Let's meet Rex first. He's nicer ...
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| The greatest coyote–defending second–sacker in the Cal–Hairy League |
It's Rex Hirsch, second–baseman of the San Carlos Coyotes of the indie Cal–Hairy League. Made captain and dubbed "Moses" by the manager after delivering victory twice with daring play in the week's first season: "He'll lead us to the Promised Land, men!" Secular Jew, casual Buddhist, vegetarian, defender of animals, peacemaker, rebel, serenader of yelping coyotes in the field. Son of Hammerhead Hirsch, the Pugilist Poet/Boardwalk Balladeer of limited Beat Era fame. Grew up as a dog.
Here are some choice scenes with Rex, narrated by his roomie, eighteen–year–old pitcher Matt Marola ...
Rex The Child Of Joy On His First Day in Pro Ball—
We jumped up as one and charged off down the rightfield
line. I loped easily, determined not to appease the manager by running any
harder than necessary, savoring the scent of the grass and the sun’s warmth on
my face and the cool maternal breeze fanning trickles of sweat. I smiled inwardly
at the sight of the rampaging, staggering Rhino up ahead. He was gaining
inexorably on the Russian and the black guy, who cruised side by side with the
grace of impalas—they clearly had agreed not to race.
“What a trip!” said a player gliding by my side.
“Huh?”
“A trip! Pro ball! Our first day in pro ball!” He threw his
arms up and leapt like a cantering child; then he did so again, and did so
again, then he turned as he landed and ran backwards grinning. “A trip!”
“It is,” I agreed, a smile spreading of its own accord
across a face which had oft been criticized as too serious. “It’s delish.”
We cruised the centerfield curve in giddy silence, and it
occurred to me that we had tacitly paired up like fast friends in gym class. It
occurred to me further that he and I were physically akin, from our long brown
hair—his a bit longer in back, with cascading curls flopping at the neck—to our
limited stature–I was a wishful five-eleven, not tall for a pitcher; he was
three inches shorter–to our lean frames and Mediterranean skin–tone and
features, which had marked us as cousins but for his thick brow, which was as
fuzzy as a caterpillar.
“Manager’s a hard ass,” I ventured as we cruised left field.
“Dude, you’re jivin’!" he said,
caterpillar awiggle. "He’s Old School cool!” Then he leapt once more like
a ballet dancer.
Daring Rex on the Bases—
Roman sent Rex in to pinch run. And with Rex on first, The
Turkey was trussed. Bound–up in the stretch, his delivery lost its wild–winged
grandeur and his pitches lost bite; he was cumbersome to the plate and
cumbersome to first. Which Rex noticed. Crouched a daring ten feet from the bag,
Rex's brown eyes shone beneath fuzzy brows that wriggled with delight—a useful
“tell” in late night poker games—as he drew sizzling throws from the incensed
giant—this in order to study his move. On the third pitch he pushed off towards
second like a sprinter erupting from the blocks as Turkey began the unfurling
process, and was more than halfway to the bag as the ball reached the catcher,
who consequently rushed his throw. The ball skidded into centerfield, and Rex
popped up like a water skier and glided towards third with a powerful flurry of
short-legged strides. He should have made it easily; but the centerfielder, a
former third–round pick of the Tigers who had fallen to drugs and was trying a
comeback, fired a skidding strike that beat Rex clean. Didn’t matter: for Rex,
seeing the glove lowered before the bag, leapt feet-first, bent his leg back
and unleashed a kung fu kick at the glove which popped the ball out like a mole
from a hole. Pat, coaching third, slapped Rex’s head while two guys in the
dugout, then five, then ten, “Gob-gobbled!" like turkeys as Roman punched
Rhino playfully on the arm: “Now that’s winning
baseball, Rhino my boy!”
And the Turkey went wild, hop–stomping all around the mound
in unrestrained fury. He threw the rosin bag down in disgust and strode back up
on top of the mound to stare in for the sign with dragon–nostrils flaring, free
now to return to his windup in all its unrestrained power and glory. But Rex
made a sudden feint towards the plate which so angered Turkey that you had to
wonder what it would be like to see him attack the nine–inches shorter Rex (Ah,
but he couldn’t, could he? All hail the fairness of the non–contact sport!).
