

Gerry: What about work?

James: I'm in the middle of a job transition for my weekly stuff. I already got someone to cover my weekend gig for me.

Gerry: Big Game! When can you be here?

At this point, practicality now seems to have manifested its way through the portrait in James' destiny of distaste. He drove down to Florida with about $4,000 to his name, conscience ringing. Hippies aside, when you go on a road trip with an open-ended ticket and imminent decisions about your future to make, you take advantage of the time you have alone with some jazz and the earth's energy to help inspire an honest blueprint for the next move. But all James could think about was how he could avoid the inevitable without breaking the bank. But he knew he had no choice. The long-term security is ripe for the picking. He knew where he had to go once his stay in spring training was over: back home to Pullman, the only town in America that he did not enjoy being a stranger in.

In contrast to James' own objections with Pullman, Gerry Galloway has no qualms with permanently moving back to eastern Washington someday. He would always contend, "You can live a pretty good life being Joe Blow in the Great Northwest."

Most of Gerry's cherished early adulthood experiences can be attributed to his membership with the most envied of fraternities that God could ever design for men: for he is a professional baseball player.

So when he heard Gerry say this, James figured that the insulated version of the real world experience that pro baseball offers must have blurred his friends' sense of reality.

However, Gerry Galloway is fully conscious of just how fortunate his position in life is. His ultimate goal is to make it to the Big Leagues, of course. But at this point, embarking on his fifth minor league season, he felt like God already welcomed him into the Utopian Casino's high rollers club for an extended stay. This is the culture that friends and family members can get a taste of, but can never fully understand. How is it that grown men can still be infatuated with a culture that's essentially a grownup treehouse with a keg-erator and a Pizza Hut account? What these guys have that Hugh Hefner doesn't is the opportunity to perform in front of thousands. The rest, even if you're making the rookie minimum, just takes care of itself.

One of the problem's with Gerry's professional situation is that he has never been rewarded any discretionary income. He could see the richest, play with the richest, and break balls with the richest; but the chances that he could ever become one of the richest were about as likely as Mitt Romney being able to recall the last time he washed the dishes.

So just how long can someone in Gerry's position manage to lounge around this wing of the casino?

A career .230 hitter, Gerry managed to make it this long in the game because he possesses size (6'3", 220 lbs.), raw power (70 career homeruns) to go along with an above average athletic ability that enabled him to platoon between first base and right field. But he also owned a quality so indispensable to success in life, let alone baseball: everybody liked him.

And to the delight of scouts, as a first baseman, Gerry is also a true lefty; meaning he throws and swings from the same direction alike. This is an advantage that works in his favor offensively, as most pitchers are right handed, and statistically, left-handed hitters fare against right-handed pitchers with greater success.

Defense is Gerry's forte. He commits few errors a season and has saved many throwing errors.

If James were to approach one of Gerry's coaches for an interview about his friend, and asked him for a no-bull prognostication of his baseball fate, the answer would probably go something like this:

"Gerry has the athletic makeup that most young men admire-whether your a professional athlete or not. Coaches like him because he hustles and always plays through pain. Performance wise, however, what he is missing is the "It" factor. He's missing that indescribable, God given quality that just separates the Big League ballplayer from the average pro. For a guy whose elevator certainly goes to the top on the field of life, the baseball version of that elevator, call it competitive IQ, continues to make his talents take the stairs."

Playing during the wake of the steroid era in professional baseball, the opportunity to consume performance enhancers as part of Gerry's workout regimen has always been just a phone call away. Already owning an all-natural axman physique to go along with the aforementioned power and athleticism, Gerry would have been the quintessential lab rat for steroids.

But because Gerry is a man of integrity, steroids were never really an option. Some players don't even consider taking steroids because they really are that lazy or just don't care about the game enough. Then there are guys like Gerry, who are just plain frightened by the idea.

"If you're going to take 'roids, be prepared to dodge bullets along the way," Gerry will insist. "First of all, you're living a lie. For me, that would be like knowing I am going to get shot at any day.

"Secondly, you have to find a way to pass the drug tests, which represents a second gunman. And if you get caught, you lose an element of respect from everyone you associate yourself with.

"That's called bleeding. But nobody feels obligated to help you. Tough love. Good riddance, whatever.

"And what happens if you do get to The Show? Now that you are there, are you just going to throw the 'roids in the storm drain and dust off your hands like you aren't going to need them anymore?

"You can sugar coat it all you want. I'm sure there are guys out there with convincing takes on why the choice to take steroids is not as immoral as the majority of the hypocritical public wants you to believe.

"But speaking as a God-fearing professional who doesn't want to disappoint my family...I can't help but conclude that taking 'roids is cheating."

Let's pretend that Gerry had decided to make that deal with the devil. The formula for success is not as complicated as everyone makes it out to be: His all around muscle strength would improve dramatically, which would allow him to swing the biggest, heaviest bat on the market. The bigger the barrel on the bat, the chances of putting the heart of that barrel on the sweet spot of the ball increase significantly. To sum it up: heart of barrel + sweet spot of baseball = more extra base hits. After that first ball goes over the fence that never used to get over before, the snowball of bravado begins to roll. Matter has caught up to the mind. A monster on the field is conceived.

If one can stay healthy, and can somehow manage to fool the drug tests, steroids are a sure fire ticket to The Show.

Gerry's humility is a direct byproduct that dates back from the adversity he faced his sophomore and junior years in college. He spent his sophomore season in the penthouse. In contrast, his junior year was one that, for a while, he loathed the thought of actually going to the park at all.

As a sophomore, Gerry won the Pac-10 Player of the Year. However, upon entering his junior season, coaches in the league figured out how to pitch to him by not throwing any strikes. He struggled mightily with this concept. Fifteen games into the

season saw Gerry batting just .190 with one homerun and 40 strikeouts. His career nearly ended when the head coach considered permanently removing him from the team after punching the dugout wall. Gerry broke his hand and subsequently screamed an obscenity that made everyone in the crowd feel violated. Playing wise, his season was over. Gerry's coach assured him that if he did not stop taking the game so seriously, that he would not return for his senior season.

This turned out to be the best thing that ever happened to Gerry. Instead of turning into a troubled Hitchcock character, he decided to take advantage of his inactivity by refocusing. He fell in love of the game once more. He did not manage to renovate his approach to the game of baseball by himself, however. In fact, he had help from the unlikeliest of sources. This source happened to be the baseball team's beat reporter for the school newspaper: James McEwing.

Having the opportunity to cover the Cougar baseball team exclusively, James had more access to the players than just about anyone else in the local media. Gerry was always James' favorite to interview during their sophomore year, because the slugger was always good for a memorable quote or two as he was performing and the team was winning.

But because Gerry was struggling so mightily at the plate his junior year, and the team suffering without their best RBI man, James' articles simply lost some of its verve and flavor that he and his editors were used to. The beat had become flat and, because the losses were piling up for Wazzu, almost trivial as well.

Now that Gerry was going to be out for the season, James decided to make a pitch for a running feature. He wanted to shadow the falling star turned injured player and document the art behind his comeback.

The editors were certainly okay with it, but they assumed they were sending James on a fool's errand, thinking Gerry would never cooperate.

Gerry was a man who trusted his instincts, and having dealt with James on a professional level, and in some cases, recreational level, he always viewed the reporter also as a man of integrity with an above average sports IQ. He also admired his work as a writer.

Growing up modestly on a wheat farm, Gerry is shrewd and atypically wise beyond his years. He welcomed James' pitch with open arms not because he relished the attention, but because he knew that having a media watchdog would work in his favor as a motivational technique of sorts. He knew he had bottomed out his baseball career before it even got off the ground. Changes had to be made.

The series of articles turned out to be a Godsend for the two. James won a pair of local newspaper awards given to students who display excellence in collegiate reporting. And once the cast came off, Gerry hit the weight room and the books harder than ever before. To borrow a line from Sinatra, "It was a very good year."

Early the next fall, James informed his editors that he was giving up the coveted baseball beat for his senior year. Having befriended Gerry and a handful of his teammates, he wanted to squash any possibility for the conflict of interest factor that lingered at times.

He didn't want to be mandated any longer to guys like Himmy Jurst, the centerfielder and Gerry's roommate from Alabama. One time, while smoking grass before heading off to Entomology 101 together, Himmy frankly said to James, "Hey Wolf Blitzer, this is what off the record smells like, you hear me!"

The ballplayers respected this move, further developing a newfound respect for James and eventually accepting him a part of their inner circle. James spent most of his Saturday nights attending a campus firmament known as the Baseball House, which is like a fraternity, only the tenants happened to be 10 or so ballplayers instead of fraternity members. And if there was any advantage ballplayers had on frat boys, it was that they each one of them happened to know at least 20 different uber-attractive coeds who were only partially psychopathic.

The close friendship between James and Gerry was then forever born.

After graduation, Gerry went on to sign with the Presidents, and has been playing minor league ball with them ever since.

The rocket is now thousands of feet high, slicing its way through the clouds and straight towards the moon. The exhaust sounds something like a male lion continuously purring in surround sound.

During the event, both James and Gerry's minds will wander a little-the same way listening to certain music or exercising on a treadmill can do to you. James thinks about what he is going to eat for breakfast tomorrow, since he is running low on energy bars and wants to save a few for the inevitable cross-country trip back to Washington state. Gerry thinks about his opponent tomorrow, the Travelers, and if he will have to face that left-handed phenom of theirs who gave him fits last week by simply working both edges of the plate for strikes with apparent ease.

"If I do see that sonofabitch, I wonder if he'll even show me the deuce?" he thought. "Or will he remember how he got me out last time?

"That catcher of his was a real tool, too."

Because they couldn't see much, it was hard for James and Gerry to act in deference to one of mankind's truly awesome accomplishments.

Gerry is getting anxious to get to sleep.

"One more beer, c'mon," James lobbies.

"You're a bad influence," Gerry replied dryly. "This is the Bible Belt."

That triggers an organic, short belly laugh from James.

"It's 12 ounces of canned beer; it will only take seven minutes. We could both use the nightcap after that frenzy."

Initially, James wanted to enjoy a beer and a cigarette with Gerry and spark up a quick conversation concerning his friend's own projection, in regards to where he might be playing in a few days when camp ultimately breaks.

For a guy like Gerry, whom the franchise has nothing invested with but hope itself, Spring Training is one long, grueling tryout. When James thought about that, he called himself an audible and decided it was best to talk to Gerry about it tomorrow instead. James made a conscious effort not to talk baseball with Gerry once he finished for the day. He took pride in playing the role of a friend who could help him take his mind off of it, being that he's there. That's why the two option to spend most of their free time bass fishing in local ponds with a small aluminum boat borrowed from one of Gerry's neighbors. They often talked about women, the good 'ol days, music, movies, sports, and what was good and bad about America at the time.

To cap this night, the two drank their can of beer, listened to sports radio a little, then James drove Gerry down the road two and half miles to his volunteer host family's residence. Then James came right back to the baseball complex, brushed his teeth and rinsed with bottled water he had in the bed. He set his cell phone alarm for the usual 6:00 am, locked the canopy by tying a red electrical wire from the handle to a nearby latch on the bed of the truck, then falls asleep peacefully knowing he was going to spend another day watching professional baseball in the sun.

CHAPTER 2 VERMONT'S FINEST, THE TRAVELERS

At a 7-11 newspaper rack early the next morning, James just stands there in disbelief. The message couldn't be any clearer; he is not going to become a newspaper reporter anytime soon.

The telltale headline on the front of The Wall Street Journal reads, "New York Times Layoffs on the Table for 2010".

Actually, James doesn't do much thinking about the issue. It doesn't help that he can't think clearly right now anyways because 1.) It's 6:09 AM and he hasn't had his coffee yet, let alone brush his teeth or comb his hair, and 2.) He has that damn Rick Astley song stuck in his head, "The only love I ever knew, every time I think of you, my heart starts achin', my hands keep shakin', and you know, you know, you know..."

So naturally he is a little distracted and a little more annoyed. How exactly does that happen, he thought, staring out the window in front of him. "I haven't even heard a sample of that song since I was at my cousin's wedding seven years ago."

"Come to think of it," he continues to mull. "Why was that song playing at the wedding, anyways?"

Today is Thursday, and James had been reading the Wall Street Journal at the field all week, but not today. I'm going to get some coffee, a banana, a granola bar, and some bandits for fishing, he decides.

I can't think about the state of the newspaper industry today. I can't think about how I now have thousands more to compete with for a job while they go ahead and stamp The New York Times to their resume. What's my highlight? Vegas blogging?...all right, that's enough. That blog was a great slice of American sports writing. You know what? When I leave this 7-11, I leave the negativity next to the stack of Wall Street Journals at the door.

And he was able to do just that. But he was still allowing the article to galvanize outlandish ideas regarding his professional future for a good hour.

Maybe I should go to trade school, he thought. Carpentry. Or maybe I'll just become a farmhand out in the middle of the palouse somewhere. I wonder if my old man knows any farmers that could use some full time workers? I'm over this whole rat race bullshit anymore. Just work during the day, drink beer next to the fire at night with my dogs living amongst the snow-covered palouse landscape. It would be a retarded Rockwell painting, I know. I'll be a 30-year-old senior citizen turning into a marshmallow by 7 pm every winter's night. Just I and my dog, my beer, my color TV, and my fire. Cougar games on Saturday. No cares. Ha!

Along the way to Gerry's place, he notices that many of the neighbors not only show support for the stars and stripes up on the flagpoles of each respective front yard, but a second flag is often hanging directly underneath displaying a NASCAR driver's last name, number and colors.

James glances at the truck's clock; it's 6:15 on the money. Gerry is not outside.

This activates the tongue-in-cheek side of James' persona.

Gerry G isn't ready, huh? Was I supposed to set the clock back an hour last night?

This doesn't annoy James in the least bit, though. He won't even give Gerry friendly flack for being late. And the principle reason why Gerry's tardiness doesn't bother him is because he knows just how hard his buddy has been working this spring.

Eight-hour days for minor leaguers at spring training include intense conditioning and instructional drills ran by boobs dressed as coaches who are always looking to turn even the minutia's of the game into a mad science. Typically, each player will also participate in two scrimmages (the away games can consist of up to 50 mile bus trips, whether its to Kissimmee to play the Comets or Vero Beach to play the Travelers), all under the high Florida sun paired with the sticky nuisance of humidity.

Because of Gerry's insight, James always knew that the average pro ballplayer slaved for a heck of a lot less than fans give them credit for. And now he was able to see it firsthand, for an extended period of time. For the pro ballplayer who has yet to receive The Call, the passage of each season is a sticky ascertainment: Most will trek through an all too familiar desert with an all too familiar treasure map with the endpoint reading BIG LEAGUES. At Every 100 paces it seems, an oasis will surface. Or does it resurface? Either way, it always manages to have you and a teammate assigned to room 509 at the Red Roof. The Sizzler is on one side, a bar on the other, and in the motel's parking lot rests your travel bus equipped with an old driver who always seems to be going eight hours to Binghamton.

Knowing that Gerry was only beginning to venture towards the vaunted blur of continuum for an endeavor that so often gives the participant back nothing more than another hardscrabble season in the minors, James is honored to be his driver for the spring.

James grabs his toothbrush and toothpaste out of the glove compartment and subsequently makes his way towards the house, turns on a faucet near the garage, and proceeds to get in a quick clean and rinse. Momentarily, with his back turned towards the front door, he is kindly patted on the head by Gerry, who's in good spirits but clearly looking inflicted by a combination of the early morning emergence along with late spring training bodily wear and tear. The only good thing he has to look forward to at this point, simply, is closure concerning his immediate future.

"Well I slept about as well as a POW last night," Gerry grumbles in initiating the dialogue for the brief morning commute.

"Wrist, knee, back, hip?" James asks.

"Got a text from Ditter around 3:15," Gerry says dejectedly. "Released."

"Oh man. So he was hammered or couldn't sleep?"

"No he was sober. Sometimes that's how they do it here. They called him at three and told him to be in by 4 AM to clean his things out. He's flying out early this afternoon. He was my roommate in rookie ball. One of my best friends in baseball. I'm no pro at goodbyes but if there was ever a time that warrants a face to face sendoff, I mean."

James doesn't know what to say right now. He learns something new about the game each morning when the two drive to the field before each begins his respective day. Today was no different. The only other guy he knew that got called to clean out his work locker at that kind of hour was a cashier at a corner store in Queens. His name is Dale. He stole Playboys and sold cigarettes without the required NY state stamp on them. Ditter was hitting .301.

James then suitably reminds Gerry that while the temptation to get upset or mourn about this is certainly justifiable, it has to wait.

"Unless you go cliché and hit a homerun for the guy," James half jokes.

"No, your right," Gerry nods. "Each area my anatomy has to offer right now is running on passion, and I'm emotionally vulnerable because of it. I gotta find an escape you know?

"If the competitive zone sends the athlete, you know, signals for a free download trial offer...then I'm getting them today."

That's when it hit him.

"Today is Game 7 of the World Series," Gerry avows. "I'm either going to win or go home today."

James offers Gerry a closed fist and states, "Gerry Baseball."

Gerry follows with a fist pump and utters, "Your boy," before making his exit.

At this point, it was only 6:25. James notes to himself that his favorite sports talk radio show is on the air in 35 minutes, and compulsively decides to go park in the grass lot behind field number four to get his sports fix for the day via AM radio. By the show's first commercial break at 7:25, James was making up for Gerry's recent bedtime misfortune by taking his own morning siesta.

Because of the fast rising Florida sun and consequential mercury in the thermostat, James manages to break out of his slumber at 9:40 as a result of being too warm.

Gerry G's game starts in twenty minutes, he thought.

So he rolls his windows up to a crack, pockets his keys, throws on his Presidents cap and sunglasses, then exits the vehicle and notices the scruffy guy in the vehicle next to him is puffing on a marijuana cigarette. James couldn't smell the pot yet. He could just tell by the way the guy was lipping the narrow white object as if it were a straw drawing from a triple thick chocolate shake.

The guy happens to look up as well, quasi startled, perhaps more because he learns someone was actually in James's truck. But James keeps his cool and just gives the guy in the Hummer a casual head nod skywards as if to say, "Don't sweat it."

While James makes his way to the back end of the truck to open the canopy latch, it occurs to him that he had been reclined out of the guy's sight.

Now he knows the Hummer door is open as Peter Frampton's famous live recording of "Do You Feel Like We Do," pours from out of the vehicle. Distracted and a little nervous now, James forgot what he was looking for in the back of his truck.

"Hey is that a bed back there?" the guy prompts excitedly with a raspy voice.

James is a little tense, but with some guise from his black shades, appears unfazed. "Yeah. I'm here watching a buddy of mine the thrifty way."

"You don't happen to be buddies with Gerry G do ya?" the guy asks while pointing towards James's Washington plates.

"Yeah, you know him?"

"I'm Benny King, his old host Dad from Vermont. I come down here every year for vacation and catch a few of his games while I'm at it."

"Yes, I heard about you," James reaches for a handshake. "You're the guy who taught him how to Bar-B-Que. I'm James."

"Yeah! Fuck Ya! Listen," Benny responds, his intonation now steadily decreasing. "I got some of Vermont's finest doobies in my rig if you want to join me?"

James' doesn't have any reservations with herb, its just that he has now been here long enough to develop a daily routine, and sometimes he waffles when asked to jump out of the safety net of his routine. Especially when it's to get high with a guy he just met. James wishes at times he could live life as carefree as a stoner, but he's just not wired that way.

"You know Benny it sounds great," James shrugs. "But I've been asleep the last couple of hours and I really just want to get up and walk around and get some fresh air for right now."

James wonders if he can get a little stoned by just looking at a guy like Benny, who is so ripped himself, not to mention amusing to look at and communicate with right now. Benny's face is decorated with a dark handlebar moustache, which is complemented nicely with a five o' clock shadow, Harley shades and a Presidents cap. He wears jorts and a black shirt featuring an animated picture of Kermit the Frog and Miss Piggy in bed as if they just finished shagging. Miss Piggy is sound asleep, head and hand nestled on Kermit's chest. Kermit appears totally relaxed, exhaling a puff on a cigarette. The red, white and blue colored lettering underneath reads: Kermit is a Pig F*#$*r!

"Hey that's cool," Benny smiles with his palms out at the sides of his hips. "If I don't see you in there, you're welcome to find me back in here during the 7th inning stretch."

He then adjusts to a depreciative tone, "I know they don't fuckin' have 'em at minor league games in Spring Training, so I'm making one up!"

James sort of chuckles in response to Benny's rain check offer while making his own way towards the action.

As he gets closer to the action, James looks for Gerry's number 48 on the nearby field. Sure enough, there's Gerry stretching near the on-deck circle just beyond the dugout. Almost immediately, James notices that Gerry, atypically wearing eye black today, looks as if he's already knee deep into the cradle of self-discipline and determination. Sports writers have been known to refer this look of added focus as The Game Face.

Gerry isn't here to have fun today, James thought. He's here to win this game. And they will win because of him, or lose because of him. He hasn't seen his friend look like this since the game Wazzu got knocked out early in the College World Series their sophomore year.

James then looked around for a place to sit. Excluding himself and Benny, there weren't more than seven or eight spectators who appeared to have a vested interest in this game.

Come to think of it, James thought, there are usually a few white parents and one or two young black wives.

But he doesn't see them today. Did their sons or husbands get cut along with Didder this morning? There are a few fans wearing Travelers apparel. There is also a few autograph-collecting super fans and some retired locals just passing through as part of their morning walk routine.

Then like he always does, James takes a glance up at the shaded spectator tower. It stands at the core of the playing complex, connecting each of the four fields. This is where executives tend to plant themselves during game time.

But with the first pitch just minutes away, nobody is up there. In fact, nobody is even monitoring the bottom of the stairway. Maybe anybody can go up today, James wonders. He walks over to take a closer look. There isn't even a posted sign regulating entry to designated individuals.

I might as well go up here and act casual until someone kicks me out, he thought.

It wasn't until the bottom of the sixth inning, with Gerry already having gone 2 for 2 with a triple and a single, that James notices that Gerry wasn't playing with anybody he recognized other than Robbie Lopez, the popular backup catcher from Sheriden, Wyoming, whom everyone affectionately refers to as "Lopey." Of the 15 total players dressed for this Presidents split squad, 13 of them had happened to be natives of a Latin American country. Odds suggest that most of these players hail from the Dominican Republic, where the Presidents own a year-round constructive camp in which they sign anybody who wants to drop out of school and commit to baseball for a few thousand dollars and a bunk bed.

James did not know what all this meant, and for now he didn't give it much thought either, as Gerry was on deck standing with as much confidence as he's seen him this Spring.

Maybe he got some good news today, James thought.

Then out of the corner of his eye, James notices a pudgy guy waddling his way from the other side of the outfield fence headed towards the parking lot. It's Benny. He must be getting ready for that seventh-inning stretch a little early.

A smoke sounds good right now, James thought. But he also knew that he was watching the game from the best spot in the complex. And with Gerry on deck, he didn't want to take his chances of missing one pitch.

Five minutes later, after Ramirez popped out to the short stop, lefty-swinging Gerry stepped in the right side of the batter's box. Incidentally this turns out to be the only minor league at bat of the spring for which the batter himself receives a plate song. It turns out to be the last minute of that very same Frampton classic again. This time it was amplifying with extraordinary force, in turn shattering the fluidity and mood of the game like a fart does in church. Each one of the players sort of flinched, or stepped out of focus for a few seconds as if to collectively say, "That's some system for a rental, but would you mind?"

In an apparent display of sportsmanship, and because the bases were empty, the pitcher then drops both his hands to the side and looks to the ground, which gives the impression to the umpire and catcher to reset the signal for the desired pitch.

The music doesn't stop. Frampton is wailing away the finishing touches of his guitar solo. Gerry is still in the box. He's so locked in mentally that he never actually stepped out of the box, let alone call for a time out.

The Hummer is now backing out of the parking lot, and slowly makes its way toward the exit about 40 yards away, Frampton still killing it.

Then to the surprise of everyone besides Gerry, the pitcher shortens his normal windup routine to the point where he's trying to throw a strike by just lunging and firing with as much effort but as little movement as possible. It's a quick pitch; a tactic rarely used as an attempt to short-circuit the hitter's fast twitch muscle facility.

But on a day when every pitch seemed to be coming in a little slower than usual for Gerry G, even this masterfully deceptive pitch would not see the catcher's glove. Gerry's attention is so competitively glued to the ball that, even as it reaches the halfway point to the plate, he feels comfortable taking time to recognize the supernatural state he is in and goes as far as wondering if it was anything like what Joe Montana experienced in the Super Bowl, driving his team to victory in the last minute like it was against a JV defense. He remembered the great quarterback's famous line he supposedly uttered by in the huddle during that clutch drive, "Hey, is that John Candy?" He imagined what Joe must have been looking at: Uncle Buck eating popcorn.

In news beyond the plate, Frampton is now seconds from completing his guitar solo, but Gerry is the only person within a one-mile radius that cannot hear it.

Now the ball is just about to the plate, and that image of Montana and Candy rapidly dissolves back to the fundamental cognitive process of read and recognition. Only for this rare instance, the ball itself, still with little movement and velocity, now seems to be telepathically delivering the news, "A touch high and a cunt hair outside." That happens to be Gerry's hot zone. Every neuron in his sensory system is on alert. He proceeds to drive the ball the opposite way to left field.

Gerry knew right away he got good wood on the ball. For James' viewpoint angled from above, it was a Hall of Fame worthy swing, Mantlesque even. Lopey didn't see it. He was in the middle of skillfully casting a personal best 18 consecutive dime-sized spit shots through an eye-level hole within the chain linked protective fence in front of his seat on the bench. But he heard enough to intuitively rise at the crack of the bat and declare, "Got it, coach!"

The ball was hit so hard that, like when a novice husky golfer over-swings on his first tee-off, its route began to take a violent slice once it hit the 250 foot range. It shot out towards left center before ultimately clearing the right side of the foul pole by only four feet before actually landing 15 feet past the fence. The players didn't know what to think. They weren't sure if they were more in awe of the actual turn of events, or that Gerry G just fooled physics by FedExing a pitch that couldn't have traveled faster than 80 mph to Disney World.

