#they have one of the best billboards lawyers ads in town

[pendragonfics]

Shiver

Paring: Matt Murdock/Reader

Tags: female reader, canon compliant, blind date, blind humour, bed sharing, fluff, angst and a happy ending bc why not

Summary: "And Matt, this is ________, practically my keeper and non-biological sister, and you are each other's blind date. More-so for Matt."

Foggy sets his two BFFs up, and Matt's life gets in the way of romance.

Word Count: 2,241

Posting Date:  2017-03-18

Current Date: 2017-06-11

"The last time this happened, he set me up with the non-English speaking son of his landlady, said, 'Have a good night, children', and ran off into the night." You laugh at the memory, and how you spent the whole time walking around the city repeating what little English words the guy had known. "And, ever since I moved here, Foggy has not been off my case about being single in a city like this. Says I need protection, but I've got pepper spray and a can of whoop-ass in my fist." You sigh, looking at yourself in the mirror, playing with the stubborn hair that keeps falling into your eyes. "Don't say whoop-ass on the first date. One a blind date."

It was common knowledge that Franklin 'Foggy' Nelson was best friends with you since birth. Everyone knew it. It was like a word association game; always together. In fact, your mothers had been friends, and you two had been friends, and if it ever came to it, your children would be friends too, and so on. The Nelson family and the ______'s had known each other for eons, and would always do. And that was why you followed him to this side of the city, to the only place you knew.

Of course, thankfully, you had a job, and a dinky apartment that used to be someone's basement underneath a gym, and the same guy trying to get you out in the dating world and find someone to hook up with. But that was what best friends were for, right? Getting people out of their own little ruts and out into the world where the sun shone through the skyscrapers and warmth came from disposable coffee cups.

But there was ten minutes to go until the date (meeting place: a street corner near a park and a bar) and you were still trying to figure out what to do with your hair when you heard a text alert come through your phone. But checking it, it was none other than Foggy, sending you a picture of someone's shoe (attached to somebody's leg, thank goodness) and the words don't leave matty standing around under it.

Rolling your eyes, you fluff your hair the way it normally is for everyday life, and grabbing a scarf, rush out the door. It doesn't take long to get to where the meeting place is, and once you're there, you can't help but laugh. After knowing him all of those years, and tying ties for all of yours, you swear you'd taught him how to not to tie it backwards. And the suit? You'd need to take him out around town for another - he looked like a used-car salesman.

"I'd know that laugh anywhere, even if I was in a room of ________ doppelgangers all laughing," Foggy grins, crossing the distance away from you, smothering your outfit and you in a crushing hug. "Glad you could make it."

"I'm getting the feeling that there was no choice between making it, or not," you whisper back, and add, "Being single isn't a curse, Fog."

From your peripherals, you notice a guy, wearing a suit, but unlike Foggy who looks somewhat like a child invading his uncle's old raggedy clothes pile from the spare room, this guy makes the suit look like he's on-loan from Armani for the weekend. And without really planning to, you feel yourself get flustered at the sight of him without even speaking a damn word to the guy.

"Ah. _______, this is Matty-Matt-Matt, BFF and lawyer friend-slash-partner in our business," he motions to the guy. "And Matt, this is ________, practically my keeper and non-biological sister, and you are each other's blind date. More-so for Matt."

It's only then you link the white cane and the glasses on the edge of his nose.

"He's always joking about it, don't you worry," he extends a hand to you, and like something like a magical Disney prince, he's linked his arm in yours, and your heart is racing a million miles a minute because the freaking hot blind guy has treated you like a goddamned Disney princess and you're sure you've forgotten to brush your teeth or something dumb. Leaving Foggy behind, he muses, "So, he told me you've moved?"

You nod, and realising your mistake, add, "Um, yeah. Grew up in the place beside the Nelson's, but there's nothing really left for me there. I mean, new job. I'm a typist for a clinic downtown." You tell him.

Matt grins. "I'm good with my hands too, what with all the Braille," he jokes, and adds, "Please, relax, I can take a joke, and Foggy knows that way too well." He pauses, "If you like, we can play that game where you ask a question, and then I do." You can't help but smirk, because all this time, with his cane out, he's been navigating around people and the bustle of the city and somehow managed to lead you toward a park bench in the park across the road. "You start."