The dismayed pitcher's peril was not lost on the Burgers’ manager, who strolled
to the mound to calm his wild Turkey. This mission completed, Turkey drew a
deep breath as his manager had suggested and stared in for the sign resolved to
ignore Rex, who smiled with the pleasure of doing derring–do. Turkey began his
complex pitching motion with renewed confidence—but at the midpoint of his
delivery, he noticed Rex charging down the line as if to steal home. Turkey
thought for a moment of throwing to third to gun down the pest, then thought
better of it, stopped—and was called for a balk. Rex trotted home with the
winning run, pouncing on the plate in a high rainbow arc like a coyote catching
a mouse in the brush.
And victory was ours! And we mobbed Rex in the manner we had
all seen countless times growing up, forming a throbbing human circle around
him and jumping wildly with arms linked as we whooped and hollered along with
the crowd. This, I thought, is true exultation, this is the jubilation that
non–believers like me miss out on when the Holy Rollers and gospel choirs do
their thing in church. Twenty young men stomped and screamed and danced and
whirled, and my arms clung tight to two pairs of strong shoulders while two
strong arms clung tight to me. They were someone's arms, no one's: we were one
joyous body.
Rex's Chutzpah At The Plate—
... So when White and Bittersweet Chocolates reached on infield
singles with us one down in the bottom of the eighth, Roman called on Rex to
pinch-hit.
With a frontiersman's squint, Rex peered down at Pat and
received a crisply–transmitted set of signs: square to bunt, pull the bat back
to discover the defense, bunt on the next pitch. Rex screwed his feet into the
batter's box while White Chocolate danced off second with cross–over steps like
a Greek line–dancer. I feared he’d tangle his feet and fall, but his grace was
impeccable; Astairian. Rex held his bat as lightly as a musketeer’s foil and
described tiny circles in the air as if preparing to duel. The pitcher rolled,
Rex squared to bunt, the first and third basemen crashed from the corners: the
defense was discovered. But White Chocolate Sasha had misread the sign and
started for third. This meant trouble, for his wheels had spun and he'd started
off slowly. Bittersweet noticed White's desperate flight and raced towards
second as Burger infielders flew about the place like harried teens bagging
meals at McDonald's. Rex surveyed it all through hawk eyes and decided in an
instant to disregard orders; he pulled back the bat and clubbed the ball, hard,
past the charging first baseman. Down the white chalk–line skipped the ball,
and the race was on—White Chocolate rounding third like the
anchor man of the Russian Olympic relay team, Bittersweet Chocolate closing in
on third as the strong-armed rightfielder closed in on the ball. Sasha crossed
the plate in a blizzard of white snow while Bitter rounded third and thundered
home trailing blazes of glory as the ball skipped long towards the waiting
catcher. All eyes were on this man–versus–ball race while Rex, unnoticed,
skipped lightly `round the second base bag with a burglar's gaze at the action
at home, where ball and Bitter converged in a dust storm. Safe! said the ump,
guessing that Bitter had thrust his lead leg between the catcher’s shin–guards
and touched the plate before the mitt was lowered. When the catcher turned to
the blue in dismay, the mischievous Rex scampered towards third; the surprised
catcher's throw sailed sans soucí into left, and Rex trotted home
with like insouciance and rolled into the dugout without breaking stride.
In the top of the ninth our closer, the Dominican giant
Alfredo Disculpe, blazed fastball after fastball past Burger bats, and we had
won our first series ... and established a mental edge over the Burgers ... and
built momentum for the next series ... and established momentum for our
upcoming road trip ... and accomplished whatever else a “must–win” must do.