To James, it appeared the ball went from bat to landing spot in the same amount of time it takes a teen to text and send "LOL" back to a friend.

By the time the ball had finished rolling, the crowd applause in "Do You Feel Like We Do" begins their lengthy standing ovation with an uproar.

Like something out of hypnotism, Gerry joins us back on earth the moment the ball hits the ground. He hears the music now, identifying the source as he reached second base. He's a little puzzled, but goes on pretending as if the cheering from the Frampton concert was a homerun applause.

"Clean!" James said to himself in exhilaration turned disbelief. He subsequently curses himself for not taking pictures.

"Guess you had to be there."

That solo blast evens the score at 3-3, giving Gerry three hits and a pair of RBI's. But even more compellingly, the homer puts him just a single shy of the cycle. If the Presidents could just get two more men on base without surrendering to any double plays, Gerry would be assured another at bat in the bottom of the ninth. And because there are no ties in exhibition, the last out made in the bottom of the ninth spells game over.

CHAPTER 3 BONUS BABY

Barring serious injury, Dane "Captain" Morgan will be an All-Star pitcher for the LA Travelers in two to three years. He's a big, poised lefty with the facial complexion reminiscent of a young Kurt Russell, relying solely on one type of pitch: a live two-seam fastball that always seems to ride its way down both edges of the plate for strikes. He compliments his cutters, when he feels like it, with a cracker jack of a curveball. Preferring to work from the stretch, he kicks his right leg up, tucking the ball from the hitter, then delivers the pitch with a violent lunge forward turned follow through. Anyone who has ever batted against him over the last few years will tell you that when he's on, his balls look like strikes, and his strikes look like balls.

The Travelers made Captain Morgan their first round pick last year, and at the current age of 21, everyone in the organization expects him to be pitching in triple-A at some point this season. The only question mark surrounding his future role with the Big League club is the internal debate amongst coaches and executives to either begin gradually conditioning his arm to the extent where he can become a starter, or make him a closer, where he seems to possess the ideal mental makeup. Traveler executives also would like to see him develop a changeup pitch in order to protect his curveball from being so easily recognizable to the above average professional hitter. Veteran scouts often view him as a left-handed version of Jonathon Papelbon, the peppy All-Star closer for the Boston Red Sox.

"Lopey, who is this kid?" Gerry asks the catcher from his seat in the dugout, as Captain Morgan begins warming up for the bottom of the ninth inning.

"That's Captain Morgan," Lopey replies while pouring himself a handful of sunflower seeds. "Dominated a couple years at ASU before the Travelers made him their bonus baby last year."

"What's a bonus baby doing pitching in a glorified scrimmage at this point of spring?" Gerry invokes.

"It's gotta have something to do with his overall pitch count for the spring," Lopey insists. "He's either well under the total pitch cap the organization set him up for this spring, and they figure their paying a lot of money for him to pitch, so he might as well get another inning in.

"Or its very possible they decided in the last 24 hours to make him a closer for this year, and it was the plan all along for him to pitch as many ninth innings as possible before camp breaks."

Gerry is due up fourth. So there was certainly no guarantee he would be hitting at all. But for the first time today, however, he is a little nervous. After all, Captain Morgan is the guy who had Gerry anxious last night.

"I know this guy looks like a Big Leaguer, throws like a Big Leaguer, and will be a star at the Show," Lopey adds modestly. "But the only thing you need to pay attention to is the ball itself, Gerry G.

"The eyes on the ball adage works more often than not. Especially with the way you're hitting today."

"Good lookin' out," Gerry G responds.

"Eyes on the ball. Soft hands. Quick hands. Okay?" Lopey assures him.

Thanks to a throwing error and a jammed-swing turned bloop single that happened to cause the bat to break, or "die a hero" as the players like to refer to it, the Presidents managed to get the first two men on base to begin the last stanza of the game.

With nobody out and men on second and first, standing on deck, Gerry knew it was a foregone conclusion that he would get another chance to hit. "A double play I could see here, no question. But this defense is simply not collectively skilled enough to turn a triple play.

Eyes on the ball, he thought.

Uncharacteristically agitated, Captain Morgan now can't help but take umbrage towards this rag-tag Presidents team receiving goodwill from the Gods of Baseball at his expense.

On the 0-1 pitch to the next batter, Ramirez, Morgan's delivered curveball slips out of his hand a little, and as a result, pegging his opponent in the elbow.

The table is set. And Gerry is well aware that his sparring partner, Captain Morgan, is now flat-footed.

"Forget the cycle, dude," Gerry convinces himself after time is called by the Travelers catcher.

All you gotta do is make him throw strikes now.

If you see your pitch to hit, just concentrate on putting a quality swing on it. A fly ball and this game is ours. Heck maybe you'll even get a single out of it.

Eyes on the ball, baby. Quick hands. Soft hands.

The coach scoots out to the mound for a quick word with Captain Morgan to remind him of three things: 1.) Forget what just happened, okay? That's what separates the good from the great. 2.) Listen you're going to need to come back inside to this guy. He's been murdering the ball today, but for some reason, we have been pitching this long-armed, power-hitting lefty on the outer half of the plate. You see what I'm saying?

The coach trots back to the dugout.

The catcher then finishes with, "Well I don't need to remind you this time that all walks score. Hey, you made this guy look silly back in Vero Beach. He can't touch the velo in and he knows it. But let's start him off with the deuce anyways just to fuck with his head."

Captain Morgan just nods down to the rubber, glove covering his mouth, closing with a malignant grin favoring the left side of his face. The catcher then returns to home plate, but not before setting up the defense and reminding everyone that there were no outs.

The first pitch is in; a snapping curve that the catcher frames just right. It appears a little high to Gerry, but the Ump bellows out a variation of a strike call, then shortly follows that by motioning a high fist with his right arm.

Sonofabitch, Gerry thinks to himself. This guy doesn't stay off track for long.

Just before delivering his second pitch, Captain appears to be shaking off the sign shown by his catcher.

Gotta be a bluff, Gerry thought. We got a guy on second, standard procedure.

The curveball comes in again, almost a carbon copy in quality to the first pitch.

Gerry is a little surprised, but arbitrarily, he also guesses its going to land just high enough to be called a ball this time.

He guessed right. The umpire turns his head away and casually deems the pitch a ball, followed by relaying the 1-1 count to Captain in holding up each index finger above his head.

Gerry now reminds himself that statistically, 1-1 is the most important count in the history of professional baseball. Whoever wins the 1-1 battle within the entire war of an at bat, usually succeeds.

You're lucky to have it too, don't kid yourself, Gerry thought. That last curveball fooled me frozen.

Gerry then managed to get the count to 2-2, after Captain Morgan missed the plate trying to come inside on a 1-1 count. Gerry then foul tipped the next fastball in.

Between the next pitch, the catcher attempts to conveniently engage in snaring dialogue between he and Gerry for the first time all game.

"So what do you need four-eight," the catcher begins. "Just a single to hit the distinguished exhibition cycle?"

On any other day, like any other ballplayer, Gerry would have fired right back with something like, "You know, despite that fact that we haven't beat you guys once all spring, all we could talk about once we heard The Travelers were coming today centered around a hot rumor going around the Grapefruit Leagues about a catcher in your camp that took it in the rear with a strap on from a 200 lb. Applebee's hostess. Since you're the only dumbdick with shin pads in the organization, I'll just swear Captain Morgan told me it was you."

But today bred sustenance for Gerry. So what if it was exhibition? Chances are, he will never forget today for as long as he lives. That homerun scene, after all, will forever be imprinted in his memory.

I hope Big Game saw that, he thought.

I got the Captain right where I want him. He can't strike me out today. Just put a good swing on it. Even if he throws the deuce again, I can't pull a Carlos Beltran vs. Adam Wainright here.

Think win. Not cycle. Eyes on ball.

"Ah, whatever," Gerry shrugs in response to the catcher as he settles into the box.

Seven pitches later, all fastballs in, and the count is now full. Gerry manages to foul off the first three, (one of which was two inches over the first baseman's head only to hook and land foul by a foot, landing ten feet behind him) before watching another miss the plate by two inches to load up the count. The next three were all healthy cuts only to be fouled off as well.

Gerry feels great. He thought, unless this guy has a get-out-of-jail pitch in his repertoire that he doesn't know about, like a slurve or a screwball, he is now dictating the at bat.

David Castillo is the only coach the Presidents assigned to supervise for this game. So by default, he's working as the third base coach today as well. Gerry checks his way for any sort of strategy. Castillo puts his own ego to the side in giving Gerry freedom to do as he pleases, showing a handful of dummy signals to keep the opponent honest.

Gerry then observes Captain a little. No tip-offs. No clouds out today either. It must be 90 degrees in Florida and he's cooler than a dog lying in shaded dirt.

Gerry thought, how long does this kid want or need to labor? He doesn't have his best stuff today. But he's a gamer. I respect him.

The twelfth pitch started outside. Gerry waited and studied a nanosecond for any implication that the pitch would change directions back towards the inside.

Screw it. Commit to the outside.

Gerry's eyes are now like China plates. This pitch location turned out to be a replica of the one he hit out of the park last at bat. What to do with it?

0:00.

"Take your base!" The home plate umpire directs Gerry. "Ball Game!"

The Presidents, with only two men on the roster who are qualified, by law, to be sworn in for the actual office itself, had just beaten the Travelers. For minor leaguers and big leaguers combined, this was the first time all Spring that the Presidents beat the Travelers. And of all things on a bases-loaded walk against a hot prospect.

Just after blowing a fleeting kiss to the catcher, Gerry was halfway down to first clutching his fist high looking for Lopey to smile with. Soon after, everyone on the team made their way over to mutually show their respect for Gerry G and his outward display of competitive philanthropy.

Most of them are happy to utter, "Good job, mang!" along with a head nod.

Now James, down at field level, finds himself a spot on the fence near the players' entrance to the field alongside three autograph seekers. They are thumbing through their individual card collection albums, debating on No. 48's actual name.

Meanwhile, Coach Castillo has a quick post game word with his split squad, applauding their efforts and reminding them to keep up with the bulletin board in the clubhouse, as an influx of important news regarding their respective futures will be posted as camp begins to break in the next 24-48 hours.

"Number 48, Gerry Galloway," James firmly nods to one of the super fans. "Call him Gerry G, he likes that."

Not one Gerry Galloway card can be found between them.

"That's a shame, gents," James humors. "As you can see he's a young, rising star in the organization."

"Why is it so hard to find his card then?" One of them pleads.

"Because maybe he didn't become a rising star until today," James suggests. "You may have just witnessed a future big leaguer enter the elevator headed up to D.C."

"He does look the part," another said.

James takes another look at the post-game meeting on the field. Coach Castillo appears to be exchanging dialogue with a number of players. Given the present set of circumstances that are no doubt business influenced, this particular meeting might take longer than usual.

"Tell you, what," James said to the super fans. "See that white truck over there behind the fence in left-center?"

They all nod in acknowledgement.

"Galloway is a good friend of mine. I got a stack of his cards from High-A Vermont in my truck. Just hang here a few minutes and I'll be happy to give you my stack."

James goes on to do his good deed for the day, and the card collectors can all breath a sigh of relief. That was the autograph that almost got away.

As James approaches the truck, he can't help but notice a short row of, thin white objects that have been carefully placed between the windshield wiper and windshield itself.

And now two feet from the truck, what began as a peculiar sight develops a great deal more clearly as he begins to realize it's a stash of everyone's favorite narcotic.

"Vermont's Finest," James remarks appreciatively under his teeth.

He snags the joints and heads back to the truck's canopy entrance. He then proceeds to seal the controlled substance in a sandwich bag he already had lying at the bottom of his small, dry camping cooler, where he had been keeping his food. He drops the joints in the cooler, thinking that they will stay relatively fresh in there and the lid should hermetically seal up any lingering marijuana smell.

Just got to make it out of the Bible Belt with those, James thought. One-hundred hours of court-ordered public service around here could very well include performing maintenance duties at a weekend pancake fundraiser ran by tenured members of the Ku Klux Klan.

James locks up the canopy, grabs the cards in the center console in the cab of the truck, and makes his way back.

As most of the players are now making their way back to the clubhouse, Gerry is signing an autograph for a young man who is impassively spending the day at the park with his father. Most of the kids' focus is directed toward a hand-held video game system, even as Gerry attempts to engage in conversation while signing his baseball.

"What's you name, man?" Gerry asks.

"Sander," the kid responds robotically, fidgeting away.

"Do you want to be a ball player when you grow up, Sander?"

"No, I want to go to college."

"Well that's good. You got your sights set anywhere in particular?"

"UCLA or DeVry."

Sander's father then bashfully thanks Gerry for his time and wishes him good luck before moving along.

As promised, James then hands Gerry three of his cards for the super fans, whom appear to look pleased.

"These guys hung around just for you, Gerry G," James tells Gerry.

"I appreciate the support guys," Gerry said. He begins to hand the cards back to each one of the three. They each thank him back and, like spring training super fans do, waste little time in shoveling right off to find the next desired autograph as players abound within the spectator's quarters.

Now that the fans are gone, Gerry can role adjust from professional to buddy. He takes his shades off and unwraps a big grin for James.

"Did you see the whole game?" Gerry inclines with anticipation.

"It's going into the Big Game Hall of Fame my friend," James replies with a handshake. "Congratulations are in order."

Gerry often loves to lament about how shortsighted fans can be. In this case, he cites the recent three he just signed his old card for.

"Before you got here, they asked if I knew I was a single shy of the cycle," Gerry says with grief. "When I answered 'yes,' matter-of-factly; they couldn't believe I didn't swing at that last pitch.

"If I say it once, I've said it 100 times: Baseball is like church. Many attend, few get it."

"Amen," James says facetiously, hoping to change routes within the conversation. "Listen, you just put up THE athletic performance of your career. How many clean cats in pro baseball can hit homeruns like that?"

"Off a quick-pitch," Gerry winks.

The conversation didn't last much further, as Gerry felt like he had to get back to see if his name was listed on one of the afternoon game rosters. The first pitch for that grouping was probably about an hour away.

Gerry begins to make his way back to the clubhouse.

"I'll shoot ya a text," he said.

"I'm gonna go check my email," James replies.

So James gets in his truck and heads off for the town library.

CHAPTER 4 SUPPLEMENTS

The clubhouse's main white board, used primarily for organizational news updates, has been updated to inform the players-in both English and Spanish-that no afternoon games will be played today. The second bit of important information, emphasized with money signs and exclamation points, prompts everyone to keep their phones on for the next 24 hours for further direction.

Gerry didn't think much of what he read. He was both mentally and physically creamed by now. What little energy he had left, is now focused towards feeling good about his efforts; like an old man does after spending an autumn Saturday stacking wood along the house for the winter. In fact, for the first time in his professional career, Gerry was proud of his efforts. It's a unique feeling as a competitor knowing that you gave everything you had for your team that day. And if he had done anything different at all, the outcome wouldn't have gone in the team's favor. And he knows that if it weren't for him, they would have gone something like a combined 0-17 versus the Travelers as an entire organization during this spring training. This is what making a difference feels like, he thought.

The primal part of his spent conscious begins to flicker over from feeling prideful to pleasure seeking, in finally realizing that its now okay to unwind some. The workday has completed. So he heads over to his equipment space, nods to an unfamiliar face now occupying the space next to his, drops his gear in, picks up his 14 oz. red plastic beach cup, and proceeds to the ice machine in the trainers office and scoops about 12 quarter-sized ice chips into the cup. He then sets his cup down on the counter below the cabinet that reads "Beijing Cocktail Mix" in permanent marker on a strip of duct tape. Gerry opens it up and proceeds to sprinkle in his palm two ibuprofen then two Aleve (consume together with water and you have the critically acclaimed Beijing Cocktail). He then makes his way back to his locker space, and carefully places the medicine up on his hat shelf before pouring himself a double scotch. All the while he is doing this, anyone could have greeted him, but because he is gassed, he wouldn't even have noticed if the owner of the team himself was making a friendly appearance. All he can think of now is ice cold Johnnie Walker Black, and how that first sip would taste better than the first bite on Thanksgiving.

Like the first wave that knocks the young ocean wader off his feet, the first gulp of scotch refreshingly shook Gerry from his trance. But the feeling of enrichment is short lived. Once he can tune out the distracting zippy Latin music heard throughout the clubhouse, he begins to notice a dichotomy of human spirit throughout. Many of the guys, having just finished showering or getting themselves ready for a hot rinse, are naked and uninhibited in a manner that is common for this setting. But there is also about seven or eight other guys who are still wearing the pants they played in, and most of those them have a look in their eyes like they just found out their mother was hit by a transit bus. But in all likelihood, it probably meant that the Presidents indirectly told the individual that he was not good enough to make a minor league roster this year by giving him his organizational walking papers.

I'll sit here for 10 minutes, Gerry thought, already half tingling from the confluence of scotch. Then I'm showered, dressed and gonzo.

"Everything okay?" The street-dressed, teenage-looking kid in the locker next to him asks.

Sitting on a short stool in front of his own locker space, Gerry turns to respond, but before he does, he notices the surname and number (Penprase, #99) hanging on the jersey.

"Yeah," Gerry responds half-convincingly. "Penprase, Penprase."

"Rookie," Lonnie-Paul Penprase smiles, revealing an imposing tobacco wad stuffed in between the lower bottom jaw as if it were something out of a bald eagle's nest.

"I just got shipped back from the other camp. I'm L.P.," as he offers a handshake.

Back in June, the Presidents selected L.P. in the first round. He's a 21-year-old third baseman from Huntington Beach, California, who started his baseball career as a walk-on at Cal State-Fullerton. Until today, he had been participating in the Big League camp, where he managed to hit .331. What will make him a great ballplayer someday is the fact that he not only embodies the carefree California surfer dude persona, but he's also half redneck. He has not one iota of atavistic fear; which means his informational processing system will never undermine his approach in the batter's box.

That's correct: he doesn't do a lot of thinking up there. The guy just slugs.

An intimidating 98 mph fastball thrower doesn't make Penprase think twice, or even once, about crowding the plate. He once punched a great white shark in the nose-not out of survival reflexes-but because it bit a chunk out of his $8,000 surfboard.

Scholars would call Penprase slow. State college coeds call him The L.P.

"You didn't get canned or nothin', I hope?" Penprase asks.

"No. But I'm still one of the guys who can't afford to relax," Gerry grimaces as he crosses his leg in order take his first cleat off.

As he continues to undress, Gerry then strikes up a conversation with Penprase over his unique choice of athletic supplements, most notably, Johmibe Bark.

"My buddy lives in Sayulita, Mexico," Penprase begins to explain. "He gets me Viagra from P.V. But I told him not to send me any until I know where I'm going to be for the season.

"I'm hooked. I even take 'em before the game."

"You can play with an erection?" Gerry says, smiling skeptically.

"Ball games, surfin', fishin', skate boardin', poker tournaments, ridin' lawnmower, bus trips, whatever," Penprase says nonchalantly.

"This johmibe bark; it's all natural. I'm trying it out because I'm worried about getting addicted to Viagara though."

Penprase then picks up the johimbe bottle, squints at the label and shrugs, "It's ah-aight."

They say that behind every great man, stands a great woman. But for James, who has all but decided he will head back home for good in a few days, the idea of meeting and falling in love with his soul mate, who has all the attributes and resources necessary to help mold him into becoming the accomplished sports writer he wants to be, appears to be in jeopardy.

James' relationship with sportswriter Tina Chaffe began when he was a senior in college. James' favorite professor urged him to take a crack at reaching out to some of his favorite sports writers. "Since you're the only journalist in or associated with your family, it wouldn't hurt to make an effort to make some contacts," Professor Krochmal told him bluntly during the first week. "Industriousness will get you to where you need to be someday. But kissing ass and exchanging names is a part of hard work these days, also."

Ever the docile one, James took the wisdom seriously enough to occasionally abstain from Saturday nights of drinking keg beer with ballplayers and chasing freshman broads in order to practice the lost art of prudence.

James sat down one Fall Saturday in his father's den and made a list of the top 25 sports writers that were then affiliated with a newspaper outlet or wrote for a popular website. He wrote individual letters to every Mitch, Mike, Bob and Dan in every major media market in the U.S. whose opinion the intelligent sports fan valued reading every week.

After making one or two brief, customized points as to why he admired the work of each writer he was reaching out to, he immediately followed by laying out his pitch to launch a two-way correspondence:

...And while I always plan to be a student of the field, I will soon be a graduate of print journalism from Washington State University.

As you might expect, I am concerned to be venturing into an industry that you would probably concur is in a state of crisis on many fronts. From an outsider's perspective, I am willing to do whatever it takes for three years before earning my first staff job. If nothing transpires by the then, I will gladly swallow my pride and choose a new career path.

I am writing you because I expect the worst for a significant period of time, and therefore would like to engage in journalistic conversations with someone who is at the top.

I am looking for a mentor of sorts. A monthly letter or email exchange would really give me the needed insight and hope that I assure you would benefit the both of us.

If you or anyone you know in the field would be interested in something like this, please write me.

Sincerely,

James McEwing

Washington State University

Senior-School of Communication

Tina Chaffey was about six months into her first full time reporting gig at the Chicago Tribune when she found James' letter to Hank Jacobs, a columnist, pinned to a bulletin board in the break lounge next to the sports desk. Jacobs handwrote a footnote at the bottom of the letter under a line of stars that read: For anyone who has time. Don't say I never gave you anything-Sincerely-HJ.

At the time Tina grabbed James' letter off the bulletin board, she was about sixth months divorced and was open to something offbeat and fulfilling.

The only reason why she is even working as one of the local college reporters in the first place is due to the principal need to support herself financially once more. Her stock-broking ex-husband is a classic borderline personality whose middle name is Insatiable. All was peaches and cream during the yearlong engagement period, then like a switch, he became mentally abusive and unfaithful. Tina knows he subconsciously saw the marriage as an opportunity to take advantage of her hospitable nature.

Tina, 27, is an anomaly because unlike most modern day American women, she gets more satisfaction out of cooking a meal or planning a weekend than shooting for a promotion or getting up at six AM to break a sweat. She is wired to be a nurturer, and uncommonly, she embraces it as a skill.

You don't meet women like Tina anymore: sugar, spice and everything nice but still not doormat either. The fact that she is a divorcee is not fluke, nor is she the exception to the rule; she is simply a divine representation of a time when America was Boss. You could call her old school.

Tina Googled James' name and began to read both his reporting work from Wazzu and his blog, Fish Food, which provides his unadulterated, comical take on the sports world. She felt the technical side to his reporting was still very raw, and a little flawed because of it. Then she took a look at the blog, where at the time James had opined about a central problem in the Tiger Woods scandal that nobody appeared to be looking at:

"...It's true that there is one surest way to a man's heart: through his stomach. But how does going in the opposite direction work exactly? Men have to be able to command some level of skill in three very distinct areas: 1.) Women love to laugh. If both of you don't have a good sense of humor, then it's Game Over already. 2.) Women love to dance. So unless you are a stand up comedian, I suggest you shell out $200 for you and the Mrs. to spend your Wednesday night's learning to Tango, Waltz and Foxtrot at the local high school gym. 3.) Women not only need a handyman, but are turned on by them as well. Can you see Tiger fixing a clogged toilet? Sure I can: With a sand wedge."

Tina laughed out loud when she first read this, and soon decided she saw a glimmer of potential for long-term sustainability in the business for James. Her crush on Hank Jacobs immediately went by the wayside, and a commitment towards a personal letter correspondence was established. It wasn't long before she took a shine to James as the man he is.

Going on two years as pen pals, James and Tina stayed loyal to their unique means of communication during that time. James has always encouraged Tina to shoot for the stars (and stay out of bars), since she was already in the professional playing field. While Tina has always encouraged James to stick with it, read and write everyday, and eventually, great things will happen to him in this business. James loved to read little anecdotes about Tina's life as a sports reporter, while Tina really got a kick out of reading about James' travels along with the trials and tribulations that come with being a struggling artist.

In order to preserve the authenticity and élan that letter writing provided for their relationship, James and Tina rarely exchanged emails. But since James did not currently have a return address, he is now writing Tina an email from the library. He explains what happened with New York, and tells her all about his first spring training experience. What he did not want to tell Tina was that he planned on heading for home. He especially didn't want to tell her he would be bagging his plans of becoming a professional sports writer.

He knew that if he told her he was heading back west, that she would want him to stop through Chicago in order to try to talk him out of it. But right now James impulsively wants the security blanket and support of home, as he also felt like he didn't have any other choice. Of course he knew that moving back home wasn't going to be easy in the short term, but in the long term, it would eventually feel like home again.

But shame was the real driving force that kept James from telling Tina the truth. He wanted to see her and meet her for the first time, and he assumed she felt likewise. But because he failed once again in his attempt for success, he felt small when thinking about the idea of facing Tina bearing bad news. By now he had so much respect for her that he did not want to disappoint her with the news that he was going home to settle. So he selfishly spared her the news by lying and stating he did not know where he was headed when spring training was over. He figured he would just write her a letter in a month explaining everything.

James went on to check the rest of his emails before he got the text in waiting from Gerry for a ride home.

"Hey Gerry G, you got a minute?"

It was double-A coach Mick Blakenship, whom Gerry played for last season. Blakenship was a longtime bullpen catcher for the Philadelphia Phillies. His claim to fame is he happens to be the guy who caught Joe Carter's World Series clinching homerun ball, as it flew into his outstretched catcher's mitt from his spot in the visiting team's bullpen located directly behind the left-field fence in what was then known as the Toronto Skydome.

By this time, Gerry was dressed down to just his slider shorts and shower slippers. He acknowledged coach Blankenship's request anyways. He even brought his cup of scotch along and threw on some shorts out of respect to his coach.

Okay, looks like I'm headed back to Double-A. Coaches don't release players; the field coordinator does that.

But as Gerry made the transition from locker area into the hallway leading to the coach's offices, he noticed that Blankenship almost went out of his way not to look at him.

Now all the emotionally laden scenarios are racing through Gerry's head: someone else will pick me up, I hit 20 bombs last year. Or maybe he's just giving me a funeral hello, trying to show respect to the clutter of other guys who have all but been told that they aren't good enough for this organization today. Maybe they'll offer me a coaching position. I'm certainly admired around here. I'm pretty sure my baseball IQ is respected enough as well. If it's over though, can I still marry Molly? (His fiancé, who resides in Seattle) Or does this mean we'll have to postpone the wedding (which is scheduled for the weekend before Christmas) until next summer? Wait a second: I dominated today. Dominated. I'm going to double-A.

