#I even went on a deep dive and now have retired drivers as my top 2

[wandaluvstacos]

THE ONLY SECONDS THAT MATTER

Genre: Contemporary Romance Rating: 18+

Includes: Extensive horse nerdery + cowboys, mxm romance (1 trans + 1 cis), some discussion child abuse, some instances of trans/homophobia (it is rural Oklahoma, y'all), depression, occasional sex scene (but it’s a slow burn for sure)

Victor Ortiz-Bennett had some reservations about moving to Oklahoma, but his late aunt willed him a 70-acre horse farm, and he decides to fulfill his dream of running and operating his own training facility. Victor’s been around the reining horse show circuit for a while, and he’s ready to settle down, travel less, and spend more time with the horses he loves and away from the people he can do without. That is, until he picks up a horse at an auction with a bucking problem he can’t fix, and he has to take her to the one guy who can ride anything– Johnny Stearns, a retired professional rodeo rider.

Johnny Stearns is loud, chatty, eccentric, and fears nothing, exactly Victor’s opposite. However, Victor finds himself sinking into an odd friendship with this new foul-mouthed cowboy without a filter, diving deeper into the mess that is Johnny’s life until there’s no way to extract himself from it. Johnny may talk a tough game, but there’s more to him than he’ll let most people see. Victor knows getting in too deep will mean a rough ride, but if there’s anything Johnny’s taught him, it’s how to stay in the saddle.

The third chapter is free on my Patreon!

Excerpt:

“Outta the truck,” Victor insisted. The dogs had burst out the door and now swarmed them, trying to find some skin to lick in greeting.

Johnny slowly threw one leg over the seat, then the other. When he tried to drop down from the truck to the driveway, his knees buckled and down he went. If it weren’t for Victor catching him around the waist, he might have faceplanted onto gravel. Victor struggled under Johnny’s weight, because while Johnny was skinny, there was also six feet and then some inches of him, and Victor was no weightlifter. He might have dropped Johnny if Johnny didn’t then slide an arm around Victor’s shoulders and provide some support on his own. This proximity meant that Victor could smell Johnny’s sweat and a hint of whatever laundry detergent he used for his shirt. It sparked something in Victor’s gut. But that was no shock; he’d been alone for a while.

“Hmm,” Johnny groaned, still hanging onto the back of Victor’s neck like a lifeline. “You smell good.”

Wow. Okay.

“You’re drunk,” Victor muttered, shifting Johnny’s weight in hopes of gaining some advantage. “Try your best to walk.”

“I’m walkin’,” Johnny replied, which was hardly a good descriptor for his pathetic limp-ankled shuffle, but it was something. Thankfully there were only two steps to reach the front door and only three strides from there to the couch, which was where Victor dumped Johnny’s body like he might a sack of potatoes.

“If you need to throw up, do me the favor of finding the bathroom,” Victor said, but Johnny only moaned in response, already half asleep. Taking a deep breath, Victor decided he’d done his duty. He went back outside, the dogs following him. He found Johnny’s hat and tossed it into the driver’s side of the truck. He couldn’t control his curiosity, so he peeked into the storage box in the front of the truck bed. There were still two six-packs of beer in there, but also two shotguns. Johnny didn’t seem like someone who did much hunting, but everyone around here was packing, so Victor didn’t know why it shocked him.

“Alright, bed time,” he told the dogs, and they rushed back onto the porch, tails wagging. Before heading to his bedroom, Victor stopped and glanced over his shoulder at Johnny sprawled out on top of his aunt’s afghan like a starfish. With a sigh, Victor went to the hall closet, removed one of the many throws he’d collected over the years, and returned to Johnny. Summer was imminent, but it hadn’t quite hit yet, which meant chilly nights. Best to give Johnny something to keep warm with, even if he wasn’t conscious enough to appreciate it.

“Johnny,” Victor whispered as he dropped the throw on top of Johnny. Johnny said nothing, so Victor went to work rearranging him just so that he wouldn’t slide off the couch in the middle of the night. He also pulled off Johnny’s boots, because if he got horse manure or mud on his aunt’s rug, her ghost might come back and haunt him. He dumped the boots by his own by the front door, then thought better of it. Johnny’s feet were twice the size of his; would Johnny notice something like that? Would he question why Victor’s feet were small? Victor’s shoe size had gone up a few sizes over the past few years, but that didn’t mean they still weren’t unusually—

Victor cut off his own thoughts, realizing how fucking paranoid he sounded. Johnny was the last person to notice Victor’s fucking boot size. Plenty of men had small feet. Victor had lost years of his life feeling like he didn’t measure up—literally and figuratively— and he’d decided never to indulge that shit anymore. It was brain poison.

Victor looked down at Johnny’s boots next to his own, feeling another kind of sadness. It’d been a long time since anyone had spent the night at his house, and longer still where they’d felt at home enough to store their boots in the proper place. It reminded Victor of his little apartment back in Banning, California, his first home away from home, a place with such fond memories that even the roaches and smelly water couldn’t have ruined it. Back then he’d liked the size difference in the boots by the door, liked their dirt and their wear, liked the idea of them being there forever. No tennis shoes for my men, Victor had thought. It’s boots or nothing.

Victor shook his head and the mist of memory and took off his own boots. Exhaustion was making him nostalgic. There was no point of dwelling on the past when those who remained had to be dealt with in the morning.

[365daysofsasuhina]

[ 365 Days of SasuHina || Day Three Hundred Fifty-Two: An Open Magazine ] [ Uchiha Sasuke, Hyūga Hinata, Hyūga Neji ] [ SasuHina, death, cancer ] [ Verse: Best Years of Your Life ] [ AO3 Link ]

This has to be one of the worst days of her life.

It all started with a phone call from her father. Her aunt - his deceased brother’s wife - had lost her battle with cancer and passed away overnight. As devastating as it was, she knew Neji would be taking his mother’s loss far harder. Now without either of his parents, he’s an orphan. Grown, sure...but a lost parent makes anyone feel like a lost child. Hinata hadn’t lost a family member since her mother when Hanabi was born, so...she couldn’t quite understand that loss now. But even so, the news received at ten past seven in the morning was how her day started...and it just didn’t let up.

Deciding to head into the city to be with her cousin and family, Hinata quickly got out of bed. Her morning routine of checking her phone showed the now-typical barrage of negative news on Twitter, only further degrading her mood. She tripped over her roomba and dropped her breakfast all over the floor. And as if having sensed the impending negativity, her plants along her tiny apartment balcony looked a bit withered and sick.

Wonderful.

Touching them up with some water and fertilizer, she hoped they’d last until she got home...probably pretty late. Otherwise, she didn’t have time to try her hand again at breakfast, and looking up what might be wilting her beauties would have to wait.

Pulling on her favorite white and lilac jacket, she’d scooped up her keys, shouldered her purse, and made her way out of the apartment to the garage below and her waiting car.

Born and raised in one of the large coastal cities, Hinata had abandoned it come adulthood. There were too many tearing memories to stay, and as much as she loved her hometown...the smog, the crowds, and the crime was enough for her to pack up and move to another smaller, quieter, it not more boring town two hours inland. Sure, she isn’t getting as much business as she might in the big city with her architectural degree, but to her...the peace and quiet are worth it.

But the rest of the Hyūga family remained in town, hence her needing to return. Her father’s tech repair business is rooted there, Hanabi is finishing up school, and Neji has his law career. His mother had been retired on her husband’s life insurance, but...well, no one is immune to medical bills. They’d all been chipping in, hoping she’d pull through.

Fate, however, isn’t swayed by human wishes.

The entire ride was done in silence, Hinata too full of sorrow to abide the radio or her mp3 player. It just felt wrong to break the quiet in the wake of her mourning. Instead, she wordlessly went over memories of her aunt in her mind. Most were happy...some not so much. But they brought her a small amount of comfort, knowing that her aunt had gotten to live a fairly full life, all things considered...with plenty of happy moments. Perhaps less so the past few years, but...they have to count their blessings.