Roman stood in the center of the victorious locker room
brandishing a huge cigar like a scepter and wearing the bullet–proof grin of a
star high school athlete breaking the rules with impunity. "Boys," he
said grandly, “I dedicate this Cuban to you.” He held a match to the stogie and
drew in long and slow, his cheeks contracting like an iron lung. He savored the
smoke, then exhaled a thick musty cloud. “The sweet smell of success!” he
cried, though furtive grimaces from numerous players rejected the claim of
sweetness. “Got this for you, Wasabi,” he told Yoshi Watanabe, a Japanese
pitcher he had nicknamed that moment. “Game ball. You deserve it.” Wasabi bowed
decorously and said in halting new-immigrant's English that he owed the ball
"to all team friends–but, as cannot divide ball, wish to send with many
kind thanks to Manny–San, who draw pitches from pitcher like sweet sound from
violin." He presented the ball to Manny with a bow.
“And let that be a lesson to you American boys,” Roman said
with hard looks that knocked the grins off snickering faces. “Teamwork
means wins. And now I’ve got another announcement, and then you can do whatever
it is that little boys like you do on your own. Now. Every ship needs a
captain, right? And our ship is no different. And our ship, I see now, is one
for the books, with a kid who just won two games for us with his head and
his—whatchamacallit, Rex? Hoot–spuh?"
“Kinda,” Rex grinned. “Chutzpah,” he said
with a proper Yiddish schpritz.
“Chut-spuh,” chunked Roman. “Chut-spuh.
Well, son, you got it—you’re a heady ballplayer, and you’re my kind of Jew. So
men, I give you ... Moses! Our new team captain with chut-spuh
to spare. He’ll lead us all to The Promised Land!”
“Moses!” cheered the throng, with the exception of Rhino,
who muttered a barely–muffled “bullshit” as he clubbed his locker with the side
of his fist to a chorus of grunts from the three Baby Rhinos.
Rex Serenades The Coyotes In The Field—
My reverie was disrupted by Sasha’s shrill cry: "Those
damned coyotes again!” The coyotes’ yip–yip–yipping mocked Sasha’s rage.
“Chill, bro,” grinned Rex, “those are your brothers,
too.”
“Then I will kill my brothers, like guy in Bible!”
“I’ll talk to `em for you,” Rex said with concern, and slid
out the door. Moments later we saw his moon-glowing white tee rising up and
over the fence like a Halloween kid in a ghost–white sheet before flowing out
into the waist–high scrub. This minor disturbance silenced the yips for a
moment. Rex settled down on his haunches like a naturalist in a hide and waited
twenty, thirty, forty minutes for peace to settle over the land. When the time
was right, he drew from his waistband the Native American flute that had been
his father’s farewell gift and began to play his coyote–song, a hollow,
high–pitched wail that evoked train–whistles beneath lonely skies. And the
coyotes listened. I say this without doubt, although I'm a skeptic born and
bred, for I was listening on the fire escape with perfect attention: and the
coyotes listened. They listened, they waited until Rex had done saying his
piece, and then they commenced a yip-yip–yipping that you might call tender.
Rex replied with his own tender plea to the blackness. The coyotes answered
back: We
feel you, bro. This call–and–response went on for some time, then
the coyotes howled freedom with clarion calls, and Rex howled along like part
of the choir. Yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip yip!
Sasha had mellowed by the time Rex returned. His spidery
legs were splayed atop the coffee table's curling veneer, and a beer–sotted smile
twisted his lips. He looked up from his laptop and hoisted a bottle, saying, in
the tone of a hubby resigned to his wife's little quirks, “Get anything good
out there?”
“I think so,” said Rex in the relieved tone of a man whose
wife understands his peculiar needs.
Sasha patched the recorder into his laptop. We listened to
yips and yowls, appraised their musical merit, imported our favorites into the
blog. And now, when you clicked on Coyote Cal’s head, you heard a cheerful
“Yip–yip–yip–yip!” after a win, and a mournful "Ah–ooo!" after every
loss.
The Mighty Roman is available in paperback on Amazon, as an ebook on Amazon, or as an ebook on Smashwords ... or ask your local indie bookstore to order it for you.
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Now let's meet Roman Meister, "The Mighty Roman" himself.
