The Numbers Were With Me

I polished off a fifth of gin as my fourth wife continued her second guessing diatribe. She was imploring me for the third time to take a second chance at a once in a lifetime offer. Number four was a ten when I met her, but had deteriorated to a six over time. She had hardly touched her seven and seven, as she talked on. It seemed her half-brother was out of work for the umpteenth time. She wanted me to hire him to make him feel whole. I had said no innumerable times, but she claimed that he was willing to redouble his effort. Would a half-brother redoubling his effort equate to a whole day’s work? Being three sheets to the wind, such was my conundrum as I reached for the first of my twelve-pack.

I awoke on the couch eight hours later and immediately took two aspirin, along with my twelfth and final beer. Number four was nowhere to be seen, but she had left the television on channel seven, which was showing the eight o’clock news. It seems that three men had held up the seven-eleven at nine the night before, bringing the number of burglaries to eight over a thirty-day stretch. Feeling like a fraction of myself, I stumbled some twenty steps to the phone and dialed. Five-five-five-two-eight-five-nine. She answered on the sixth ring.

“Where are you?” I asked.

Eight seconds or more elapsed before she answered.

“At the 21 club on the corner of 5th Avenue and 7th Street,” she said coolly.

I hung up, grabbed my .357 and headed out the door to my ’67 Mustang. I had a sixth sense that something was up. I drove eighty all the way, finally hanging a ninety degree turn onto Seventh Street. Two minutes later I pulled into the first spot I could find, dropped fifty cents into the meter, and walked the half block to the club door. I tipped the six foot four doorman five and went in. There she was, dressed to the nines, with two other men. A third large man was at the next table, a five o’clock shadow darkening his face. There was no question he was getting at least four squares a day. He had the look of a small time criminal that had seen three hots and a cot in his time. The odds were fifty-fifty that she wanted to eighty-six me.

“I’m leavin’ you,” she spat, between her four remaining teeth.

Many think that one is the loneliest number, but I suddenly felt as if two tons had been lifted from my chest. While I was not in seventh heaven, I was definitely on cloud nine. I had done a complete one-eighty since I met her.

“Three cheers!” I yelled triumphantly, and turned to leave.

As I hit the street, I was suddenly aware that the temperature was in the eighties, and I was still in my thirties. I suddenly had a second lease on life, which I would not squander and regret in my sixties. After all, it would be all too soon that I would be six feet under. I headed to the casino to bet on the hard eight. How could I miss? The numbers were with me, Trey V. Cero III.

Battling Back - A Short Story

The eye high fastball was aimed right at his head. Curt Washington dropped to the dirt narrowly averting the deadly projectile which found the Cather’s outstretched mitt with a loud smack.

“Ball ” grunted the Umpire in a nonchalant manner.

The capacity crowd echoed their displeasure. While not all of them admired, or even approved of, Curt Washington he was in the home uniform. He had been a late season addition for the pennant race and this pinch hitting assignment was his first major league appearance in some time. Had it not been for team injuries he would not even have gotten this chance.

Curt stood, brushed himself off and looked defiantly at the young Pitcher who appeared to take no notice. Pete Short toed the slab, the brim of his cap pulled low so that his dark eyes were barely visible. He was all business as he shook off the first pitch then nodded at his Catcher’s new selection. Short was a pro, the son of a former major leaguer. At 27, he was just coming into his own after five seasons in the big leagues. He had a reputation as a hard competitor and, like his father, he believed in the old school edict that the plate belonged to the pitcher.

As Short went into his windup Curt was guessing curveball. The lefty kicked and dealt. The ball was once again headed right for Curt who jumped back to avoid being hit. Even as Curt was retreating the sharp curve back over the plate. Short smiled a wicked little smile. He knew that his curveball was devastating and he delighted in demonstrating it.

“Strike” yelled the Umpire.

Curt was embarrassed. He stepped out of the batter’s box and adjusted his batting glove as if that would make the difference. At 36, Curt was still a tremendous physical specimen. He was a gifted athlete who had once been a perennial all star. The past few years had taken a toll on his confidence. What had once come naturally was now forced. All of this was on Curt’s mind as he stepped back in.

Short nodded at his Catcher’s sign and went into his windup. Curt was guessing fastball and gripped his bat firmly. The ball was inside and Curt steeled himself. He would rather get hit than embarrass himself any further. In the blink of an eye he decided not to swing. The curveball darted away from him and found the plate.

“Strike two” cried the Umpire.

Short sneered at Curt. He had a harder edge than his famous Father. While Steve Short was a beloved figure his son was not. Pete Short loathed hitters and especially Curt Washington.