Then they walked into the office, to which Gerry immediately detects an uncharacteristically dank wave of energy. He now knows he has just walked into a booby trap net-fully weaved and in mental degradation.

Gerry then looks down at his glass of scotch with C.P.R.-like desperation before shivering to himself a gentleman's portion. He looks up at Blankenship who is looking at his white board with names scattered around a drawn up baseball diamond. Gerry anxiously takes a quick peak at the area of first base. His name is not there.

Maybe they want me to stick to the outfield then, he thought. When will this guy speak already?

"Listen I think you have Big League potential," Blankenship says firmly, now giving Gerry weary eye contact.

It's over. Gerry doesn't actually think this, but suddenly feels an unsettling flushing sensation going on inside his upper torso.

"Unfortunately, it's just not being realized soon enough for the big wigs," Blankenship pauses while looking back at that sheet again, which is an unconditional release form, to make sure it reads Gerry Galloway. "You know I like ya. But this call came from down town, and they say its time to let you go."

Blankenship then turns the sheet over and sets it face up on the end of the desk so that Gerry can read it. He then kindly pats his hand on it before reaching out to give him a handshake.

Gerry obliges. Then as he takes a deep breath, he reaches deep down into the well of his soul's emergency reserves for honor and integrity, collecting just enough to mutter, "Ship the Skip, thanks for the opportunity."

Blankenship nods as he heads for the door, patting Gerry on the shoulder before kindly telling him to take his time in there.

Gerry is supposed to be full of piss and vinegar right now. He always said to himself, if this day ever came, he would tell an executive in the organization that the Washington Presidents are the biggest joke in sports. But in actuality, that thought couldn't be any further from his mind right now. In fact, he strangely feels somewhat emancipated.

He then sits down in a chair in front of the desk, crosses his leg, and just decides to stare at the wall until he thought of something else that made sense of his heightened sense of liberation.

He soon recalls the resonating quote that his oldest brother, Scotty, a former minor league player himself, once told Gerry: "If you hang around the game of baseball long enough, it will bring you to your knees."

I see it all too clearly now, he thought. I will get another shot to play pro baseball somewhere else. No likeable guy in his twenties hits 20 bombs one year only to become completely shunned from the game the next year.

If I retire: my career becomes plain black and white over. If I play elsewhere, the pulse stays a beat and the hope stays alive.

Man life can be messed up.

Gerry then slowly picks himself up from the chair and shuffles to the door, but before he exits the office, he wants to be the first guy in the history of minor league baseball, who still owns a passion for the game, to exit the coaches office with a sincere look of a winner on his face.

You just had one of the finest days of your career, he thought. This game is not going to stomp on my psyche. Not on My Day. After all, isn't that what I'm supposed to remember about today? The performance? I'll proudly tell my grandkids about today.

He heads out and begins to pack up his equipment. Soon he will text James this message: Hey pal can you move yer bed for me temporarily? They want me to clean my locker out!

CHAPTER 5 NEW ENGLAND & MR. WALKER'S DAUGHTER

Once the news spread about Gerry, who happens to be one of the more popular guys in the clubhouse, at least 15 acquaintances came by to pay their respects. Then once they were convinced he wasn't going to cry, each and every one of them followed with this question: What are you going to do now?

Gerry's emotional intelligence is at an all time high today. Throughout the history of baseball, almost every player that has been unwillingly released for the first time immediately sees this drawback as a right to self-pity. On a day when all your baseball rights are taken away, out of sympathy, the social rules can bend a little. Gerry could have sold out to his baseball brothers and said, "I really don't want to think or talk about it right now." Or he could have stood on a soapbox, engaging in persuasive discourse premising why the Presidents are the worst organization in sports. Or he could have put off an outwardly sulky vibe leaving his peers no choice but to perceive him as unapproachable to begin with. All of this could have happened, and nobody would have thought lesser of him; especially on a day he played at a prime level.

"I'm thinking of going to Donghorn (Longhorn Steakhouse) for a steak, potato, and about eight draft beers while watching the NBA," Gerry told the first cluster of guys with a very worry-free smile on his face. "But at this moment, not only is it out of my control for at least 24 hours (in accordance with baseball's tampering policy should another team be interested), but I owe that time to myself to decide the Million Dollar Question: Finish the season or not."

A few guys thought he was down right bananas, but pretended to be supportive anyways. Another guy flat out didn't believe a word he said. But a few of the younger guys not only made mental notes, but they wanted to hang around Uncle Gerry and listen to more. And because Gerry was, understandably, occupying a bubble of preoccupation, he had no idea just how inspiring his all around positive attitude towards the situation actually was to some people. He was going to leave the clubhouse that day, and in the process, perhaps bid farewell to his life-long dreams with class.

James didn't really know what to do or say, but since no other players happened to be in the parking lot at the time, he kept an honest smile on his face and gave Gerry a typical brief, two-pat male hug. Gerry appreciated it, but James could tell soon after he didn't need it.

"So who was the messenger?" James asked.

"Blankenship."

"What, because you didn't invite him to the wedding?" James smirked.

From there the two briefly discussed whether or not it was a good idea for Gerry to immediately inform his family and fiancé. All things considered, Gerry was in a good place mentally, but he did not look forward to telling the same story over and over again on the phone. His mother would have been sad, and therefore, worried. That would have saddened him a little more. His fiancé would have wanted him home on the next flight out. Gerry owed himself a little bit of decompressing time. Something kept telling him that it was okay to keep the news to himself until he officially cleared waivers from the Presidents. After all, he was a professional athlete, and non-athletes simply cannot empathize with him in this bind.

Gerry thought if no other affiliated team was interested in signing him, then it was time to head back home and start his new life. James told him that he would be happy to hang around until his exit strategy for Florida was made.

Once he finished clearing out his equipment from the clubhouse, he was sent over by an official to the Presidents' human resources office to pick up his final check. Once he got there, a clerk took him into his office and asked Gerry to list his agent's primary contact number. The clerk went on to explain that someone in the organization, in accordance to baseball's collective bargaining rules, would proceed with faxing his signed unconditional release form to every team in affiliated ball. Since Gerry only speaks to his agent once in a blue moon, he decided to list his own phone number as well.

The clerk then inquires, "Are you going to be driving or flying home?"

Gerry did not see this question coming. He just assumed everyone flew. But then again, not everyone from Washington State gets released in Florida while they have a friend in town who happens to be headed back west via the interstate highways.

"You know what?" Gerry replies. "That's completely up in the air right now."

The clerk then informed him that if he was to be flying, they could make the arrangements for him right then and there. They would pay for the ticket, but he would receive no additional compensation. But if he were to be driving, he would receive $550 in cash.

Gerry then asked the clerk if he could return in about 15 minutes with his answer. The clerk told him that was not a problem, just ask the receptionist for Markus.

James is just hanging out in the truck, parked beneath the shaded side of a tree. The windows are down, the R&B channel is playing as he munches on a bag of trail mix. Gerry then approaches the truck and leans in through the passenger side window.

"So Big G," Gerry said optimistically. "How do you feel about taking your boy home with ya?"

As an experienced cross-country driver, that was music to James' ears. He had made the unforgettable journey before, but never with a good friend to share it with.

To James the American cross-country road trip experience, when its done right, is a stretched out 65 mph sedation so symphonic and sublime that it would've influenced Twain himself to recreate it to the masses. It's not that it exhilarates like jumping out of an airplane. Nor is it life changing like finding Jesus. It doesn't comfort the way Grandma's Apple Pie does. And it certainly cannot be compared to making great whoopee. But if one can live this trip without having to deal with screaming kids in the back of a minivan, and instead with one or two kindred spirits and a reliable whip, prepare to experience an inimitable pastime composed by pure, fundamental human freedom. It's a rare but doable flee for Americans to go out, be, and enjoy.

"I feel like we could leave Florida by tomorrow morning," James responds.

After further discussion, Gerry agrees. Originally, he wanted to hang around for an extra day in case another affiliated team called in request for his services. But he soon realizes that if he were to get another shot, the new organization would fly him from wherever he happened to be at the time, and James could continue on from there. The only question that was up the air now, with the keys to the entire country now at their very own four-wheeled vantage point, was where to go first?

James had an idea, as he not only got an email but a voicemail from his soon to be 40-year old cousin living in New London, Connecticut. Today is Thursday, and Sherrie McEwing is celebrating her monumental birthday on Saturday evening with what she calls "The Posse" of about 20 of her closest friends. She assumed James was still in New York City, so she invited him to come stay for the weekend.

James has been to one of her bashes before, and because Sherrie's basement has been refurbished and dressed as an Irish pub (bar, stone fireplace, big screen television and various decorum) her cold-weather parties had a mix of ski trip and college-like quality to them. But there was something else, an "x" factor if you will, that garnishes Sherrie's shindigs with an uncommon, yet harmless appeal to them. He knew for a fact that Gerry had never been to a party like this one. Therefore, he insisted that they head for New England.

"Why does New London ring a bell to me?" Gerry begins to ponder.

"You played near there last year, in Norwich," James reminds him. "You told me all about the casino."

"That's it."

"Listen," James begins to propose. "This is my only request. The rest of the trip is your call. Whatever you want to do or see, in any direction you want.

"But I assure you, this will be the type of party that not only will you never forget, but you may never experience the likes of again."

"Okay, let's go to New London," Gerry shrugs. "But what's the big secret?"

"Think of it as a surprise," James insists. "Let's just say we are going to be with good people. I just wanted you to be aware of the kicker, that our type will be in the vast minority."

"Are they bruth-uz?"

James laughs and replies, "See this bastes the trip with different type of tone already. I'm not saying any more. But I promise you it will be tasteful, mostly legal, and definitely fun."

James concludes, "Gas to Connecticut is on me. This might end up being your retirement party, too. You won't be let down."

Gerry knows and trusts his buddy isn't the type to associate in any way with Muslim extremists, heroin addicts, pedophiles, vegans or any other unpopular establishment of demographics located in the USA. This fill-in-the-blank act is an imperfect part of the Big Game James mystique that only people close to him know and understand. So despite the fact that James is leaving out a significant nugget of information, Gerry still manages to head back to the President's Player Resources office with a heightened sense of anticipation.

Since it would take close to 20 hours to get to New London from Brevard, the two decide it would be best to just drive all the way through, and ultimately crashing at Sherrie's place Saturday morning until it was time to whoop it up.

It isn't until after they made it all the way to Dunn, North Carolina, that James decides he is going to pop if he keeps another bit of headline news from Gerry any longer. Eleven hours of road time had passed, Gerry has been sleeping too much, the sunlight was fading, and therefore, initial rush of enthusiasm that so often comes with a road trip of this caliber had worn off quite considerably.

"You ever heard of the King Cartel?" James says skittishly, as Gerry inclines his chair forward from what must have been his third two-hour nap.

"What is it?" Gerry squints straight ahead, awaiting his eyes to adjust to the piercing red and orange blends throughout the twilight.

"Mostly marijuana," James affirms. "It operates here in the states actually. Some guy at spring training was telling me about it."

"Where at?"

"Vermont."

James will go on to tell Gerry all about his Benny King experience, even revealing that Benny was the guy playing Peter Frampton out of the Humvee during the homerun. James also goes on to tell Gerry how he didn't want to disclose the info concerning the possession of the Vermont's Finest Doobies, which were still sealed in the cooler in the bed of the truck, until after they got out of the Bible Belt. Since the region itself goes well into Virginia, the two devise an irrational case, as if they were high already, to validate smoking the first joint in a parking lot away from the vehicle during the upcoming gas stop.

And once they feel like their bearings were appropriately acquainted with the effects of THC by taking a stroll through a mini-mall, they re-hit the road. And not long after, as if it were supernaturally on cue, the track volume to one of their old shared favorites, Isaac Hayes's "Shaft" theme song, builds throughout the truck. That was enough for the two to jumpstart nearly 10 hours of winning dialogue all the way to Connecticut. They relive the abundance of monkey business they committed during their college days before conversing on topics that ranged anywhere from popular USA conspiracy theories, baseball, city life vs. country life, music, artists, handicapping the odds that their respective trades will ever provide them a career, the greatest quarterback of all time debate (James: Montana, Gerry: Elway), previewing Saturday night's Final Four contests, and of course, women.

"It amazes me that more of them aren't committed lesbians," Gerry says, as they are now just a few blocks away from their New England destination. James just mutters back in agreement, his attention focused primarily on the task of finding Sherrie's place.

Winter jacket time. It's pre 10 am here and the average temperature in the northeast is about 50 degrees colder than it was in Florida. Each exhale is now clearly visible. Remnants of snow from the previous week scatters the front lawn, and the grass crunches as you walk on top of it. James signals to Gerry to stop for a minute and enjoy the air as he begins to lift his arms above his head to stretch.

"Now nothing beats the Fall flavored oxygen here," James contends. "But even still, on any given day, the taste of the New England air is one of the most indispensable cultural advantages in the country.

"And this is just urban Connecticut, you know?"

Hands in jacket pockets, Gerry pauses, closes his eyes, points his nose to the sky and takes in three concentrated breaths.

He nods his head a few times in recognition, "Yeah, what do you think it is?"

"I don't ever want to know what it really is," James shrugs. "But it always makes me think of that 1776 chapter in my history book, you know?"

In case Sherrie is still sleeping, James figures it an appropriate hour to lead them in without knocking. But he is only half surprised when he hears her voice in the kitchen.

She's a spitting image of actress Tina Fey, bifocals and all.

Already a few beers in, she is smoking a cigarette, finishing up a conversation with one her half asleep friends on the speakerphone. Just like their grandmother, Sherrie always has a radio on in the kitchen playing the local oldies station. The custom jingle will soon prompt, "Good times, great oldies...Kool 101" in segue to the start of "The Cheater" by Bob Kuban & The In-Men.

The first thing heard out of Sherrie's mouth is, "Well I say tough titties little kitty, because the cow ran out of milk."

She continues on, as James and Gerry tip toe in the act of eavesdropping.

"Her whole situation reminds me of what my Uncle Sid always tells me."

"What's that one?" The foggy sounding voice on the other line asks.

Sherrie gets into character, "He sounds like Cassius Clay when he talks, and he says 'Sherrie, in life, if it comes with tits or tires, it's sure give you trouble at some point.'"

It sounds as if there's more than one female on the other line now laughing. And now fully entered, James and Gerry make their presence known to Sherrie with their own laugh out loud reaction.

"Oh my God!" Sherrie exclaims. "Washington State is in the house!"

She then ends the phone conversation with a simple, "Okay, I'll smell you tonight!"

"You guys could probably use a Bud Heavy, eh?" Sherrie says, eyes lit up with a big smile before heading to the sink.

"How 'bout one of your butts?" James asks while grabbing a cigarette out of the pack on the kitchen counter, as Sherrie is putting her own cigarette out under a running faucet before dropping it into an ashtray on a nearby windowsill. The cousins then meet for a big hug as Sherries says, "All you can think about is rear ends on my birthday?!"

James responds in coy, "Oh shit, that's what we're here for? Happy B-Day!"

The three then spend the next 30 minutes or so getting acquainted, catching up, and hyping the evenings festivities. Sherrie informs them that the fridge down in her Pub is stock full of an assembly of the world's finest lagers. A limo has also been reserved, although Sherrie has no specific destinations planned for the use of the luxury vehicle.

"Nothing a couple of bee-ahs can't take care of," Sherrie figures in her ad hoc New England patois.

"If nothing else, we'll just bah-hop."

James and Gerry are in agreement with that proposal. They will soon enjoy a second round of beers and conversation, but not until Sherrie persuades them with "It's bad luck to have a lonely beer in your stomach."

James insisted Gerry sleep in the guest bedroom, which offered a twin bed with an electric blanket. Gerry affectionately joshes, "What are you trying to see if I can hibernate, Big Game?"

Gerry then goes to brush his teeth before laying down and falling asleep 10 seconds into a prayer.

James is still a little wired. He shares another cigarette with Sherrie, discussing ideas for what his vocational future holds for him. Sherrie, a long time contractor's receptionist, reminds him that she can get him a job as a carpenter's assistant with her employer. The only catch is that he would have to take a 45-minute ferry out of New London harbor every workday. The job sites are mostly centered around remodeling and general year-round care for summer homes on Fishman's Island, an Old Money golf and sailing haven. If Fitzgerald were writing The Great Gatsby today, this place would be a model research setting.

Because he used up all his brainpower from the long drive, James' guard is evidently down, as he did not dismiss the idea. He told Sherrie if he could talk to her boss a little first, a fellow a few years older than her by the name of Dwayne Beckus, it was worth consideration. He could live with Sherrie until he got settled. He could enjoy the world famous New England air and ethos year round. And he always appreciated the cultural attractions and accessibilities the state of Connecticut has to offer. After all, New London was sandwiched between Boston and New York City, 2-3 hours in either direction.

And who knows, James thought, maybe there's something on this island of all places that has been waiting for me for 30 years. Who knows.

With this, I now have options. And where is the clear and present risk? If I don't like it, I go back home like I am intending to do right now.

Before Sherrie takes off for an early lunch followed by a day of antiquing with some friends, she informs James that all she needs from him is to bring in firewood from the backyard down to the pub sometime before the sunset. So he decides he might as well get it done right away.

Sherrie reminds James to watch out for spiders and that there are work gloves in the garage.

But before he gets started, he throws the tennis ball around for Sherrie's golden retriever, Hawshy. The dog is a talker, and James soon learns he can trigger barking by singing to her.

"Look out...for the cheetah!" Is how James mistakenly interpreted the song heard earlier on the kitchen radio. Chanting this to go with some whistling gets Hawshy excited.

It isn't until an hour later that James falls asleep on the couch watching Sportscenter with Hawshy sprawled out on the floor next to him.

He will have an unforgettable dream that he's in a Karaoke contest, in a dim, purple and blue lit, nightclub somewhere in Japan. Himself, Bruce Willis, and Danny, his high school custodian (who looks like a "Chico and The Man" version of Freddy Prinze), are the only western patrons. Danny is a friend of the owner of the club, Mr. Walker; a Scottish businessman married into a wealthy Japanese family. Mr. Willis does not get recognized, and is loving it. In contrast to Mr. Willis' rare social state of anonymity, an intoxicated Danny gets two Polaroids taken with "fans." But the highlight of the night was when Danny's pizza order, which has been requested over four times in two hours, never comes to complete fruition. Eventually, Danny starts speaking in Spanish to the waiter, while the waiter continues on in Japanese.

Danny happens to be in the bathroom while Mr. Walker's 20-year-old daughter (half Japanese and half Caucasian) performs her third round song. The waiter comes over to the table and passionately states, in English, "Mista Walka Daughta? Oh she sooo fine!"

James and Bruce Willis can barely contain themselves in laughter.

Eventually, James will manage to make it to the final four of the competition itself, where he's matched up with a stunning Japanese woman wearing a contemporary Flapper dress. She sings an immaculate rendition of Toni Braxton's "You Mean The World to Me."

James is looking at Bruce Willis for suggestions for what to sing in response. Bruce Willis requests a couth timeout to the emcee. (And in this dream world, it is seen as a sign of respect to the difficulty and overall quality of the competition itself.) Everyone lets out a short, collective, "ahhh" before giddily discussing the anticipation behind what kind of song James may counter with.

"Travolta told me they are crazy, and I mean heart-on stronger than T-Rex's femur crazy for Elvis here," Mr. Willis says quietly after taking a sip of his draft beer.

James has spent about 15 minutes of his life listening to Elvis songs, half of which was "Blue Christmas" in department stores and whatnot.

The Emcee is summoning James to the microphone with his selection.

James is speechless. The pressure is mounting. He's losing control of his competitive poise.

Bruce Willis motions to the emcee for one more minute, turns back to James and says, "But listen to me...because the door swings both ways here. If you can do a good King impression, we're all going to be enjoying an all expenses paid day at the Yoko-Spa tomorrow."

"And if I bomb?" James replies with dread.

"It will be like monkeys throwing shit," Mr. Willis says with his signature, stone-faced squint. James will then light Mr. Willis his cigarette before heading to the stage.

James decided to play it conservatively, singing an average version of "If This It" by Huey Lewis and The News.

Mr. Walker's daughter goes on to win the championship, singing Amy Grant's "That's What Love Is For." The runner up is a blitzed businessman who surprised everyone with an ill-advised attempt to compete with Whitney Houston's "So Emotional."

Back in reality, Sherrie is shaking his shoulder, excitedly saying, "Guess where it's 5 o'clock!"

"All right, I'm in the shower!" James pops right up in an attempt to quickly shake away the sticky remnants of dream world delirium.

But as he's in the shower, all he could do was ruminate about the dream.

By the time he was drying himself off he realized that by completely ducking the Elvis challenge laid out by Bruce Willis, he didn't even give himself a chance to win the competition.

Now he wants some fresh air and a drip coffee. Once he gets dressed, he wakes Gerry up and the two go for a seven minute walk down the lighted and rain glazed street to the nearest Dunkin' Donuts.

Gerry decides this time is as good as any to make two very important phone calls: the first one to his mother and father, the second to his fiancé.

"Don't you want to do this in private?" James asks respectfully.

"There isn't anything I'm going to tell them that I haven't already talked to you about pal, trust me.

"And if I'm going to have fun tonight, I gotta have a clear conscious, you know what I mean?"

"I hear ya," James empathizes, still trying to forget the message sent by the karaoke dream experience.

CHAPTER 6 THE POSSE & THE GENTLEMAN'S CLUB

Christy will pack her little lunch cooler full of mini Corona bottles. Abby will bring a dessert and some gourmet ground coffee like she always does. Melinda, who will be accompanied by her girlfriend who believes she was abducted by aliens, will bring some Avon (codename for grass). Olivia will bring her most recent poetry drafts and read it while everyone is getting high. Susana will bring a six-pack of Sam Adams seasonal brew, a bottle of wine, and her cocker spaniel. And since Sherrie is a Red Sox fan, Patty will show up like she always does donning her Yankees cap. And as sure as the sun rises in the East, Cassie will show up with a new date and the same old large cup of coffee from the neighborhood Dunkin' Donuts in hand. Picture 10 more from the same social walk and by 9:00 pm we'll be right smack in the middle of your routine New England, middle aged lesbian basement party.

By the time everyone shows up, James, Gerry and Sherrie are more than ready to commingle after hours of languidly enjoying a combination of a Final Four game, Lucky Inn Chinese food and a couple rounds of beers in front of a crackling fire.

Many first time visitors of Sherrie's pub say it reminds them of the basement from the film Animal House. Only instead of a mermaid breasted fish tank and Otis Day & The Knights, you'll see a great deal of vintage Red Sox merchandise, antique Irish décor, as well as an assortment of kitschy pub signs and accessories hung on wood paneled walls.

Gerry has no problems relating to or maintaining conversation with any of the lesbians, as most of them are big baseball fans to begin with. They are particularly engrossed when hearing him talk about the ebbs and flows of being a professional athlete.

"I've gotten to know a lot of junkyard dogs in my day," Gerry says to a small circle of ladies. "And so many guys, with ballplayers lead the pack, get so lazy and unenthused with their relationship that it gets to the point where everything has become a chore-right down to trite 'I love you' before ending each and every phone call.

"I guess what I'm trying to say is, eventually the female race as a whole will smarten up and realize that, hey, women by nature are already more attractive, so if the shoe fits...

Collectively, this generates an acceptable response with the lesbians, but even they know that Gerry's flattering theory is far fetched. They still consider him sweet for saying it.

Soon enough, one of the lesbians wants to know how much time the average ballplayer spends in strip clubs. Gerry assures his crowd that due to the excess of both R&R and income, it's the mostly the Big League guys rotting their time and talents away in there. He further adds that even the big spenders would rather shell out their money to have girls come to them in VIP rooms at their favorite nightclub.

"You're paying through the roof for privacy, booze, and hookup time with just about any gal in the building you're willing to tip the club's mover and shaker for."

As an afterthought, he admits that on average, he probably went to one strip club a season, "Just like any guy does."

That's when the light bulb came on for one of the gals.

"Hey Sherrie, let's take the limo to a strip club!"

Sherrie is the kind of person that reacts to crackpot propositions like that as a dare. So without flinching or smiling, she modestly responds with a nod.

"Okay," she begins to crack. "Just let me put some make-up on!"

The collective reaction that soon follows proves to be James' saved by the bell moment, as he was in the middle of a controversial subject of conversation about whether or not married gays should legally be allowed to raise children.

"Think about it, everyone needs a mother," James states. "So I have no qualms with any kid being raised by two mothers. Just get he or she a Godfather; a legitimate male role model."

He pauses to conclude his statement. Nobody interjects during this time.

The first thought that runs through his mind is, "But to be raised by two dudes..."

Then he diplomatically retracts that thought and continues with a plead of ignorance, "I don't know, I'd really have to sort this out on paper some day."

The lesbian's now nod and smile in reaction just seconds before the strip club idea takes command of the pub's attention.

If you plan to be stopping by a southeastern Connecticut cantina anytime soon like James, Gerry and eight lesbians in a limo are right now, don't be alarmed by any number of the Rottweilers barking at you from pickup beds throughout the parking lot. Each one is simply guarding his owner's vehicle, and in the process substantially limiting the chances that the goods inside will get stolen: elaborate stereo system, child playing his Nintendo DS, and/or mind-bending drug of choice.

The term Gentlemen's Club is the most hallowed charade out there: they don't actually attract men brimming with social graces or sound taste in women. A Gentlemen's Club is a magnet for psychopaths.

At this moment, at least one of the guys who bought your sister or female cousin wine coolers and cigarettes from the time they were 14-18, respectively, is either getting or thinking about getting a lap dance in his neighborhood gentleman's club.

Psychopaths such as these have an innate ability to sniff out people in a crowd who were fortunate enough to grow up with all the advantages they had only seen on TV (e.g.: non abusive parents, a car at 16, your own room, regular visits to the dentist, the thought of pursuing a college education). And Psychopaths always resent people who never have done time and probably never will do time. So when you enter a venue full of ex or soon to be cons, in this case a strip club, its important to know your place: keep it cool, mind your own business and draw no attention to yourself. Put your cell phone on mute silent and pull your cap rim down low if you have to.