...but that’s when it happened.

Eyes almost zoned out, Hinata snapped to attention at a loud bang, the entire car jolting and making her scream in surprise. Slamming on the brakes, she thankfully kept the car straight and upright, pressed back into her seat with a hammering heart and empty lungs.

...what the hell?!

Sitting and listening as the car sat idling, she tried to identify any other sounds, but...nothing. Only once a full minute passed with nothing else did she gingerly undo her seatbelt, hands shaking as she got herself out of the car, intending to check under the hood.

...but she quickly realized that wasn’t the problem.

The car jostled a bit more than usual when she stepped out, and a glance showed the now-bare rim of her front driver’s side wheel.

...her tire...exploded.

Gaping at it, she looked back, seeing the shreds of the tire then scattered all over the roadway. It...it…? Holy shit! Did she run over something? Was it just a faulty tire? Slumping back against her vehicle in both shock and despair (she didn’t have a spare tire...or even a tire iron…), Hinata did her best to stay calm, burying her face in her hands.

...okay. Call her father. Have him send...someone. She’d made it about halfway there, so...an hour to get her, and then an hour back into the city.

...she’d be fine.

Digging out her phone, she powered on the screen, opening up her contacts and selecting Hiashi’s number.

...it didn’t ring.

Drawing a deep breath, she looked to the phone, and saw...no bars. No signal.

Nothing.

Of course. Of course! Now she’ll have to wait for someone to drive by, take pity on her, and hopefully not kidnap her, what with her being out here alone, with no phone, and no way to escape.

Tossing herself back into her car, she put on her flashers...and prepared to wait.

...ten minutes later, we find her staring blandly through the windshield...only to perk up at a noise.

Someone’s coming…!

Gasping, she scrambles out of the car, carefully standing out of the road and waving. It’s some red, fancy sports car she couldn’t begin to tell you the make or model of, given her complete disinterest in cars. But it slows, and she wilts in relief.

Hopefully they’re here to help, and not...hurt.

Pulling up behind her, the vehicle powers off and a man steps out. He looks about her age, flyaway dark hair and even darker eyes making for a rather broody-looking (and admittedly handsome ) face. “...you all right?”

“N-no,” she admits, loosely hugging herself. “My tire, it just…”

“Oh...was that yours all over the road?”

“Y...yeah…”

He walks around to examine the wheel. “...I take it you don’t have a spare?”

“No...I kept meaning to get one, but…”

“Yeah, I know how that goes. Take it you’re heading to the coast?”

“Yes, um...long story.”

“Need a lift? Or are you waiting for someone?”

“No, my - my phone has no signal. If you wouldn’t mind, I...would greatly appreciate a ride into town.”

“Yeah, sure thing. Here...let’s get your stuff, pull it off the road, and lock it up.”

Once the car’s situated and properly settled, he holds out a hand. “Name’s Sasuke, by the way.”

The name rings a very distant bell, shaking his grip slowly. “Hinata. Thanks again for your help.”

“No problem.”

Hinata settles sheepishly on the passenger seat. The car smells brand new, impeccably kept and clearly rarely driven. Seems he was out on a joyride when he passed by. The radio powers back up with the engine, but Hinata doesn’t refute it. With her frazzled nerves on top of...everything else, the background noise is actually rather nice.

“What brings you into the big city?” Sasuke asks as he pulls back onto the road.

“Oh, um...m-my aunt passed away last night, so…”

“Oh, shit...I’m sorry.”

“It...it’s fine. We knew it was coming. C-cancer.”

He gives her a somber glance. “...it’s nasty business.”

“...yeah. S-so, um...I wanted to go be with my family. They all live in town, so…”

“And then of course your car dies. When it rains it pours, right?”

“...right. So...I’m s-sure glad you drove by. Today’s been enough of a disaster…”

The rest of the hour passes with conversation, starting idly before slowly getting a bit more personal. Hinata, to her own honest surprise, dives right in despite her reserved nature. Maybe it’s having a distraction after her horror of a morning. Or...maybe she’s just lonely.

...maybe both.

Either way, Sasuke takes her to her cousin’s apartment building, shutting down the car and walking her to the entryway.

“Thank you again. Is...is there anything I can do to make it up to you?”

“Nah, don’t mention it. Besides, you’ve got enough to worry about. I was happy to do it. Hope you can call and get it towed all right.”

“Yeah, it should be fine. Just...no signal before. I’ve got pretty decent insurance, so…”

“Good. Sorry again about your aunt…”

“...me too.”

“Well, maybe I’ll see you around.” He nods to her phone in her hand, which has his number in it: exchanged during their talks. “Need anything, let me know.”

“Thank you…” Waving, she watches him cross back to the sidewalk where he parked before turning and heading in.

Neji opens the door after a long silence once she knocks, bags under his bloodshot eyes. It’s quite clear he’s been crying.

“Oh, Neji…” Expression crumbling, Hinata quickly embraces him, sobbing quietly into his shoulder. “I’m s-so sorry…”

Eventually they retreat inside, Hinata making tea as he sits on the couch, head in his hands. Handing him a cup, she takes a ginger seat beside him, sparing a hand to gently rub at his back. “...did you sleep at all last night?”

“No...no, I was with her, when…”

Her head bows somberly.

“...thank you for coming.”

“Of course! I’d have been here sooner, but...I g-got a flat tire. Caught a ride in.”

Neji’s brow quickly furrows. “...with a stranger?”

“He was fine. Very polite, a-and friendly. Point is, I’m here now. I called the tow truck before I came up, so...it’s being taken into a shop. I’ll be good to drive home later today.”

“...I see. Seems it’s just that sort of day, isn’t it?”

“...yeah.”

The pair fall into a companionable silence, and Hinata lets her eyes wander to the coffee table beyond their knees. A few magazines and envelopes litter the surface, one of the former open to an article about some movie awards show.

...and then she jolts.

That...that’s him! That’s the guy who -?!

Feeling her jump, Neji glances over. “...are you all right?”

“I...t-that…?” She points. “...he’s the one who picked me up!”

“...you’re joking. Sasuke Uchiha?”

“Y-yeah!”

“He’s a pretty big name lately. How did you not recognize him? He’s on that one show, Clan something or other...and they just had some big movie come out. He and his brother were both in it.”

“I...I don’t really w-watch TV…”

“...well, seems you’re making friends in high places,” he can’t help but note dryly. “I suppose there are worse people who could have taken you off the side of the road.”

Hinata just nods slowly, still staring at the picture in disbelief. She...has an actor’s number. Is...is it really okay to just talk to him? Sure, she did on the way in, but that was before she knew who he was! Why didn’t he say anything…?

...well, there’s more pressing issues for the moment. Snapping herself out of it, she clears her throat a bit sheepishly. “...a-anyway...should we go see Dad?”

“...yes, we should. He had a meeting this morning, but...it should be over now. I”ll text him, let him know we’re coming.”

Hinata’s brow furrows in disapproval. Hiashi’s working today…? Really? Well...whatever. So long as he helps out, she can’t get mad. They’re all going have to work through this...but for now, she’s most concerned about Neji. Not her father, or her car, or her new friend.

...that all will have to wait.

                                                              .oOo.

     This is super random (and super depressing OTL) but...it was the first idea that hit me to make the prompt fit ^^; Sorry for the downer piece everybody. I try not to do angst too often...I prefer fluff, lol - or drama.      Anywho! Poor Neji...and poor Hinata. It's always hard losing a loved one, especially to something like a terminal illness. But at least they have each other to rely on. Sasuke takes a bit of a back seat in this one, but...I don't focus on Hinata enough, tbh. Which is odd, given how much I adore her!      But on that note, I'm finally getting to bed a little bit early for once! Woo! lol, thanks for reading guys~

[seanpatricklittlewriter]

A Man of Mystery

--An Abe & Duff Short Story by Sean Patrick Little

  The young woman walked into a bar with all the subtlety of a tornado touching down in a suburb. She kicked open the door with a long, slender leg and strode into the center of the narrow club with all the eyes in the place on her. She had a short black skirt that hugged her hips and a billowy white pirate blouse that was cut in a low vee at the neck. She flashed a brilliant smile and made eye contact with all six of the men in the bar. “What’s up, gents?

