West Coast Bias

Already in midseason form

Chad Billingsley sat inside his dark apartment and stared warily out the window.  He had the curtains drawn and almost no light entered into the dark void.  Chad was busy applying for jobs posted on Craig’s List, brooding silently and clutching a mug of green tea which had gone cold thirty minutes ago.  He’d taken two showers already this bright morning and was considering a third but he couldn’t tear himself away from the laptop.  He was afraid if he got up he might miss a new posting and he wasn’t sure his blackberry could get service in his bathroom.  He made a mental list to check the signal from inside the bathtub later the afternoon and glanced out the window.  Across the street he saw a mailman slowly delivering packages and letters of joy to the neighborhood’s occupants and Chad silently cursed the man, envious of his anonymous and worry-free existence.  He lowered his head and gently massaged his temples, eyes squelched shut…how had he fallen so far, so fast?  Not one year ago he was the face of one of the best pitching staffs in the league, a shoe-in for the All Star Game and a fantasy force to be reckoned with.  Now?  Now he was a punching bag.

He brought the putrid tea to his lips and grimaced as he tasted the tepid liquid.  He put the cup down on his countertop but missed the surface completely and the mug dropped to the floor, exploding on impact.  This wasn’t the first time this had happened.  In fact, it was a daily occurrence around his apartment and the floors were littered with mug shrapnel from mornings just such as this.  And that wasn’t all-his entire house was a mess.  He couldn’t pour cereal into a bowl or put bread into the toaster and the bathroom situation was…well, the bathroom was just an embarrassment.  Chad sighed again as he turned the volume down on the Morrissey CD he was listening to.  He tried to flip the remote control onto his couch but missed badly, sending the device flying into the wall where it predictably exploded into tiny pieces.

Chad went back to the computer, clicking on all of the Craig’s List links; applying to anything that looked easy: Receptionist, Data Entry Clerk, things of that nature.  He had been really excited to get a response back from an ad which promised “Fabulous Riche$$!! Work from You’re Home!!” and quickly gave his credit card information to the very legitimate sounding bOb ESposito so they could process his background check.  He expected to hear back from them any day now, but didn’t want to put all his eggs in one basket so he kept applying everywhere.  Suddenly there was a knock at his door.  He looked nervously through the peephole, tripping over the hem of his robe in the process.  “Shoot,” he said to himself as he spied Jimmy Nunez, the neighbor’s kid standing on the other side of the door, a stack of baseball cards wrapped up in one sweaty hand, a careworn first baseman’s mitt in the other.

“Hey Chad!  Chad!  Chad come out and play catch with me!”  Jimmy yelled through the door.

Chad retreated to the rear of his kitchen and crouched down near the pantry, hoping Jimmy would tire himself out and leave him alone.

“Chad, come out!  I heard you in there crying, I know you’re home, let’s play some catch!  Don’t worry about last time, I brought extra balls so you won’t have to chase them when I throw them past you anymore.  Chad, come on!”

With a grunt and a resigned snort he arose and slunk to the door, throwing it open and invited Jimmy in.  Jimmy made a face at the weird smells coming from the kitchen and stepped cautiously around the broken bits of ceramic before flopping himself down on a kitchen stool.  “Well?  Get your glove, I have Pony League tonight and I want to get a practice in before I go.  Plus, I think I can help you with your curveball.”

There was a shady park right across the street from Jimmy and Chad’s so they crossed the street and squared off 50 feet from each other.  Jimmy’s first throw hit Chad in the chest and fell to his feet.  “Did you lose it in the sun again?”  Jimmy asked, concerned.  Chad picked up the ball and threw it 100 feet over Jimmy’s head.  “Did it slip again?”  Jimmy asked, producing a second ball from the pocket of his Warren G Harding Middle School windbreaker.  Chad focused with all of his might and managed to snare the second throw from Jimmy.  His second toss shot like a rocket straight out of his hand and into the ground 10 feet in front of him, it rolled harmlessly to a stop just in front of Jimmy’s Vans.  He scooped, picking the ball up and flipped it back to Chad who caught it with a suspicious stab of his glove.  Jimmy shouted, “Nice grab, Chad, two in a row!  Good work!” in an encouraging voice.

Chad began to wonder why he hadn’t wanted to play catch with Jimmy earlier, playing catch with him was fun!  Nobody in the stands yelling at him, no visits from his coaches every inning to discuss how they wanted him to pitch to somebody, just free and easy, back and forth, the way it used to be.  They stopped after fifteen minutes when Jimmy’s mom called from the front door reminding him he had homework to do.  Jimmy bargained for an extra 5 minutes which they used to go to the 7-11 on the corner and get Slurpees; Jimmy went for strictly Wild Cherry but Chad was feeling good and went with a mix of all four flavors.  They enjoyed their Slurpees in silence before Jimmy took a step towards the door.  “Keep up the good work,” he said.  “Maybe I’ll bring Tommy Janowitz over tomorrow and we can work on your fielding a little bit.  I’ll remind him not to hit it too hard though, we don’t want you getting a bloody nose again.  Anyway, see you later.”  They fist-bumped and then walked out into the midmorning sunshine.