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| Roman and THOR |
Roman's C.V, in his own words: Roman Meister, American man. Home run king of the Florida State League, 1986*. Lefty slugger, Ft. Lauderdale Yankees. Gaijin Gojira of the Japanese League. Wielder of the mighty bat THOR. Manager, San Carlos Coyotes (That's ki–yotes, not "ki–yo–teas," like the rich broads up on Ro–day–oh Drive would say—if they even knew we existed). Deep sea fisherman and captain of The Splendid Splinter. Proud son of Dan Meister, USMC. Border guardian. Proud descendant of Dust Bowl migrants. Proud native of San Diego County. Fraud investigator for insurance company. Molder of young men.
(Damned asterisk for bulls*it "dispute" over home run crown).
Roman's story, told by eighteen–year–old pitcher Matt Marola ...
Roman Might: Light–Tower Power
Near the end of the fourth day of practice, as a cooling breeze fanned our faces, Pat threw B.P. to a slender, left-handed, light-skinned black fellow who manipulated his bat with a rapier touch to loft soft line drives into center and left with such stunning regularity that a grin of appreciation spread across his very own face. Roman was there, too, leaning against the cage and squinting sourly at the loose-wristed batsman. I stood two feet from the man and noticed a white jagged line which looked like the imprinted seam of a baseball carved into his cheek amidst a cluster of red starbursts of broken capillaries. The batter rapped a neat two-hopper up the middle; Roman grunted with disdain, stepped out in front of the plate, and raised his hand to stop Pat from throwing.
“That’s enough excitement for one day, Barack.” The guy twisted his face in anguish at the racialist remark, but Roman brushed past him into the cage. After glancing about to be sure that all eyes were on him, he stepped into the left-handed batter’s box, rapped THOR on the outside corner of the plate, spread his feet and kicked into the dirt to create a rock-solid foundation for the massive granite sculpture that he was. Balanced now and owning the moment, he pointed the bat’s thick barrel at Pat. One finger: fastball. A hand held palm down over the plate: bring it in at the belt. None of us spoke as this semaphore was performed, and I thought of Babe Ruth but cast the thought aside quickly since all the accounts I had ever read had portrayed The Babe as a joyous albeit oversized imp, while Roman looked as deadly serious as a sniper.
Pat, who was neither large nor deadly, stepped forward in the mincing fashion of the batting practice pitcher and tossed a pearl on a line towards the sweet, soft, gooey center of the plate. Roman whomped it; and the ball had left the limits of the infield on a glorious rising arc before the whoosh of his swing had even faded. We watched one and all the whiteness of the ball against the blue sky as it soared to its apex beyond the right field fence and descended into the farthest reaches of the dirt parking lot.
“Good air,” said Roman coyly as we gaped with admiration. “Ball carries well on days like this.” We buzzed with appreciation for Roman's feat, and the guy who had leapt ballet-style in the outfield celebrated the blast with a perfect series of bounding, springing forward flips that caught everyone’s attention. And when we looked back, Roman was gone. So we gathered the balls, collected the bases, dragged the infield, covered the mound, and performed the rest of our housekeeping chores with hearts lifted high by our manager’s might. We were still chattering about Roman’s blow as we lugged the gear towards the clubhouse, searching for the words to capture its grandeur.
“Light tower power,” Pat interjected, nailing it all the way down to the stud.
Roman and Race: "Everyone Loves Chocolate"
After the game, in the parking lot by the bus, Roman approached as I performed card tricks for Disculpe and B.C.. “Tricky stuff,” snapped Roman, sucking on the straw of his Big Gulp like a huge sippy cup. “Like your pitching, Marola. You need to get away from that softballing bullshit and throw like a man!” I looked down at my unmanly hands: if long, slender fingers are gay, then I’m flaming. I looked up and discovered that Roman had made my friends disappear, and had disappeared too, having spotted his next victim nearby.
“Dawg,” he bruffed, draping a heavy arm across Rex’s shoulders, “I never knew you spoke Spanish. What the hell was that all about?”