For James and Gerry, should any truculent nonsense develop, they know by intuition and man code that they are the ones subject to the malignancies at the first line of defense. So just in case they were breaking any unwritten strip club patron codes that they weren't already aware of by showing up with a troop of lesbians, they insisted to play it safe and allow the ladies to go in first.

They also needed privacy to change into their sweatpants for the occasion.

On the ride across the river from New London to the club in Groton, James and Gerry spent a good 10 minutes explaining the gentleman's club conduct and they agreed to be back in the limo no later than an hour from now, which would have been 11:45 pm.

At $30 a pop each one of the lesbians got themselves a lap dance. A few of them even pitched in to pay for Sherrie's private lap dance with Joni. James and Gerry managed to blend in, lounging near the main stage long enough to see the performances of Picaboo, Tiff, Cupcake and "The Incomparable" Kimi before the hour was up. They muse over which one of the dancers is most likely to go along on the rest of their road trip if invited. They conclude that Kimi probably has too much at stake here to even consider it, even if they dangled the little known carrot that Portland is the strip club capital of the U.S.A.

Everyone ends up making it back to the limo with no complaints. Now its time for the nightcap, and Sherrie knew just where to go.

"Hear yee, hear yee," Sherrie yelled after tapping a champagne glass with a pen in a silly attempt at quieting the crowd, "Let's do the Bank Street Shuffle, that way I can send the limo driver home."

A convenient 10-minute walk back to Sherrie's place, Bank Street offers a cluster of bars in downtown New London. The first stop on the Bank Street Shuffle, and what would turn out to the be the only one for James and Gerry, would be Happy Kim's Beer and Rest, an eclectic restaurant and lounge with a deck view of the New London Harbor.

Tonight is the night when James will be courted with a life-changing offer that, given his current indigent position, most people would not think twice about. The man who, in theory, will propose to make James' life better is Sherrie's boss, Dwayne Beckus. The genial, scruffy looking contractor happens to be treating his construction crew to drinks, having spent most of the day on the mainland working at a friend's home.

After Sherrie and Dwayne catch up for a few minutes, she heads over near the pool tables to grab James. He and Gerry initially seat themselves at a table near the pool playing area, where Dwayne's rugged crew, consisting Flyin' Brian, Tommy, Kenny, and Oscar are playing on the adjacent table.

Dwayne is wearing a black hooded sweatshirt under heavy-duty pair of overalls. Cheap black sunglasses rest on the top of his pony tailed sandy blonde hair. The moment James first meets Dwayne, he notices the guy is efficaciously full of cheer. And because he's under the spell of a party buzz, James's unbridled inner dialogue debates over who Dwayne bears a closer facial resemblance to: Dickens' Ghost of Christmas Present, a member of the rock band ZZ Top, or a bridge troll. Fortunately, he's still a drink or two away from actually inquiring for answers to such juvenile thoughts out loud.

In life, we probably meet one or two people like Dwayne, who most friends and acquaintances alike would describe as 100% genuine. The first impression you have of him is sure to be as complementary as the 31st time you meet with him. If anyone knows too many people to actually keep in touch and keep happy with, it's him.

While Dwayne's formally established educational background comes in the field of culinary arts, growing up he also learned the construction ropes from his father, a retired union carpenter. His mother has been in real estate in the Southeastern Connecticut area for over 20 years. Some years ago, Dwayne's parents purchased the two office buildings located on Fishman's Island and turned one of them into an apartment complex and the other for Dwayne's contracting business and storage.

"My parents bought it on a hunch in the early 90's," Dwayne tells James before he pauses the conversation to order a double vodka and ginger ale with lemon and lime wedges.

"It turned out to be an ingenious move, James," he says once the two clink their glasses in cheers. "You know why?"

James shrugged. "You're rich?"

"Oh I don't even know about that," Dwayne laughs bashfully. "I know we're living comfortably month to month anyways. But the reason why it's such an ingenious move is because of the long-term security it comes with. A paycheck will always be there for my family and for anyone who works for me, for as long as they want to work for me.

Dwayne sips his drink before regaling on.

"These folks we work for are so filthy rich. And these summer homes are coddled for like its one of their own kids...who will go on to own the place some day...followed by their grandkids. For that purpose of continuity, there will always be enough work out there.

"And it helps that the place is recession proof."

James is not feeling as tipsy as when they got there, as Dwayne now has his undivided attention.

"I'm not trying to sound disrespectful Dwayne," James responds. "But is that even possible? I mean everyone slows down spending a little bit this-"

Dwayne waves his hand dismissively, "Dude these are 30%-ers. These are the people who have their fingerprints on or around 70% of the printed U.S. currency out there every year.

"And when it comes to their summer vacation homes, they don't fuck around. It's their warm-weather fortress, and they expect it to look perfect, stand perfect, and stay in the family for eternity.

Dwayne further punctuates his point after sipping on his vodka & ginger ale, "And even when the place is perfect, and there's nothing else to do, that's when we have a meeting where they want me to pull out a This Old House Magazine and massage their ass into building a tree house for the kids or god willing an actual addition to the home itself fully equipped with a screened-in porch.

"And you know what they do once the tree house is finished?"

"No clue."

"They have a cocktail party," Dwayne laughs in his own disbelief. "Catered by someone on the island; valet parking, nannies, the whole cabob."

On paper anyways, James was convinced that Dwayne's company, Better Business Investment, could provide him the opportunity for a simple life as a residential New England carpenter. You could live a good life as Joe Schmoe here, he thought.

But James explained to Dwayne that while he liked his disposition, and respected his insight and ability to make an impromptu pitch for a job offer, he would be remiss not to play devil's advocate. So why doesn't he have people in line for this job offer to begin as early as Monday?

Dwayne starts by addressing the obvious reason as to why Fishman's Island is not an ideal place to work: few actually want to take a 45 minute, 7:00 AM ferry out to work everyday.

"I wouldn't either," Dwayne admitted. "That's why I made myself an apartment in one of my buildings out there.

"I stay with my old lady here on the weekends and out on the island during the work week."

The second part of his argument for not wanting to work out there was formulated as his own school of thought: the average employee stays on the island for a year at best, therefore its difficult to maintain any sort of staff morale. Dwayne wouldn't normally tell someone this, but since Sherrie works for him, he figured he would hear something like that from her sooner or later.

"I've seen every kind of worker God could create, James. And you will too," Dwayne smiled.

"I've had at least 10 guys who think the sun comes up just hear himself crow. They usually don't get along with the guy who could start an argument in an empty house.

"It's difficult to find job-site chemistry with non-union workers, you know? But you know what, it's the nature of the beast out there."

Dwayne continues on.

"Oh and I can't forget to mention the hundreds of guys who miss the ferry or call in sick all the time. I call them blisters because they always seem to show up re-committed once the hard work is finished."

During a break in the conversation, James excuses himself to use the restroom. Upon finishing, he begins to look for Gerry, who happens to be playing pool with Dwayne's crew. Gerry introduces him to Flyin' Brian first, the assumed mouthpiece of the crew. James perceives Brian as a nice guy who happens to be a bit on the hyperactive side. Every time a good-looking girl walks into Happy Kim's, Flyin' Brian will disrupt the conversation by patting urgently at the nearest person's arm saying, "Hey now!" repeatedly under his teeth.

Before James and Gerry decide to move on to another bar or back to Sherrie's altogether, he decides he wants to get Dwayne's contact information. He goes on to notify Dwayne that while he has considerable interest in working for him and learning a trade along the way, he had to drive Gerry back home to Washington first.

After making sure they had enough grass to hold them over for the trip, Dwayne assured James that the offer is always on the table, and to let him know either way within a few weeks. James assured Dwayne he would do just that.

James also had one more question for Dwayne before the two would presumably part ways temporarily. He wanted to know how the average employee would assess him as a boss. More specifically, he points to the crew playing pool with Gerry and says, "When those guys are unwinding and venting about work like the common man does, what are they bitching at in regards to your performance as the boss?"

Dwayne looks straight ahead, chest leaning against the bar, cheeks filling with air.

"I don't know, maybe that I give even the dumbest, lousiest workers-you know, the guy who thinks that asphalt literally means something is wrong with his ass-too many chances before shit-canning him."

Dwayne continues on.

"All I can tell you is that I pour my heart and soul into my company every day. I cook lunch for the crew every day, free of charge. I let them stay out on the island whenever they want. I give them generous Christmas bonuses. I take them out for dinner and bee-ahs like you see here. I give them the occasional paid half days in the summer to go to the beach. Any chance we get to party the night away we do it.

"If my guys are bitching because of me," he smiles in defense of himself. "Then they got more problems then their boss, I promise you that."

Now that James has heard everything he needs to from Dwayne, he'll wait for Gerry to finish his game of pool before discussing once more whether to move on to catch up with Sherrie or head back home. With last call still more than an hour away, they agree to go conservative and just head back home to enjoy a nightcap of a few more beers, some Final Four highlights, and conversation recapping the evening behind them.

As they walked home, Gerry talked about the big surprise leading up to the party, and how it didn't disappoint. The two also spoke in brief about James' latest job opportunity. James assured Gerry that he was still committed to the trip back to Washington, no matter what. He also acknowledged to Gerry that if he were to move back to New England, he would devote his vocational life to carpentry and retire from writing all together. Gerry didn't particularly agree with the notion of James giving up on his promising writing career at a young age. But not wanting to compromise any positive energy the evening had already provided, he decided to keep that to himself for another day.

After returning home, they went on to watch television, discussing the possibilities for the next day. The initial verdict would be to sleep in until noon and possibly head over to Mystic in order to enjoy some authentic New England seafood and sights. Tomorrow they could also discuss possible destinations of interest along their route home. Only two things were for certain by the time they went to sleep: 1.) both are pretty inebriated, or "cocked" as they say around these parts and 2.) they would be making their way back west early Monday.

The following morning at 10 AM, Gerry got a phone call from his agent who happened to be in Chicago on business for a few days. He heard about the influx of independent baseball teams in the midwest. After making a few phone calls, sure enough, an independent team in the greater Chicago area, the Joliet Hard Hats, is showing considerable interest in signing Gerry.

And since he and James were heading west anyways, Gerry figured in order to begin knowing if playing professional baseball was best for his future at this point, he would have to have a meet and greet with the skipper. So he attempted to set something up for the following afternoon.

Next step for Gerry is to bring all this to the attention of his driver. He begins initiating the communication at James', currently laid out on the couch in the midst of a beer coma, by actually placing a refrigerated beer bottle at his feet

For James, every spoken word from Gerry's direction went in one ear and out the other, except one: Chicago. After all, that's where his mentor, Tina Chaffee lived.

He wanted to sleep on the idea of moving to New England. He did not want to wake up knowing he had a new obligation on his life's menu.

James had never been in love. n fact, it was something he had avoided for most of his twenties. He views love not as a part of a rich lifestyle, but more like a responsibility- one that had posed as a threat to his sports writing aspirations. He always convinced himself that it was healthy to practice the philosophy of waiting for love until the paramount prize was reached.

He isn't in love with Tina, nor is she with him. But they both share a healthy, concealed curiosity towards the idea of actually becoming teammates in life. Tina is the only female that James has befriended over the years that he did not completely reject as having soul mate potential. Besides her father and grandfather, James is the only male Tina knows and categorizes as a real man.

There is little doubt that, whatever the entity that connects the dots in our lives is, it has been working feverishly lately to get these two to actually meet before its too late.

CHAPTER 7 NEW ENGLAND TO CHICAGO

James decides he needs to get the blood stirring with some New England air and Dunkin' Donuts coffee before they seriously begin to discuss what's new on the agenda.

It's about 37 degrees with a moderate breeze and overcast skies in New London today.

"Good day for some pickup football," James observes as the two are walking off the property. "As long as it doesn't rain. I mean there's no games worth sitting on the couch all day for, either."

Gerry agrees. Then it soon hits him: baseball's opening day is tomorrow. It would be sacrilegious for two baseball romantics like themselves to not try and check out the Cubs game. After all, Gerry did not need to be in Joliet, about an hour drive from where the Cubs play, until 4:00 pm.

So instead of hanging around the Dunkin' Donuts to finish their breakfast, James and Gerry opt to grab their meal for takeout in order to get back to the house and shop online for what are probably fast-moving tickets.

They agreed on a $50 dollar budget apiece for tickets, but nothing is available on the Cubs website. On to option #2: TicketDaddy.com. Nothing is under $100. These guys just don't have the kind of disposable income that in any way could shake their budget status down to an uncomfortable level. They could go on without restaurant food, the sight of a respectable public toilet, shelter even; but man shouldn't spend 16 hours on the American interstate without enjoying sport highlights and booze of choice in a tavern at end of the day.

Gerry goes on to suggest that they could at least check out the opening day atmosphere around the stadium before game time. "Then we could interlude at Harry Caray's or wherever we can get a bar stool for the game before taking off to Joliet."

James was beginning to build a guilty conscience. He knew all this was an exercise in futility considering he was intimately friendly with a Chicago-based sportswriter.

"Enough sandbagging on my part," James says. "I'm calling the Bat Line."

"Who are you calling?" Gerry says with a perplexing look.

"I'll explain in a minute."

James begins to mumble, as he's trying to function his phone and talk at the same time, "Shh, this demands all of the concentration abilities that coffee can placebo a package of outstanding rhetoric for right now."

He then laughs a little shamefully at the prattle. The two are dealing with unpleasant psychological effects from consuming all that beer last night; making them just stupefied enough not to know if what James just said actually made any sense.

James will text Tina first. He figures a college beat reporter on a Sunday in early spring must be working somewhere today. Here's what he wrote:

Happy Sunday to you! I know its short notice, but I wanted to let you know that my friend Gerry and I are driving back home to Washington. He may be playing baseball in Joliet this spring and has a meeting with the skipper late tomorrow afternoon. We would be rolling into town tomorrow morning. We are also looking for affordable Cubs tickets. I have two questions for you: 1.) If you don't have plans, would you like to meet us at Wrigley? And 2.) Can you get us tickets?...LOL? Let me know if or when you are available to talk on the phone about this. Thanks.

All weekend Tina had been covering an NCAA track meet in West Lafayette, IN, which featured local universities of interest in host Purdue, Illinois, Notre Dame and the Chicago based DePaul.

Reporters forget what its like to be comfortable. The unremitting set of tasks abiding the thankless art takes all the qualitative brainpower an individual can apply for every assignment-too often at a breakneck pace.

When most sports reporters have completed covering any event, whether it be the Super Bowl, an NCAA track meet, or eight-man high school football, and the final copy of their work has been submitted, they typically sleep like a baby that first care-free evening.

Colleagues covering all other areas of life for a daily newspaper comparatively look down on reporters of the world of sport, gauging the 365-day coverage itself as elementary.

But it's the loyal reader that keeps newspapers in business, and for a reporter in Tina's position, there is a unique civic responsibility and added pressure to perform than the average reporter or civilian comes to realize. For instance, if a DePaul sophomore from Kankakee, Illinois happens to have set the school mark for pole vaulting by a 19-year-old, its Tina's job to incorporate that nugget of information into her article, even if the accomplishment itself did not earn the youngster 1st, 2nd, or 3rd place in the meet itself. Because for the pole-vaulter and his family, having his name mentioned in a Chicago newspaper for making his or her way into the university record book is something his grandmother will proudly have magnetized to her ice-box for all to see until the day she dies.

If there's one part of the printed newspaper that still appeals to anyone who can read, it's the 15-minutes of fame that anyone, even a 19-year-old DePaul sophomore from Kankakee, will forever appreciate just by seeing his name favorably mentioned in an article.

Unfortunately for Tina, the prospect of making some kids' day is about the only thing motivating her to go to work anymore. Every newspaper in the country continues to lose money each quarter, and as a result of consecutive years of corporate cost cutting, the average reporter's workload gets stretched thin.

With the Grim Reaper of staff downsizing all but occupying his own office at the Chicago Tribune, sadly Tina and her contemporaries can no longer live worry free as long as they work in this business.

Has society ever witnessed a public occupation experience a fall from grace quite like the position of newspaper reporter? The prestige factor has been reduced to cheap talk in expensive settings, as private college professors reminisce throughout semesters about the good 'ol newspaper days when people had time to read, let alone train their dog to go fetch the roll itself every morning.

Even most of the accustomed standards and norms once provided for reporters have become a thing of the past. For instance, West Lafayette is 120 miles from Chicago. Ten years ago, Tina would have stayed in a hotel provided by her employer to cover the track meet for the weekend. And today? Anything less than 150 miles is considered close enough to home to commute to and from the event each day included in the assignment.

As one can imagine, all this partnered with the emotional scars still lingering from a divorce causes Tina to reflect a little. She knows she married the wrong guy, and now it seems, she married the wrong career as well. One already betrayed and broke her heart, while the other threatens to do it every day. All she ever wanted growing up was to be a devoted mother and family caretaker.

Because all Tina currently has to identify herself with is the title of college sports reporter, she is on the verge of suffering her first mid-life crisis. Shrinks call this the quarter-life crunch. If you're lucky, you'll get it out of the way before you're 25 though. The closer you experience the crisis to 30, it becomes that much harder to avoid being dependent on the crutches of medication and psychotherapy. When you start second-guessing every choice you have ever made, you begin to lose faith and sense of the big, beautiful picture you once painted for your future, the harder it becomes to perform like a champion each day.

What Tina needs right now is a visit from James, who would gladly change his name to Mel Gibson if it secured him an immediate sports reporting job like Tina's. His token of ignorance and invincibility, complemented with a zest for life's possibilities is something that she contemplates rediscovering for herself, given her young age and social situation. Instead, the idea of daydreaming any new destinies is something she's not comfortable doing alone at this point.

In contrast, James stopped taking the idea of his destiny so seriously. He met Dwayne Beckus last night, and slept on his life-changing proposal. Today, he feels just as chipper about the idea of becoming a New England carpenter. And just like so, he managed to successfully avoid facing his own quarter-life crunch.

As Tina receives the text she is still lying in bed with Duke, her Boston terrier, watching television and skimming through the Sunday sports page.

She can't believe the sight of the text. This is an unexpected mood energizer. She has had Mondays off before, but the idea of meeting James for the first time and spending the afternoon with him at Wrigley Field of all places hardly represents the average day off.

This vitalizes her to the point of pausing her television program, The View, before heading to the bathroom in order to freshen up a little before texting James back.

Most of the guys at the Chicago Tribune were smitten with Tina, and she knew it. So when she makes five separate phone calls-all to males-looking for opening day tickets to the Cubs game, she was aware of the fact that the average man partakes in good deeds not for the dignified premise of honoring thy neighbor as much as it is a reflex for the call of the wild.

Carrying out this sort of request is acting out of character for Tina. But she manages to reasonably justify it.

I'll ask the married guys first, she thought. So I would never have to return the favor with a date, just a batch of cookies and a bottle of good red wine to take home.

After just three hours of dialing in her first ticket request, with less than 24 hours until the gates open at Wrigley for baseball's opening day, Tina would receive verbal confirmation for three general admission bleacher tickets to be left in her mailbox at The Tribune by 5 PM, courtesy of her boss, the deputy sports editor himself.

"I'd better get to work on those cookies," she says to Duke.

While James and Gerry awaited the big news from Tina, they made their way over to Mystic and walked throughout the seaport a while before grabbing an authentic seafood meal fit for a king. Over clam chowder bread bowls, calamari, fish and chips, and a few rounds of draft beer, James detailed the history and current parameters of his relationship with Tina.

It wouldn't be until they get to the outskirts of Cleveland at 1 AM, that James and Gerry discover the restless side effects for the coveted "second wind" had arrived. At least one round of such a biorhythmic jolt is essential when undertaking in an all-night drive through a horizontal ¼ of the country. An awe-inspiring live and firsthand evening view of a major metropolitan skyline like Cleveland usually provides relief from the stale effects of invariability that come with hours of passing big rigs and seeing nothing else but headlights, mile markers, deer crossing signs and farmland, respectively.

They decide to try and make this reset of sorts official by exiting to gas up and round up a bundle of cheap pleasures like Black & Milds, energy drinks, peanuts and periodicals. Gerry would buy a few burritos at the hot-rack, like he always does. Before heading back to the truck they go for a stroll around a sequestered area of the great, lit parking lot to take in what is left of a joint along with a diversionary football-tossing session.

Since Gerry had been sleeping for three consecutive hours before they got to Cleveland, they decide its best for him to take the wheel once they are ready to leave.

After a few miles back into the interstate, James flips on the dome light and begins to scan through The USA Today he bought. The first headline that spurs him to read out loud is, "Obama Explains Why He Is A Christian."

"Why did I buy this?" James shrugs in disgust.

Gerry reaches over to thumb through on the paper, his eyes carefully shifting in both directions, "Sports page, baseball preview, remember?"

"I know," James says with a sigh. "It's just sad to think that the media really is manipulating our country.

"Think about it, what is news? It's whatever the media says is news."

"Whatever sells, right?."

"I know, I know." James shakes his head. "But, people go on with their day actually contemplating whether or not Obama is the Anti-Christ. What about the mad scientist who invented plastic? Boy talk about Pandora's Box that invention is going to turn out to be."

"Maybe you should plan to stay out of this business," Gerry smirked.

James cracks the window a little, as piercing cold air blows in. He begins to light up and draw smoke from a plastic tipped mini cigar. He lets out a giant puff before resting back on his seat, his chin cocked skyward just a little.

"It's going to be nice," James says softly. "To only have to worry about what I'm going to build or fix for somebody. Tucked away in breathtaking New England."

This is when Gerry decides its best to tell his friend carefully, by emphasizing that he will only tell him this once, that he disagrees with the decision to give up on his God-given ability to write for a living.

James shows no hostility towards Gerry's difference of opinion, in fact he's flattered and surprised to learn that Gerry thinks that highly of his talents.

"But God also wants me to be a productive member of society," James will eventually argue. "Sure he gave me this gift, but how long am I supposed to apply it and get nothing in return!

"Stability and security is something I am yearning for, man. I don't want to be 30 and not have an address."

That brings Gerry to his next topic of conversation: Tina.

"I think if this gal," Gerry begins with a serious tone, even turning the volume knob down on the radio. "You did say she is single, right?"

"Oh boy." James turns his head in dismay and sighs. "Yeah, I'm almost certain."

"If this gal is single, and you two share the same kind of connection tomorrow in person that you have for years on paper, I would think of you as socially retarded if you didn't pull out all the stops to advance the relationship."

James shakes his head. The thought of the possibility of love being on the table is just too much to juggle right now. "Call me socially retarded then, because I don't even know what she looks like."

"Again, I'm only going to stress all this to you once," Gerry responds instantly. "Big Game listen to me: this is life. Join the rest of us. This is how we do things.

Gerry then finishes sternly, "Great gals don't grow on trees, you Know that."

"Tell you what," James cracks open his energy drink, after having seen Gerry enjoy a swig and belch sequence of his own.

"What?"

"If the chemistry is there between her and I tomorrow, in a romantic setting like the Wrigley Field bleachers, I will ask her out.

"If you don't mind."

"That's great," Gerry says. "I hope it happens, but don't forget I have that meeting."

They agree that it would be best if, should James and Tina hit it off, Gerry drive himself to Joliet using James' GPS system.

"How will I know if you want or need to come with me?"

"Easy," James smiles. "I'll have the keys."

Gerry nods. There's a tension free moment of silence. This is when James begins to realize how fortunate he is to have a wingman for what could turn out to be a landmark moment of his young life.

Then Gerry decides this is a good time to foment, in harmless road trip spirit, and get James back for the lesbian surprise.

"Oh, I almost forgot." Gerry said plainly. "I have an old ballplayer trick of the dating trade to share with you."

"Okay." James replies with a ting of earnestness in his voice.

"Exercise caution with her fingernails."

"What?" James says tepidly, knowing Tina types and holds a pen for a living.

"Oh yeah, it's a common checkpoint in clubhouse conversation," Gerry says with conviction. "Right behind the size and shape of her dumper. I know this will sound like an urban legend, but the nail trends never lie."

Gerry goes on to explain that a girl with a sexed-up French manicure almost always comes with baggage, "like 90 percent of the time." A girl with black nails is simply conforming to the latest social trends, and not really sure about herself, "but they often have controlling tendencies." A girl who doesn't take care of her nails at all is usually, "the kind who has a tendency to leave both dirty dishes in the sink and the same panties on her rear for an entire week."

He goes on to conclude that the girl with red painted nails, more often than not, has a clue, "and often sweet as pie, like Laura Bush, you know what I mean?

James feels thankful that he has Gerry as a source for this kind of knowledge, while Gerry can't believe he just got away with such ad-libbed nonsense.

Discussing current events and any anthropological theories associated with them would keep the two vibrant and lucid for the next hour and a half before James finally gets dreary eyed from all the reading. He confesses to Gerry that he needs a few hours of sleep. Gerry insists that he feels great, encouraging James to get comfortable and get some shut-eye.

Just a few hours later, at 4 AM, Gerry exits to an interstate gas, food & rest center for the sake of simply stopping the truck for everyone's safety. James is sleeping so well that he doesn't even awaken from the progressive thrust that comes with the vehicle slowing to an eventual stand still.

Gerry calls James' name out loud a few times before finally shaking his shoulder.

James' eyes peel a little nervously. The first thing he looks for is any sign of being parked in the big city. Negative.

"I can't stay awake," Gerry pleads.

Any disoriented anxiety James might have been feeling is now gone.

Okay, we didn't get pulled over, James thought...the truck is running fine. We'll be okay. He turns his back to Gerry and straightens his legs out before moaning into his pillow.

"Where are we?"

"Indiana," Gerry responds.

They get out of the car and stretch before heading inside to get out of the cold. They were just a few hours away from Chicago, but didn't need to be there for at least five hours. The idea of parking a state away, however, to get a nap was out of the question. Nothing would have caused them more frustration than to get caught in major metropolitan traffic. They could sleep once they got to Wrigleyville.

James now knows he is going to have to switch back to the role of driver if they are to make it on time. This is going to be a grossly challenging stretch behind the wheel. He will have to withstand over 100 more miles of rote interstate driving while Gerry is sure to be hunkered nicely in his seat with sugarplums dancing in his head. He would also be heading into unfamiliar territory during the intense, early jockeying for position stages of Greater Chicago's bear of a morning commute.