Taking a seat, you hum, and chewing on your lip, deliberate on what to ask Matty-Matt-Matt, Foggy's lawyer friend-slash-partner. "Okay. Have you always been ... blind?" you ask.

He shakes his head. "Got into an accident. Saved an old man, but lost my eyes." He replies, folding his cane up, sitting the stick on his lap. "What made you become a typist?"

You blink. "I - I don't know. I remember being six and watching my grandmother on her old typewriter ... I've always had a thing for the way the keys clack. Okay, that sounds really dumb." You feel a roaring blush coat your cheeks.

"No, no, not dumb," Matt places a hand on yours, "It's better than why I became a lawyer."

You cock an eyebrow, and use up your next question on that, and go back and forward in the game until the sun seems to be fading into the distance behind the skyscrapers of Hell's Kitchen and you're feeling less than strangers with the handsome man beside you. As you shiver in the evening air, he seems to come out of a charm from your voice, and spell unbroken, he proposes moving toward a place with reservations for the pair of you. Before you know it, the night is over, and he's walked you back to your place, and you've added your number into his talking phone and his to yours, and vowed to go out again next Thursday after his rota of clients for the day.

It's like this every week until almost a year later you wake up beside him in his bed, and turn to him in the midnight air. In the darkness that isn't quiet, you see the shadow of his form in the sheets, the way his hair falls every which-way, his lips parted ever so slightly to take in the night air. But your eyes see the haunting linger of bruises and battered ribs and the blister on his hand, how they become increasingly calloused as the days pass by.

Your boyfriend calls them his accidents, but you know inside you don't believe him. You've been with him for very nearly twelve months, and you know what Matt Murdock, the guy who kisses you goodbye on his way to work, and forgets his lunch in the fridge in the apartment and asked you to move in with him only eight months after knowing him, and had the freaking Punisher as a client.

The Matt you know would never just let himself 'fall down the stairs' or 'trip over the sidewalk' and, your personal favourite, 'walk into a door'. No. The Matt you knew, the Matt you met when you first went on that date, walked proficiently around people like his blindness was only a defined term to some and not a complete concept for him. The Matt you knew would never just let a guy step off the curb too early, almost like he could sense what was happening, would never do the same for himself.

He was lying, and it was simple.

Slipping a foot from the bed, you pad over to the main living area as quiet as you can be, and curl in on yourself on the couch. It's been months since you left your apartment and assimilated into his, and longer still since you've seen your family or the dog face to face, or on Skype. Perhaps it's the fact you're wondering if Matt is either into hardcore BDSM and cheating on you or the vigilante Daredevil (which is nigh impossible) and perhaps it's that which is making you shiver on the lounge, or that you've been such an adult for so long and need to feel the arms of someone you love around you to tell you that it'll all be okay.

"________?" His voice is groggy, tantalising to hear, and you can practically picture his face as he realises you're not in the bed beside him. "I can hear crying, is that you?"

It isn't until he says this you realise that yes, it is you, and you're giving Alice from Wonderland a run for her money, as your nightshirt is soaking. You shakily give a breathy yes and hear his feet hit the hardwood, making their way toward to you on the sofa. "Matt, please, you need sleep, you've got a court date tomorrow with the Frank Castle case," you protest, but he's taking you into his arms, to his chest, cradling you like you're goddamned four years old and just had a nightmare. "Why are you so hard to understand, Matthew?"

He's still for a moment. "Do you remember that date, the one Foggy set up?" He asks you, like there's any possibility you could have forgotten meeting the best guy you'd ever come to be with. "Do you want to play that game where you ask a question, and then I do?"

"Are you cheating on me?" your voice is barely a whisper, but you know he hears you.

Matt shakes his head. "No – no, I'm not." he whispers back, his fingers combing the hair from your eyes, from your face. "Why couldn't you sleep?"

