Read In Times Like These Online
Authors: Nathan Van Coops
In Times Like These
Nathan Van Coops
St. Petersburg, Florida
Table of Contents
“Don’t assume that because you know something in the future won’t happen, that you can do nothing. Sometimes the reason it doesn’t happen is you.”
-Excerpt from th
e journal of Dr. Harold Quickly, 1997
I have far too much of my life in my arms to even think of reaching for my phone when it starts ringing in my pocket. I concentrate on getting the key in the lock. That and not dropping the shoes, water bottles and mail I’ve hauled to the door of my apartment. I get the door open with my free fingers and just make it inside when one of the water bottles escapes, and the next moment, all but my useless junk mail is on the living room floor. I leave it there and open my phone the moment before it gives up on me.
“Hey Carson, what’s up?”
“Dude. You coming to batting practice?”
“Yeah, I’ll be there. Just got home from work.”
“All right, can you check the weather while you’re there?”
“
No problem. Be there in a few.”
I toss my phone and the junk mail onto the couch and locate the remote in the cushions. The station is still on commercials, so I head for the kitchen. Depositing the remote on the counter, I turn to the refrigerator out of habit. It’s still just as sparse as the last time I checked. I settle for my one remaining bottle of water and head for the bedroom to change. I can hear the news broadcast come on from around the corner.
“Welcome back to News Channel 8. In a few moments we’ll get your Drive Time Traffic and weather, but first, a look at today’s top stories.
“Today was the conclusion of the eight month trial of Elton Stenger, the man accused of murdering fourteen people in a series of vicious car bombings and shootings throughout the state of Florida and around the
country. Judge Alan Waters ruled today that Stenger be convicted, and serve fourteen consecutive life sentences, a record number for the state of Florida. Stenger is being transported today into Federal custody and will be tried in the state of New York for three additional murders.”
I pull my paycheck from
my shorts pocket and lay it on the dresser. It’ll be gone in a week. Emptying the meager contents of my wallet out next to the check, I extract enough cash for a couple of post-game beers.
Minimal celebrating is still better than no celebrating.
“Today is a monumental day for St. Petersburg and the entire scientific community, as the St. Petersburg Temporal Studies Society gets set to test their latest part
icle accelerator, what they claim may be the world’s first time machine. They will attempt to launch a number of particles through time and space in their laboratory here in St. Petersburg today.
“We have correspondent David Powers on the scene. David,
what’s going on down there?”
I get into my athletic shorts and snag some socks.
Where the hell did I put my uniform shirt?
I cruise back through the living room to head for my laundry closet.
“ .
. . and while the potential applications of the experiment are yet to be determined, one thing is for certain, these researchers won’t be wasting any time. Back to you, Barbara.”
I glimpse the blonde woman grinning on screen with her co-anchor. “Next thing we know they’ll be rolling out a Delorean.
Certainly a day to remember. Now we go to Carl Sims with our weather update.”
I know what it’s going to say. Hot.
Chance of thunderstorms. This is Florida.
I locate my wrinkled
Hit Storm
shirt in the laundry basket, and slide it over my head as I walk back around the corner to the TV. Just as expected, the little cloud and lightning symbol dominates the entire week.
When I arrive at the field, most of the team is already there. I spot Carson’s orange hair as he’s out on the mound throwing batting practice. As I step out of my car, the moist, sweet smell of clay and grass clippings makes my shoulders instantly relax. Each step I take toward the field helps the tension of my workday ebb away. Robbie is donning his cleats in the dugout as I walk up.
“Hey, man.”
“What’s up, Ben? How’s it going?”
“Hoping we’re going to get to play this one,” I reply.
“Yeah me too, I’m going to forget how to swing a bat if we keep gettin
g rained out.” Robbie stands and stretches his arms toward the roof of the dugout. My arms would reach it. At 5’8” Robbie’s come up short. What he lacks in height he makes up for in fitness. Despite his on again, off again cigarette habit, he can still out-sprint anyone on the team. His lean and muscular physique is contrasted by his relaxed demeanor. His constant state of ease makes me feel like I’m rushing through life by comparison.
“Have we got enough people tonight? I know Nick said he was going to be out of town in Georgia or something like that.” I kick off one of my flip-flops and start pulling on a sock.