Caffeine, nicotine, grass even, would no longer do the trick. It was time for motor skill rehabilitation. Well this just the facility for that idea since it happens to have an arcade room with a few old favorites: a Hoop Fever basketball shooting stand as well as a Pac Man video game system. This stirs up enough adrenaline to ignite James for a safe enough drive to the north side of Chicago.

CHAPTER 8 WRIGLEY FIELD

A pacifying hymn fills the streets of this zip code, one that leads us to an old American apogee: Wrigley Field. A visit here on game days is an incalculable dispatch for the sound human being, with its music box vibe that allures the imagination and kindles the senses. Bills, politics, laundry, the past, the future-none of it should matter for the next four hours. James and Gerry have parked inside more than just a shimmering, timeless cultural bubble of Wrigleyville, Chicago; soon after they step out of the pickup on Sheffield Avenue and begin to walk towards the iconic vista in frosty Illinois, they'll slowly begin to understand why religions and travel agencies alike offer a Paradise.

Just how satisfying can Wrigley be? It helps to own an appreciation for absolute ballgame novelties like foil wrapped hot dogs, turn-by-hand scoreboards, ivy covered walls, organ music, pinstripes, general admission bleacher seats and sipping on ice cold domestic beers in wind chills.

But if you're daring enough challenge the impact of Wrigley's game day enchantment, try bringing a first date. The first date jitters will stay in the car, train or bus you came in. No silence is awkward. In fact, you won't feel compelled to speak to your date until it comes time to find your seat or order your first adult beverage.

"James!" A female voice is heard from a distance.

And there she is, Miss America, wearing blue earmuffs and mittens alike. James loves taller than average women, and Tina Chaffe not only stands a comely 5'-8", but she also has a crop of red hair reminiscent of Venus in Botticelli's famous painting. But it's the combination of her rosy fresh smile, sensual lips, green eyes of bliss and something about the way she carries herself, perhaps its just a tinge of nervous energy, that pleases James from the get-go. She is standing right where they had agreed to meet, at the Harry Caray statue. The late Cubs broadcaster never looked better.

"Holy Cow!" James exclaims with open arms.

Without much of an awkward hesitation, James and Tina will converge in a genuine hug.

A red head who smells like sugar cookies, James thought. Tally that.

Both of them come to their own realization that they hadn't experienced a good hug in a long time. James even goes as far as effusively saying so out loud.

Already, Tina judges her maiden encounter with James as a good first impression. James likes what he sees so far as well, but the damn marijuana effects keep reminding him to check out her nails.

"What are you talking about?" Gerry lightly pardons, as the two pen pals separate after meeting each other for the first time in flesh.

"You gave me a hug after I was released the other day!"

James laughs a little at Gerry's remark before introducing his friends to one another. Tina initiates a hug for Gerry, followed with condolences for his recent occupational setback, which he appreciates before making an observation.

"Hey those are some great mittens you got there," Gerry points discreetly.

Tina then reveals that she's wearing gloves that happen to convert to mittens, unveiling her fingers in the process.

"I like them because the mitten part is great for holding my hand warmers at the finger tips," Tina shyly explains, as she folds back the actual mitten cover in order to pull out a small white pouch. Her fingers are unblemished, while the nails appear to be professionally finished, painted in cherry red.

"But you can't hold a beer with mittens on, either," she said, fastening the mitten to the small Velcro piece located on the backhand area.

Clearly showing no intent to disguise the delight armed by his newfound sense of approval for Tina, James cocks his head sideways, and gapes into Gerry's direction before stating, "If I didn't mention it before," now pointing his thumb in Tina's direction. "She's my mentor!"

Then Gerry's phone rings, while Tina gives James a playful backhand to the upper torso.

After briefly waiting for an index finger pointed skyward-or any sign of communication from Gerry for further instruction, James will finally nod in his direction before joking, "I always remind him that I too went to college, but every time I registered for classes, Mind Reading 101 was already full."

Tina laughs at James' tawdry wisecrack because she's the kind of girl that loves to laugh. This so happens to be another irresistible female attribute that meets James' liking.

Momentarily each one begins to recognize, as they stand in each other's presence for the first time, that they are both at ease. It's a pinch me moment of sorts.

"Are you going to be warm enough?" James and Tina ask each other simultaneously.

They share a short, organic laugh. Tina looks to the ground while James puts his hands in his pockets and looks over her head, his posture leaning weight on his tippy toes.

I could go for a cigarette, he thought.

"That felt good, didn't it?" Tina suggests.

James agrees. They each go on to reveal their respective hidden implements used for staying warm. Though she's not wearing a jacket, Tina is wearing a thermal body suit underneath a pair of overalls and a Cubs hooded sweatshirt. James is wearing two sets of socks, a long-john thermal shirt underneath his plain grey hooded sweatshirt and jean jacket. Tucked away in his pockets include purchases made in the last 24 hours: a pair of brown Isotoners that he found in a Mystic flea market, and a Notre Dame beanie acquired at the Indiana rest station.

Tina laughs while reaching out to take a closer look at the gloves. "You know these are old ladies gloves?"

"That's what the 'ol silver at the counter told me," James began to speak in an endorsing tone. "But they feel so nice.

"But you could dress me in Eskimo gear right now. After being in Florida for weeks, there's just no way I could get acclimated to this overnight, you know?"

Tina went on to explain the good news and bad news in regards to their tickets, which are general admission bleacher seats. The bad news: the bleacher seats represent the coldest part of the ballpark, as the average fan is more exposed to the elements, like scrambled winds, than anyone else. The good news: if they get in line to enter early enough, they can dash to an opening in the back row, where not only can one observe the street activity outside the park, but get a favorable view of the Chicago skyline as well.

That was all James needs to hear. Without much hesitation, he walks over to Gerry, flashes his ticket and motions that they are ready to go in to the Cathedral.

If you sit in the back rows of the Wrigley bleachers, one of the great mysteries in life is bound to grab your attention by the 3rd inning at the latest. How do the young men of the Midway do it? The acres of 25-40 year-old bleacher spectators are chock full of innumerate, inebriated and ample framed fellows. You may hear contemporary book readers and other high society types refer to these kinds of chaps as Meat Heads. But what makes this scene a sociological enigma is who you often see clinging to these lover boys: a clearinghouse of what Flyin' Bryan would call "smoking hot, bro" girlfriends with their own attractive companions. Somehow, someway, these modern day beasts managed to gerrymander these female cherubs into joining their ever-swelling American tribe. This is the tribe's convention.

Of course what the beauties are always blindsided by is fine print that came with the merger itself. Because in any given calendar year, these men will spend more money on sports apparel, video games, porn and tattoos then they will for their own sweetheart on Valentine's Day, birthday & Christmas combined.

In the Wrigley bleachers, these tribesmen are in their element-and this is only baseball season. As previously stated, bringing a date is still encouraged-as you will have plenty to talk about over coffee afterwards. But for God's sake, do your best to keep the children away from this revelry. As they only get one first impression of a great country's fine landmark. You want the youngster to remember Wrigley for all its mysticism. This should come from spending the afternoon on the regal side of the tracks, as opposed to the outfield peasant dwelling seeped in idolatry, blasphemy, mustard stains and everything else blockheaded.

Man, those guys got it made in the shade, James thought.

Seconds later and just two rows ahead, one of the buffoons spills a portion of his beer on one of his lady friends, then proceeds to slurp and lick all that's been soaked up on her fleece lined shoulder. Upon finishing, he clenches both fists to the air and yells, "Zamboni!"

"Still want to be Joe Schmoe?" Gerry cracks, sitting at the right of James.

"It reminds me of those home videos you see on the local news," James responds, unable to look away. "Of the baby deer happy to be kickin' it with a toilet drinking hound."

Sitting at the left of James, Tina leans to the front, with a helplessly curious look produced by Gerry's sly remark just seconds before.

"What are you talking about?" She inquires a bit tentatively in Gerry's direction, and without a smile for the first time today. Gerry drinks from his beer, giving James a second to answer first.

"It's nothing," James politely appeals. "Well at least I don't want to talk about it now," he says kindly nudging at Gerry.

Tina analytically pans her eyes between the poker faced James and Gerry's mocking grin, as he's looking straight ahead.

"Well, when?" She says softly.

"Well," James responds without much hesitation. "Do you have time tonight, because Gerry has that meeting in Joliet in a few hours? He was going to take my truck if you agreed to have dinner with me."

"Are you asking me out Big Game James?" Tina says pleasantly surprised.

Gerry can't help but to burst out loud in laughter. This might be the first time he ever heard a female call James by the nickname he most likely appointed him with.

"Yes," James says, disguising his insecurity by admiring his Isotoner covered left hand but smiling in reaction to Gerry's infectious laugh.

Tina warmly rubs James's back. "That would be nice."

James waits about half a minute before colorfully requesting, "Will you make your macaroni & cheese with ham?"

"You don't want to go out?" She asks, still smiling in flattery.

"I haven't had a home-cooked meal in years," he said. "I promise to help."

"Okay...do you want a salad?"

"Yeah. But it doesn't have to be a fancy pants salad. Quality of course, but traditional is fine with me."

"Okay," Tina says as she reaches into her purse for her reporter's blotter and a pen. She begins to make a grocery list. In a minute, she will softly nudge at James' left arm, tilting her head in the direction with casual emphasis.

He notices the list of food items, but underneath it, circled and star crossed caps letters read: IT'S OKAY TO INVITE HIM.

"Two percent milk? I had you pegged as a skim person," James says with a flirtatious manner. "And I wouldn't touch that bagged lettuce with a 10 foot pole, either."

Tina is shaking her head, appreciating the joke, but trying not to laugh.

"I'll be in charge of the salad," James says, turning to Gerry in the process. "You'll be done in time for dinner. You'd rather have fresh greens too, right?"

Smarter than the average bear, Gerry politely declines, knowing this to be a pseudo invite. Although no plans of his own had actually been finalized yet, he goes on to tell James that the telephone conversation he had outside the stadium was with his agent, and the two were making arrangements for the meeting. What he chose not to reveal, however, is that his agent has prior business obligations to tend to late that afternoon, and therefore, Gerry would be stuck in the meeting with the skipper of the Joliet club on his own. He has no problem with that. He just needed to see his agent that evening for cocktail hour, a steak dinner and perhaps lodging, so that he could kill two birds with one stone: get a better handle on his baseball future and stay out of James and Tina's way for the night.

The baseball game itself, once it finally got going, proved to be worth skipping school for. The wind is blowing out of the park quite generously towards left field, and even the featherweight hitters were taking advantage; as the first batter of the game, on the first pitch nonetheless, hits a ball that must have landed 20 rows high into the bleacher seats. The fan that tried to throw the ball back into play was so blitzed that the ball didn't clear the bleachers. The line drive throw went straight down into the first couple of rows where nine or ten coherent fans actually ducked, dodged, leaned, crouched and even scattered to get out of the way of a downhill moving ball that could have very easily sacrificed someone's brew. Instead the ball did no harm, as it ricocheted off the aluminum bench and sprayed onto the field grass where the Cubs outfielder was ready and waiting to retrieve it as if he was contractually obligated to carry out such chores. The reaction from the throw itself caused such a hostile, invective laced uproar amongst roughly 100 square feet of bleacher faithful that security had no choice but to escort and remove the fan from the stadium, a la, Steve Bartman in 2003.

Later tonight, Gerry will get the opportunity to revisit this scene courtesy of the local 11 o'clock news. Bleacher fans are interviewed on camera between the first and second inning for the sheer purpose of documenting the general reaction to a real precedent setter, an unwelcome metaphor on opening day. After all, this is a franchise that infamously hasn't won a World Series since the days when Hitler was an aspiring painter, the Pony Express was seriously considering a comeback, and store bought bread did not come sliced.

A mid-30's, husky, ticked-off male Cubs fan is interviewed.

"Blacklist him," said the solemn fan.

"Why do you say that?" The reporter asked.

"It's been over 100 years now," the fan said, still deadpanned, in his reference to the last Cubs championship. "The franchise isn't going to evolve? Fine. But we'll be damned if the fans are not going to act like champions. This is the pros for God's sake."

"No second chances for that guy then, huh?"

"Get a clue."

The seasoned reporter will say nothing further in response, hoping the fan will drop one final juicy sound bite on his own.

"Get a clue," the fan says once more.

Five innings and five homeruns later, with the Cubs trailing 10-6, Tina will sidestep her way out to the aisle in order to use the ladies room.

As she makes her way down the steps, James reaches into his pocket and hands over the truck keys to Gerry and cordially reminds his friend to put both the GPS and satellite radio systems in the glove compartment when parked for extended periods.

"And give 'em hell," James finishes.

"Me?" Gerry questions in bemusement, his head shaking as he rests his hands back inside his pockets. "I got the job already. It's you two who are auditioning for your future together tonight. How does it look so far?"

"The old James would have scoffed at that comment," James swiftly responds with a higher opinion of himself. "The new, carpenter trainee James couldn't agree with your assessment more."

The conversation is interrupted when the crowd begins to cheer on the pitcher for the final out as the Cubs need one more strike to get off the field in the sixth. The big, left-handed Milwaukee batter wallops at a pitch outside, foul-tipping the bouncing ball behind the catcher.

The cheering halts briefly. James continues on.

"It looks rock solid so far. And if the status quo continues on through dinner and a movie, I'll ask her to move to Connecticut with me."

"You're really going to go through with this, huh?"

"Hey, anything but going home with my tail between my legs at this point."

The crowd begins to cheer on the pitcher once more.

James squints in to see the catcher's sign. He notifies Gerry that he's dangling around his four fingers. Gerry can't believe the catcher is calling for a changeup, on a pay-off pitch, this early in the season.

"It better be a doozy," Gerry said.

The big batter takes another hack, foul tipping what looked like an off-speed pitch on the outside corner into the catcher's glove. The umpire turns to his right and pulls his right fist violently near his head as is if he were starting a lawnmower. The third strike indeed, and the crowd responds with drunken delight as the Cubs can now attempt to rally in the home half of the sixth inning.

CHAPTER 9 GERRY'S NIGHT

Halfway to Pullman they are when the real world (the one role models so often refer to) notifies James and Gerry that their temporary parole is being rescinded earlier than expected.

They thought they had discovered refuge in the American interstate, as if would provide immunity from the stressors of the daily, grisly pulse. Though it hadn't been discussed, only assumed, they both cherished this recourse on the road as a final toast to their youth. By sticking to the map, westbound, and along the way managing to not disrespect the road trip gods by driving drunk, this trip was to buy them a week to do whatever they please. Ideally.

This is what Gerry had been thinking about during his drive to Joliet, when he isn't constantly interrupted by the vexation that comes alongside metro traffic congestion. He worries about James a little, the one guy he knows who happens to be shallow enough to turn his back on a gal like Tina in order to carry through with a distasteful plan to spite life for not delivering on his dreams yet. But that will be a topic of conversation for the two to worry about later on, as Gerry is trying to ignore color in an otherwise tangible black and white issue: to play or not to play.

He wondered if it was now happening to him, "Is this the start of the game of professional baseball surrendering me to my knees?

"Maybe now I understand what my brother meant when he warned me: I'm agreeing to put my pride on a slow death layaway."

And all Gerry ever wanted from this game is one measly shot at the Big Leagues.

Unless the ability to walk is taken away from them, anyone who has ever been a professional athlete must address his sporting fate. Unfortunately, since many don't have one key asset to fall back on, e.g.: money, an education, a family, a hobby, or even just a supportive significant other, they make the irrational decision to continue clinging.

But how are you supposed to know when you've allowed your dignity to begin its descend into the fray?

Perhaps there are no obvious signs any longer, because for every athlete, every season can breed a new meaning to live on. The highly publicized, age-defying, so-called "Renaissance Seasons" are becoming more commonplace. This is causing sportswriters and even sports experts across the land to revise their original free consultations for retirement from pro sports.

Legendary gridiron hero Brett Favre stunk quarterbacking the New York Jets when he was 39 years old, so he retired. Then he was persuaded into coming back the next season to play in Minnesota. Taking every snap that season for the Vikings, at 40, Favre was arguably the best player every time he stepped on the field.

This is a man's world; and just about every man in it wants to conquer something. Some men, like Brett Favre, for better or worse, discover just what it is they are supposed to master. Then comes a resounding appeal for a shot at triumph and glory, which presents itself in many forms; whether it be a spotlighted individual performance, or to be part of a team that can say they accomplished a set of goals together. Then some men are simply content to go on living to master at the art of parenting, projects around the house, or even The New York Times crossword on Fridays. And those who don't strive to conquer anything for a living admire others who can by watching them on the television.

But as the windows are dressed with the attractions of fame, fortune and championship rings to engage the highlight-addicted consumer, the method behind the sports world's madness lie in the Ego's fundamental addiction for the spirit or drug of competition. And if competition itself were a fine wine, money would be the cheese. Owners compete for cheese. Advertisers compete for cheese. Athletes compete for cheese. Fans simply compete 365 days a year for their team's improvement in order to live a better life vicariously through.

For Gerry, at this stage of his life, conquering his modest goal of simply getting one shot at the majors no longer gets him out of bed the way it once did. Fear now motivates him. Not only will he soon be a newlywed, a game-changer in itself, but also he's never had to join the rest of America in the general work force. He's competing against the thought of punching in and out, as the game of baseball has earned him every cent he has ever made.

If he were to retire today, Gerry only has his fiance to lean on for support. Only she would like nothing more than to see him turn his back and walk away from a sport that doesn't need him, but only sort of wants him.

With a desire for some advice coming from the same wavelength, Gerry tries repeatedly to begin calling his brother, only to repeatedly get interrupted by congested, high-speed traffic that commands more than a divided attention. So he finally decides to wait until he gets to the ballpark.

Along the way from Chicago to Joliet, he stops and counts loose change for at least $8.00 worth of tollbooths, at an average of about $1.25 a stop. Also, not having a clue where he is-and a little anxious about it-he has to pay careful attention for commands from a GPS system that presently estimates he will be at his destination in 31 minutes.

"I gotta be in the office and checked in 10 minutes early," he says to himself. "Throw in another five for security and parking, and that will give me about 15 minutes to talk to my bro."

He drives underneath a graffiti decorated railroad bridge to soon find on the other side a stately, maroon colored, brick layered exterior of the very baseball stadium he has been looking for. Rot iron gates fit for an industrialist's mansion outline the ground level throughout.

"This is independent ball?" Gerry says to himself, as if he's already got his brother on the phone. "Unless they have to do something eccentric to sell tickets like fence off space for a petting zoo in the outfield during a game, I'm to enjoy coming to this place for work."

He locates a sign on the building's wall pointing in the direction of player parking, and decides to head that way.

There is no sign of security anywhere in the player's lot. Only an SUV, a large Ford F-450 truck and a green riding lawnmower occupy the parking lot. He parks next to the truck, which is parked in front of a loading dock. He then notices a sign bolted to the concrete wall of the loading dock reading, "Manager: Doug Raridon".

Gerry checks the clock on the dash before turning the ignition off. It reads 3:40. He still has ten minutes before he wants to go in. Time to give his brother a ring.

The screen on his phone refuses to show anything but a blank, black screen.

Five minutes later, after multiple attempts at hitting the power button and taking the battery in and out of its compartment, he realizes that overnight he made a rookie road trip mistake of leaving his phone on during the hours of mass rural stretches. Because of this, the device used up all its stored energy searching for a signal that was rarely available during most of the long ride to Chicago.

Gerry has played this game long enough to know the business side just as well as anyone else, and therefore, he's not too nervous about solo representation in this meeting. But everyone has a preferred business consultant; and for Gerry, his big brother, the former ballplayer, fits the role. He just wants to ask follow up questions in regard to the baseball proverb that has proven to be both unforgettable and now a little maddening.

Today Gerry will be handed a professional contract that his agent had been negotiating with both the Joliet club's general manager and skipper. He will be asked to sign and fax back the contract, which happens to be an enticing bounty for independent ball standards, in just 48 hours.

Gerry says a quick prayer to help quiet his mind a little. He asks for some sort of sign in the meeting that can better help him make the right decision. Just seconds after saying Amen, he puts the electronics under the seat as James requested and gets out of the truck. Soon after hitting his own lock button before shutting the door, he notices the truck he parked next to is being unlocked by a remote control.

"Who's that?" A gruff voice calls.

Gerry clears the parking space area to see a paunchy man of average height amble his way over, carrying a baseball bat on his shoulder. This guy, maybe 50, has a large, thinning head of dun hair and a saloon moustache reminiscent of Dennis Hopper's in Easy Rider-which in itself is grand enough to conceal two bites from this morning's Moon's Over My Hammy in.

It's Joliet's manager, Doug Raridon. The native North Dakotan will never be mistaken for upper class, but he could certainly fit in anywhere he goes because he's fearless. Some people in this world, no matter where they come from, have an incarnating presence that inclines a head turn at the very least from everyone in a room. Doug is one of them. When you see him, its not as if you try to figure how or where you know him from, you just assume he's an influential decision maker in whatever walk of life he's associated with. Some men are able to effortlessly emote this power because they happen to be rich, powerful, and therefore, uppity. Doug is able to do this because he knows he is a winner. And this entitlement of sorts is fueled with the fact that, with a .600 career winning percentage, he's a winner in a world even more merciful than the one an ordinary taxpayer has to deal with everyday: the world of professional baseball.

Having played or coached in the minor leagues for close to 25 years, in essence, Doug is the quintessential ballplayer in every form imaginable. Like sailors are born married to the sea, Doug is programmed to know and love baseball. He eats lots of cheeseburgers and tacos, but he sleeps and breathes with baseball on his mind.

"It Gerry Galloway," Gerry responds. "We have a meeting shortly."

"Shit we've been trying to get a hold of ya," Doug said, surprised that Gerry actually showed up.

Gerry explained the reasoning behind the power failure with his phone.

"Fuckin' cell phones," Doug says shaking his head in disgust, clenching both hands on the bat handle as if he were posing for a baseball card. "Do the advantages really outweigh the non-stop bullshit?

"We could've just confirmed this meeting by paging you at the courtesy phone at Wrigley for free. Instead your paying, what? Fifty bucks a month for a phone that doesn't work when you need it to? Fuck, let's just play some fuckin' baseball!"

Gerry reaches in Doug's direction for the bat.

"Yeah but then you might of caused me to miss Refrigerator Perry sing Take Me Out to the Ballgame," he jokes, feeling as if the ice has been broken with his potential new skipper.

"Refrigerator Perry? Is he fatter than me?"

"You're not fat, Doug, I bet you could catch a day after a night still."

"I can't even see my dick anymore, let alone a splitty on a fuckin' payoff count."

Gerry laughs, now playing with the bat a little. "This is a beautiful club."

"It's yours," Doug insisted.

"An R161?" Gerry says in astonishment after a closer look, his face replicating the first time he got his father's car up to 100 mph.

"Yeah, it still needs to be boned over a little though," Doug says, referring to the act of compressing a bat; a tactic used to fully maximize the ball's traveling performance by pressing out any soft spots in the wood.

"This looks and feels like my old 34, too," Gerry says, his right hand gliding up and down the barrel.

"Yeah, you're agent told me about your old stick there," Doug said. "I got some M9's too, but we're not gonna break those in until we clinch a playoff spot."

Doug turns and waves Gerry towards the facilities. "C'mon, I got a few of those old Michelob Light bottles in the clubhouse that'll be perfect for boning that."

Gerry let's Doug know he'll be right with him, wanting to put the bat away first. He unlocks then opens the canopy door and takes a brief look around. Everything back there belongs to James, as Gerry's things are packed into the rear of the extended cab. He decides to tuck the black bat under the heavy rubber mat near the wheel well area. He shuts the door and proceeds to grab his phone and charger out of the cab before heading back towards Doug, who is about 20 feet away chatting with his clubhouse manager.

Later on, as they continue their tour along the spectator porch just in front of Left Field Lenny, a 25 ft. high fiberglass statue of a construction worker, Doug told Gerry he could guarantee him two things. First being, that in this ballpark, where a fan has the freedom to watch from just about anywhere, the average player will enjoy a state-fair like atmosphere for an entire summer. And that's a major selling point. Like any other kind of performer, athletes prefer to play in front of large crowds.

"Hey, this is greater Chicago, brother," Doug says assuredly. "When you get off the bus here at 4 AM, after a 12-hour ride from the boonies of North Dakota, you're happy to be home because you know you play next door to the best sports town in America.

"Hey, look at it this way. You're like the baseball equivalent of an off Broadway performer playing here. No other major metropolis in the country has three independent baseball teams within 50 miles like Chicago does."

It wasn't until they finish the grand tour that Doug then laid it all out on the line with the second guarantee: they will win. And it wasn't so much the cliché of a guarantee itself that freezes Gerry in the middle of making a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, but instead a John Wayne-like candor employed by Doug to follow.

"Today I'm recruiting you as my first basemen," he said. "But I know you can play the outfield.

"So if there's another first baseman who becomes available throughout the season who can mash like yourself, and all I gotta do to reel him in is say 'C'mon over to Chicago, and first base is yours,' I'm pulling the trigger.

"That could mean any number of things for you," Doug said earnestly. "But hey, if yer doing yer thing and everyone's happy, I'll make you my right fielder or DH or wherever."

Gerry just continues to listen intently, as he has never heard this sort of discourse from a manager. A lot of guys throw words around in attempt to beguile the desired athlete's toil, but Doug appears to be an honest mechanic.

After an unflinching, two-second look into each other's eyes (Doug awaiting a character flaw to surface and Gerry simply making a mental note of this), the skipper reaches into the Wonder Bread bag and begins to gnaw on a piece.

"The dirt on me," Doug continues. "Besides my mouth which likes to eat, drink and curse too much, is people will tell you I'm not patient or even loyal enough.

"But if you come in everyday and play and act like a pro, I'll not only leave you alone all season, but I'll make sure you always get paid to play baseball for as long as you want and are capable.

"Why?" Gerry shrugs.

"Because you and I both know if there's one thing this game has too much of its shit heads. I don't contribute a whole lot to society, so I take a lot of pride as an ambassador of our game to help keep winning minds employed. It's my oath."