Curt stepped out of the batter’s box in an effort to regroup. He knew the kid was bearing down on him. Curt hoped for a little of the old magic from days past. The game had once come easy to him as did everything else. Curt quickly developed a reputation with his teammates for playing harder off the field than he did on it. Now that seemed like a lifetime ago.

He stepped back in. The kid delivered another devastating curve ball. Curt lunged at the pitch and was barely able to get some wood on it.

“Foul” said the Umpire.

Curt knew there was a time when he would have easily driven the same pitch to the opposite field for a double. That was then and this was now and he well knew the difference. The four years he had spent in prison had seen to that.

He had been young and cocky and, as with many young athletes, he had possessed a feeling of invincibility. On a dark wet night he had decided to drive his SUV home from yet another party. His major league reflexes had been dulled by alcohol when he lost control of his vehicle. Curt’s black truck slammed into a subcompact car. The driver, a young Mother on her way home from work, was killed instantly. Curt Washington was invincible no more.

Pete Short let loose another fastball. It was very close to the strike zone but Curt took it.

“Ball” grunted the Umpire.

Short shook his head as he glared at the Umpire. The young Pitcher had wanted that pitch and knew it was close enough to call. The Catcher grunted his discontent without ever taking his eyes off the Pitcher. Short caught the throw back from the Catcher but his eyes never left the Ump, who did not need to be a lip reader to understand what Short was muttering.

Curt was a veteran and took some time to let the young pitcher stew. The Batter adjusted his jersey and took in his surroundings. The big ballpark was full and it was loud. The home fans were on Short and some voices stood out over the others. Curt glanced up at the crowd and caught sight of an older woman. She was not yelling and seemed vaguely embarrassed by those around her that were. The woman reminded Curt of his Mother. Oh, his poor Mother. She had raised Curt by herself with him never knowing his Father. Mary Washington had been a fine woman who had sacrificed much for her son. She had taught him humility which had served him well as a young star athlete but which he forgotten as his fame grew. His Mother’s influence waned as he surrounded himself with handlers who fed his growing ego. His Mother had been heartbroken at the turn of events that landed him in prison and she passed away while he was locked up. Curt felt a familiar sadness come over him as he looked back at the woman again.

He tried to focus as Short loosed a high hard fastball. It may have been a loss of control based on the pitcher’s anger at the umpire or it may have been purposely located outside the strike zone in an effort to have Curt chase it. Either way, Curt did not swing.

“Ball three. Full count” bellowed the Umpire.

The veteran Catcher trotted to the mound to mentor his young Pitcher, who was now in a tight spot late in a tie game.

Curt’s thoughts went back to Carmen Reyes, the beautiful young lady that he had killed that fateful night. Like his Mother, she too had been raising a Son alone. Felix Reyes, now six, would live his life without knowing his Mother. That fact weighed heavy on Curt. The media had painted him as an out of control celebrity at the time of the incident, which was true. They had also reported on his lack of caring and remorse since the incident, which wasn’t. Curt spent long sleepless hours replaying the incident in his mind and thinking about young Felix. It was a burden he would carry forever.

Curt Washington’s focus in life had become singular. He was broke, having spent all of his money on legal fees. He had lost his endorsements and was publicly shunned by fans and media alike. He didn’t care about that. When he was released from prison the media coverage and fan reaction made it impossible for a major league team to sign him. Curt had hooked on with a team in Class A ball where he quickly regained his skills. He moved up to a stint in the Pacific Coast League where he played well enough to gain the interest of a couple of major league scouts. Today was his return to the major leagues.

As a boy he had played simply for the love of the game. As an all star he had played for the attention and fame that the game brought him. He played now for one purpose – redemption. Curt was determined to make enough money to set up a significant trust fund for Felix Reyes so that the young boy would have every opportunity to fulfill his Mother’s dreams. He could never make things right so he focused on what he could do.

“Play ball” the Umpire demanded.

As Curt readied himself he could hear the crowd. It was a steady noise that seemed to grow in intensity as Short delivered the 3-2 pitch. It was a fastball on the outside corner. The crowd stood as they heard a sharp crack of the bat. The ball flew to far left field. With just one out the runner on third kept his foot glued to the bag. Curt’s legs pumped as hard as they could. The left fielder had played Curt shallow and had been surprised at how well the ball was hit. Curt rounded first base in time to see the fielder’s glove reach out and snare the ball. The runner on third raced home with the go ahead run as the crowd burst into applause.

Curt nodded slightly in deference to the reaction of the crowd and his teammates. After all, this was not about him.