Tim Wallach is getting around a lot - interviews with seemingly half the teams with managing vacancies. Fingers crossed that he and Logan White won't leave.
Playing ball on the grass
My balcony looks out upon the plaza. The flash of sunbeams beckons me and I step out. Twilight is night and soon the boys playing ball on the grass below will have to go home, defeated by nature's dark streak. A massive youth sends a fly ball toward my building. I can count the rotations of the little white sphere as it grows toward me like an extension of Jack's beanstalk, pushed by forces underneath. A small boy runs after it. The orb begins to fall, losing gas at its apex above me. I wave to it as it dives beneath. I hear the clicking of the boy's cleats below me followed by a massive thud - his shoulder stopped in its motion by the building's brick facade. I hear as he cripples down into a pile, whimpering but trying to keep from tearing up. He is below me and I cannot see his face but I know he is fighting the urge to run the water works. The infielders call him a faker and tell him to get up and throw the ball in. The massive kid is also massively slow, and only now rounds second base. The young outfielder struggles, his eyes probably have the image of red-mud bricks burnt into his retina - the last thing to pop into his peripheral vision before the collision.
I choose not to see how the play ends. I turn and re-enter my flat. I reach for a bottle of alcoholic cider and collapse on my futon, legs resting upon the coffee table, the remote calling my name to turn on the Food Network, Travel Channel, or ESPN. A magazine begging me to come to Scotland hides beneath my bottle.
I stand and walk to the kitchen to prepare a TV dinner.