“Just a way to communicate about the runner, Skip. A code, in Spanish.”
Roman registered alarm at first, then spread the smile of an adult bemused by a boy’s oddball plan. “Now that’s a good idea in principle, son–but don’t you think you’d better do that in English? I mean, this is an English-speaking country, right? And if you think about it, it’s bad for Louie, isn't it? Do you think he'll ever adjust to life in this country if you coddle him by speaking Spanish? I mean, come on, Rex--we’ve got signs on the outfield wall in Spanish, and god damned bathroom signs in Spanish.”
“It was my idea, not Louie’s,” said Rex. Worried that Roman might pursue the point to the discovery of his dyslexia, Rex snapped his chin as if a twig had snapped inside his brain. “Hey Skip, that reminds me. I hate to put myself in the middle, but you made me captain, and the African-American players–“
”Jesus,” Roman winced, “you can say blacks to me. Hell, Rex, I’m a Slovakian-German- American, if you want to get all technical about it–but I don’t make everyone say all that. Doesn’t fit in the mouth, you know what I mean?”
Rex’s eyebrow-antennae twitched in consideration of the point. “Sure, Skip, got it–lots of beats, hard to say. But I think the black guys would kind of like it if you didn’t–you know–call `em Chocolate anymore. They think it's kind of a put-down, you know?”
A moral wound scrunched Roman’s features and flooded his eyes. “Je-sus, Rex! It’s a nickname, for god's sake!” His face slowly reddened from neckline to hairline; he looked about and lowered his voice. “It’s a compliment, Dawg! And it’s friendly, god damn it! Just how in the hell do you make these guys happy!”
“Just talk to `em, Skip. Hey, I really don’t want to get in the middle.”
“And you shouldn’t! You should’ve told `em to bring this straight to their skipper in the first place, Rex!”
“I wanted to, Skip, but they asked me to talk to you.”
“Why?” said Roman, his anger overwhelmed by pain and confusion. “And why not talk to me? Aren’t I cool enough? Like you hip city guys?” A slight sneer played on his bulbous lip, and the man looked crazily into Rex’s eyes as if the desire for truth and his dread of the same contended within. Rex looked down at his shoes. “Aw, hell,” Roman barked, “I’m getting to the bottom of this. Pat!”
Rex started off, but Roman grabbed a hunk of his t-shirt as Pat led our three blacks–Bitter, Dark, and Milk Chocolates, as it were–down off the bus to gather around Roman like an encounter group. “Boys,” started Roman, but caught himself and reloaded. “Men,” he resumed. “It has come to my attention that some of you may not like being called Chocolate.” He studied the three with dread and annoyance. Jamonte “Bitter Chocolate” Jones was fighting not to grin into the teeth of an anticipated apology from The Man. Chas “Milk Chocolate" Trelawny, the light-skinned son of Barbadian immigrants who’d prospered in the dry-cleaning business in New York, smiled in amusement as if the curtain were about to up on a well-reviewed comedy. In truth Chas didn't mind the nickname, for he'd watched Bull Durham twice to prepare for the season, and nicknames, for him, were part of the fun. But James “Dark Chocolate” Allen stood as still as a tree stump (and not much taller) with his massive shoulders rounded, his head directed at Roman’s chest, and his glowering eyes clouded with hurt. “I don’t know why you guys feel offended,” Roman continued, his face contorted with the anguish of climbing a steep and invisible wall. “I mean, we’re talking about chocolate, for chrissake! Chocolate’s wonderful! Everyone loves it! Look at me, I’m part German! That makes me a kraut! Do you know what kraut is? It’s sauerkraut, men! Which means pickled cabbage! And no one likes that! And I’m okay with it! You can call me Kraut, for all that I care! I don’t give a god damn! Do you read me, men? Do you?”