You take a breath before answering. "I just...I don't know. Mid-midlife crisis." You can't see, but hear the puff of laughter that comes from his smirk. "Why don't you trust me?" you ask. It's truly a silent night after the words leave your lips; Matt stills behind you, his big spoon to your little one is almost a statue, the flashing lights beyond the apartment of the billboard orchestrate the passing of time. "You never tell me where you go when you just disappear, and come back beaten and battered all over. I met a girl named Clare on the stairs one day, and she knew your middle name. Which, I learned, from her, Mr. Matthew Michael Murdock," you murmur your defences to the lawyer, backing up your facts, "Foggy calls a lot, and we're basically the founding members of the What Is Up With Matt club, and on top of it all, you don't tell me a damn thing!" you sit up, leaving the arms of Matt empty on his side of the lounge.

"________ -,"

You shake your head. "I'm a typist who if was better at school could be a damn court stenotype, and if you can't tell me what you've been hiding since I met you, then I'm sure that I can be out of here by the sunrise, Matt. I swear, there's nothing worse than knowing there's something going on and you can't do a thing to help." Your voice chokes up, arms tight around yourself.

"It's not that I don't trust you, _______," he starts. "I just want to protect you."

You wipe your tears on the back of your wrist, and knowing well enough it's not your turn to ask, you implore, "From what? Truth? Isn't that a fundamental thing about being a lawyer, an American?" You sniff. "I'm the same age as you. I kicked the ass of the last guy who tried to mug me. I know how to do taxes and I know there's shitty things in this world that happen for shitty reasons, but out of all of that, you're still defending your motive that you're protecting me?" You swallow. "From what, Matt?"

He lowers his head, wiping a hand over his face. "Please, I know you're upset, and I never intended you to be. But ... I have, uh, abilities. I can hear really well, and smell, and feel. I'm also the son of Jack Murdock, and I can't just step down from a fight.

You're not sure you like where this is going, but you sit there, silent, waiting for the next part to come.

"I - I'm Daredevil. I'm the Devil of Hell's Kitchen, and I just want you to know that I don't go out to do it for fun. I do it because I love you, _________. And I want to make the city safer for you."

A silence settles between you, and slowly, you reach out, and cradle his cheeks in your palms, cupping them to raise his head to face your own. "Matt, you idiot..." you whisper, gazing into his eyes.

He gives a wan smile. "But I'm your idiot?"

You nod. "Yeah. You're my idiot."

[riskypsy]

Luna Lessons: Just Roll With It.

With some maintenance issues we learned yet again that living van life means having to roll with whatever is thrown at you, even when it messes up your very well laid plans. With a 23 hour drive from Boston to Tampa I had plenty of time to think of some lessons learned over the last few weeks.

McDonald's coffee is better than Starbucks and cheaper. Starbucks may have the branding, but the reality is (in my opinion) when comparing the two McDonald's wins and for only dollar how can you go wrong when you are on the road and need caffeine (so much caffeine).

I have a small desire to open a bookshop in a small town. This is because of a bookshop for sale in Belfast, ME.  It reminds of every Gilmore Girl episode. Why a small desire, because I know what Maine winters are like and I have no desire to run my own business. Maybe I could just win the lottery and then buy it, run it and close it during the off season. Best of both worlds right?

You can wave at some Canadian co-workers from the Old Niagara Fort.  Well at least via Slack and some pictures.

With a bad memory the Old Man reads my blog just to remember what we did. Sadly I haven’t been doing so well on writing them so he is a bit at a loss of what we been up to since Maine.

There are way too many lawyer billboards. Interstates, highways, back roads, everywhere so many lawyer billboards. Do they really need to advertise that much?  Maybe they could learn some inbound marketing skills and save us on the road the eyesore of their ads.

I still really miss Alaska. I know it is cold there(12F now) and dark, but I miss summer Alaska.  At this point I am sure it more nostalgia for time gone, but I really really want to get back soon.

It took me way too long to realize I should write down my Luna Lessons as I think of them through the day. Yea I have all these great thoughts and then yell at myself for forgetting them. UH DUH write them down, not like I am not on a computer everyday or carry a journal around everywhere. I have learned and now I write made doing this list a whole lot easier.