None of the men answered her. Women were not forbidden at Wheels’s Bar, but they were never exactly running rampant there, either. There were a few ladies who might stop in now and then, but none of them were regulars. Wheels’s place was one of those hole-in-the-wall dives that had a couple of TVs that played a nonstop dose of Chicago-area sports and a few tables along one wall opposite the bar where the regulars took up tall stools. It was not a hip hangout. It did not have fancy blender drinks. Most of the place seemed to be the exact opposite of the sort of joint a woman of any sort of discerning taste would ever set foot. From the outside, the place looked like it was a few days away from being condemned. It did not attract customers. If you were there, it was because you wanted to be there.

None of the men in the bar could be considered a catch. The bartender, Wheels, was a former one-percenter gone into nomad status in a sort of semi-retirement. At one point in his life, he would have struck fear into the heart of anyone who saw him coming down the road on a heavily customized Harley-Davidson. The other five guys were all pudgy, soft, blue-collar minions, most with a Tinder profile that went perpetually unswiped.

The men in the bar were not exactly agog at the sudden presence of an attractive and dynamic woman, but neither did the know how to process her suddenly showing up in their depressing little den of waning testosterone.

The woman did not seem to notice their discomfort. She walked right up to the bar. “How’re the Cubs doing?”

Rodridgo “Sally” Salazar, a paunchy Latino who normally worked as a painting contractor, swallowed the mouthful of Miller Lite he’d forgotten to swallow when the woman kicked in the door. “Uh, not great.”

“Typical.” The woman slapped a black Visa card onto the bar. “You take fantastic plastic, I assume?”

Wheels Wright shrugged. “All forms of legal tender and credit are acceptable at Wheels’s Bar. What are you drinking?”

“What do you have that’s expensive?”

Expensive drinks were not usually served at Wheels’s place. A retired bus driver with abnormally hair eyes named Billy Butkis, leaned forward. “I think Wheels has a bottle of Johnnie Walker Blue somewhere in here.”

“Perfect!” The woman nodded toward the stack of bottles at the mirrored counter behind Wheels. “Let’s crack that sucker open and pour some drinks for me and all my new friends.”

“I can’t afford to drink no JW Blue,” said Billy.

“I’m buying, friend. I’m Tracy, by the way. C’mon, let’s have some fun.” She pushed the card toward Wheels.

The bartender picked it up and swiped it through the old card machine next to the register. After a second, it spit out a receipt. His eyebrows arched in surprise; he had probably been expecting it to be rejected. “I guess everyone’s drinking Blue tonight.”

There was a mild cheer from the guys at the bar.

Sally was impressed. “Can I make mine a double? I ain’t never had any fancy whiskey before?”

“Fuck it; make ‘em all doubles,” said Tracy. “Doubles for everyone.”

Wheels stacked up five glasses and poured a health slug into each.

 Tracy did a quick head count. “There’s seven of us here. We need two more.”

 “Nah.” Wheels pointed to his ever-present mug of black coffee. “I’m sober almost ten years, and that sad sack in the corner only drinks beer.” Wheels jabbed a thumb at a chubby man in a hooded sweatshirt and Milwaukee Brewers cap. He was bald beneath the cap, and clean-shaven. He had sad eyes and a pale complexion.

 “You only drink beer?” Sally looked at the guy in the Brewers cap. “I never noticed.”

 The man held up his Miller Lite. “If you’re buying, you can refill this thing for me.”

 “Done.” Tracy nodded at Wheels. “Give the man with the bad taste in baseball teams a Miller Lite on me and split whatever’s left in the bottle of blue into these glasses.”

 Wheels did as she bid and killed the rest of the bottle, filling each of the five lowball glasses to a potentially lethal level. “That’s a lot of whiskey, hey?”

 “Hey, indeed.” Tracy picked up her glass and held it aloft in front of her. “To new friends.” The other men at the bar quickly snatched up their glasses and held them aloft, echoing her toast. Tracy clinked her glass to the other four glasses of whiskey and nodded toward the Miller Lite drinker in the corner. He did not return the gesture, only picked up his bottle and took a drink, his eyes drifting back to the TV where the Cubs were blowing a three-run lead in the top of the seventh.

Tracy was bubbly and fun. The regular barflies were a little shocked by this. They usually sat at the bar in sullen silence, ate the free peanuts while they drank their bottles of major-label beers, and cursed at the Cubs’ middle-relievers when they hung curveballs over the center of the plate that ended up getting tattooed into the deep left field bleachers. Tracy told bawdy jokes. She laughed easily. She asked the guys questions that made them feel like she was really interested in them. And most importantly, she kept buying drinks.

At one point, she noticed the dusty jukebox in the far corner of the bar. “Does that thing still work?”

Wheels nodded. “Works great. None of these cheap-asses ever uses it, though.”

“We’d rather hear the game,” said Sally.

Tracy turned on her stool and dropped to the floor on unsteady legs, the effects of the copious amounts of booze evident as she swayed over to the machine. She flipped through the lists of available songs. “Christ. Is there anything on this thing from before 1976?”

“No. I wouldn’t risk accidentally hearing disco,” said Wheels.

“I tried to get him to put some Duran Duran on there once.” Sally covered his neck with his hands defensively. “Wheels threatened to cut me with a broken bottle.”

“Plenty of Beach Boys, if you’re into real music.” Billy added his two cents. “Far as I’m concerned, Brian Wilson is twice the musical genius John Lennon ever was.”

Tracy patted her miniskirt. “No pockets. Anyone got a dollar?”

Sally rushed over to her side, his roly-poly body jiggling all the way. He handed her a five-dollar bill. “Least I can do to pay you back for the drinks.”

“This will get us thirty songs.” Tracy fed the bill into the machine. She started tapping in the codes for different tracks. In seconds, the thin audio of the ball game commentary was buried beneath the harmonies of the Beach Boys.

Tracy danced on wobbly legs. Sally started dancing along with her, doing his own, arrhythmic version of 1950s craze, The Jerk. Tracy danced back to the bar and bought another round. The Blue was gone, so she had Wheels fetch his second-best whiskey, a liter of J. Henry & Sons from a micro-distillery in Dane, Wisconsin.

Wheels watched Tracy with concern. “You’re kind of poring it on there, miss. You going to be alright?”

“Are you my dad? Believe me, I can hold my liquor.”

“I never doubted you could. Just pointing out that you’ve had a lot for someone your size.”

Tracy winked at Wheels. “You calling me skinny?”

“Something like that.”

“I’ll take it. How ‘bout you use my card and order us a few pizzas? You boys want some pizzas?”

“I could eat.” Sally resumed his seat at the bar.

“I ain’t never seen you turn down food,” said Billy.

Dirty Ernie, a tall, almost anorexic Black man who got his unfortunate nickname because he worked for Waste Management, ponied up to the bar next to Sally. “Get extra. I only got this skinny because I end up in the chow line behind Sally too much.”

“Hey, if you can’t outrun me, that’s on you, Ernie.”

Wheels handed Tracy the cordless phone from under the bar. “You want pizza, go ahead. I don’t have a problem with that.”

Tracy winked at Wheels when she took the phone. She called the place down the street, ordered three large pies, and gave them her credit card info over the phone. Twenty minutes later, three pizzas were walked through the door by a college kid. After he set them on the bar, he handed Tracy the receipt. She scribbled out her signature on the receipt along with a tip.

When the kid saw the tip, his eyes got big. “Ma’am, I think you made a mistake.”

“I know what I did. It’s a gift. Thanks for all you do.”