Doug then puts his hand out as if he were a model for the clubhouse itself.

"Other than that, this environment, as long as we're winning, hey its no different than affiliated ball. Only you get paid more, you'll get your own seat on the bus, we stay in more hotels than motels, and we'll even put you up in an apartment here with a couple of our veterans."

Of course Gerry isn't married just yet, but he's already acting like an experienced husband. By shaking hands with Doug in making a verbal commitment to the Hard Hat organization, he carries out a time-honored man folly of making life-altering decision without conferring with the Mrs. first.

In fact, not a whole lot is said when Gerry enthusiastically calls his fiancé with the good news once the meeting has concluded. Molly kept stressing that Gerry made a decision selfishly.

"You're already letting the game make decisions for you when it's supposed to be our decision," she barked.

Gerry countered that he needed a job and "as long as our country is teetering towards another economic depression, why not keep playing baseball?" He also took the old-fashioned stand that the husband is supposed to provide, and by taking a job offer, he is living up to God's expectations.

For his fiancé, Gerry's valid argument is falling on deaf ears. It doesn't take an aspiring lawyer like Molly to know athletes could accommodate a rolodex full of clever logic in justifying the need to continue training for or playing a sport. She also knows the one excuse that is conveniently ignored by that rolodex. Under the letter "C" you will not find her excuse of choice entitled "clean break."

Gerry has 48 hours.

CHAPTER 10 FIRST DATE

Holding the grocery basket, James will remain a few steps back as Tina will continue to comb just about every isle of the store. He could watch her do this all day. As he admirably watches her shop for food with precision, he can't help but wonder if he's seeing a woman who has the power not only to make recurring appearances in his dreams for years to come, but play a leading role in them as well. The sight of her gait, her healthy midriff when reaching high for items, combined with the concentrated look on her face warms him.

Sure he had a few beers at the game, but not enough to be out of his head at this point. The coffee they picked up before riding the subway to her home village and present location of Rosemont had only slapped his focus into just the right shape.

She puts the final item, a box of elbow macaroni, in the basket and checks the list once more before asking James if he needs anything else. He wants to say toothbrush, but holds back fearing any misinterpretation for a request with sexual undertones. In today's western world that kind of request could only be appropriate after finishing the bottle of 2004 merlot that's in the basket. So he answers, "I'm good."

She initially chooses nearby isle 12 to cut through towards the front of the store, but then chooses to commit a u-turn without any kind of obvious display of emotion. She'll just hook James's elbow to signify he change directions as well.

"What, is it someone you know?" James asks.

"No, no," as she leads them down isle 11 instead. "That was the pet food isle. Yuk."

As they wait in line to pay he starts to wonder if she too feels any sexual meaning has passed between them. Though he's pretty convinced that she finds him attractive as well. He will find out soon enough. They have to lay it all out on the table tonight, because from this point on their relationship would either terminate or move forward. They have supported each other emotionally from afar long enough, its time to see if this has any symbiotic potential.

How do I approach a subject like that? James thought. I have to tell her how I feel first, not just ask her to move with me to Connecticut, right? Is this something I have to do with the art of romance in mind, or is just expressing my feelings going to be romantic and daring enough?

Once it's their turn in line, James gets a few $20 bills out and assumes the buyer position.

"Hey, put that money away," Tina says gently tugging at his sleeve. "You're my guest tonight."

"Yeah, but I want to be your date tonight," James says urbanely, with a look in her direction just before the cashier asks for his ID. He reaches into the chest pocket in his jean jacket for the driver's license and says, "And I always imagined that if we were to spend a first evening together, you would be in charge of preparing a home-cooked meal for us."

She looks charmed for a second before curiously asking, "Who did you imagine I looked like all this time?"

"You first," James fires back, the cashier hands him back his ID while he hands her back the pair of twenties.

"Nobody famous or anything. It's this guy who played basketball for Notre Dame my senior year. Just a benchwarmer I had a class with. A print major I think."

"You didn't know the guy?"

"No, it just happened that way."

"Well comparatively speaking, I'm sure I didn't disappoint in the handsome category, but I know he's got me by a landslide in the athletic rating."

"No athletic ability for you?"

"Average. But I could never thrive athletically because my right foot is almost a size smaller than my left. Poor foundation. I trip for no reason at all sometimes."

She laughs indulgently. "So who did I look like to you?"

"It's evolved over time," James says, taking the $2.32 in change and thanking the cashier before grabbing the bags. "When we first started corresponding, I didn't know how old you were. Well that happened to be the stage of my life when I was into older women. I was watching Everybody Loves Raymond quite a bit, so I imagined you as Patricia Heaton."

"What about this morning before we met?" She asks.

"All I could think about was McDonald's coffee and finding a good parking spot."

"Ha, ha, ha," she mocks a laugh. "C'mon really?"

As they begin to make their way towards the exit, walking side by side, James knows she has just thrown him a curve ball he can knock out of the planet. So he says the first young, beautiful and intelligent celebrity journalist that comes to his mind.

"Lara Logan," he states coolly.

"The 60 Minutes girl?"

He nods his head. "Since your picture is not on the web, I just felt it was best to imagine you as an attractive journalist. And I'm a sucker for the British accent, too.

"But you're much better looking than her, I swear," he says with an ingratiating smile, shifting the paper bag entirely to his left arm while wrapping his right arm around her shoulders, underscoring his complement with a gentle squeeze.

Tina thanks James and further welcomes his display of affection by resting her right hand on top of his. It would remain there until they reached the front door of her apartment ten minutes later.

Immediately after Tina inserts the deadbolt key, Duke can be heard barking on the other side of the door. This is music to James' ears, as he's ready to conclude there's no way she has a cat and dog living together in a one-bedroom apartment. But having lived with women before, he knows he's not out of those woods just yet. Tina mentioned her Boston terrier earlier, but cat lovers have a strange tendency to conveniently forget to tell men about a feline until they get you to show up at their place.

Tina gets the door open and Duke stands up to greet her. "Hello!" She says with love, followed by a stern "Down!" Once they get inside and shut the door, Tina will take the grocery bag and head to the kitchen. James gets down on one knee to pet Duke, who proceeds to sniff him down, his tail wagging the entire time. Remaining on his knee at the entrance, James takes a quick look around. The place looks modern, cozy, and ever more importantly, tidy.

My eyes would be itchy by now, too, he thought. No cats here. Tally a few more points in Tina's direction. She's on a record-setting pace and hasn't even cooked dinner yet.

"Do you want me to take my shoes off?" He asks.

"No, come in and get comfortable," Tina says, putting the perishables in the fridge. "I'll pour you a beer?"

He accepts but then offers to take the dog for a quick walk to the grass first. Tina says that would be great as she could begin prepping to cook the meal.

Upon his return with Duke just five minutes later, James can't help but notice the plushy burgundy sofa 10 ft. straight ahead with the television set on the stand next to it.

I haven't seen comfort like that in...I don't know how long, James thought.

Tina heads back towards the entryway and takes the leash along with his jacket.

"I was just thinking," she says, opening the nearby closet and grabbing a hanger.

"You must be exhausted! I want you to sit down, drink a beer, take a nap even.

"I'll wake you when we're ready to eat."

James has never taken the idea of marriage seriously until this moment. Of course, he wanted nothing more than to sit down, drink that beer, and watch Sportscenter before dozing off into dreamland. Instead, he offers to help her make dinner.

"Our time together is precious, Big Game James," she counters before taking a sip from her glass of wine. "I don't want you to hit a wall at 8 o'clock tonight."

James and Tina have a longstanding rapport, but ordinarily, any other woman directing this sort of presumed moxie his way would have made him uncomfortable. But this is Tina, the female who knows him just about better than anyone. Still, in typical journalist fashion, he's inclined to find some objectivity to this story; a character flaw in Tina that will make this whole scene feel like the real deal. This is what he knows of her so far: She once took a chance on a driven pupil, and has stayed loyal to him ever since. Today she came through with great major sporting event tickets in a short period of time. Her home is well kept. She's smart and sexy. She smells great. And if Gerry's urban legend carries any weight, she's got the manicure issue well under control.

Sure she's divorced, but James can empathize with that. Of course he's never been married, but he was once a 23-year-old male living in a country obsessed with sex. Man dropping the wife down a notch in the rotation has become even more fashionable in modern day USA than overalls on a farmer. James knows at the time Tina was married, he himself was still just a boy capable of doing anything deemed irresponsible, unaccountable and unremorseful because of it. No analyst would argue James was a knucklehead still arrested in development, so its very possible Tina's husband suffered from the same shortcoming.

Then, he thought, she's in the kitchen right now making me homemade mac n cheese. I've seen enough...even if the food stinks.

He takes the beer from the fridge, already poured into a frosted pint glass for him, then feeling the need to break a little more frolicking ground, closes in fast behind Tina who is washing the lettuce in the sink. Before she has a chance to react he gently holds her head in place with his right hand on her right cheek and gives her a warm kiss on the opposite cheek. This makes her blush a little.

"Do you have a sports page for me?" He asks softly.

"Yeah it's underneath the coffee table," she says with glee, nodding in the direction of the living room, her wet hands still buried in the sink. "The coasters are on the top there, okay?"

He acknowledges her coaster request before asking for ESPN's channel number. On the coffee table's bottom shelf rests the newspaper alongside a short stack of books that he takes a brief look at before grabbing the paper and sitting down. He sees Halberstam in there, as well as something Ya-Ya in the title, while The Bible happens to top the stack. He's learned a lot about Tina over the years, but they never discussed religion. Maybe she ended a letter in God Bless a time or two, but that never accompanied any evangelical themes or testimony.

James is the kind of person who is lukewarm in his willingness in practicing religion. A baptized Christian who attends church on Christmas Eve and Easter, he prays a few times a year, but only when he's on the verge of having a nervous breakdown or when losing his keys. When he sees Tina's Bible he's mildly impressed and thinks, "Maybe someday." But before opening up to the sports page, he hopes for a moment that she doesn't ask him to say "Grace" before the meal.

After minutes of scanning around extra pages of genuflect opening day coverage sure to be read by every customer getting their oil changed that day, James is reminded of someone when seeing a small article explaining why the Cubs decided to release an old No. 1 pick who has only managed to drink a cup of tea or two at the Big League level in his six seasons.

"I'd better check in with Gerry G, huh?" He said to Tina.

She then makes it clear that the two of them can stay with her as long as they want. James can only get an endless ring tone, however, so he follows by sending Gerry a text message reissuing the dinner invitation as well as notifying him that they have a place to stay for the night. He sends a second text listing Tina's address.

James then spends the next 15 minutes slunk into the couch studying pro basketball box scores, imbibing his beverage intermittently. Soon enough, he succumbs to the cumulative effects of alcohol, love, an empty stomach and an all night road trip-falling fast asleep just minutes before the Cubs highlights come on. With his overeager REM operating feverishly, he'll experience a series of vivid dreams for the next hour and a half: Dream 1.) He's supposed to meet his family in Hawaii, only to have the rookie pilot mysteriously get lost and take the 747 to a very dark and down-pouring Miami instead. This garners a mixed reaction about the cabin.

Dream 2.) He is back in college, taking a math test that he knows nothing about, feeling the intense horrors that accompany the humiliation that is sure to develop.

Dream 3.) It's very early on a weekend morning back in Pullman. It's a beautiful, sunny start to what must be a summer day.

James wakes up with a sudden desire to read the newspaper, which should be placed near the front doorstep at his folks' home on D Street back in Pullman. Soon after looking down and learning that the front door's landing is still bare, James discovers that the lower half of his body has nothing on it as well. Shocked, he looks around the neighborhood to make sure nobody is around, and for reasons only Freud could attempt to describe, he sprints out to the driveway to his old car, a wood paneled Caprice Classic Estate station wagon, with the front end facing the street.

Moments after climbing into the driver's side, he hears a vehicle driving nearby. It's a policeman. The policeman and James make eye contact. The policeman will go on and park in front of James's house. Soon enough, he gets out and heads to front door. James, curious to know what's going on, scrambles for some shorts in his car, which is full of clutter in the back seat. He finds the shorts and proceeds to head back to the house. The policeman is already speaking to James's mom, who clearly looks like she has just climbed out of bed herself.

"James McEwing needs to come with me down to the station," the policeman said. "Is this him?"

"What did he do wrong, officer?" His mother said in confusion, tying her robe tight.

"He has to take his sobriety test today," the policeman said. "And I know he had a few drinks last night."

Around this time is when Tina carefully covers him with a blanket, as James will then go on to Dream 4.) He's a jockey in the Kentucky Derby, riding a promising colt named Jo-Han Lee. In the hours leading up to the race, however, a fascinating turn of events takes place.

An outbreak of quarter-sized lumps has developed overnight around the horse's right side of his hind waist area-one that's sure to get bitter looks from the average spectator watching in standard high-definition television. The vet diagnoses the issue at hand simply as mosquito bites and that Jo-Han Lee should be fine to race. But because one can never tell how a horse will react, as a precautionary measure the vet further recommends that the trainer himself lather the affected area with some calamine (pink anti-itch ointment) in the moments before leading him out to the starting gate.

The white-haired owner, donning a lavish Italian suit, expressionless behind a pair of black sunglasses, coldly disagrees with this idea. Not only can he envision the Colt making blooper reel history by pausing just 10 yards from the starting gate to carry out an irresistible urge to plop to the dirt and buck around in relieving himself from either an itching sensation or out of simple annoyance caused by the ointment; but he also deems the exposed formation of mosquito bites, with or without the temporary alleviation applied, as an embarrassment in its own right. "This is the Derby, not the Yakima Downs for Christ sake!" He groans before bumming a cigarette from the vet. "I refuse to be the owner remembered for sending a black crow out in the peacock parade."

James then wakes up very dazed with the chorus to the song "Sara" by Starship repeating in his head. He thought, where am I? Why does it smell like cheese in here? Will I have to raise hell to get compensated for the Derby fallout?

It isn't until Duke slowly emerges from the hallway, making his way to the laundry room for a drink of water on the other side of the kitchen behind him, that James understands that he is back live in Chicagoland. Even still, it is very quiet and Tina is nowhere in sight.

James can only assume there's a bathroom in that hallway, as he gets the urge to get up and use it. At the other end of the hallway a light shines from what must be Tina's bedroom. Curious to take a peak, he leisurely makes his way past the bath. As he gets closer he can only see about half of a made bed and a dresser with a mirror attached standing on the wall left of the entry way. He'll knock on the open door inside and slowly peek in to see Tina typing feverishly at her desk on the far side corner of the room. She turns with a big smile as he can only wave in return, still waiting for his motor skills to warm back up all the way.

"Are you hungry yet?" She asks whimsically, chewing on some gum.

"Oh, take your time," James waves unconcernedly, as he leans on the doorway. "I just woke up and wondered where you were, that's all."

Tina explains she is just updating her notes, responding to some reader emails, corresponding with a few assistant coaches and updating the newspaper's college sports blog a little.

"All the tedious stuff that comes with being a sports reporter," she rests back in the chair before coquettishly saying. "I like to call it Fish Food."

James chuckles and coyly looked to the floor before telling her great minds think alike before excusing himself to the bathroom. While making his deposit, James uses this last moment of alone time to counsel himself over the big proposal to come. Don't even bring it up at the table, he thought. Show her respect and appreciation by enjoying the meal and her company. I used to hate it when my folks used dinnertime to talk shop. Mac n' cheese was created to please, not meant to discuss your future over.

Dinner couldn't have gone any better. The meal turned out to be, described by James as, "Life changing." Over the bottle of merlot the two talked about movies, hobbies they would like to take up (Tina-fishing and chess, James-piano lessons and water color painting) as well as reading, writing and the state of their respective social lives.

The moment a break in the conversation presented itself, Tina tried to start clearing the table before James insisted she sit on the couch and relax for the first time today while he takes care of dish washing.

"You can do the dishes," she said. "Just let me help you clear the table."

James nodded in agreement. "Okay but once the table is cleared you are to cool out. If you still want to help you can keep me company or turn some Sinatra."

"Sinatra?" Tina says with surprise, making her way over to the couch with a glass of wine. She'll sit down on the couch, back to the television, facing James at the kitchen sink. She sits femininely. Both of her legs are up off the floor, feet folded back under her buttocks. "No you're not getting off that easy," she says sharply, running her fingers through her hair. "Don't think I forgot that you owe me some insight into that Joe Schmoe stuff you and Gerry started to talk about at the game."

Knowing the moment of truth has officially arrived, James looks up to the ceiling as he pulls on the second yellow dishwashing glove.

She's a journalist, he thought. She's trained to listen and comprehend a bulk of information in one setting. Who. What. When. Where. Why not throw it all out there at once and see what happens.

"You might want to get your blotter out for this," he said, talking loudly in the direction of the pan he is now scouring with a pad. "A pen and a post-it at least."

Her breath becomes irregular for a few seconds-only because she knows he is about to say something that is sure to have an impact on their relationship. Once she gets some oxygen to the brain, she takes solace in knowing that no man she could ever fall for would propose while washing the dishes.

"Something tells me we're not going to the movies," she says. "So just fire away."

"Okay," James says with a big smile. "First of all, I want you to know that I love you."

She can only continue to smile. Oh my, she thought. Maybe he is going to propose.

"And I want nothing more than for us to be together," James says, not having any clue if this fills her heart with joy, but feeling good about getting it out in the open, nonetheless. "You're very special. I've never met another woman like you, and I don't think I ever will.

"Uh, in other words, I'm sold."

"Keep going," she says, as if she happened to be watching a mushy scene in her favorite soap opera.

"Yeah. And I got a job offer to be a carpenter in training with my cousin's company in the coastal Connecticut area.

"I'm ready to start a career, Tina," he said, gazing out the window in front of him. "I'm longing for security, a regular paycheck, you know. And this part of New England is a great place to start a life together, I think.

He turns to her and says, "I want you there with me."

Tina gets up and walks towards the kitchen with a sense of purpose. James can only crack half a smile back at her in return. She embraces him, extending her arms around his neck before going right in for the big, wet kiss. Both of them enjoy this. It's not as if either one will be able to tell you if the other is a good kisser, but ever more importantly, this shared seminal expression just felt right.

But before it should develop into a making out session, Tina slowly disengages. The two look into each other's eyes in awe of this shared revelation.

"So we Are in love." She says softly, rubbing her hand around his stubble. "Do you want coffee?"

"Yeah," he says with great inner relief.

She goes to the pantry to grab her coffee jar.

"But we're going to have to do something about this carpentry nonsense," she said assertively.

CHAPTER 11 - NIGHTCAP

Until today, James McEwing had always wondered just how some guys manage to land the job and/or girl of their dreams. For he has gone 28 years without ever knowing what its like to get either one. Now he finds himself forced to choose between the two entities.

In order to take their minds off of things for a few hours, James and Tina go to the movies. They choose to see a comedy about six plane crash survivors on a deserted island who manage to salvage one working prepaid cellphone that somehow produces enough of a signal-but with just 14 minutes of call time left and no electricity to recharge it.

All James can think about, however, is the pickle he finds himself in. Tina, without putting much thought into it, has already told him that there is no way she is going to quit her job to move to Connecticut. She tried to explain to James that for all she knows, she was put in his life to support his sports writing endeavor. To turn away from the principals that conceived this relationship to begin with in support of this newfangled carpentry aim, and to top that with the notion that he plans to hang up his pen and pad, "Would mean two skilled journalists not getting paid to write, living together under one roof.

"I want to get out of this industry still," she assured him. "Don't get me wrong. "But you and I still have some tests to pass here."

And though she would never admit it, Tina thought James made a fair argument for stowing away the pen and pad for good. After all, once intellectual maturation sets in, bankruptcy occurs, or because all of their friends started doing it too, most people throughout the history of time have at some point abandoned their childhood ambitions.

Then there is the arcane, if not cursed mind: that of the artist. For art chooses the individual, and as a result, he or she must wrestle with cognitive patterns functioning on a subtler, if not convoluted level everyday. You'll hear the established artists say things like, "I spent a lot of time in the lab for that one," or "I'll check in with the men upstairs and we'll come up with something," even "I have a tendency to live in a bubble." The artist's matrix can, among many other things, deliver an impromptu joke, write a poem, or paint a picture. And on occasion, in those brief moments of escape life brings to most of us with the help of calming activities like fishing, gazing at the stars, walks in the park, staring at oatmeal as it cooks in the microwave, or by staying inside a tire store for longer than 10 minutes; the artist's factory uses this time to deliver a mélange of mind-blowing philosophical clarity to various safeguarded issues in the fabric of society; like trying to fathom just how in the hell American football is legal in the first place.

The mind of the artist is a 24/7 convenience store providing for itself 44 oz. fountain drinks of imagination. But while most of it all looks and tastes great, who wants to work in a convenience store? For the artist has to deal with a nagging creative anxiety controlled by varied portions of self-doubt that motivates some to get out of bed everyday but also happens to keep most discouraged and seeking answers from an shrink. Doubt implores you to get busy when you're not working on the craft. Then when you do work at it, and you've had an off day, even an off-hour in production, self-doubt is always first to tell you just how precarious all this is and will continue to be. Even some of the most successful artists don't exactly carry a general demeanor like they will continue to ride the wave. You always have to be thinking about what's next, whether you're in the middle of a passion project or your lucky enough to get paid to put out something commercially viable. Every moment in life is not enjoyed and savored as much as it is anticipated, then experienced, and eventually reflected upon as potential material for future use. For this reason, James never leaves home without a pen and piece of scrap paper, just in case the million-dollar dinner bell rings.

James has shared this hypothesis with Tina once before, so the idea of making an attempt to get rid of this demon didn't come as a complete shock to her.

This clearly isn't a cry for help, Tina thought. He is almost 30. I know he wants to start a family and while the door for him to do such a thing is not closing, he has started to look around the room and taken notice of that door and its potential to slam shut.

Yet Tina worries, rightfully, about his motive. It is very possible he is mistaking security for aspiring perfection with this attempt at remodeling the blueprint for his future while the foundation for the old one being poured already. If that were the case, James has all but guaranteed himself a midlife crisis.

"I don't want to be 40," James bleats. "Living with mom, making puckish remarks in a blog from a public library.

"Reclining chair, a garage, a fireplace, a package store within walking distance, building snowmen with the kids on Saturdays, enjoying football on Sundays with a couple walls to frame come Monday while listening to WFAN all day sounds like America the Beautiful to me."

Upon leaving the theatre, the unsure couple will walk to a nearby sports bar with hopes that the confluence of alcohol and some heavy petting could provide enough therapy to cope with the growing possibility that after tomorrow morning, they may never see each other again.

But as much as she wants to go with the flow, and appease her own sexual impulses, she can't help but have more on her mind. She never thought it would have to come to this. But soon after the first round of micro brews arrives at the table, she will motion for cheers and soon after break out the "emergency use only" counter pitch to James' earlier proposal. In asking James to move to Chicago to live with her under the condition that he not only sticks to his craft but also works on it everyday, with her unconditional love and unflagging support behind him, seemed like the right thing to do. She has never been as sure about anything in her life as she is the idea of making James McEwing her man.

Tina knew she would have work at changing him at some point, only she figured this sort of consecration wouldn't have to come until after the honeymoon period had ran its course. But it will not be easy to convince James to turn down a fine career opportunity and instead swallow his pride to go through in living the big enchilada of all the stereotypes associated with the odyssey of an indigent artist: the freeloading stereotype. Because you can never actually say that you hit rock bottom in your career unless you were once a bum in the form of eating someone else's cereal while they were at work, for at least three to five rent free months.

A speech communication minor at Notre Dame, Tina feels she earned enough credits to persuade James with the old college try tonight. For she knows she only has one shot at changing his credo, or at the very least, reopen his mind. The mode of rhetoric behind this sort of performance would have to be a calculated one heralded in incandescent diplomacy-built methodically with a beginning, middle and end. She has to maintain a particular poise and speak with a tone that would enable her to voice herself convincingly. She had to be careful not to patronize or even niggle him. She had to be extra careful not to let her emotions do the talking either, as any public display of drama would assure James' positioning remains in the status quo. What about sex, you ask? Resorting to spurious verbal flirting and using her body as an artifice to seduce and manipulate his objectives would only guarantee short-term success. And by sleeping with him tonight, she would be surrendering a sizable portion of her dignity that she would never get back, no matter how the future would play itself out.

In other words, the bounty has been increased, as there could only be one chord or reference moving enough to strike James back to his old self. And evidently, this chosen element would have to be strong enough to steal the show in a form even more powerful than love itself-if there is such a thing.

Playing with her hair in front of the mirror in the women's bathroom, she tries to collect herself after going as far as wondering whether or not it would be appropriate to call his mother.

"How can I make this easy on myself?" She thought, as applying some lip balm helped ground her emotions a little.

As she heads back to the table, something told her to simply know her role in the relationship and use it to get her point across. Forget about all that has happened today, the inner voice said. What has gotten you two this far in the first place? Be wise.

She then thanked her inner voice for not advising her to order a second Cosmo earlier.

"Here's the truth," she said shortly after arriving back at the table, grabbing his thigh tightly to help dispel her emotion. "You've developed your writer's voice, we know that."

He rolls his eyes and nods with mild abjection.

"You're probably one step away from striking gold in your artistic evolution," she continues.

"It's important to know you don't have to do it alone any longer. I'm willing to do whatever it takes to help keep you going. I have a good feeling that by us moving forward, your career will do the same because of it."

James looks around at all the great sports memorabilia. On the wall near his left shoulder, opposite Tina, there's Michael Jordan flying to the basket, his right hand and ball skyward, patented tongue draped from the mouth. Directly below him, a helpless Xavier McDaniel can only peer up with a look of disgust. The 8"x12" framed picture is actually signed in blue permanent marker by McDaniel himself as "X-Man" followed with "Knicks in '93". Next to that picture is another 8"x12" photo of Mike Ditka, George Wendt and Bill Murray posing together, each holding a mug of beer.

In fain, James continues to help himself to a convenient recess in the sports world, as Tina can only continue to stare him down with that look that every male lover knows all too well-the one when expectations are not being met.

"James?" She said impatiently. But before he has a chance to respond, she continues on.

"I don't expect you to make a decision right now," she says sharply. "But just promise me one thing?"

"Sure," he refocuses and makes a clear effort to show respect by looking at her straight in the eyes.