M.C. smiled like a patron at an Oscar Wilde play, for Roman’s performance had surpassed expectations. Jamonte grinned the smile of a star black athlete who has seen white coaches twice his age eat humble pie, and giggled with the added pleasure of seeing the pie crumbs stuck to Roman’s face. “Forget it,” he smiled. “No problem, Skip.” But James told Roman’s chest, in a volcanic rumble: “It’s like black Sambo, coach, this Dark Chocolate stuff. It’s like a cartoon or something, and it’s not very nice. Like black licorice.”
“Fool, you look like black licorice!” chortled Jamonte. His glance invited M.C. to share in the laughter, but M.C. compressed his lips inward in distressed irony, then turned his face and followed his gaze back towards the bus in one seamless motion. “Coal-black dwarf,” Jamonte sniped at James, whose eyes burned like embers. James ignored the bait, kept his eyes fixed on Roman’s chest. “Shit,” said Jamonte, “lighten up, Jamesy, the skipper's alright. I got things to do,” and he followed M.C. back to the bus.
James stared motionless at Roman’s chest; Roman exhaled exasperation. “Lookit, D.C., those guys are happy.” James’s anger burned on. “Fine,” Roman sighed as if signaling defeat, “then how about just D.C. then? That’s better, ain’t it?”
“You don’t need to say ain’t,” said James, restraining his voice like a dog growling low.
Roman rolled desperate eyes over to Rex.
“The problem with D.C.,” Rex explained, “it still stands for Dark Chocolate, Skip, so we’ve got the same problem.” Apprehending the anguish in Roman’s gaze, Rex told James, “Which Skip means in a good way, you know? He’s straight up old school.” James’s face was impassive, so Rex added: "You know what we need? A new tag for this guy! Hey, Shakespeare," he told me, "think up a nickname for Jamesy, dude. A nice baseball name.”
James's smoldering had been vented by Rex’s intervention, and he spoke coolly now. “My name’s James,” he said. “You could call me, like–James, maybe?”
“Fine,” Roman said, lightening as he did. Then, as if seeking inspiration from the sky-gods who had anointed the Chocolates in the first place, he grandly announced: “From now on we’ll call you ... Jimmy!"
The intended recipient mulled it over. And for the first time in the standoff, the erstwhile Dark Chocolate--now Jimmy--smiled.
Roman's Search For Love—"The Mighty Roman"
Roman approached as I stretched on the grass to pressure me, perhaps, as he had after my first rotten start, to pitch in relief between starts.
“Well hello, Matt." His jovial tone disarmed me somewhat. “Matthew,” he said, as if reading my name in the array of wispy clouds overhead. “Now that’s a name you can do something with! Like Matt. And Matty. And Matteo, even. It’s a pretty good name.” A meaningful nod, which I returned--for I did like my name. “Like, we could call you Matt Dog or something. They called Orel Hershiser Bulldog, you know.” He formed a grin as well as his disfigured mouth would allow and probed my face for a discordant note, his intensity throwing my gaze to the ground. “Say, Matt,” he said with showy casualness, “you remember what Rex said that day by the bus, when the black fellas wanted to be called different things?”
That calling them Chocolate was demeaning? I thought. “Not really,” I said.
He snorted as if I were being particularly difficult, popped two Tootsie Rolls, and vigorously chewed them into a chaw. I splayed my legs on the grass and stretched out my hammies, wishing him away into the barren fields behind the park; but when I looked up he was still there, scrutinizing me as if I were a lab-rat defying expectations. “Listen, Matt, I’m sure you remember what Rex said that day–he said that Shakespeare–you–should come up with a new nickname for Dark Chocolate.” He studied me still, and in his eagerness to achieve a breakthrough doubled the pace of his chewing, which doubled my unease. “Ah,” I said, conscious that I was supposed to say more, but equally conscious that I could not. He was leaning on THOR, and when he jerked it upward in a nervous twitch, I felt like a doomed baby seal–or tuna–or pizza. He inhaled deeply and closed his eyes as if counting to five; this calmed him somewhat. “Gee,” he exhaled, “it must be nice being called Shakespeare. That’s a great compliment.” He studied my expression for a spark of comprehension that just wasn’t there.
