Oh, flick you! Chapter 3 will be ready around December 15th. I'm cooking up a big pot of funny mischief.

JT

CHAPTER TWO

HOME FIELD ADVANTAGE


“I forgot to show you something!” Alex chirped from the balcony. She bounded down the stairs clutching a book. I quickly scooped up Arsensal from the floor before the team fell on the disabled list.

“Mom bought it for me!“

A debonair doctor beamed. “The Perricone Prescription: A Physician’s 28-Day Program For Total Body And Facial Rejuvenation.”

“What do you need this for?”

“My pimples!”

“Trust me, the boys aren’t gazing at your speckles. We’re returning this tomorrow.”

“I want it!”

“Let me see it.” I arched my eyebrow, scrutinizing the book jacket. “Obviously, Dr. Pepperoni knows what he’s talking about. He’s standing blemish-free next to a big electron microscope.”

“See, daddy!”

“OK, you can keep… ” The $28.00 price tag stabbed me in the eye. “Then again, let me thumb the pages. Hmmm. Hundreds of pages about the doctor’s fraudulent medical background. The word ‘neuropeptide’ over and over. Not one word about the malpractice suits.”

“Daddy!” Alex giggled. Her puppy eyes sparkled.

“Ah, I found it! The key sentence of the book: 'Eat kale and Nova Scotia Atlantic Salmon.'”

“Really?”

“Yep, you’ve got to eat it every day.”

“Yuk.”

“Pretty soon, you’ll smell fishy. Stink as bad as Crystal Palace.”

“Ugh.”

“Nobody said it would be easy, honey.”

“Forget the book.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.”

“Someday you’ll outgrow your pimples. That is, if skin cancer doesn’t mow you down first.“

“How about a dermatologist?”

“Whoa, Nelly! Germatologists are expensive. He’ll jab you with a scalpel.”

“Dad!”

“Try paint stripper.”

“Oh, we bought a book for you, too! Found it in the bargain bin.”

The Grim Reaper beckoned with a bony finger. It was Donovan Cadsby! The caped Christian crusader. Author of “The Inner Game of Table Soccer.” The Mid-Atlantic’s current heartthrob and captain of the sherry-sniffing, martini-dry Washington Spirits. Sporting a mid-age paunch and salt and pepper hair, the prima donna traipsed around the table like a Catholic schoolgirl. He proselytized as much as he played, quoting Bible verses and singing church hymns.

“Thanks, sunshine.” I smiled like a sad clown. “We’re returning this, too. I already have a signed copy.” I combed the emerald isle with a lint brush. “Hey, where’s your mom?”

“She’s in the garden.”

“Gardening? It’s 100 degrees! The hottest May on record.” I stuck my big toe out the front door but recoiled from the blast furnace.

My wife jealously monitored the room temperature and central air conditioner.

“Why are you vacuuming?” she hollered late in the morning. “The vacuum cleaner produces
heat!”

“So you’re doing laundry, huh?” she later whined. “The dryer produces heat!”

“OK, who’s using the toaster oven? It produces heat!”

I tiptoed around the igloo afraid to exhale carbon dioxide and inhale my wife’s hot temper. My cuisine consisted of cold salads, colder sandwiches, and frozen smoothies.

“Alex, do you hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“Snapping and squeaking. Like someone making an animal balloon.”

The table shook. Bases bounced. The toilet flushed. The door flew open. “Your wife’s spring rolls are killing me!” Felice Bialetti roared. “Get a plunger!”

I ran into the bathroom. Water cascaded over the rim. A turd swirled in the foyer. “We need a bucket brigade!“ I screamed. “Angela can’t see this!”

We cleaned the crime scene with mops, buckets, and a wet vacuum. Felice squished, squished in wet socks. Tracks circled the stadium.

“Hey, dumb fuck,” I said, “do you want me under house arrest? Get yourself a pair of dry socks in our bedroom. Top drawer.”

Off the pitch, Felice and I were Laurel and Hardy. On the pitch, Cain and Abel. I nicknamed him ‘Express’ for his bulldozer attacks and freight-train build. He never met a crossbar or post that he didn’t like to strike. An old ankle injury kept him from reaching elite status. He lived in a tree-lined townhouse with his wife and daughter in rarefied Farmington. Worked as mailman. He also operated an illegal mail order business, secretly using the post office to deliver bootleg Italian smut films. The profits were laundered in tournament trips. We met four years ago when I rediscovered my passion for the game. Formed our own club, the Connecticut Rage.

“Time for the second half!” Felice said. His Buddha belly jiggled to the table. His head wore a thin mat of moss.

It was Texas Hold ’Em. A Benjamin per game. Up two bills, I wagered all my chips. I rubbed hand sanitizer into my palms. Cool as aftershave. Took a hit from my water bottle. Penta ultra-premium water. It was so pure, I could taste the plaque on my teeth. I was looking for the edge.