"I won't have enough time to collect and organize it all before you leave," she said. "But I have some reading material that I think you should take a look at before you make your final decision. I'll send it to Pullman. Just give it a few days to arrive, okay?"

"You got it," he pledged. "Is it anyone I know?"

"The author?" She responds, taking in a drink before shaking her head. "I doubt it. Its this guy I met years back who specializes in dealing with these sort of quandaries that life throws our way."

"Like a life coach or motivational speaker?" He asks.

She quickly nods her head in affirmation before taking the last drink of beer.

"The best," she says with a wink and a smile before checking for the time on her phone. "Now let's go home and rest."

As they stand to exit, James begins to empty the loose change out of his pockets on the table.

"Are you a good cuddler?" He asks casually, dropping a $5 bill on top of the change.

Tina folds her arms before counting the fingers from her right hand.

"Four time All-American," she cooed.

Gerry's agent, Frank Teverbaugh, known to friends simply as Teves, is best known for his silver tongue. Legend has it, he once talked a used car salesman into buying seed packets labeled "Money Tree." A former Wazzu quarterback, now 46 and a full-time insurance salesman based out of Pullman, Teves is a charming, handsome man with an athletic build, and an up for re-election smile topped with a full head of oily black hair. He could have played James Bond, had the right gods fallen in love with him.

But as bereft, haggard and disconcerted as Teves' client looked and felt, Gerry still had enough wit left in him to expect nothing less than a boat-load of propaganda to come his way this evening. In fact, as they sit in the Holiday Inn's poorly lit sports bar & lounge together, Gerry, seeing the opportunity to maximize all possibilities of pleasure in anticipation for his agent's performance this evening, goes ahead and orders a hot plate of $9 hotel nachos as if it were popcorn at the big screen.

A longtime family friend of the Galloway's, Teves has always held a favorite uncle-like quality in Gerry's mind. But this is the first time money has ever played a factor in their relationship, as Teves had always represented him for free. But when Gerry was still in Connecticut, out of desperation to find another job in baseball (and half convinced that the idea of joining an independent franchise was a fool's errand to send Teves on to begin with), he verbally agreed to give half of his signing bonus to his agent, who was already getting paid to be in Chicago for a business seminar.

For hot bread was already assured to come Teves' way, but now the possibility to lather some room temp butter on top had him licking his chops. Thanks to a persuasive Power Point email he put together employing the ethos, pathos, logos principles to sell the idea that for the last three seasons; when you factor in his league minimum salary combined with production value and an impressive percentage of games started, Gerry is in the top 5% of the most valuable minor league players. Teves concluded the presentation by reminding the organizational brass that Gerry was, at 28, currently scratching the surface of his athletic prime.

That was enough to sway the Hard Hats toward guaranteeing Gerry a signing bonus of $1,500.

To get Gerry to sign that contract, Teves is pushing one particular idea hard: You're the man. Put your foot down.

"I'm not saying it's the industry standard love validation test or anything," Teves said politely. "But it has a way to threaten without actually being threatening, ya know what I mean?"

"You're simply saying, 'This is what I do. Come along for a season and see what its like first before dismissing it as something that could hurt our future. If you still hate it, I promise to retire.'"

Teves re-adjusts himself in his chair and loosens his tie a little before holding his right index finger up to signal another So-Co and cola to the bartender. Gerry looked at him in amazement, then chuckles.

"You know just when I thought there was nothing you could possibly say tonight," Gerry said. "You may have hit the nail on the head."

Teves opens his palms and shrugs, "Worst case, she bails," he said. "But you still get to keep playing ball."

"But she's not dumb, either." Gerry shook his head. "It is still an ultimatum, and I don't know if I'm egotistical enough to go on for the season forgetting my engagement fell through as I'm trotting out to first base."

"Jon, you're a pro athlete," Teves said, addressing Gerry with the pet name he likes to use for friends and strangers alike. "You could have a new girl every night of the season if you choose to, you know that.

"All I know is you're caught in the damn wash. But if you want to continue trying to wipe yer ass with a hoola hoop, just let me remind you first that you only have 43 hours left to do it."

Teves stirs his drink around a little before leaning forward to make sure he's getting his point across.

"Jon," he said plainly. "You want to keep your gal along with your locker room, then you're going to have to be a man about it. Women play their mind games. Putting the foot down is our thing."

Gerry goes on to finish his plate of nachos and wash it down with a few more beers before watching the 11:00 news on WGN. Half of the reporting time is dedicated to opening day at Wrigley, and the human-interest package about the fan's baseball throwing faux pas completes the broadcast.

"Do you think you could have fared better, Charlotte?" The senior anchorman inquires playfully to the young anchorwoman at his right. They both shake their heads in amusement while shuffling their papers.

Charlotte looks skyward for a second, clicking her pen a few times before answering, "Oh Gene, I don't even know what arm I throw with, to be honest with you!"

Gerry had seen and heard enough for one day. He paid his bill and followed Teves up to the room for some shut-eye on a rollaway cot.

Its now 11:39 pm, and with the exception of the bathroom and a bedside lamp, all the lights are out at Tina's apartment. Duke rests comfortably at the foot of Tina's bed, while his master lies there in white sweatpants and a Notre Dame t-shirt, channel surfing. Having removed her contacts moments before, her nearsighted set of eyes look feeble behind a pair of bifocals.

Brushing his teeth, James is dressed down to a t-shirt and pair of basketball shorts.

"Did you ever try to go see Letterman while you were in New York?" Tina asked.

"Yeah I tried," James grumbled after spitting out his toothpaste. "Then some intern calls me and starts asking ridiculous Letterman trivia questions."

"Like what?"

"I don't know, just off the wall production questions," James said. "I remember I missed one answer by one year, the other two I was clueless on. I answered one correctly: Worldwide Pants being the name of the show's production company.

He starts to rinse clean the toothbrush Tina gave him.

"Is he on now?"

"Yeah."

"Who's on tonight?"

"According to the guide here its Richard Simmons and stupid human tricks," Tina said in reserved amusement.

"Mmm, romantic," James said, before hitting the lights in the bathroom and slowly collapsing himself on top of Tina in bed. They will adjust and pretzel together to meet each other's satisfaction, remaining that way until 2AM.

And like a crying baby can do to you in coach, Duke will shatter the slumber by barking his way to the living room as a result of mistaking a few working heat pipes for a cat burglar. Feeling like it was the gentlemanly thing to do, James waits a few seconds before he leisurely follows Duke to check the lock on the front door.

He whispers upon returning to the room, "Hey? Should I let him out?"

"I'll do it," Tina sighs into her pillow.

"I already got my shoes on," he said, standing in the doorway barefooted. He turned to head back towards the entranceway. "You can do it tomorrow night."

"What about next week?" She responds inquisitively.

He tiptoed his way to the front door, as if he wasn't there to hear her.

CHAPTER 12 – MONEYGRIP, JOHN COMMUTA

It's close to midday here in Iowa City, IA, a little over 200 miles west of the Chicago Holiday Inn parking lot where Gerry had warmed up the truck this morning.

As James gets out to refill the gas tank himself for the first time today, he walks right into a very steady, very wide-open 10-degree plains breeze. Instantly, the leeward retrieval for a winter jacket has become the top priority. Irritated from the cold, he curses upon learning that he didn't need to pick off a thin layer of tough rime on the keyhole, as the latch is already unlocked to begin with. After what felt like a minute of surveying, he learns that his four contractor bags stuffed with his entire wardrobe are all missing (jacket included). The only items the thieves in the Joliet parking lot did not take out from underneath the canopy (left unlocked by none other than Gerry during his meeting) is the cooler holding what's left of their Vermont grass, along with the baseball bat Gerry tucked under the rubber bed liner. Impulsively, he wants to turn and let out a string of invective in Gerry's direction. But since nobody has any proof in regards to where or when the crime scene actually went down, he instead just lets it all out with a big, helpless sigh. He then takes a look around, his hands on his waist in disbelief. After all, he hadn't physically visited the back of the truck since they left Connecticut. As he reacts, he notices a Salvation Army thrift shop across the street.

"Well I have to get out of this shirt," James quivers. "I've been in it for days now."

Once the truck has been gassed up, the two jaywalk across to the thrift shop and head inside so that James can pick up a few textile staples at used prices.

"If we both die tomorrow and St. Peter gives us an option to either a.) Begin the judging process right then and there or b.) Accept a do-over down here, under the condition that if we should choose to go back again as a male, we would be stricken with a social handicap of going through life smelling like..." James pauses to take a whiff of the used white t-shirt he's holding by the hanger. In screen-printed black calligraphy font, the shirt reads: Wade The Restaurant King.

"...Leftover turkey gravy."

In remarkably good spirits considering the weight of the world is presently resting on the shoulders dressed with the only shirt he now owns, James continued on.

"Or you could go back as a woman, where the only social disadvantage you'll have in life is one that you'll never be aware of: you have poor taste in perfume, and therefore, you'll walk around with a signature scent of something like Siberian Fur Trees..."

James then turns to the cheap shelving unit attached to the peg-boarded wall immediately behind him and grabs a cylinder shaped item with a picture of a St. Bernard on it.

"...Or pet odor powder in case you were a real sinner."

"I'll take the judgment," Gerry said from the other side of the clothing rack, holding up a yellow shirt with a green caricature of a sports fan on the front, with capital green letters reading BBA above. He spins the shirt around so that James can view the back: it reads "ALF" at the shoulders with the number 44 underneath.

James smiles but motions for a pass on the shirt, explaining he only cares for yellow when it comes in the form of notebook paper.

Gerry put the shirt away and shook his head. "Think about it. The kind of life you're going to have to live." He then leaned against the rack, resting his forearms on the railing, proceeding to check his mobile phone for any messages. "If you're the dude, you're going to have to deal with people telling you that you smell for as long as you can remember. Bullies, the whole nine yards.

"If you're the gal, you'll go through life lonely because nobody in their right mind has the audacity to tell a woman the reason he can't get involved with her is because she smells like cheap perfume."

James nods in agreement.

"But then again, is St. Peter speaking suggestively? Like, do we need this redo to save ourselves, or is he simply making a pity exception since we both died tragically with our respective future's in balance?"

James took a deep breath before responding, "Conventional wisdom would probably suggest he's not going to be self-implicating. But ultimately, it will probably depend on how long the line behind us happens to be at the time."

"I like to think I've been pretty pious," Gerry said. "I'll take the judgment."

James then holds up a red Christmas sweater with a navy and white pattern of reindeer and snowflakes running across the chest.

"This is a winner! It doesn't smell!"

Gerry sneers in direction of the sweater, "Then it's probably possessed."

"For $8 it's going to keep me warm from here through the farm belt, I can tell you that," James said.

"I'm not riding across the country with someone who's wearing that," Gerry insisted. "That could cause a bridge to collapse...and we still have to cross the Mississippi."

Gerry then takes an XL navy shirt off the hanger, wraps it up into a ball and tosses it over to James who holds it up for a look. In simple screen-printed white block lettering the shirt reads MONEY GRIP in a gameday on campus kind of lettering across the chest. Underneath the lettering is a single bill of wavy paper currency as if it were floating around in an autumn breeze. Below the bill is an outstretched pair of white gloves, reminiscent of something an old cartoon character would wear, awaiting to snag the treasure.

"That's a winner, my friend," Gerry said with conviction. "I'd buy it for myself but it smells like panty hose."

James laughed. But after a quick examination, he decided the shirt was worth the gamble for just $4. "I can rehab it with fabric softener sheets," he said. He put the sweater back in exchange for a white hooded sweatshirt that read in small calligraphy font at the right side of the chest area: "Carjo Apartments" with the word "Staff" directly underneath. James would buy one more plain black shirt to wear underneath the sweatshirt.

Thirty minutes later, now 13 miles west of Iowa City, James is riding shotgun, wiping himself down with a fabric softener sheet he bought at the grocery store.

"Any word from your brother, yet?" he asks.

With the cruise set at 74 mph, Gerry is driving with one hand on the wheel, munching on a red delicious apple with the other.

"Nothing at all," he said with a long headshake, while chewing with his mouth open. "He's not one to leave messages of any sort, either. I'm not sure he even knows how to text."

Gerry's brother, insular from working bottomless hours as an associate on his father's grain farm, has no email address. Therefore, any alternative form of communication cannot be optioned at this point, as Gerry remains steadfast with his policy to avoid speaking with his parents, as long as he can help it, until he and James reach home to Pullman.

"I saw how my mom reacted when he got released," Gerry said passionately about the end of his brother's pro playing career. "I remember her throwing all that team gear away, like they publicly insulted him or something.

"I want to look her in the eyes and assure her that I'm okay about it," he said. "I'm better off now."

Time, however, continues to impose itself heavily not just on Gerry's mind, but in matter as well. His fiancé, deeply concerned with the state of uncertainty now beclouding the issue of engagement, wants him back to their apartment in Seattle to discuss matters-ASAP. Meanwhile there is one and only one contract offered to continue playing professional baseball, and as of now the expiring clock that it came with is counting down to 33 hours and change.

Concerning his own emotional IQ, Gerry is certainly confident enough to make a fair decision. But until he can acquire what he believes is surefire closure from his brother, he'll prefer to remain on the fence about the issue until the final hour if he has to.

Gerry will go on to propose the idea of driving to the nearest major metropolitan airport in order to get himself home faster. James reminds him how difficult it is to fly all the way to the isolated town of Pullman from nearby Spokane, let alone the American Farm Belt. But since James had been staring at nothing but replete, sand and white colored Iowa farmland all day, he fully embraces the idea of new mental stimulation at this point, quickly pulling out the US road map from the pouch behind his seat. After minutes of mental math, the two decide that Omaha, Nebraska, at roughly four hours away, would be Gerry's best shot at making it back to Washington State tonight. James will continue to play devil's advocate though, reminding Gerry that Omaha will most likely only fly to Seattle. By flying to SeaTac, by default, his fiancé will be picking him up at the airport. In which case he would have no choice but to abort the idea of discussing matters directly with his family first, which his instincts have been motioning for all along.

"Blood is thicker than water," James reminded him. "Maybe I'm biased because I know your family better, but the hell with it. If the need to see them is what your gut has been telling you all this time, then we're going to drive like truckers to get you home as soon as we can, alright?"

The two then shake hands right then and there, at 12:06 PM, challenging each other to get back to Pullman in 24 hours.

"Jees, I'm sorry, Big Game," Gerry says with sincerity.

"What for?"

"I've been dictating the direction and speed of this trip since we left the east coast, man" Gerry said, flipping on his left turn signal and turning his head towards the window to check his blind side in order to make a pass. "We did start out with the idea of taking our time and savoring this thing."

James admitted, "Listen this decision of yours is beyond my capacity for rational thought. But I want to do whatever I can to help.

"Besides, I can see Mt. Crushmore when I drive back to Connecticut next week."

Gerry is conscientious to finish making the pass with apropos skill, carefully directing the truck back into the right lane all while using his blinker liberally for the senior in the white Cadillac Deville now behind him, before re-opting the cruise control. Then he will begin to initiate his own final attempt to dislodge James from what he feels is a nothing but a quixotic rut he has superficially fashioned for himself over the span of just a few days.

"What did you think of Tina?" Gerry inquired.

"Nails," James shook his head in amazement. "We're in love."

"So what now?"

"She wants me to live with her under the condition I continue to write," James spoke sardonically. "That was after I told her I loved her and asked her to move with me to Connecticut."

He finishes coldly, reaching forward to dial in a new station on the satellite radio receiver as if the CNN channel had something more important to say. "When she comes around, she knows how to get a hold of me."

Now comes Gerry's attempt to implant encouragement and direction, but not before spilling a little ad-hominem on his friend's lap in order to keep things real.

"You want to know why I think this new strategy of yours is going to make you feel spineless in the end?" Gerry questioned suggestively.

"Oh not you, too?" James said with a sour look. "Before you go on, may I just give you the bullet points?"

Gerry opens his hands towards the windshield, speaking in an antagonistic manner, "We got time!"

"I'm a talented writer, not a gifted one," James began to explain, holding up one finger.

"Exactly where I'm going!" Gerry interrupted. "People have a better chance to be uncommon with effort than talents alone."

"Oh who said that?" James moaned. "Richard Nixon?"

Seen as an opportunity to relieve any possible tension in the truck, Gerry efforts a laugh at the remark. He did not want to approach this subject confrontationally, but something told him just before he let out that "spineless" reference that James was not going to receive tough love from anyone else between now and his expected departure date of next week. Therefore, the quick, sharp stab of a proclamation suddenly seemed reasonable (especially in knowing that the two could not escape each other's company for 24 hours).

"I'm a work in progress, Gerry G," James said with an undertone of regret. "And that progress is moving too darn slow.

"If God gave me a skill to work with for a living, then I'm hardly making a living out of it.

"I'm not seeking bliss from this," James folded his arms and cleared his throat a little emotionally. "I just want normalcy. I want to be able to begin paying my student loans. This nomadic life I've lived is only cool for the people who get to hear about it."

Gerry nodded sympathetically. The John Commuta Transforming Debt Into Wealth advertisement continues to run its course on the radio.

"Just let me say one more thing, here," Gerry said, leaning back, keeping his focus to the road ahead.

"Good, because I'm ready to play 20 questions," James pleads itching at his scalp, his winter hat now clinging to a swirling full head of hat hair. "Movies first."

"Just remember," Gerry continues to look and speak calmly. "Nobody can ever take the pen and paper away from you.

"The truth is, with my decision," Gerry levels. "The only thing that makes it all so confounding is the fact that once I decide its over, at this point, never will I play again.

"They can take the bat away," he pauses, glancing over at James to make sure he's listening. "They haven't yet, of course. But some day they will.

"Then for the first time ever, I'm going to have to find a new sort of therapy."

He raises his eyebrows to accentuate his point. After hearing this sobering thought out loud for the first time, his throat will reflex itself a dry swallow.

CHAPTER 13 THE COWBOY STATE & A GEM OF A VACATION

It's nearly time for last call in the Mountain Time Zone, as James and Gerry have managed to do nothing but drive and stop for gas for as long as Omaha.

And now the idea of practicing applied, standard intellect is nearly inconceivable at this mile. Common sense also, has become lethargic. Neither anticipated any noteworthy culture shifts throughout the long drive over. For instance, just what sort of clientele happens to frequent a watering hole in The Cowboy State at this hour? Who or what to keep an eye out for? Pickpocket whores? Bloods or Crypts? Gypsy Jokers? Pool Sharks? Switchblades? Or maybe they prefer slingshots and stones here. Surely, these sorts of public menaces cannot exist in a state that's shaped like an ordinary square. But when it comes to our current setting of Wyoming, James and Gerry have not generated one grain of thought towards any possibility of a sticky situation. It's all been taken for granted. So they certainly couldn't be aware of the negative impact alcohol abuse alone had on this town in particular: Cheyenne always manages to make the infamous Men's Magazine annual list dubbed "The Top 20 Tipsy Towns in the USA." The list, released in March's issue, is paired with a 1,500-word investigative article entitled: "The True Gateway Drug?" The subtitle directly below states: "An Updated Look Into Alcohol's Social Impact on America".

Well on paper anyways, James' trusty atlas proves that they had indeed gained an hour simply by traveling in the western direction. The green-lit digits on the truck's radio show 2:35 AM, but one unfamiliar with this territory needs further confirmation after a brutal haul. The visual cue in front of them; a parking lot full of old pickup trucks and 80's era Buicks underneath a 15-foot high blinking yellow sign that reads Marty's Drive-Thru Liquor & Lounge will do.

James and Gerry breathe a sigh of relief in knowing they had successfully traveled back to an hour where one could still belly up to a mahogany bar to enjoy a shot and a beerback before buckling up again.

They voyaged through the night, defying the odds in the process. When your driving through America's forgotten land, the only thing you can look forward to when it's your turn behind the wheel at 12 am, is the hour you're eventually going to get back (even when its still hundreds of miles away). It may have been April and agreeable all the way back in Florida, but its still winter out in America's Black Sea: the old plains alley, the subsidized Farm Belt, or however you want to identify the middle column of the USA that I-90/84 & 80 pass through. It's seemingly home to nothing but wheat, corn, deer crossing signs, truckers, farmers and Holsteins. And that's during the daytime. Because once the sun goes down out there, it becomes lonelier than a 50th birthday and colder than the dark side of the moon.

But the region itself, from your view behind the wheel, only appears to be of no great shakes. There is indeed a long established 365-day system going on for which the country relies upon pretty heavily, and you got to respect the painstaking contributions made simply for the betterment of society that surround the road itself. The very best the USA has ever had to offer, that being Freedom Defenders in World Wars, were born and raised here. Post 9/11 minutemen practically reside here, serving on nuclear alert in the bunkers deep below the Interstate's surface.

This is also the land that feeds America. One can argue the nourishment provided from harvests' past and present play an X-factoring role in rearing man's innate abilities to conceptualize revolutionary ideas throughout time like four-wheel drive, the Star Wars saga, modern stand-up comedy, and the million-dollar backup quarterback.

But even in land stretches of great volume and seclusion, there is still little escape from the endless noise provided by the jackhammer that's having its way with humanity. Where time truly has become money: The Material World. By passing one hotel and fast food billboard after another, the driver must ignore invitation for dialogue that rapidly morphs into delusions of grandeur. Certain pleasures will repeatedly attempt to disguise and rationalize itself as "earned" for the driver and his persistence throughout the long day: flipping between sports highlights and Kim Kardashian on cable television, free internet, a takeout bag full of cheeseburgers, another bag full of beer cans, resting on a tired bed in a $45 dollar non-smoking room. When you start over in the morning the focus will shift towards the morning's coffee of choice: McDonald's or Starbucks?

James and Gerry were discussing the very topic of mind manipulation effects those billboards indeed have while accidentally entering Marty's by way of the drive through side. "I just kept reminding myself," James said, holding the sliding glass door open for Gerry behind him. "That I'll have 24 hours to sleep comfortably, free of charge, once we get back home."

Momentarily the atmosphere would feel askew for both, and not because they just entered a rare drive-thru liquor store and bar all in one, or because they entered it through a sliding glass door at 1:37 AM, either. There is a sense of hopelessness, a miasma of despair that emanates itself through the doorway 10 feet ahead that divides the two areas of the business here. James decides to give the other side, the bar side, one quick sweep of a discreet look, as if he were looking for the bartender and not for any freaks with handguns or eye patches. Through the thick plumes of smoke, the patrons facing him, he sees a couple of shapeless, dirty blonde hussies quaffing at their bottles of Molson Ice. The one with the overbite may have winked, as the other just continued to look suggestively in his direction. He could have sworn, for the first time in his life, he saw two people under the same roof with a lazy eye. And somewhere in the middle is where he sees a man with thick, dark mullet, wearing what appears to be a heavy canvas construction jacket. By the looks of it, narcosis is at work: his head is buried in his left arm, his right hand holding a cigarette that looked as if it had been burning idly for a number of minutes, as an inch of ash buildup is ready to surrender to the comprehensive laws of gravity before the next classic rock song (Deep Purple seems about right) begins on the jukebox. These aren't your granddad's brood of drunks, James thought.

James then turns to the glass cooler against the same wall just a few feet to his left, and makes a quick mental note that its stocked full of single beer cans both short and tall, with price tags. Tall Miller High life cans, with a neon green tag reading "Special!" lists as 2 for $3. A bell rings. Common sense is coming back around.

In through from the other side comes the stubbly, round faced bartender of medium build. His forearms are dressed in ink, his dark receding hair buzz cut. At first, his body language and countenance looked to be saying, "How did you guys get in here?" But once he judged James and Gerry as just a couple of cologne wearing mama's boys passing through town just to pick up a few beers, he smiled for commerce's sake.

"Is there something I can help you guys find?" He said assertively, his eyes twitching when together when they weren't blinking one by one.

Not feeling the need to cope artfully with anyone over whether or not to go to the bar's side, James obediently grabs four of those High Life cans out of the cooler and lays them on the counter. The bartender dries off his hands from a nearby towel as he gives the two a quick look over. If this were an hour earlier, he would have carded them. But since his shift is winding down and he has plenty of cleaning left to do before he can punch out, he's not even curious as to where these guys are from.

"And a pack of those vanilla Black & Milds," James points behind the bartender.

Besides the total price owed, not another word is spoken between the three.

Since it was Gerry's turn to drive, on their way out to the truck, James tosses over the keys and proceeds to the back end to put the beers in the cooler. "We'll just have to wait for breakfast," he said passively.

A new set of unwelcoming driving challenges would present itself an hour or so after departing Cheyenne, as the only thing keeping the drive from becoming literally impossible would have been for a snow storm to pass through, leaving state authorities no choice but to administer a complete shutdown of the highway throughout much of the land itself (where such protocol is common to these parts). Competing against the elements here, by comparison, would make the earlier challenge of driving through the surplus of consecutive mundane Midwestern miles seem more desirable than a semester of Geometry. Snowdrifts and ice patches occupy parts of lanes. Violent winds continuously nudge at the truck's sides, reminding James of his old daily subway commute through the heart of Manhattan during rush hour. But of course, this isn't man jockeying for position. This is Mother Nature's Swan Song for the given winter, showcasing a tapestry of obstacles in the quintessential high planes area of the Old West. Rocky Mountains. A business-like approach to driving must be taken: two hands on the wheel. Even the use of driving gloves would not be snickered at. Cellphones should be shut off, not just because they present a distraction, but in order to preserve power in case you find yourself in an emergency of stuck-in-a-ditch-somewhere proportions.

When you factor in all that is associated within the context of what James and Gerry were up against: time of year, time of day, weather/climate, terrain, marooned from access to needed resources (i.e.: gas, tow truck, mechanic, highway patrol, etc.), an army of annoying big rigs to share the road with (and they say the skylarking UFO's here are peskier here, too), it all combines to create the lower 48's most impregnable region in highway driving.

And to think, all this just to sign a baseball contract in time. A decision that probably would have been made for already if Gerry's four-year-old nephew had not tried to blow up his father's cellphone in the microwave at 2 AM a few nights ago. And yes, given the era we live in, Gerry could have gotten through to his brother in any number of ways. But he had sensitive information that he did not want his mother to know about unless he was there, in flesh, to reassure her that everything was going to be fine. In other words, he held his mother's personal well being in higher regard than his own future as a pro baseball player. And that, no matter who you are or where you come from, must be respected. You only get one in Mother in life. And if a son should go through life being a Good for Nothing else, he damn well better make the effort to protect his own Mom when he can manage.