The kid could barely stammer a thank-you. He backed out of the bar with a smile on his face that even a kick to the nuts would not have washed away.

“What’s the occasion?” Dirty Ernie helped himself to a couple of slices of pepperoni. “You’re spending a lot of money here tonight.”

“I won the lottery,” said Tracy. “I just wanted to spread some of my good fortune.”

“No foolin’?” Sally’s jaw dropped open. “I been buyin’ them fuckin’ tickets for twenty years. Once, I won twenty-four bucks. That’s about it, though.”

“Some days, it just feels good to be lucky, I guess.”

Tracy kept buying drinks until the rummies were good and soused. They ate the pizzas, even Wheels and Duff had a couple of slices. They danced to the thirty songs. Billy and Pauly Ryecliff fell asleep on the bar. Sally eventually got logy and collapsed in a sitting position against the wall. Ernie fell asleep sitting up with his jaw propped up on his hand.

Tracy took the hint. She was practically asleep herself. “Well, I should get on home, I guess.”

“You want me to walk you home?” Wheels looked around. “I could lock these idiots in here for a while. They’d never notice we were gone.”

 Tracy held up her phone. “I’m getting an Uber. I’ll be fine.” She kicked off her heels before she dared to climb down off her stool. She was listing hard. It took effort and a hand on the bar to steady herself to pick up her shoes. “I’ll be fine,” she reiterated. “I had a good time with you guys. Thanks.”

“Come back anytime.” Wheels held out the black credit card for her. She grabbed at it, missing a few times before she finally caught it. “You sure you’re okay?”

 “I’m perfect.” Tracy saluted Wheels. “It was nice meeting you all.” Her words slurred together in a drunken jumble. She looked at the fat man in the Brewers cap. “Even you, Mr. Baseball.”

The man just nodded at her. He hadn’t said more than three sentences all night. He just kept watching the game.

Tracy inhaled a deep, cleansing breath of stale barroom air and let it go slowly through pursed lips. It helped to clear her head. She glanced down at her phone. “My Uber is almost here. Thanks, fellas.”

From his spot on the floor, an extremely inebriated Sally tried to say something, but it only came out as nonsense. Hearing the nonsense made him laugh. Laughing made him tip over onto his side, which only made him laugh harder until the laughter suddenly switched to snoring.

Tracy smiled down at him. “Lightweight.”

“Might be the first time he’s been called lightweight in his lifetime.” Wheels flipped the switch by the end of the bar that controlled the open sign in the window. The red neon in the window went dark.

Tracy stumbled out to the sidewalk. It was late September and far too cold for a miniskirt and pirate blouse. The booze had screwed with her internal thermostat, though. She felt the cold press at her skin, but that was as far as it got. Her head was hot, and her face felt warm. The cold air felt good. It was trying to balance out how hot the booze made her feel.

 Tracy walked down the block. There was no Uber. There had never been an Uber. She did not even have the Uber app on her phone. Where she was going, she did not need an Uber. She walked to the parking garage down the street on the corner. She ditched her shoes in a trashcan next to the garage. Then, she slipped into the enclosed staircase and started walking up the sixteen flights to the eighth floor. Ten steps up, turn around on the landing, and another ten steps to the second floor. Repeat until she hit the top.

 She was winded and jelly-legged by the time she got to the eighth floor. The booze was really surging through her bloodstream now. It made her eyelids heavy and her body feel like lead. She had come to far to fail, though. She had a plan and was going to carry it through.

 Tracy pushed through the door at the eighth story of the parking garage and froze. The fat guy in the Brewers cap was standing there leaning on a cane.

 At first, Tracy was amazed but then she got angry. “Are you stalking me? You some kind of pervert?” She could not remember his name. Dan? Dave? Fluff?

 “Nope. Not in the least. I just figured I’d come up here and try to talk you out of killing yourself.”

 His words ran through Tracy like a spear. She suddenly felt very, very cold.

 “What?”

 “You heard me.”

 “How? How did you get here before me?”

 The fat man pointed with his cane toward the opposite corner of the garage. “Elevator over there.”

 She looked over and cursed under her breath. “Well, I came up here for a reason.”

 “I know. That’s why I followed you.”

“How did you know?”

 The fat man shrugged. “I’m a private investigator. That’s what I do.”

 Tracy turned and walked toward the nearest ledge. “That didn’t explain it.”

 The man followed her limping badly and leaning heavily on his cane. “I knew you were planning to kill yourself about thirty seconds after you came into the bar.”

 Tracy stopped and turned back to him. “How.”

The fat man stopped. “Four things, really: First, you were spending way too much money on strangers. That meant you did not care about paying bills; you were having a last hurrah. Second, the fact that you came into a dead-end bar where you knew you wouldn’t know anyone. You didn’t want to run into anyone you knew either because you felt they might know what you were doing and try to stop you or because you were scared or too sad to see them. Third, you were drinking like someone who wanted to get drunk enough to make bad decisions. You weren’t about to have sex with any of us pathetic degenerates from the bar, so it had to be that you were prepping yourself for a different sort of mission, one where being too drunk to think would be helpful. And lastly, and most importantly, that’s a hell of a tan-line on your left hand where the engagement ring used to be.”

 Tracy’s cheeks were suddenly cold. She was crying and the wind was freezing her tears on her skin.

 “You want to talk about it?”

 Tracy shook her head. She started to climb up the chest-high wall at the edge of the garage. “Don’t try to stop me.”

 “Wouldn’t dream of it. We are all free and independent, aren’t we? If you want to take yourself out of this world, well that’s your right as a sentient being with free will.” The fat man limped over to the wall ten feet to Tracy’s right. He was taller than she was. He leaned his head over the edge and looked down. A low whistle escaped his lips. “That’s a long way down. That’ll do the job, for sure. You won’t even know what hit you.”

Tracy boosted herself to the ledge by using a Volkswagen bumper as a stepping stool. “I’m here for a reason.”

 “No doubt. If you want to die, this is a guaranteed way to do it. You’ll probably bounce when you hit the pavement. Did you know that? Human bodies actually bounce when they hit pavement from these sorts of heights. People thing they just go splat, but it’s actually way more disgusting.”

 “Stop talking.” Tracy’s stomach was starting to roil. She looked over the edge and a combination of booze, fear, and adrenaline made her guts lurch like she was going over a big wave.

 “The trauma of hitting the sidewalk from this height, there’s no surviving it. You’ll probably break a lot of important bones. Your chest cavity will collapse, and rib fragments will pierce your lungs and heart. Your skull will probably fracture. Your aorta will tear. You won’t feel a thing, though. You’ll be dead the second you hit the ground. No pain.”

 “Stop. Talking.” Tracy tried to put emphasis on her command, but her stomach betrayed her. She suddenly spewed a whole night’s worth of pizza and booze eight stories down to the sidewalk.

 “That was a good precursor to the main event.” The guy limped a little closer to her. “Before you do this, why don’t you tell me why you’re doing it? You know, for the statement I’ll inevitably have to give to the police who show up and demand to know why I didn’t try to physically restrain you before you did your best Franz Reichelt impression?”

 “Who?”

 “Franz Reichelt. He invented the parachute. Well, sort of. He tried to test his invention and took a header off the Eiffel Tower. It’s not important. Tell me what brought you up here.”

Tracy did not want to be on the ledge at that moment. Her stomach was still reeling. She launched a second volley of vomit to the sidewalk. Her sinuses were burning from bile and whiskey.

 She dropped off the wall and slid to a sitting position alongside the silver Jetta. “It’s been a bad year.”

 The fat man limped around to the front end of the Jetta. He stopped eight feet from her. “Tell me about it.”

Tracy swiped vomit from her chin with the sleeve of her shirt. “It’s just another woe-is-me sob story. Everyone has one.” She was suddenly very lucid and sober as if puking the booze in her stomach eight stories down had rid her of all the poison in her bloodstream. Maybe it was the adrenaline that was giving her clarity.

 “I like woe-is-me stories,” said the man.