“I’m up 2-1,” I deadpanned. I lied. Call it home field advantage.

Felice knifed me with a stare. “Are you sure?”

“Absolutely!” I said, teasing a strand of lint from the pitch. “By the way, don’t worry about the water damage. It’s on the house.” I ran the bases on a polishing cloth, hoping to erase my sins.

The miserly mastiff switched topics. “I checked out the tabloids at the supermarket yesterday. There’s a photo of you in The National Snoop. LOL funny!”

“Yeah, what? Why me? I’m just another washed-up soccer player making a comeback.”

“Get this: The paparazzi caught you waltzing by the Eiffel Tower in a pink cashmere sweater! The headline read: Glam Girl Gunner!”

“If they only knew whose sweater I was wearing!”

“Whose? Your mom’s?”

“Strap your dick down. It was Reina Diabledonne‘s!”

“Belgium’s most bodacious babe? The Anna Kournikova of table soccer? The world’s number one wet dream?”

“You got it, dude! The pink diamond. Seducer of Kings. Slayer of Jacks and Jokers. She trumps all cards.”

“My mushroom just split denim! You’re joking, right?”

“God’s honest truth. The story gets better. Last month, I bumped into her at an exhibition in Paris. Adidas paid for the junket.

“Gun, nice to see you again,” Reina purred. The gallery shuffled in the stately hotel lobby with their autographed Tangos and trading cards. “I wished we lived on the same side of the pond.”

“Me, too. You’re a lovely vista.”

“I’ve got a bonne idea! If you score from the penalty spot, I’m all yours.”

My heart took wing. “S-s-u-r-e,” I stammered.

I gingerly spotted the ball. My heart pounded. My mind raced. My hand trembled. I gasped for oxygen.

“Keeper ready?” I panted in the thin air.

“Ready.”

I squibbed the kick. The ball and my dreams sailed wide.

“You did that on purpose!” she said, blushing in Belgian red.

“You can’t handle a magic carpet ride.”

“Stop that! Let’s get out of this five-star pissoir.”

We strolled the moonlit cobbled streets, exchanging furtive touches in the fickle breezes.

“Felice, I’ll skip the nocturnal gymnastics, but we celebrated the Fourth of July that night.”

“The Legend lives!” Express threw me a high-five. “Your wife will sear your sirloin if she ever finds out!”

“I flick dangerously.”

“Hey, while sitting on the shitter, I flipped through Everett Squire’s spring catalog. It’s fuckin’ Victoria’s Secret! Buffed boys in sexy sportswear.”

“Tell me about it! FISTF-striped briefs. Toccer pajamas. Umbro-spotted sneakers. Check out page five. Everett in spandex! I begged him to stop the harassment, but his company keeps sending me the sordid stuff.”

“Global Subbuteo Enterprise is cranking the presses in desperation. He and Donovan traded in their penthouse for a clam shack on the Potomac.”

“Those two pocket pals are always together. They even finish each other’s sentences.”

Felice pulled out a file from his plastic tackle box. He stroked his fingernail. “Donovan’s table soccer academy is struggling. To save a nickel, he hired a choirboy as an office assistant. Did he ever give you his business card?”

I blew the nail dust off the velour. “Give it? He slapped my face with it at last year’s National! I’m still simmering about that brass-knuckle beating. He glanced at the heavens and told me, 'I can't work miracles, but we have to rebuild your swing. Don't worry about the money. We'll work out a payment plan.’ I wanted to cold-cock him.”

Express dribbled the ball, then looked at his watch. “Let’s play. I’m taking my family to Hometown Buffet tonight.” He toed his figures along the line. “Wanna come?”

“Hell, no! Too many raccoons pawing over food scraps. The salad bar is full of sneezes and sniffles. No wonder why you’re always calling out sick!”

“You’ve got to be sick to work for the government in the first place. If my film business takes off, I’m quitting my postal job. I want to focus on hotels. Half their profits come from movie rentals. Shit, I should cut out the middleman and shoot the films myself. Tomorrow, I’ll buzz Cliff. He’s making a dirty flick about Subbuteo streakers.”

I pinched my nostrils. “How can you play with Profanes? Dull colors. Sticky bottoms. A gap between the decks. Quasimodo-ugly. They need a flea bath.”

“They’re soft as a baby’s bottom,” Felice cooed, cradling a figure in his mitt.

“Don’t you know how to wash clothes?”

Felice looked down at the ketchup stains on his white T-shirt. “What are you talking about?”

“Your team! The colors bled. Looks like smudged mascara. Who painted them? Jackson Pollock?”

“Toolie did. Took him a year. Thinks of himself as a master craftsman.”