One to grow on:

People keep telling me to write a book about this adventure. Before we left I published my first book, and everyone asked me if I am going to write one about this adventure. I smiled and said sure. As we have gone along and run into friends who have read my first book (thank you friends), they have told me I should write another book about this adventure and our view of van life. I agree to some degree because I feel we have a side to tell, but I am not sure what to write about, or if anyone would really even read it and that includes my friends.  I also have a bit of fear of being a bit too honest about this adventure and scaring myself. Who knows, I am sure I will try to write one, but since it took me 3 years to write the last one I am not sure it will be relevant to publish by the time I am done. I mean this van life lifestyle craze can’t last forever, can it?

Life on the road has its ups and downs as does any life, but I have learned so much about myself, the Old Man, and America that I wouldn’t change the downs for anything. And well the ups I bet you can guess how I feel about them.

[dcsafecommunities]

Dealing With Lawyers Hints In The Experts Within The Field.

You Are Unable To Progress With A Lawyer Without This Advice

If you locate yourself in times where it is essential to take someone to court, choosing the right lawyer to represent you is vital. Don’t make the mistake of picking somebody who will ask you for ridiculous rates without helping much. Read through this article for tips on how to pick the right lawyer.

There is a directly to expect clear, consistent communication along with your lawyer. They will be able to offer you a general summery of whatever you can expect regarding your case, and also what potential issues might arise and what could be completed to remedy these complaints.

If you require a good lawyer, ask your pals, relatives and colleagues when they know anyone. It is advisable to get yourself a recommendation from someone you trust rather than getting a lawyer who spends a good deal on promotional campaigns. If you fail to have a recommendation, do some background research on different lawyers.

An attorney who concentrates on a particular issue is going to be a benefit for yourself. Specialized lawyers might be more costly however, these lawyers have extensive exposure to cases like yours. You need to avoid lawyers who spend the majority of their revenue on promoting their services and rely on their good reputation and results instead.

Check for your lawyer’s record to see the accomplishments that they have inside their field and regardless of whether there are any issues in the past. The object is for the best lawyer obtainable in your budget, so seek information to get one that fits the bill. This choice can create a large difference in your own life if you are facing a critical issue.

It is important that you and the lawyer offer an open line of communication. Be sure your lawyer is making progress and get if you can do anything whatsoever to assist out.?legal aid This could be greatly beneficial to your cause.

Discover up front how often you have to be in tough with the lawyer. If you need these people to make contact with you quickly when you contact them, communicate that in their mind in advance. If you face this problem together with your current lawyer, find a new lawyer at your earliest convenience.

Search on the internet before choosing a legal professional. Not only can you discover attorney listings and backgrounds, but you can get a great deal of legal help. Legal-focused forums exist that can give you background information relating to your matter and guide you to the correct specialists. Simple legal matters, like making a will, can often be also handled through legal websites.

Set up a good communication system along with your lawyer first thing. Lawyers are busy people, plus your case might be one of many. When you haven’t established an expectation for communication, you might be forgotten. So set it up through the first meeting. Be sure your expectation is apparent.

 legal Aid

Legal aid can be quite a good solution if you fail to afford a lawyer. A legal aid office will put you in connection with lawyers who offer services on the pro bono basis. Some lawyers volunteer as a way to gain experience. You can get these within the white pages yellow pages for your personal town.

When looking at lawyers, try volunteer legal organizations.Many states have these organizations that can help you find a lawyers reliable lawyer. They usually include minority bar associations and legal aid societies plus they may concentrate on forms of income or particular forms of law. You may usually find these local organizations by exploring the state bar’s website.

Lawyers

Most lawyers will consent to meet up with you totally free so that you can explain your issue and get some useful advice. You need to consider meeting with some other lawyers to have several professional opinions and compare fees. Spend a few weeks meeting with different lawyers before you decide to hire one.

Factors to consider you will have a solid case before attacking someone in the court. Keep in mind that some lawyers simply have their particular desire for mind and definately will give you advice to go to court regardless how solid your case is. Present your case to different professionals and do some research on your own before you go to court.

Don’t choose a lawyer based upon an advertisement. You could be interested in somebody who goes by “Justice Man” or “Strongarm,” but those personas are merely to obtain your attention and your money. Several of these lawyers are compensating for their deficiency of professional skills. It’s always best to perform a little research on any lawyer prior to choosing one, as well as avoid depending on billboards, radio, magazine and television ads.