 Duff. Tracy suddenly remembered his name.

 “What kind of a name is Duff?”

 “Irish.”

“No, I mean, what does it mean?”

 “It means I’m mad at my dad. What’s your story?”

 Tracy shook her head. She looked up at the night sky. In Chicago, only a few stars were visible high above them because of the light pollution. “I never knew my dad.”

 “By choice?”

 “My mom said he died in Iraq when she was pregnant with me. She never told his family.”

 “Ah. By accident, then.”

 “My mom worked her ass off to raise me and keep a roof over our heads. She only had a G.E.D., but she did it. I didn’t have much, but I never went hungry. And we used to laugh all the time. We had fun together.”

 “Past tense, I see. I imagine she died, then? I’m going to guess she died in what? March? April at the latest?” Duff took another step toward her. He leaned against the front fender of the Jetta.

 “March twenty-third. Breast cancer. How’d you know?”

 “It would take that long for you to get the bottom of your proverbial barrel. Let me guess what’s next: Your fiancé was banging your best friend?”

 Tracy’s eyes went wide. “Yes! How’d you know that?”

 “Logical guess. Your mom’s death was traumatic. You probably retreated into yourself for a bit. Your best friend was around a lot trying to make you feel better. Your boyfriend was doing his best but felt powerless. You were too depressed to do anything for him, so he felt neglected. Things happen. I’ve seen it before.”

 “Found out about their affair a few weeks ago when Danny called off the wedding. He got Jasmine pregnant. All my friends sided with them because I’ve been so depressed. They actually blamed me for the affair.”

 Duff grimaced. “Ouch. That’s a kick in the ass.”

 “I lost my mother, my fiancé, and my best friend inside of six months.”

 “Let me guess—it gets worse?”

 Tracy bit back a sob. “I found out last week that I can’t ever have a baby. Congenital infertility.”

 Duff’s eyebrows raised on his forehead. “Wow. That’s…wow. I get it. All that shit happens to me, I’m probably chucking myself off a parking garage, too.”

 “Why am I even here?”

 “Because you were going to go out in a blaze of street pizza. Did you forget?”

 Tracy rolled her eyes at Duff. “No, I meant, why am I here in the big picture sense? What’s the fucking point?”

 “Of Life?”

 “Of Life. Why do we bother? All my dreams got wrecked in six months. My mom never got to see me walk down the aisle in a white dress. I went from planning a wedding to single. I lost my best friend. I’ll never get to be a mom. What does it all mean if I can’t have the life I want?”

 Duff shrugged. He slid down to a sitting position alongside the Jetta. It was a painful series of movements to get to that point. He moved like an old man despite being in his mid-forties. “You want to know a secret? Most of us never get the life we want. My parents wanted me to be Ph.D. in some sort of highfalutin degree program. I ended up being a dirt-poor private detective because it’s the only thing I’m good at. It’s nowhere near the life I wanted, but it’s the life I got.”

 Tracy looked over to Duff with red-rimmed eyes. “What keeps you going?”

 Duff thought about it for a moment. He weighed a few option in his head before he declared, “Pure fucking spite.”

 “Really?”

 “Really.” Duff gestured toward the sky. “Look at that. You get more than a few miles up and we die without oxygen tanks or pressurization. Get out of this atmosphere, and we die. Seventy-something percent of this big, stupid rock is covered with water. We can’t breathe in that water. A lot of this planet is freezing cold. We die without the proper clothing and shelter. A lot of the planet is burning hot. We die there without shade and water. The parts of the planet that do adequately support human life have things like tornados, flash floods, hurricanes, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions.”

 “What are you getting at?”

 “I’m saying that since we evolved out of great primate ancestor as a minor surface annoyance to the planet, we’ve had to deal with the fact that Earth doesn’t want us here. It is constantly trying to kill us. Not only that, but we’re the only creature that understands that this grand failed experiment eventually ends. We have to live every day with the specter of death hanging over us and the knowledge that none of us truly knows what comes next. That’s a pretty heavy burden for a normal mind. That’s an even heavier burden for a mind that’s dealing with trauma. Believe me, lady, it never surprises me when someone chooses the easy road out. In fact, I’m surprised most of us don’t do it. This world is crazy.”

 “Then why haven’t you?”

 Duff looked around them. He shrugged. “Because it’s the only way I can flip middle fingers at the whole system. The system doesn’t want any of us here. The Earth is trying to kill us. The Universe is trying to kill us. We can’t live in the oceans. The atmosphere occasionally throws wind, arctic cold, and random bolts of electricity at us in an attempt to kill us, and we just keep going.” Duff raised his right arm to the sky and extended his middle finger at the dark blue-black heavens above them. “I’m still here because whatever runs this whole thing hasn’t figured out how to kill me yet. I keep living because by living, it means I’m outsmarting the big organism that continually tries to shuffle me off its mortal coil.”

 Tracy swallowed hard. It felt like there was a stone in her throat. It burned when she swallowed. “I don’t think I can go on, though.”

 “Why not?”

 “Because I just feel like I can’t. I can’t stand to see one more day. I don’t know why.”

 “If you don’t know, then you’ve got a mystery on your hands. You can’t quit life with a mystery to solve.”

 Tracy bit back a sob that tried to escape. “Spoken like a true detective.”

 “Spoken like a guy who has been where you are. Spoken like a guy who knows what you’re going through. I weighed it out. I did the math. Quitting Life is easy. For some people, maybe it’s the right thing to do. Emphasis on ‘maybe.’ Me? I want to piss Life off some more before I finally go. We get few enough precious spins around the Sun anyhow. It’ll be over before we know it. No need to end it early.”

 There was a long silence between them. Tracy let tears slide down her cheeks.

 “My ass hurts.” Duff listed to his right side and rubbed at his butt with his left hand.

 This made Tracy laugh. It was a short, barking laugh but it was still a laugh. “Was I being stupid?”

 “When you were rooting for the Cubs earlier? Absolutely.”

 She smiled. “No, dummy. I mean just now.”

 “There was a Superman comic some years ago where a girl was going to jump from a ledge. Superman told her if she honestly did not believe she would never again have another happy moment, then she should jump, and he would let her fall.”

 “Did he let her fall?”

 Duff shook his head. “She took his hand, and Sup’ got her the help she needed.”

 “So, I need help?”

 “We all need help.”

 “Even you?”

 Duff gave her a half-smile. “Especially me. I’m a fucking slow-motion train wreck.”

 Tracy got to her feet and walked back to the ledge. Her legs were unsteady. She felt sick and dizzy. She looked down at the sidewalk far below. “If I want to jump, will you let me?”

 Duff gestured at his bum ankle with his cane. “Look at me, lady. I’m half-crippled, obese, and slow. If you wanted to jump, you could be kissing pavement before I could get to my knees.” Duff made no move to get up. He laid his cane across his lap. “We are all creatures of free will. If you want to go, you’ll go. Maybe not now. Maybe not tomorrow. But, if you’re dead set on going, pardon the pun, no force on the planet could stop you.”

 “Not even you?”

 “Especially not me.”

 Tracy looked back at the sidewalk. Her eyes drifted up to some of the high-rises around them. People were living in those buildings. They were watching TV or sleeping. They were raising families. They were raising pets. They were learning new languages, or learning how to play guitar, or playing a PlayStation game they played too many times before because it was a comforting escape from reality.

 “Duff?”

 Duff did not answer. He knew she knew he was right there.

 “Duff, I think I want to go home.”

 Duff said nothing.

 Tracy turned around. The big man had somehow gotten up silently and was already limping away toward the elevator.

 “Did you hear me? I said I want to go home.”

 Duff stopped and turned to face her. “So go. Free will, remember. You’re a creature of choice, not habit.”

 “But, you—”

 Duff turned back toward the elevator. He kept going.

 Tracy was confused. She started to walk after him.