“He’s just another deluded artist. Paints with a whisk broom. I’ll show you a masterpiece. Gaze at these!” My supermodels hit the runway. The red and white bases shimmered in a sunbeam. “Made with real rubies and pearls!”

“I don’t play with jewelry.”

“I sleep with these pin-ups!”

Let’s get going! The ball is getting cold.”

“Hold on, let me take a practice flick. I sent a starlet on her merry way, but she shyly stopped two feet short.

Felice bent over in laughter. “I can’t believe you were once the best player in the world!”

I couldn't believe it myself. The whole thing seemed like a summer’s dream. I rubbed my eyes, but the trophies were still there. Golden memories reminded me of better days. I had the hands of a Carnegie Hall pianist. A Chopin touch that electrified audiences. Now my fingers were crow’s feet.

“Hey, I still crack the top 50 in a good month. Made it to the semis in Spain last January,” I boasted.

“Yeah, but Sal Moby and his chair knocked you out of group play in London two weeks ago. I’m surprised he didn’t have a cardiac arrest. He flops like a beached whale.”

“The blob needs a chair to play. I felt sorry for him, so I played with a stool in the first half. I tried to attack, but ‘Big Fish’ parked his recliner in my path. He kicked out the footrest, grinned, and watched the clock expire. Face it, I was conned!”

“Excuses, excuses!” Felice cried out, rolling his eyes. “You should have spanked him! What ever happened, Gunner? Have you figured it out yet? Your talents wax and wane like the moon.”

What was the reason? Too old at 42? The long absence? Or something else? Thoughts looped back in time. Exiled and branded a bad boy, I looked in the mirror. Devil’s horns. A forked-tongue. Everything I touched turned foul. Where the hell did I go wrong? Did I open Pandora’s box when I broke the cellophane on my first Club Edition? Desperate for an extreme makeover, I joined the Peace Corps, working as a volunteer in Togo, West Africa. I helped farmers raise fish. My visions of inner peace fishtailed. Instead of Mother Teresa, I played Don Juan, chasing breasts during the day, hanging out in pubs at night, and dancing to an Afrobeat during the weekends.

Needing a fix, I taught the kids how to play table soccer. We competed with bottle caps and a coffee bean on hard-packed clay. I loved those youngsters and their distended bellies, but they didn’t return the serve. Labeled me ’White Devil.’ They couldn’t understand that Subbuteo is about winning games, not winning friends. Three years later, this Grinch returned to America at Yuletide: homeless, penniless, and clueless. I holed up with a former girlfriend, less out of love than for a place to sleep. Was my 3-year old daughter really mine? I didn’t know. I didn’t care. I had a roof over my head. During a frosty recession, I went back to school and married Angela along the way to an MBA.

Even in retirement, reporters and agents called. The New York Times. The Washington Post. GQ. When are you coming back? Are you interested in a 2-page spread? Have you thought of posing nude? I sidestepped the limelight. I was a healthcare executive, not a circus freak. I couldn’t escape my own legend, though. My name was plastered across the country. I had the name recognition of pop singer James Taylor. People approached me in supermarkets and shopping malls. “When are you coming back, Gunner? We miss you.” “You made the sport as big as real soccer.” “You were wicked fun!”

By the time I scaled the corporate ladder, Sports Illustrated offered me $15,000 to pose for the cover of the swimsuit issue. The caveat was that I had to generate publicity by playing in a few major European tournaments. I bit the forbidden fruit. Wearing my World Cup gold medallions, I posed in a stars and stripes Speedo, my arm wrapped around bikini-busting Pamela Anderson. The magazine flew off the shelves faster than Paris Hilton’s sex video. I jumped back into the tournament and lecture circuits. The fairy tale soon morphed into a tawdry tale. Nomadic passes. Fluttering shots. Fudged flicks. The old rivalries flared. Disputes piled up faster than goals. I found myself on the sidelines by the quarters, signing autographs and making up excuses. How much longer could I survive on my reputation? Spectators wanted magic. I pulled losses out of hat.

Why did my mind and body rebel? I consulted with an armada of doctors. They poked and probed, x-rayed and sampled, performed CT scans and ordered nerve conduction studies. After a battery of tests and thousands in bills, they reached the conclusion, based on years of experience and a medical degree, that they didn’t have any answers.

“Some kind of neurological disorder,” coughed my internist, his stethoscope pressed against my chest. “But then again, that doesn’t explain the brain cramps. You could have Tourette’s Syndrome. That would explain your expletives, but the tests were negative. Let’s wait and see. Maybe things will naturally iron themselves out. Give yourself another year.”

“Another year of ridicule and lost endorsements?” I fumed. “My reputation is sinking faster than Enron stock!”

“Calm down. A year will fly by just like that.” The doctor snapped his fingers. “Just don’t wait a year to pay my bill. You have 60 days. Otherwise, I’ll seize your house. Here’s a prescription. Get yourself some Prozac and a new hobby.”