Not until Southern Idaho, at 10:48 AM, at a Floor Store Retail Giant, a few minutes north of Twin Falls, when the two decide it's finally time to get out of the truck for at least 30 minutes.

In order to smoke some grass, James parks the vehicle in the outskirts of the business lot, truck facing the store, windshield cover up. At the current traveling pace, even if they take a 45-minute break in a place of business where the parking lot's square footage alone rivals that of most thoroughfares in Idaho, they would still make it home before the old man falls asleep on the recliner. It's been roughly a 24-hour drive from Iowa City to Twin Falls. How did they manage to accomplish such a driving feat? These two did not have a choice, however, most males do have an inherited knack for driving with resolution. And since two is always better than one, the idea of stopping anywhere for anything for an extended period of time never entered the stream of consciousness after the highly anticipated break in Wyoming fell through. This particular pit stop appears to be worth the wait, as the grass will provide enough driving gusto to take care of the next four hours. Then around the time they sober up, they will realize they are only another four hours away. The motivation to make it home for a hot supper will take care of the rest.

The temperature, for the first time since they were in Florida really, is noticeably tolerable. The sun is out, the skies are mostly marble blue and white, and there appears to be no breeze of any kind.

It's good to be back in the Northwest, they both thought, as they begin making a 200 yard walk towards the Floor Store.

The guy behind a clean, 30' platinum colored Fleetwood Storm motor-home parked alongside the outer curb of the parking lot, near the furthest corner from the store itself is Craig Plykus: a God-fearing, honest American and registered Republican since 1980. One of his quirky habits is that he can whistle without puckering, and the last great song he hears will almost always become his default expression throughout the day. As of now he's whistling the saxophonist's solo for Glenn Frey's, "You Belong to the City."

With a pair of tongs, he's turning over his hamburger patties in a square plastic container next to an unlit charcoal grill setup behind the rear end of the camper. The patties have been marinating in that container since he got up at 6 AM, in a concoction that includes a can of Budweiser, three tablespoons of teriyaki, one raw grade AA egg and a splash or two of hot dog juice.

When you see a guy getting ready to barbeque behind an RV (with a Palin for Prez sign facing out from inside the rear window) in a parking lot in a place of business like Floor Store, part of you thinks, "Are you kidding me?" Another part of you may think, "Only in America: where an Austrian born man, who once starred as a pregnant man in a full-length feature film, can literally GOVERN the most populous state; while a voter who shares much of the same political philosophies as the Austrian, can cook USDA certified beef over an open flame in a retail parking lot...Gotta love it." And finally you think, "I bet that guy has some story. But I really shouldn't speak to a stranger who supports Ms. Palin, in a Floor Store parking lot, grilling burgers in Southern Idaho in April unless he speaks to me first."

And that's just what Craig Plykus does; he's a regular "pull up a lawn chair" kind of American. It's been said that everyone has a story, but few have as many as Mr. Plykus.

"Hell of a day, ah?" He said with his scratchy, if not grating voice, smiling at the two opportunistically.

That was enough for Gerry to engage in a friendly conversation. James on the other hand, gets quiet around strangers after smoking grass, and reminds Gerry that he needs to get some socks right away. In order not to come across as snobbish, he reasons in Craig's direction.

"I lost all my clothes back in Illinois."

"It's your lucky week," Craig responds instantaneously, pointing his tongs in the direction of the store, squinting his left eye. "They have some tube socks on sale for like $3.99...as long as you don't mind gray," he said, pulling his denim pant leg up to show the very product he was talking about.

As James begins to walk towards the store anxiously, he turns back and points to Craig's feet as if to say, "Those ones: got it."

"Every vacation for me," Craig said to Gerry with a twinkle in his eye. "I get a new package of socks. Don't even wash 'em. Putting a new pair on is a great way to start your day."

Gerry then went on to share with Craig why a couple of boys from Pullman happened to be in this part of Idaho on a Wednesday morning in April, shopping for socks. Craig found the story rather fascinating, and insisted that Gerry and James stay for lunch.

"No, really," Gerry assured. "We can't stay here much longer."

Craig, a 6'3", gangly 40-year-old man with salt and pepper stubble is crouched down with a newly lit cigarette in his mouth. Whistling away, he's attempting to light the grill by dropping a kitchen match on top of a neatly placed pyramid of charcoal briquettes. Not until the second try is he successful. He'll then put the lid on, turn to Gerry, reach in the front breast pocket of his red and black flannel jacket for his cigarette pack and offer one. Gerry declines.

"You got time for a cig," Craig pressures.

"I only smoke when I'm in a hitting slump," Gerry shakes his head. "Thanks anyways."

With the assistance from the black, custom made screen shirt underneath his jacket, Craig started to explain just what he was doing with the slick looking RV that he borrowed from his neighbor. The front of the shirt shows a large yellow outlining of a rock and roll drum, with a drumstick at each side. Inside the lid of the cylinder itself reads in yellow block lettering: PLYKUS "Big Pleasure" FAMILY FESTIVAL. The back end replicates the generic layout for a major rock band world tour shirt, but instead of a list of dates and locations for a given tour, is a list of vacation trips over the years. The Plykus' went to D.C. in 2003, Ft. Lauderdale in '05, and New Orleans last year.

Gerry happened to read out loud the first Family Festival in 2001, which was in Vegas in October. This also happened to double as the meeting place and honeymoon location for Craig and his current wife Patty, a former touring stylist of the International Hair Expo. She quit her own dream job to marry him just 24 hours after they had met.

"I often refer to my family of five as The Family Jeter Built," he said with a very satisfied look after exhaling his cigarette.

Craig went on to explain that he was a truck driver at this time, delivering some goods from Procter and Gamble in Cincinnati to the Riviera Casino in Vegas.

"I was probably 32, rudderless...with nothing else to do but drive," he said ruefully. "You know what I mean?"

He paused for a second, taking another drag from his Marlboro red.

"Well I guess their regular Vegas guy had disappeared."

Craig can tell he has Gerry fully tuned, and he starts to tell the story as if it had life or death implications-as if it were 'Nam.

"This story will only teach you that in life," he giggled retrospectively. "Great timing, stars aligning, luck, whatever..."

He looks back in the store's direction, "Happens rarely."

He goes on, casually wagging his index finger. "It sure sticks in a good way. Just don't depend on it."

Maybe because he hasn't told this story to a stranger before, Craig experiences a sudden, minor revelation of sorts. He then grins impishly. He then goes on to explain that he met Patty while she was on her smoke break from the Expo, outside the Riviera's sports book. She asked to borrow his lighter while he was smoking by himself. He described it as love at first sight. Soon enough, they hit it off and end up spending the night together.

Craig then looks over his shoulder nervously, making sure none of his kids are around and speaks softly, "But between the booze, the hotel room, the Rondell White, the AC Green, the hooker, and gambling...I blew almost everything I had.

"The second night, she was working. I decided, for reasons only God AND the Devil know about, to let everything else I had ride on the Yankees, who were already down two games to none to Oakland...in the playoffs...in a best of five...IN OAKLAND!! The Yanks were heavy dogs. I did the hypothetical math, you know, should I win having wagered $500.

"So I booked it," he said as if he robbed the sports book itself.

"You know in hindsight, I guess the impulse to do it is because baseball just makes me feel good. It's in my blood. Growing up, my mom and grandma both always had a game on in the kitchen while cooking dinner...so I in a sense I was spending $500 for therapy. McCarver and Buck my shrinks."

He chuckles at his indiscretion again as Gerry just stands there, smiling with his arms folded, anticipating the anecdote's punchline.

"Derek Jeter made the flip play to save the game," he said. "And it was such a nail-bighter all the way through that...I kid you not...accidentally had only one beer.

"I've never felt better sober than after that game though," he said. "I won a little over $2,000 that night.

"I remember buying her a ring from a loan shark across the street for a grand," he said, getting a little choked up.

"We got married the next night," he continued. "And here we are."

"I'm speechless," Gerry said.

"And I'm a SOX FAN for crying out loud!" Craig roared in laughter.

"But it was right after 9/11, you know what I mean?" He said, feeling the goose bumps on his arms. "Everyone was rooting for New York."

Gerry then asks about the significance of Jerome, Idaho, being that this year's Family Festival was being held there, according to the shirt.

Craig shakes his head with regret, dropping his cigarette to the ground and smothering it out with his sand colored work boot.

"You're standing in Jerome, my friend," Craig said with angst. "I got laid off a few months back. Patty is breadwinning courtesy of Fantastic Sam's.

"The kids are on spring break," he sighed. "The neighbors went to Disney World and lent us the RV.

"We all needed to get out of the house at least. Floor Store was just a tentative deal at first. But here we are on Wednesday and nobody is bored yet. The management here has been cooperative and it's allowed us to stay under our budget until we splurge on camping somewhere for the weekend."

Gerry then, after briefly expressing his sympathies for the family's economic hardships, for no reason other than a simple effort to change the mood, seeks Craig's own interpretation of the baseball prophesy he has been searching for the right filter all this time.

"The game of baseball will bring you to your knees, huh?" Craig said, appearing distracted as he grabs the tongs, whistles for a few seconds and squats to see if the vents are positioned correctly underneath the grill.

"Well I'm no expert on anything," Craig continued, further analyzing the state of the grill. "But ever since I've been out of work, I've paid more attention to the man upstairs, you know what I mean?"

"Okay," Gerry said, a little surprised. "So you've been praying, or what?"

"Oh yeah," Craig said, clearing his throat and turning to the other side to spit. "You know what he's telling me?"

"What's that?"

"Not to worry," Craig said, looking at him with a straight face. "He will take care of us.

"But that's just my situation," he emphasized amiably. "The important thing is I got an answer...so maybe what your brother meant...I don't know...is that it could, should or will bring you to your knees to pray about it.

"Only he knows when you're supposed to get off the stage, Gerry," Craig concluded.

A little dumfounded by Craig's supposition, Gerry could only shake his head in response. He won't say it, but when they get back on the road in 15 minutes, Gerry will look satisfied. As if he had been granted the keys to a city.

"So Craig, where is the family?" Gerry said.

"Oh they're in the store doing whatever," Craig responds, as he is now carefully dropping the patties on the grill, dodging billows of smoke in the process. "They're to be back by noon for lunch."

He then whistles along.

CHAPTER 14 OBSTRUCTION OF VIEW

With Iowa, Nebraska, Wyoming, Utah and Idaho now behind them, the jaded hours of this cross-country hayride are just about through. Home in The Palouse has just become more of a reality, as the truck has just crossed the Idaho/Washington state boundary line by way of a two-lane state road numbered 195.

Then the cruise control has to come off.

"What's this guy doing?" James said, stretching his neck with heightened senses, his eyes interspersing at each mirror. He then surveys up ahead for an appropriate spot to convene with the Washington State trooper who now wants him to pull over.

"Were you speeding?" Gerry asks disconcertedly, peeking into his passenger side mirror.

"Yeah like one or two over," James responds sharply.

"Where's the grass?" Gerry quipped.

"It's outside in the cooler," James said. "Thank God."

Soon enough, he will carefully pull the truck over and shift into park.

"Hey," James said almost at a whispering level, as if the cop can hear him now. "Put the radio on channel 78, will ya? Symphony music may give us the best chance of getting out of here without a scratch."

"I thought all cops loved Buffet?" Gerry said, as he slowly reaches up to dial in the numbers. "How about that channel?"

"If we put it on Buffet," James said gently. "He'll know we're carrying the goods."

"Couldn't symphony music scream that we're up to something, though?" Gerry suggests. "What if we get Savvy Dave The Trooper?"

James nods, cursing himself for not bringing his rabbit's foot for the trip and then turns the dial to a news station, which is right in the middle of a discussion detailing the pros and cons of teens watching television.

The two then go on to start their own discussion about immediate changes they want to make in their life, as if the road trip had filled them with a spirit of accomplishment, even if it was made possible by life's preferred color of injustice. The idea of watching less television came to the forefront. "It's totally decaying the essence of our country," James said. "Everyone wants one. Everyone already has two or more. Everyone wants to be on one. Everyone who is already on one, will pull all the stops to stay on it."

"And everyone believes in it," Gerry said with a faraway look ahead. His mind couldn't be any more divided at this moment. Before, all he could think about was getting that contract signed in time. Now he can't erase the recent vivid image of a trooper vehicle that began to make a legal pass beside them before deciding its best to serve the state with an anomalous method of engagement by slowing right back down to get back behind the truck to throw his lights on.

That television conversation took place four very long minutes ago. The trooper is just now making his way out of his vehicle.

James' initial wave of nerves were calmed quite substantially, when, from his rearview mirror he could see the trooper was going to approach the truck at the passenger side. Because soon after he received the signal to pull over, in a judicious, nonverbal effort to show empathy towards the trooper on this dangerous two-lane state road, James mindfully went on to drive a few seconds longer than most in this situation in order to reach this shoulder space in particular. He now begins to feel as if he put himself in the best position possible to handle the situation with continued grace.

Then Gerry, who rolls the window down, and before the trooper could say anything, skeptically blurts out, "How old are you?"

The freckle-faced trooper, who does sort of resemble Howdy Dudy in uniform, reacts naturally with a short, rapid full body flinch backwards. This is the first time the young law enforcer has never approached a vehicle only to have the civilian begin the dialogue, and the last person he expects to be doing any sort of talking is the vehicle's passenger. Because of this quasi-awkward but also very human moment, everyone is sort of holding his respective breath before letting a smile go. James and Gerry are both wondering if this guy is taken aback, and it briefly crossed the trooper's mind if he should be taken aback.

"I'm 26," the trooper says a little bashfully, but still looking Gerry straight in the eyes. "How old are you?"

"I'm nearing 30," Gerry shakes his head kindly in amazement.

"Well let me see both of your licenses to make sure of that, okay?" The trooper said before leaning forward to focus his attention towards James (as well as get a whiff of the vehicle's air).

"And I'll need your registration, please."

James accommodates. The trooper takes a quick look at everything and asks them to remain seated while he processes the information back in his vehicle.

"Let's talk about anything besides speculation," James said softly. "Until Trooper Timmy comes back to tell me that I should have my headlights on."

"Well let's cover the basics though," Gerry said, gazing casually out into the landscape of sagebrush and rolling sand-colored hills.

"What do we have, maybe two joints left? I know if this were Oregon he would just take it and write us a ticket."

"He's not going to see or know about the joints," James said confidently. "Focus on moving ahead. We got about four more hours until you have to get that contract back."

"I know," Gerry said. "If I have to I'll just use my one call in the joint to verbally tell the manager I'm in."

"So you ARE going to play?" James said in disbelief. "After all that driving, you're saying it's no longer a priority to deliver the word in person to your fam?"

"I'm just saying I'm leaning in that direction," Gerry shook his head back before looking in James' direction. "I was born with athletic talents. And you know what, Big Game?"

"What?"

"I still love running out onto the field to play."

James is satisfied with Gerry's response. The mood in the truck has lightened up a little bit, as the two both enjoy it in silence.

"Are you going to do anything differently?" James said, now noticing the trooper is getting out of his vehicle once more.

"Off the field watch less television," Gerry smiled, as he now notices the trooper is making his way over.

"Here comes your boy."

Gerry finishes, "And on the field...act like I belong."

James nods, looking impressed with an upside down smile, "What do you got to lose?"

"I can do that now," Gerry said with ease, before looking back at James with a smile, "No longer afraid to fail, you know?

"Any revelations on your behalf that I should know about? Or status quo?"

"Status quo." James shrugged matter-of-factly, as he notices the trooper is at the window.

Gerry then rolls the window back down. As he is handed back his license, he respectfully nods to the trooper then points his thumb back in James' direction, "This guy is going to Big League his girlfriend!"

At this point, the trooper can only muster a fake smile.

"Mr. McEwing," the trooper asks kindly. "Can I ask you to carefully step out of the vehicle please?"

James nods as he makes eye contact and replies, "Yes, sir."

Upon meeting at about five feet behind the rear of the truck, the trooper goes on to explain that he pulled James over because of the large, bright neon orange parking tag that is hanging from the truck's rearview mirror.

"It poses as an obstruction to your view," the trooper assured him. "Now that is not an infraction, as this only falls under the state's warning guidelines. It is required by law on my part to ask you to take it down and put it away."

"I should have known better," James said with his hands now on his waste, acting as if he were embarrassed. He then jests, "I wasted everyone's time. You'll have to forgive my lack of judgment. I grew up on state-college cafeteria food."

The trooper laughs a little bit, having recalled James's driver's license listing him as a Pullman resident. He then looks back in the truck's direction, and skeptically asks what James and Gerry were doing in Idaho. James is happy to go on explaining the irony behind that question; as the neon orange obstruction happens to be Gerry's "Player's Only" parking lot tag from spring training back in Florida.

"So to answer your question," James said smiling. "Just passing through."

"You're going back to Pullman then, I take it?" The trooper said, lowering his eyebrows a little.

"Yes, sir." James said.

The trooper then swiftly changes the subject.

"I asked you to get out of the vehicle," he said. "Because I happened to detect an odor in your truck. Are you in possession of marijuana?"

James responds to the question with the very same flinch the trooper had just used when Gerry asked how old he was. Of course, James meant to act surprised, but in reality, he's laughing inside at this rookie mistake. Because if the trooper was really convinced that there was marijuana in the vehicle, he would have gotten that particular line of the interrogation out of the way immediately, as opposed to throwing a civilian of above average intelligence off-guard. Or would he? See you can't second-guess yourself in this kind of situation. Winners find a way to simply part ways here. Losers find themselves eating cheese slices and wonder bread for supper, while locked up in a cold cell.

But even in knowing he now has the upper hand so to speak, James still has to answer the question: and answer it precisely and with good timing. Execution. Forget artsy Happy Meal rhetoric as if you were appearing on Oprah. This is Nathan, Washington State Trooper #107827, whose greatest fear is not being shot, but rather going back to work in the retail sector. On his days off, he's proactively trying to build an honest resume before getting dismissed in four years from his current role in society, no thanks to an ongoing state budget crisis (which should be in phase 18 by then). If James can throw this one bowling ball quick and down the middle in a "strike or go to the slammer" scenario, he will enter the History of the World's record book as, for this day, immortalized. Applying modes of affectation brilliant enough to trigger even his own guardian angel in standing for a golf clap is not in James' arsenal. So he'll have to buy some more cheap trust from the bonds of purgatory, by lying.

But if he should fail, by glancing up to the sky or down at the ground, or trip over his words, you can bet the taxpayers' own K-9 will be called for sniffing duties.

"I'm almost speechless," James said, showing a disembodied facial cue reminiscent of someone who just sneezed five times in a row.

The trooper shakes his head a little while cracking a suspicious smile at one side of his mouth. He's not sure if he has James backed in a corner or if the civilian is going to soon pull the proverbial rabbit out of his hat.

"Why is that?"

"I'm a journalist," James said earnestly, with his hand to his chest. "He's a professional baseball player. I was covering him down at spring training for my book about a season in the life of a player.

"We can't have anything to do with marijuana," James continued. "That's a career killer."

Had a real journalist been on the scene with a cameraman, after accepting apologies and letting the magnanimous trooper know he has respect for his efforts on this day, James would have spoken on record something like, "Today I do consider myself lucky. We're only allotted so many timeouts in a life that continuously tries to flush us down the toilet. The truth is, Trish, I don't know when or if luck will ever happen to me again..."

Then in a customized form of doxology, he'll pay his respects to the Man Upstairs, for letting him off the hook by finishing with, "...But for a few minutes anyways, life was fair right there. For once I owe God and feel good about it."

In five minutes, James and Gerry would be back on their way to Pullman. Trooper Nathan will soon be instructed by his commanding officer not to pull any more vehicles over for the rest of the shift unless "it happens to be moving too fast or is full of beaners."

Pullman is dark and frigid at this suppertime hour on the Galloway family farm- but not too dark for James and Gerry both to begin recognizing the familiar aura that reemerges each time one returns to the place they call home.

It did not take more than five minutes for the two to unload the truck. James backs in close to the garage, which stands at the end of the house and facing the street end. The front end of the house itself is faced 90 degrees in the direction of snow-blanketed acreage. The two Galloway family labs, because they were either busy eating or sleeping, never did manage to come barreling around the corner in a barking frenzy like they do so many times throughout a given day.

Gerry's mother and father are sitting down for a classic comfort meal consisting of chicken fried steak, mashed potatoes and gravy, green beans, dinner rolls, and by doctor's orders-a salad. They still have no idea that their son is about to walk through the home's garage entry, pass the running washer and dryer in the utility room, and into the house.

"Are you sure you don't want to use my old man's fax machine?" James asks.

"Oh!" Gerry said anxiously, as he makes his way back to the passenger's side of the truck. "The contract!"

James can only laugh at his friend's absent-mindedness; the very cause of a wardrobe Houdini job.

"No we have one here," Gerry assured him, pulling the contract out of the large pouch on the back of the seat. "Pops has been doing some crop adjusting work for one of the insurance companies."

Gerry now has all he needs, and since its 2010, he motions in for a big man hug.

"But keep your phone handy just in case," he continued, patting James on the back.

They disengage.

"I got about an hour," Gerry said, looking out into the farmland. "But I'll give Doug an insurance call soon after I inform Moms and Pops."

"And what about Molly?" James asked kindly.

"I'm sure I'll be on the phone most of the night," Gerry said with a big smile, as it just hits him that his decision to play baseball for another year will be finalized within the hour.

"Well I'll talk to you tomorrow," James said, beginning to turn his way back towards the direction of the truck. "Just don't make any traveling plans back to Chicago until you talk to me, alright?"

With a motion light from the garage's exterior now illuminating the driveway, James walks his way backwards alongside the truck.

"I'm going in that direction sooner or later," he said with a shoulder shrug. "So we might as well go together."

From James' point of view, he can now only make out Gerry's silhouette. His friend nods to him and says, "I owe you my life," sticking his right hand up high to signal a sincere "so-long" before entering the house.

Since James had spoken to his father from outside of the Floor Store earlier in the day, he knew he was now on his own for supper since both of his parents have a scheduled class to conduct this evening.

Not feeling the need to hurry home, he decides to take a routine stroll through campus, as a drive-by sight of Martin Stadium always brings back some great memories. Along the way, curious about the local news, he turns the satellite radio off in order to listen to the local AM news station. There appears to be some sort of theology hour call-in show at the moment, as some man from Colfax wants to know if dinosaurs and man co-existed.

Finally, just before reaching his turn home to D Street, is when James begins to realize how hungry he is. He thought that in case Mom hasn't had a chance to go food shopping for the week, he'd better head straight down to the Dissmores grocery store first.

About a mile later, James pulls into the cold, slushy parking lot and finds an opening about three spots in from the front of the store. But before he can park, he must wait for a pair of large black men to finish getting out of their crimson colored Maxima in the next row.

They move like Frankenstein, he thought. That one must be 275 lbs.

He assumes they are football players since both men are wearing customized, university colored tracksuits, typically reserved for athletes on scholarship. They also wear the "we own this town" look on their faces, to boot.

The grocery store is full of coeds in groups of two, three or four, loading up their respective carts with a mélange of processed and frozen foods along with a bulk of more empty calories that come in liquid form; such as cola, beer and select fruity malt liquor beverages.

This observation reminds James that he still has the beer from Cheyenne back in the cooler in the truck, so he doesn't need to buy any more at this time. He ends up bagging two red-delicious apples, one orange, and one grapefruit from out of a very still produce section before snagging some skim milk and a box of Grape Nuts to check out with.

Before leaving, James sticks the grocery bag in the cooler at the back of the truck. Then for no reason, other then this feeling like it was the right place at the right time, James carefully wraps up what is left of the Vermont's Finest grass in a sandwich baggie and places it under the windshield wiper on the driver's side of the crimson Maxima.

When James gets back home he settles in by turning on the Knicks vs. Bulls game before building a fire. He makes himself a ham and swiss sandwich, washing it down with one of those 24 oz. cans of High Life.

During a commercial break between the third and fourth quarter, James decides to get up and make sure the guest room has everything in order, for he will be ready to sleep the first chance he gets after greeting his folks.

He flips on the light not only to find the room is indeed guest ready, but a small cardboard package addressed with his name on it is set on the middle of the bed as well. It's the reading material that Tina had told him she would be sending. There is a yellow colored sticky note on it, and in his mother's handwriting it read, "Came today--XOXO-- Mom".

James picks up the box and carries it into the kitchen.

I thought she was just going to send some papers, he thought. This is a little heavy, so the whole book must be in here.

He becomes even more surprised when he removes the Ziploc bag of homemade brownies on top to find The Bible underneath. It's the very same Bible he saw in her apartment, only this time it was full of sticky notes, where highlighted bits of scripture is found throughout. This is a collection of wisdom, such as Luke 1:37, that Tina deemed most relevant for James for this particular point in his life. Initially, James can only feel the need to collect himself on the couch in the nearby living room. Soon after sitting down he locates a folded piece of yellow notebook paper in the box.

James opens it up to find a message written by Tina. It reads: "If we could bottle up whatever you have inside that makes you who you are and sell it, the world would be a better place. This is my last crack at keeping you on the writing team. Enjoy the (sunshine free) brownies. Look forward to hearing from you. Yours, Tina."

For the next 30 minutes, James just sat there, in and out of reading the selected scripture. Everything feels like it's starting to make more sense now. Yet at the same time, he could barely wrap his mind around what just happened. Surreal like, as if this were one of his patented dreams.

Then he could hear the garage door opening, and within moments, his parents came in the house.

"Welcome home!" His mother said with great pleasure.

Everyone then exchanges hugs.

"Did you eat?" His dad asks him.

"Yeah, I had a sandwich," James said.

"So we're excited to hear about your trip with Gerry!" His mother said vibrantly.

James looks very satisfied and feels transformed. It's as if a new, improved patented breakthrough wheel had just been inserted to go along with his inner engine, making everything run more efficiently because of it. He wants to ask his parents if they've ever come across the enlightening emotion that he is currently experiencing, but he can only utter, "Mom, I met a girl."

###