 “You’re wasting your time.” A voice from the door to the stairs stopped her cold. The bartender, the man they called Wheels, was standing in the doorway with two Chicago cops, a tall, Black man, and a shorter, stouter White woman.

 Tracy’s jaw hung open. “How long have you been there?”

 “Long enough.” Wheels jutted his chin toward Duff. “You’re wasting your time with him.”

 “Why? What? Where is he going?” Tracy was confused. “I thought he was concerned.”

 “He was, in his own way. He wouldn’t have followed you if he wasn’t.” Wheels walked over to Tracy and took her by the arm. He walked her toward the stairs leading her gently.

 “So, why did he leave?”

 “Because he’s Duff.”

 Tracy let herself be helped by the two police officers. The women took Tracy’s other arm. She spoke lowly to her, comforted her. The staircase was warmer than the top of the parking ramp. An ambulance came around the corner of the ramp and stopped at the staircase. Two EMTs got out. They had one of those silver foil thermal blankets and they wrapped it around Tracy while they helped her into the back of the unit. Tracy let them.

Wheels watched as the EMTs strapped her to the bed in the back of the truck. “Get better, okay?”

Tracy nodded. “Tell Duff I said thanks, will you?”

I will. He won’t care. But, I will.”

One EMT climbed into the back of the truck with Tracy. The other closed the doors and ran back to the driver’s seat. After a moment, the truck lurched forward and began the slow descent down the parking ramp.

Wheels watched from the top of the ramp until the truck was spat out the ramp’s exit. It drifted off into the night, red-and-white lights spinning on the roof rack, but no siren. In moments, it blended into the wash of lights and was gone.

    A fat guy with a cane limped back to his apartment. He stopped at the taqueria on the first story of his building and got three carne asada tacos to go. He climbed the stairs to his apartment slowly, using his good leg to propel himself up each step and dragging his weak ankle after like a dead weight. He stopped to rest twice, and in those rest periods, a taco met its fate.

Duff keyed the door to his apartment and limped into his room. There was no bed in his room, only a plush recliner. Duff flopped into the chair and popped the footrest. He turned on the TV. A MASH rerun was on. It wasn’t one of his favorite episodes—it was the one where Hawkeye and B.J. pretend to be nice to Frank—but it would do.

The next morning, when his business partner, Abe, would come into the office, Abe would ask Duff, “What did you do last night?”

Duff would answer, “I watched MASH.”

Abe would ask, “Is that all?”

 And Duff would answer, “Yep.”

--End--

If you liked this story, please check out the full-length novel THE SINGLE TWIN, available now on Amazon Kindle or at your favorite local independent bookstore.

https://www.amazon.com/Single-Twin-Abe-Duff-Mystery-ebook/dp/B0829D4F4L/

[flauntpage]

What Can We Learn From The Ken Giles Trade?

Last week, as Vince Velasquez took the mound for the Phillies in their series finale against the Mets, Ken Giles was packing his bags for Fresno. Giles, the erstwhile Phillies closer who was shipped to Houston prior to the 2016 season for a package of pitchers that included Velasquez, had been demoted to the minor leagues by the Astros organization.

Astros brass had cited Giles’ lackluster performance as the reason for the roster move, but the fiery reliever’s temper may have been his most unforgivable sin. In his last outing before the demotion, Giles had entered a 4-0 game and promptly conceded three consecutive hits. With a run across and the lead evaporating, Houston manager A.J. Hinch walked to the mound to remove Giles. Giles was less than thrilled with his skipper’s decision:

Pretty sure he said “f you man” to Hinch on his way out pic.twitter.com/13DkLs3klO

— Scott Marvin (@ScottEMarvin) July 11, 2018

While Giles was doing his best to burn his bridges in Houston, Velasquez was lighting up the Mets. The Phillies righthander returned from a short stint on the disabled list to toss six shutout innings of two-hit baseball. He left the game after throwing just 85 pitches.

From today’s vantage point, it certainly seems that the Phillies have emerged as the clear winner of the Ken Giles trade. Yet, I am reminded of something that I told the students in my history class back in my teaching days: hindsight is a powerful tool. The light it provides can blind just as easily as it can illuminate.

Besides, I am more interested in the lessons we can learn from the transaction while the Phillies approach the trade deadline as potential buyers for the first time in five seasons. Although Philadelphia lost the Manny Machado sweepstakes, Matt Klentak and company have signaled their willingness to pursue high-impact rental players for a potential postseason push.

The front office has the support of an aggressive owner looking to make a splash. Moreover, the organization can exploit the financial flexibility afforded to it courtesy of a lucrative television rights deal with Comcast. The Phillies have methodically rebuilt their once-barren farm system, which is now ranked the fifth best in the league. Most importantly, the team sits in first place in the National League East as the unofficial second half of the season is set to begin.

The Phillies have played solid baseball, but the roster has holes that, at this point in the season, only an astute general manager can fix. Thanks to an overachieving club and a deep prospect pool, Klentak has the motive and the means, but should he seize the opportunity? Although an analysis of one trade will not provide all the answers, it can produce some insights.

****

During the 2015 winter meetings, the Houston Astros were in the market for a closer. After a multiseason rebuild that featured three consecutive 100-loss seasons, Houston’s young roster had finally cracked open the organization’s championship window. Once they struck out on an attempt to land Craig Kimbrel during the 2015 campaign, the Astros turned their attention to Ken Giles at baseball’s annual winter meetings.

Giles had emerged as a dominant closer for the Phillies in 2015. He coupled a fastball that topped out at 100 miles-per-hour with a devastating slider that he had learned from fellow pitcher Justin DeFratus, who had picked it up from Brad Lidge. In 2015, Giles appeared in 69 games. He boasted a 1.80 ERA, compiled 15 saves, and averaged 11.2 strikeouts per nine innings.

Given that the Phillies were embarking on their own rebuilding project, Giles was an expendable commodity. Klentak conceded as much before the winter meetings. In an article detailing the trade, NBC Sports Philadelphia’s Jim Salisbury included the following quote from the Philies’ general manager:

“We like Ken Giles. We want Ken Giles on our team. We want more players like Ken Giles,” Klentak said earlier this week at the winter meetings. “But we also have to be opportunistic when opportunities present themselves to make us better in both the short and long term.

In return for Giles and shortstop prospect Jonathan Arauz, the Phillies received the following pitchers from the Astros: Vince Velasquez, Mark Appel, Brett Oberholtzer, Thomas Eshelman, and Harold Arauz.

Jonathan Arauz ranked just outside the top 20 on the Astros’ prospect rankings prior to the 2018 season. He’s just shy of his 20th birthday, and still working his way through Single-A ball. Arauz served a 50-game suspension in 2017 after testing positive for a banned drug.

Meanwhile, the Giles investment has paid mixed dividends for the Astros. After an up-and-down 2016 season, Giles returned to form in 2017. He saved 34 games for the Astros, posting a 2.30 ERA in the process. The two seasons of work cost Houston just under $1.1 million.

Giles’ big-league career began to tank during the 2017 postseason. As the Astros soared to the World Series title, Giles sank to the last seat on the bullpen bench. The Houston Chronicle’s Brian T. Smith summed up the Astros closer’s playoff experience thusly:

It’s also pretty amazing they won the whole thing last season while Giles posted an 11.74 postseason ERA, allowing 10 runs and 12 hits in just 72/3 innings, and not even taking the mound after Game 4 of a historic World Series that required the full seven.

Giles gave up three runs and two hits in Game 4, earning the loss while failing to record an out…

Giles’ slide has continued in 2018. Notwithstanding a 0.00 ERA and a perfect 12-for-12 in save opportunities, Giles has struggled in non-save situations. For the second time in three seasons as an Astro, Giles has a negative Wins Above Replacement (WAR). Before he was sent to Triple A to refine his game, Giles’ ERA rose to 4.99. His strikeouts per nine innings have dropped to single digits for the first time in his career.