“No, Felice,” I don’t know what’s wrong. I still believe in myself. I’ll surf the wave again, you’ll see. I just need more time.“

“You’ve been saying that for the last four years!”

While I daydreamed, he fired another shot into my net. Felice handed me the scorched ball. "I'm up a goal. Time is running out on your dreams of glory.”

Greenbacks at stake, I kicked up the decibels and doubled the nastiness. My flick-in, I discreetly scraped the ball on a piece of sandpaper taped to my belt. (Practice helps, but cheating works so much better.) I weaved through a minefield, hip-checked Felice, and threaded two drowsy defenders.

“Dipshit, you’re fucked!” I sneered, pounding my pecs. The ball did a two-step in front of a stunned keeper and spun to the back of the pocket. “Who’s your daddy?“ I howled.

Suddenly, my wife ran into the house screaming. Garden tools clattered on the kitchen floor.

“Get if off! There’s something on me!” she screeched, peeling off her tank top. Felice jerked his head away. I escorted her into the bedroom. Amid frantic fingerpointing, I palpitated her back, feeling for toothy critters.

“There, what’s that?” she yelled, tapping cellulite above her waist.

“Honey, that’s a mole. A mighty big one.”

“And this?” She slid her finger one-inch in a southeasterly direction.

“Oh, that’s a tick.”

“A tick? My God! Get it off!”

I ransacked the medicine cabinet for a pair of tweezers. Pill bottles bounced in the sink.

“Alex, where are the tweezers?” I yelled upstairs.

“I don’t go no tweezers,” she said. The grammatical faux pas shoved me backwards.

“Where is your brother?”

“He’s in the bedroom with his girlfriend.”

“Go ask him!”

“He won’t talk to me!”

I hammered the bum’s door. Bedsprings furiously creaked. “Larry, where are the tweezers?”

“I dunno.”

“What do you know? You’ve been holed up there with Chrissie for the last three days. What are you doing in there? Playing naughty Twister?”

“Sharing feelings!” the voice moaned.

“Sharing bodily fluids, you say? I want her out ASAP. This isn’t a ratty motel. Share that feeling!”

I found the tweezers in Alex’s room and ran back downstairs. Felice was back in the bathroom and Angela was running in circles.

I pinched the tick. “Hmm. Do I turn clockwise or counterclockwise?”

“C’mon!”

I twisted and pulled, but the bugger dug deeper.

“Here!” My wife handed me a lighted match. “Try this!”

One touch and the tick breathed his last breath, it’s oval body trailing a plume of smoke. The tick entombed in her love handle, I played tug of war with the ghost.

“Are you done?”

“Yeah, you just have a red hickie.”

“I love you, honey.” She snapped on her bra. “You’ll always be my legend.”

“Hey, what’s for lunch? Hot dogs? I’m almost done with my game.“

“I’ll check the fridge. Meanwhile, I’ll get you a cup of coffee.”

As I paddled back to Cannibal Island, Felice massaged the table’s maple trim, toilet paper tailing from his pants.

The score tied and the ball in my possession, I surveyed the field, slurping Italian Roast. The enemy encircled the left flank. My tired soldiers were outnumbered and the rear was an open prairie. I prayed for divine intervention. I took another sip, stalling for time.

I spat in disgust. “Sweetie, this coffee tastes like a cigar!”

1:30 left.

“I thought we lived in a house, not a tobacco shop!”

1:10.

Felice hit the timer. He flashed his grizzly teeth. “Stop the theatrics!”

“Just a moment, Grumpy.” I turned towards the kitchen. “Honey, are you cooking hot dogs?”

My wife walked into view. “Nope, your fat friend staged a one-man hot dog eating contest!”

“Excuse me?”

“He ate them all!”

I glared at Felice. He wiggled a weiner, poking it into his mouth. “They’re good!” he exclaimed, smacking his lips. “All beef.”

“Houdini picked the padlock on the fridge!” my wife said in disbelief.

I steamed like a boiled frank. “Never mind! I’ll sup on air.”

I sounded a trumpet and sent the cavalry into the Battle of Little Bighorn. The ball struck the crossbar, scalped a dazed Indian, and landed in my camp.

15 seconds.

I pissed in my pants.

Sitting Bull’s figure skipped like a stone across the pitch. The ball exploded.

Felice picked up the wad of cash and fanned the bills in my face. “Thanks for buying dinner! Gotta go! Remember, we’ve got that demonstration next week.”

Halfway out the door, he tossed the ball into a tall jade vase. I memorialized every loss by dropping a ball in there. The vase was filling up quickly.

“Here’s another one for your collection, jackass!” he said, slamming the door.

“Angela, did you see that lucky goal? He never makes that shot!”

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Copyright by James Taylor. All rights reserved.
7/25/05