“Totally,” I said. “I mean, Shakespeare. Wow.”
“Well alright,” he nodded, pleased to have gotten a runner to first. “You’re just really good at giving folks nicknames, Matt. Like Merc, for Petrenko! That’s for, what, the god Mercury?
“Mm hm,” I confirmed, “messenger of the gods, `cause that Sasha can fly.” I didn’t tell him that my primary inspiration was Romeo’s manic friend Mercutio, lest he think I was trying to show him up.
“And you gave Pat a nickname too, right? Didn't you name him Money?
“I did,” I confirmed.
In a single frame in a sequence of film, Roman’s chin buckled and his lower lip quavered. “Look,” he said, "I know Pat’s made some nice moves in the coaching box, but the fact is–and I’m only saying this because my mama didn't raise no liars, Matty–the fact is, most of the strategy calls come from me.” He chuckled away the credit, then added: “I guess you could say I’m money in the clutch.”
“No, Skip,” I said, “he’s not Money for clutch moves, he’s Money for Money Ball, with all his percentages and calculations and computer models and all that.”
“You got that right, Matt, that’s exactly how it was at the insurance company! He was teacher’s pet with his actuarial tables, and I was the guy putting skin in the game, getting out there and knocking down doors and saving the company a ton of money busting phony claims.” A peaceful expression settled onto his face. “Money, that’s good. You sure are good with nicknames, Matt. You know, I’ve nicknamed quite a few guys myself. Clever nicknames, too, if I do say so. Bitter Chocolate, Dark Chocolate, Light Chocolate. I know, I know, not that p.c. I got an earful of that p.c. crap from the ball-buster at the insurance company, believe me. But you've got to admit, those are damn funny names. And Rex The Wonder Dog, and The Man, for Manny--"
"We call him Field Worker."
"Field Worker!"
"Or Campesino. We looked at him sweating in that hot gear all day, diving for balls in the dirt and everything, and never quitting, and never complaining; and Rex goes, hey, typical Mexican field worker, doing the hot nasty work that Americans won't."
"Rex did, huh? Well, that's pure bullshit. My people were Okies, and I ensure you they did plenty of hot nasty work when they came here out of the Dust Bowl." He stared down at me demanding concurrence before we could move on; so, rather than point out that very few white folks are seen picking lettuce these days, I gave a curt nod. "Listen, Matt, back to our interesting chat about nicknames. You're brainy, I know that. And my nicknames are good; but you've got talent, son."
“Yours are good, Skip.”
“Sure,” he agreed with an air suggesting that my praise meant a great deal to him. “But you don’t nickname yourself.”
“True,” I said. “It was Rex named me Shakespeare.”
He reddened with frustration at my obtuseness. “It’s funny, Matt, everyone thinks Roman’s a nickname--but it’s not, it's just my name. We've got military names way back in our clan. I've got Great-Granddad Grant and Great Uncle Sherman and Uncle MacArthur and Cousin Audie and Cousin Achilles. No," he mused, "Roman's not a nickname. A nickname would be–oh, I don’t know, something like ... Caesar or something! You know--the mighty Roman!” He chuckled at the preposterous of this wild notion, then whirled as if it just might not be all that preposterous after all. “Well, hey, you know what? If a guy’s named Roman to begin with, and he’s a field general--sort of a tough, battle-tested leader who whips his troops into shape and uses smart strategies and leads them to victory and all ... shoot,” he chuckled, “you guys are amazing, the names you come up with.” He clapped his hands and walked away grinning. My jaw was too slack to bid Caesar farewell.
Roman and Gays
... a peaceful expression softened his face. “I thought so!" he said. “Man, this modern world kills me!” His face twisted with anguish as he measured his next words. “You know, Matt, it used to be fine to call a fag fag. You can’t even call a fag fag anymore!”