In the course of explaining Giles’ demotion, Hinch cited his former closer’s declining slider. “I think his breaking ball has got to get a little bit better,” Hinch asserted to the press. “I think his spin has been a little erratic. It’s not shaped the same as when he’s had a dominant slider.”

At first glance, the stats don’t necessarily support Hinch’s claim. In 2018, batters are hitting just .128 against Giles’ slider, which is in line with his impressive career numbers. However, FanGraphs senior writer Jay Jaffe took a deeper dive into the figures and discovered:

Two years ago, Giles’ slider had an average drop of 0.18 inches — slightly less than expected due to gravity. Last year, that increased to 0.47 and this year to 1.20, so his slider is averaging an inch less drop than in 2016. Couple that with the horizontal inconsistency and, yes, that’s a different shape with less depth.

While watching the video of Giles’ last major league appearance, it’s clear that his slider lacks the movement that once made it a quality pitch for him. Giles’ fastball has failed him as well this season; opponents have been batting at a .380 clip against his four seamer.

Still, given Giles’ emotional outbursts during his career, it’s fair to wonder if his problems extend beyond pitching mechanics.

Last week’s run-in with Hinch was not the first time Giles showed up his manager. As a Phillie during the 2015 season, Giles demonstrated on the mound his displeasure with a directive from the bench to intentionally walk a batter. Giles’ behavior was so out-of-line that he even managed to aggravate the indifferent Ryne Sandberg.

In a May outing against the Yankees, Giles was so upset with himself for conceding a three-run home run on a flat slider to Gary Sanchez that he punched himself in the face as he walked back to the dugout.

“He pitches with a lot of emotion, and when things are going well we love it,” Hinch observed. “When things aren’t going well, we have our concerns just because of the volatility of the end-of-the-game type stuff.”

Here’s the rub with a player like Giles, though. Giles’ emotion is a major driver of his talent. His passion is like rocket fuel: it can propel him to the stars, or cause him to blow up on the launch pad.

Mechanical issues can be fixed. Giles can work on his grips and improve his arm action. What will be more difficult to recalibrate is a temper that, in the best of circumstances, turns him into a fiery competitor and, in the worst case, exposes him as an uncontrollable hothead.

****

In Ken Giles, the Phillies gave up a back-end-of-the-bullpen piece who is under club control at a reasonable price until 2021. What did they receive in return?

Harold Arauz is currently a starting pitcher for the Double A Reading Fightin Phils. In 18 starts, he’s 7-4 with a 4.62 ERA and is averaging 1.35 walks and hits per inning pitched.

After starting the season as the Phillies’ 12th best prospect, Tom Eshelman has struggled in his first full season at the Triple A level. Opponents are hitting .341 against him, and Eshelman’s WHIP is an unseemly 1.80. In 18 starts last season with the Iron Pigs, the righthander went 10-3 with a 2.23 ERA and a 0.94 WHIP.

Brett Oberholtzer did not quite make it a full season in Philadelphia. He was quickly relegated to longman duties in the bullpen and was designated for assignment in August 2016. He’s currently toiling in the Colorado Rockies’ farm system.

Mark Appel seemed the most alluring prize in the deal. The former #1 pick in the 2013 draft scuffled as he moved up the minor league ladder in Houston, and seemed like he needed a new organization in order to realize his considerable potential. He had trouble commanding the strike zone, causing his ERA to balloon above 5 in Lehigh Valley.

Before the 2018 season, Appel decided he had enough of baseball for the time being and decided to pursue other endeavors. Though he did not rule out a potential comeback attempt, Appel is effectively retired.

Vince Velasquez, the best asset the Phillies acquired in the trade, is still very much a work in progress. His tenure as a starting pitcher in Philadelphia can be best described as inconsistent.

He’s shown flashes of brilliance. His 16-strikeout, complete game shutout of the San Diego Padres in 2016 immediately comes to mind, as does Velasquez’s no-hit bid against the Rockies this season.

Nevertheless, Velasquez has been overly reliant on his fastball in the past. He’s also struggled with his pitch counts, which has limited his effectiveness as a starter. Heading into 2018, Velasquez committed himself to pitching more to contact and throwing his secondary pitches. The results have shown in his pitching splits; Velasquez has already thrown more curve balls, sliders, and sinkers than he did last season, although he has reduced his change-up usage.

For the 2018 season, Velasquez’s top-line stats look middling. He carries a 5-8 record and a 4.39 ERA into the second half. He didn’t pitch particularly well in June, which coincided with the Phillies’ toughest stretch of games. However, he did make the play of the season in his final June start against the Nationals:

.@vjvelasquezrhp got struck with a line drive on his right arm, so he made the play with his left.

He would leave the game, but not before getting the out. pic.twitter.com/V3xR4M7ult

— MLB (@MLB) June 30, 2018

****

The overarching lesson of this retrospective exercise is self-evident, though I think it’s gotten lost in the sabermetrics era: these guys are human. Stats can be incredibly informative and even predictive, but they are by their nature reactive. They will never be able to capture or anticipate something like Ken Giles’ aberrant performance this season, caused in no small measure because he can’t control his emotions. If Giles can work out the issues between his ears during his exile in the minors, his performance this year will be nothing more than a statistical outlier in the course of a long career. If not, this lost season could serve as the tipping point that marks the beginning of a decline.

You just never know. In his article outlining the parameters of the trade, MLB.com’s Todd Zolecki described Oberholtzer and Eshelman in this way:

Oberholtzer, 26, went 2-2 with a 4.46 ERA in eight starts. He is 11-20 with a 3.94 ERA in 45 appearances (42 starts) in his big league career. Oberholtzer could be in the Phils’ Opening Day rotation.

No pitcher in the history of college baseball threw more strikes than Eshelman. He led NCAA Division I in walks per nine innings as a freshman (0.2), sophomore (0.6) and junior (0.5) at Cal State Fullerton, establishing new records for a single season and a career (0.4). Eshelman projects as a back-of-the-rotation starter.

Oberholtzer was not good enough to find a place in a rotation that was among the least experienced in baseball. He’s already moved on from the franchise. Meanwhile, if Eshelman sorts himself out in Triple A and rediscovers his form from last season, he could very well find a place in a major league rotation. I just don’t see it happening in an organization like Philadelphia, which seems to be angling toward championship contention in the near future.

In Mark Appel, the Phillies purchased a lottery ticket that never paid out its potential value. So it goes. Bleacher Report, which broke the news of Appel’s retirement, included an excellent quote from Appel that captured the transient nature of this whole business:

I’m a guy who loves a game, who had expectations, goals and dreams and then has had everything tumbling, and then everything was unmet,” Appel says. “Would I have loved to be pitching in the World Series? Absolutely. Some people have real struggles. I played baseball. I thought I was going to be great, and I wasn’t.

A Stanford degree won’t necessarily afford you access to this type of insight; you only come into possession of this knowledge by taking on a challenge- and failing.

And there is no challenge in professional sports quite like the gauntlet an aspiring professional baseball player must endure. He must survive and advance through multiple minor league levels; endure the physical and mental strain of a full season that stretches from late winter to early fall; and, just as he gets to the cusp of the major leagues, hope that his ability overrides financial concerns like service time calculation.

Most players never make it to The Show. They never meet the projections scouts place on them. Therefore, a prospect’s value to the franchise will never be higher than it is during his long slog through the minor league system.

Think about it. Once upon a time, Domonic Brown and Kyle Drabek were the best players in the Phillies’ prospect pipeline. In 2009,  Ruben Amaro reportedly backed away from a trade that would have landed Roy Halladay in exchange for a package headlined by Brown and Drabek.

Amaro would eventually acquire Halladay before the 2010 season. But I think we all would have preferred to see Halladay on the mound at Yankee Stadium in Game 2 of the World Series than Pedro Martinez. Would the outcome of the 2009 World Series have been different? Who’s to say? Nonetheless, we can all state confidently that the Phillies’ chances to win would have been exponentially better with Halladay in the rotation.

