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For a victory of such epic
proportions, the standard pizza party will not suffice, so Run Like Hell
extends its celebration to the jazz trio’s Labor Day performance. The official
dress code is suit, tie and team T-shirt.
David indulges in a steak dinner with
his family as Isaiah warms up the crowd. The importance of the occasion is
punctuated by the presence of his wife, although her eyes keep wandering toward
the door, like a wild creature in a cage.
Being underage, the boys will have to
stay in the dining area, but their table affords an excellent backstage view.
Derek has already made his contribution: a stack of statistical printouts,
including individual player profiles, and a collage of photos on a posterboard
display. The star attraction is a seven-shot sequence illustrating Billy’s
already-legendary play. Noting the batter’s previous tendencies (a single and
two flies, all to right), Derek trained his lens on Billy and kept his finger
on the rapid-fire from setup to drop to desperation throw.
David has been scouring his brain,
trying to come up with a nickname as catchy as the Grand Fool Double. The
Bobble Rocket. The Cursebuster. The DroppenPop.
“Yo Dad!”
Pablo’s pointing stageward.
“Classical.”
Isaiah’s wearing a cantankerous grin,
playing the Washington Post March. David ditches his dessert and reports for
work. As he and Billy take their spots, the team begins to chant.
“Run Like Hell! Run Like Hell! Run
Like Hell!”
Billy turns on his mic. “All right,
you savages. Settle down. For those innocent visitors among us, Run Like Hell
is the name of a softball team that recently won the Ocean Shores
championship.”
The team roars.
“We’ll get the rest of you some dance
music, but first we will attempt to appease this passel of raging jocks by
playing a ditty commonly associated with the sport. A one-two-three
one-two-three…”
The trio has worked this out ahead of
time. Stealing a Gene Kelly Muppet Show gag involving “Singin’ in the Rain,”
Isaiah cranks up a chunky three-time and Billy teases the crowd with every
other waltz in the book: “A Bicycle Built for Two,” “In the Good Ol’
Summertime”…
“Oh, that’s not it? How about this
one…”
“Molly Malone,” the secretly apropos
“Tennessee Waltz,” even Verdi’s “La donna è mobilé.”
“Oh! Okay. This one for sure.”
And, finally, “Take Me Out to the
Ballgame.” The team gives it three hearty sing-alongs, Billy cuts them off, and
Oscar yells “Play ball!”
David is suffering equal parts
anxiety and guilt about just how much he’s getting away with. Elena gives him a
wave at ten and heads home – or perhaps to the 24-hour gym that seems to have
no effect on her physical condition. Derek and Pablo disappear to the pizza
parlor (where, let’s face it, Pablo can have all the beer he wants). Most of
the team heads off by midnight, most of the tourists by one, and soon they’re
on to their final song, “Funny Valentine.” David abandons his post and heads
for Abbey’s booth, where she’s chatting with a remarkable-looking woman:
delicate librarian features, porcelain skin and a head of surprisingly kinky
black hair.
“Excuse me,” he says. “May I steal
your friend for a dance?”
The woman smiles – even her teeth are
small, like a doll’s – and says, “By all means.”
Most of the dancing dilemma was
solved by Abbey’s natural grace. David takes his left hand and drops it to her
waist, and uses his right hand for spins. This cuts down on his options, which
is not necessarily a bad thing. Abbey is dressed for the occasion, a frilly
purple gown that is just about as close as Ocean Shores will ever come to
Hollywood. He plants a kiss on the side of her neck.
“So. Who’s the gal-pal?”
“My shrink.”
“Parthenia?”
“You know her?”
“I send her checks.”
“Pablo?”
“She does great work.”
Abbey bats her eyes. David wasn’t
aware that she could do that. But he likes it tremendously.
“Mister Historian…”
“Miz Poet.”
“You might find it interesting to
note that my uncle is getting entirely too much credit for that play. I mean,
excuse me but weren’t you the one who hurled himself halfway across the diamond
to make the putout?”
David is near to laughing but just
smiles instead. “You enjoyed that?”
She bats her eyes again, setting off
a hazel spark in her irises. “It was thrilling. I wanted to drag you into the
bushes and screw your brains out.”
David’s knees buckle, as if Greg
Maddux has just dropped a curveball over the inside corner.
“But then,” says Abbey, “I often want
to do that.”
David feels his face growing hot.
“I’m sorry. What was the question?”
“Credit! You deserve equal credit.”
“Well, honey. It’s like Lewis and
Clark.”
“Oh my god! You are not going to
drag Lewis and Clark into a softball game.”
“I am. On the journey itself, they
were absolute equals. But Lewis gets more historical credit because it was his vision - his remarkable store of
knowledge, his friendship with Jefferson - that made the whole thing possible.
Somewhere deep in his muscle memory, Billy saw the possibility of that play and
set it into motion. I get credit for reacting, for a pretty fucking awesome
display of self-sacrifice, but the vision,
that was Billy’s.”
Billy rounds out the song, but Isaiah
continues into another solo.
“Another example. It was my vision that the band would continue this
song. Reading my thoughts and seeing me dancing with a gorgeous hunk of woman,
my pianist has just brilliantly brought this idea to life.”
Abbey looks at her uncle, eyes closed
as he stirs the snare.
“I’ve never seen him so alive. I call
it the Lazarus Play.”
“Pardon?”
“He was dead. The team was dead. One
throw, one catch. No longer dead.”
“So your uncle is the messiah.”
“You got a problem with that?”
“Absolutely not.”
David laughs and lowers Abbey into a
dip.
Photo by MJV
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