“Yeah, I think Blake’s going to second and Mike’s filling in at catcher. We should be good. There’s Blake now.” Robbie gestures with his head while he leans forward and stretches his arms behind his back.
Blake’s Jeep pulls into the space next to my truck.
I’m happy I’m not the only one who has missed most of practice. Blake and I have a lot in common, including our propensity for arriving fashionably late. Blake’s my height, and while his hair borders on black compared to my brown, we occasionally get mistaken for brothers.
“You
wanna throw?” Robbie asks, as I finish lacing up.
“Yeah.” I grab my glove and the two of us toss the ball along the sideline until Blake joins us.
“Is Mallory making it out to the game tonight?” I ask Blake as he lines up next to me.
He
stretches his right arm across his chest and then switches to the other one. “I doubt it. She has to watch her niece and I don’t think she wants to bring her out.”
We never get many fans at our games. Blake’s girlfriend is the most frequent but even her appearances have gotten rare. I keep inviting people, but apparently Wednesday nights are more highly valued elsewhere.
Can’t remember the last time a girlfriend of mine made it out to a game. Three seasons ago? Four? I suppose managing to keep one longer than a few months might help.
Carson pitches us each a bucket of softballs, and I knock the majority of mine toward an increasingly dark right field. We ignore the clouds as much as possible and concentrate on practice. Once everyone has hit, we mill around the dugout, stretching, while Carson gives me his appraisal of our chances.
“These guys should be cake for us. I watched them play last week. I think we’re going to crush them.”
I consider the big athletic guys filling the opposing dugout and realize that Carson might be overly optimistic, but I don’t argue. “We’re definitely due for a win.”
Carson starts jotting down the lineup. He’s full of energy today. I admire that about him. At twenty-six, he’s a couple years younger than me, but about a year older than Blake. He has no trouble organizing things like this. Sports are his arena. He’s naturally talented at all of them. I could outrun him. Blake could outswim us both, but Carson has everybody beat on all-around athleticism. He makes a great shortstop in any case. The other teams have learned to fear both his fielding abilities and his trash talking skills. Blake and I flank him on the field at second and third base respectively.
We walk out to our positions and are waiting for Robbie to throw the first pitch, when a thunderclap rumbles through the clouds. The umpire casts a quick glance skyward, but then yells, “Batter Up!”
I’m digging my cleats into the dirt at third when I notice my friend Francesca walking up from the parking lot. She catches my eye and sticks her tongue out at me before sitting down next to Paul, our designated hitter. I scowl at her and she laughs, and then turns to greet Paul.
What do you know? We did manage a fan tonight.
The crack of the bat jerks my attention back to the game as the ground ball takes a bad hop a few feet in front of me and impacts me in the chest. It drops to the ground and I scramble to bare hand it, making the throw to first just a step ahead of the runner. I rub my chest as I walk back to my position.
That’ll be a bruise tomorrow
.
Robbie walks the next batter as I start to feel the first few drops of rain. The third batter grounds to Blake at second. He underhand tosses the ball to Carson who tags the base and hurls it to first for a double play, just as a bolt of lightning flashes beyond right field. Carson’s yell of success over the play is drowned out by the boom of thunder. I head for the dugout, hoping we’ll get a chance to hit, but as the outfielders come trotting in,
they’re followed by a dense wall of rain. I step into the dugout before the heavy drops can soak me.
“Hey Fresca, What’s
shakin’?” I plop down next to Francesca on the bench.
“I finally make it to one of your games and this is how you treat me?” She gestures to the sheets of rain now sweeping the field.
“I ordered you sunshine and double rainbows, but they must not have gotten the memo.”
“I was worried I was going to get arrested getting here, too. Did you see all those cop cars downtown?”
I think about it for a second, then remember the newscast. “It’s probably for all that trial stuff going on.”
“Oh, right.” She turns to Blake as he sits down next to me and props his feet on the bucket of balls. “Hey, Blake.”
“Hey, Francesca. Thanks for coming.”
“Looks like I’ll be witnessing your drinking skills instead. Are you all heading to
Ferg’s now?”
“I think we’re going to wait and see if this passes first.” I watch the puddles building on the field.
Carson dashes back into the dugout from his conference with the umpires and drips all over the equipment as he explains the situation. “We’re on delay for now. They’re going to see how wet the field gets.”