Roman and Jews
All that time Roman had stewed at a distance. But once the game ended he rolled up the aisle and parted us like bowling pins. “Move over,” he slurred as he dropped down next to Rex and proclaimed in a voice meant to be overheard: “You’re quite a clever Jew, Rex. Quite grandiloquent.” Lean and strong though he was, Rex looked as small as a ventriloquist’s dummy next to Roman. He bobbed his head like a surfer as he weighed his response. “Cool," he said with a toothy grin. Roman smiled broadly and wrapped a pythonesque arm around Rex’s neck. “Rex,” he began with a knowing air, “your people understand Iraq. You apprehend the Arab mind, and you’re much too smart to play softball with `em! Hell, back in the Eighties you bombed their reactor! That was chut-spuh, for sure.”
“You know, Coach, my people are kinda like–” He gestured at our melange of blacks, browns, whites, and Wasabi--but Roman was on a different page.
"It's Skip, not Coach--like captain of a ship. And you know damn well what I mean about Arabs! I’m telling you, Rex, you Jews can play hardball.”
“Speaking of hardball,” Pat interjected--but Roman waved him off like a gnat.
“You guys don’t negotiate with terrorists, and you’re not afraid to rough `em up a bit. Waterboarding. Hah! That's kid stuff to the Mossad, I bet.”
“Yeah, well, I’m not sure how to say this, Coach--"
"Skip."
"But I’m kinda like ... American, you know?”
“Sure,” said Roman, “but we’re all somethin’ way back. Take me. I’m a Slovak, with an extra big order of Kraut on the side. You need to be proud of your heritage, Mose. Hank Greenberg, Sandy Koufax ...”
Roman's Youth: Punch `em in the Damn Mouth
“Skipper," said Rhino, "it’s so damned hard to lose weight.”
Roman swiveled in his fishing chair to look Rhino in the face. "You can do it, ace."
"Rex said if you drink one soda a day you gain fifteen pounds of fat in a year."
"More Fast Food Nation bullshit." Roman looked into the distance. “You know what, son? I was a big fat tub of lard as a kid. I was big and strong, but tubby too. And kids called me Tubby. And I was eleven, and I didn’t fight back. See, my mom was a church lady–it was her fault, huh? That's what Dad told me.” He took a long swig and gazed at the horizon. Rhino took a long swig and gazed at the horizon. “So my dad punched me in the arm hard to teach me a lesson. Gave me a bruise! Told me we were Spartans. And he told me, The next time someone calls you fat, Roly, punch `em in the damn mouth! Well there was this neighborhood kid who used to taunt me on Sundays when I was walking with Mom in that god-damned, here's-the-fat-kid-going-to-church suit. It was tight, and I bulged–God Almighty, how I hated that thing! Plus I had a bad haircut, a Marine flattop. It was square on top, and it made my face fat--but my dad liked it, said it made me look tough. So the day after Dad talked to me, this son of a bitch kid from my block says, Hey, Lard Boy. So I reached back and punched him right in the mouth. I was kind of surprised that he didn’t fall over, because I saw hundreds of John Wayne movies, and when The Duke hit someone, they stayed hit–head over heels and flat on their back. But I made his mouth bleed, and he stood there looking shocked, like he couldn't believe I did that to him. Then he looked at me like he was gonna make a move, but I had my fists balled up and my eyes all scrunched up and everything, so he just said some weak-ass shit and ran home to Mama. And I'm standing there with my fists balled up watching him run away, and I feel ... I feel great! I feel like the freaking king of the world! Like King Kong or Godzilla! It was the best god damn feeling in the world--at least until I discovered hitting baseballs over the fence. Which is what we need you to do, son, hit balls over the fence! So anyway, I look around to see if anyone saw my great victory, and there’s my dad, looking out through our living room shutters with a tough smile on his face. I find out later Dad gave the kid ten bucks to call me fat. And no one ever called me fat again.” Rhino, who had been staring reverently at Roman throughout the narration, raised his beer to the man in a toast. Roman wrapped a pythonesque arm around Rhino’s neck, and Rhino grinned broadly--the rarest of sights.
The Mighty Roman is available in paperback on Amazon, as an ebook on Amazon, or as an ebook on Smashwords ... or ask your local indie bookstore to order it for you.
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