Amaro’s instinct to keep his two best prospects was likely correct. Yet, the lofty expectations placed on Brown and Drabek look absurd in retrospect. That is not an indictment of the players, but it should serve as a reminder to front office executives that the prospect game can often devolve into a confidence scheme.

As the Phillies transition from sellers to buyers, Klentak and his team would do well to internalize this lesson. Of course, it’s difficult to part with prospects you’ve scouted and developed over multiple seasons. Moreover, no front office, no matter how deep-pocketed the ownership group, can field a team of All Stars. Every winning team includes on its roster a healthy number of young contributors laboring under modest salaries relative to what their talent would demand on the market.

At the same time, the Phillies’ young core has put itself in a position to vie for the division title. There is no more worthwhile experience these players can have during this formative time than making an October run in 2018. It will pay dividends down the road when the organization makes major roster upgrades and is ready to contend for the World Series.

If Klentak needs to dip into the prospect pool to secure the services of a rental player who is not in the Phillies’ longterm plans, he should give it some consideration. And then he should pull the trigger on the deal.

There will always be other prospects who are spoken of in glowing terms, can’t-miss players and surefire contributors who often miss and seldom contribute. The competitive window, on the other hand, is not always open. And sometimes, the realities of today infringe on the promise of tomorrow.

After six losing seasons, the Phillies are prepared to win again. The question remains: is the front office ready?

We’ll have our answer at the trade deadline. And, judging by the Phillies’ aggression in the Machado bidding, I doubt the fans will be disappointed.

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[thegreenhunt]

Story for a future D&D campaign

“5 Guards by the entrance, one Orc, two elves, a human and a dwarf.” Oris said into his chest which hid his amulet of message. “Got them, boss man is inside should be leaving soon, I’ll do what I do best and stay to the roofs, our wrecking ball is set up in an ally at the ambush location” Eony replied through his amulet. “Got it, let’s make this nice and quick so we can get paid and get drunk” Oris replied. Oris sat looking like a homeless man in the snow begging for change from the various wealthy people who walked the streets of the capital city, he was positioned so he could see the guards and the targets carriage but not the door. That was Eonys job from his vantage point on one of the many roofs surrounding the bar. Most of the passerby’s were too focused on staying warm to notice Oris, or didn’t care to notice him. On closer inspection someone might notice the scar on his right eye or the valuable looking amulet on his chest, but then again he knew how to hide this stuff. “Contact, target is exiting the building and getting into his carriage, no additional guards. Everyone is expendable except the target remember that” said Eony. Oris replied quickly “Oh I remember moving to ambush point, time for some fun.” Oris got up and moved to vanish into the shadows of a nearby ally to tail the target and his guards. The job was simple, someone wasn’t paying the guild and the leader was pissed off, only problem is this guy was wealthy enough to hire guards who knew there shit. Most of them carried simple weapons, the human and dwarf had a shield and sword and were in the middle of the formation while the two elves were in the back, one with a crossbow the other holding a staff. The magic user could be a problem of Oris didn’t have Eony close by to take him down before he could do anything. The leader was the Orc who had a great axe strapped to his back and a collection of teeth around his neck, no doubt prizes from his various bar fights. Unfortunelty for him though, Oris and Eony hated orcs so there is no way he’s leaving this alive. Right as the carriage hit the ambush point Oris through a dagger at the dwarfs arm while he raced to take care of the driver. “SHIT, we are under attack protect the Boss at all costs! ” the dwarf said as he reached for the dagger, currently logged into his shoulder. Before he could grab it however it disappeared from his arm and reappeared on Orises belt where he grabbed it again and drove it into the neck of the driver, the neck wound spraying gore across his face. He quickly cut the ropes that held the horses so that they wouldn’t run off with their target. The orc leader had to dive out of the way stampeding horses. “Elves hurry up and kill this one before he….” The Orc leader shouted from the ground before he realized that the two elves were already dead on the ground from two arrow wounds, one through the head the other through the heart. Both body’s we’re currently freezing over from the chilling enchantments Eony liked to use on his arrows. He took a deep breath and let fly another one which hit the dwarf again in the other shoulder, at this point the brothers were just fucking with the small guy, it didn’t matter really he’d be dead from the carriage in a matter of seconds. Before the Orc leader could get up from the horses nearly trampling him, the sounds of loud heavy footfalls came down a near by ally at incredible speed. The human must have been a rookie because before he could turn to see what it was Eonys polar bear was on top of him slamming him into the carriage toppling it on top of the already wounded dwarf. The Orc leader finally got to his feet and brandished his great axe which glowed with the intensity of a freshly stoked fire. “Hm two people, one incredibly fast and deadly with daggers, and the other with a bow and a giant polar bear, you must be the ones called Blade and Havoc, you’ve made quite a name for yourselves around here, but my axe is about to melt through that name and bring me honor!” The Orc captain bellowed a battle cry and went charging at Blade swinging just over Blade head as he rolled out of the way. Blade could feel the heat coming off of the head of the axe, when suddenly the Orc leader screamed in pain as an arrow pierced his Achilles’ tendon. However that wasn’t enough to stop this beast he began sprinting at Blade again fighting through the pain, grunting through each step just trying to take one of them down with him, but he was to slow. He took one more swing and this time he hit blade, or rather hit an illusion of him, suddenly a dagger plunged into his side and screamed in pain again “How, I hit you, you should be dead.” The Orc captain said blood oozing from his mouth. “Simple, if you would have looked hard enough you would have noticed my cloak made an after image of me and you tried to swing at the fake me not the real me” Oris said, his cockiness coming through his voice. “You think two wounds will kill me! I am far from dead!” The Orc Chief bellowed as he tried to swing at the voice of the smaller elf currently at his side, but he vanished again. Suddenly he felt something sharp and cold go across his neck followed by the warm rush of his own blood spilling into the snow. He fell to his knees realizing his death was close. He saw his enemy walking to the toppled over carriage that he and his team had been sworn to protect and gathered his strength for one final, blood crazed, rush at his enemy. When he got up to charge another arrow pierced his back he attempted to shrug it off when the polar bear leaped on him and began ripping his throat out. “Good boy” Eony said leaping down from his perch to go join his brother. The bear let out a noise as Eony patted him on the head and it followed him in toe. “Well now that was fun havoc but I think the main prize is right in here.” Oris said as he popped open the door revealing the terrified man who’s arm was twisted in the wrong direction obviously from the impact of the bear. Oris could make out the destroyed face of the dwarf who happened to be on the opposite side when the carriage fell over. “Alright up and attem, we have some things to discuss” Eony said pulling the wealthy man from his wrecked carriage. “See all this happened because you did not pay the guild for the torch job we did on your competitor, and even threatened to reveal us to the Kings guard if we didn’t start working for you for free, now if this happens again it’s going to be your blood In the snow got it?” Eony said menacingly. “What ever he’s paying you I’ll double it! I’ll triple it! You and your friend here can retire after I’m done paying you, you can have anything and everything” the wealthy man pleaded from the ground clutching his mangled arm. Eony looked at Oris and nodded and Oris pulled out a dagger and threw it at the mans thigh and covered his mouth so he wouldn’t scream and stared him in the eyes. “See my brother here isn’t much for talking isn’t that right blade?” Oris pressed the dagger in more with his free hand and watched the man twitch in pain. “But I know him very well and this him telling you that we refuse your offer and expect the money to be delivered ASAP” Eony said with a chuckle. “Alright, alright you savages you’ll get your money” he said reluctantly “Oh did I mention it’s going to be double? Yeah it’s going to be double from all the trouble you caused us” Eony said. Before the man could fight back he noticed the polar bear inching closer to him already covered in blood and bearing it’s teeth. “Yes double, and the guards won’t know about what happened here…” He said with a warm trickle running down his leg. “Perfect! Pleasure doing business with you, have a good night, come on brother let's go drink!” Eony said as he wrapped his arm around Orises shoulder and signaled the bear to follow them away from the bloody mess they left in the snow covered street.