Bill grimaced while vigorously rubbing the back of his neck where it met his skull, trying to ease the small knots of muscle and pain. He rolled his shoulders, trying to get his neck to release. That did not work, so he went back to picking at his food and watching sports news on the big screen televisions. Bill was wearing his ball cap pulled down and slouching in one of the high-backed corner booths of the Ram Pub. One couple recognized him anyway and asked for an autograph. After asking their names he signed the napkin they held out. He smiled but it came off halfhearted.
His server came over. “Sorry about the game, Bill. You’ll get ‘em next year,” she said. “Another beer?”
“No thanks.” One was his limit. He knew what his personality was like after too much alcohol, coupled with too much disappointment.
Earlier in the evening, while working out, he had suddenly stopped and left the gym, returning home because he was not able to maintain his concentration. Back in his condo he had started the game film, fast forwarding to the one pitch that came back and glanced off his ribs. Touching the bruise on the left side of his chest Bill knew he had thrown a high and inside fastball. It was weird because he had not been tired, the pitch had been thrown perfectly, yet the ball had drifted down and over the center of the plate. He watched the pitch in slow motion again, when suddenly, with chills running down his back, Bill realized Chavez should have been able to knock it out of the ballpark. But he hadn’t.
Chavez appeared sure that the ball was going to hit me.
Bill was still angry about the insults from Chavez and the other Cubs batters, and he would retaliate next season. I will break a few ribs, thought Bill. He had shut off the TV, showered, and had headed out for a late-night meal.
He pushed his food away with a sigh. He needed to make things right with Natalie and Jake. He was still depressed and angry, and had reacted poorly, which they hadn’t deserved.
Picking up the phone he sent Jake a text.
BILL: Jake, sorry I was a jerk. Can we talk tomorrow?
Bill took another sip of beer. He loved Natalie and hated her grandfather. Rachel had to be a single parent after she was forced to move to Seattle. They had been in love when Rachel was taken from him to have their child in another city, far away. Rachel’s father had robbed him of the experience of the birth of his daughter.
Bill picked at the label on his beer bottle. Natalie was a beautiful young woman, and he was proud to be her father, although he felt like an imbecile half the time. Often not knowing what to say as he had little idea of what teenage girls liked. It was easier when they were watching a movie, or going shopping, or getting ice cream. He had a lot to learn, and he didn’t want to lose her.
BILL: Natalie, I love you. I am sorry I am not very good at the dad thing, but I can learn. Please hang in there with me and I’ll get better. Can I take you to a movie on Sunday?
Bill sent the text and put the phone down. It was late, and she should be in bed, so he would wait until tomorrow for her answer.
The server cleared his plate and offered him another drink which he turned down. Then his phone vibrated and with a smile he picked up his phone to see what Natalie had sent back.
JAKE: Bill, of course we can talk. I accept your apology, but you’re still an idiot! Smiley face.
Bill smiled briefly, until the sports news coverage shifted to baseball, and he saw that Chavez was being interviewed. The sound was off but closed caption was on.
“I will be in Boise tomorrow. I am flying up to volunteer with a kid’s cancer group that I got involved with, when I was with the Boise Hawks. They are having a fundraiser, and I will be there for the kids.”
“How did it feel to win the game?”
“It felt great, as you can imagine, and it was wonderful to bring home a win for Chicago!”
“You got under Sullivan’s skin and hit him with a line drive. How do you think that will affect your future interactions with him?”
Chavez did not look happy with the question.
“Bill Sullivan is a great player and a fierce competitor. He is dedicated to the game, he is disciplined, and he is a winner in life. I have the utmost respect for him, and his abilities.”
“But you’re going to Boise, his hometown, right after the Dodger’s loss. Isn’t that pushing things a bit?”
Chavez eyes flashed. Annoyed with the reporter, he held up his hands and turned away.
Bill’s mood soured. He dropped cash on the table and left.
I can’t get away from that guy.
Julio Chavez performed a quick survey of the cockpit gauges while the twin engines of the King Air were warming up. Satisfied, he went back to working through the pre-flight checklist until every item was complete. The navigation coordinates to Boise were entered, the weather forecast was calm, and the skies along the route were without clouds for the next few hours.
He was bringing his best friend, Tommy Rodriguez, and another teammate with him for the cancer camp fundraiser. It should be a safe and pleasant flight, and the views of moon while in route would be spectacular.
Flying was another passion he finally had time to indulge in. His father thought it was extravagant but being able to quickly fly where he was needed was helpful. And cruising above fifteen thousand feet helped clear his head. Most of the time the flights were as smooth as a velvet carpet, with a little engine noise thrown in.
Julio told his friends to buckle up. With a smile he keyed the mike and asked the LA tower for clearance to taxi.
Bill caught a green light at Broadway and Front, ready to be home. As he entered the intersection, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his right eye. The old truck, driven by a drunk driver, was doing eighty without headlights, when it hit the passenger side of Sullivan’s Porsche Carrera, just as Bill’s body instinctively tensed from the danger.
Bill was shoved violently left. He had been heading west and the crumpled vehicles spun one hundred and eighty degrees and fifty-five feet south.
Bill’s sports car ended up lying on its side.
Motor oil from broken crankcases drained slowly from underneath both vehicles, spreading across the pavement, mixing with antifreeze, gasoline, and pieces of red and amber plastic, headlight glass and road debris. Wisps of acrid, dark smoke curled lazily off the hot, dead, engines.
Inside the truck, blood was smeared on the windshield and forming a puddle on the floorboard. The driver was not moving.
Bill was struggling to stay conscious.
Everything is still. Why can’t I hear anything?
Bill blinked slowly, his mind struggling to catch up.
He noticed the airbags had deployed, and his turn signal was on.
Why is the little green arrow flashing?
Blink…blink…blink…blink. Ah, now I hear it.
I don’t feel right. Why am I on my side?
He tried to move, squirming in the seat.
I’m screwed up.
Frantic, Bill tried to move, and was slammed with pain. Cold knots settled in his stomach.
I’m hurt.
Bill stopped moving, exhausted, and trying to determine the extent of his injuries. Bits of glass and road pebbles poked his shoulder. He was having trouble breathing.
Somebody’s running my way.
“HEY! Are you alright? Call 911! Call 911 now!”