As mentioned in the beginning of your article, discovering the right lawyer can certainly help in relation to your court date. If you are a plaintiff or defendant, developing a lawyer which works for you will maximize your success. Keep in mind tips in this post in order to choose someone helpful!

from Mitchell Albert Dcsafecommunities http://dcsafecommunities.com/dealing-with-lawyers-hints-in-the-experts-within-the-field/

[jjaywmac]

What’s in a Name?

My father was born Vito Anthony Orlandella, and he didn’t much care for his name. “Vito” was all right, and in fact, he named his principal business The Vito Fruit Company. No real problem with the benign Anthony, it was the last name he saw as problematic. His one foray into show business as a record producer was done under the name “Tony Vito”. I’m not certain, but I believe he thought that Orlandella was too long and clumsy for a billboard. He had another name ready but never got the chance to use it. A clever anagram made by dropping the first two and the last letters of his name. Thus was born “Vic Landell”. When it came time to name my ballplayer-turned-detective, the choice was an easy one. Call it a homage to my father.

1

Genesis

If you reside in Florida near the Ocean, you qualify as a resident of a “Coast.” If you live between Palm Beach and Miami, you are on the Gold Coast. Between Port St. Lucie and the Indian River? That would be the Treasure Coast. While the area around Cape Canaveral is, no surprise, the Space Coast. Over here on the Gulf of Mexico, we limit ourselves to just one. The stretch that runs from above Tarpon Springs all the way down to Naples is known as the Sun Coast. Now in the dead of a Florida winter, which means that the temperature has plummeted to a mere eighty degrees, I am constantly reminded of Sarah Miles’ languid portrayal of “Alice” in the film “White Mischief” and her line for the ages, “Oh, God, not another fucking beautiful day.”

As my Lotus Elise SC makes the left off Bee Ridge and merges into traffic on Interstate 75 Northbound, I am about an hour away from my destination. Here is your chance to “vet” me. I was born Victor Anthony Landell, on August 22, 1979, at the Massachusetts General Hospital. From day one, everybody called me “Vic.” My father Peter, “Pete,” was a Captain of Detectives for the Boston Police Department, and recently retired to Falmouth on Cape Cod. My mother Katherine, better known as “Kate,” was Chief Nurse at the Dana-Farber Cancer Institute right up until the day a cerebral hemorrhage took her life four years ago. Her death devastated my father. My older brother by eighteen months, Thomas, or “Tommie”, is a Commander in the Navy and living out my dream, flying fighter jets off a Nimitz-class carrier.

My IQ score says I should have been a great student, but my interest level begged to differ. I was more concerned with the Red Sox and girls, though not in that order. If you look across the Charles River from Storrow Drive you can see Harvard and M.I.T. “So near and yet so far.” Let’s just say I wasn’t ticketed for either, more likely some State college or, with luck, UMass.

I didn’t get to UMass, and for one good reason, my left arm. I played baseball in high school gifted with a decent fastball and not much else. During my junior year, a coach took me aside and said, “You have the longest fingers I have ever seen. Why aren’t you throwing curve balls?” Good question. So I worked and worked to develop what ballplayers call “the deuce.” Lo and behold, by senior year my curve and I were unhittable.

Then the phone started to ring, and suddenly, college coaches who a year before wouldn’t have given me the time of day were begging me to play for them. Being a Catholic, wanting my parents to see me play, and have the chance for a quality education, I chose Boston College.

The Society of Jesus expected me to do more than just pitch. Things like go to class, study, pass, and oh yeah, graduate – concepts that USC and Texas didn’t bother to mention. A major in history was coupled with a minor in philosophy. Philosophy? Once the Jesuits have you, they never let you go. Of course, neither discipline would get me a job since philosophers are always the last ones hired. Meanwhile, my hurling was coming along nicely, and after four years, I graduated – with honors.

Now, Boston College is no one’s idea of a baseball or for that matter a football factory. If you want a centerman or a lawyer, you look here. If you want a shortstop you look elsewhere. Most scouts couldn’t find Chestnut Hill with both hands and a map. Wonder of wonders, midway through my senior year, I was being scouted by the Pittsburgh Pirates. Miracle of miracles, they drafted me. OK, so it was in the 30th round, but I was in no position to quibble. My philosophy career would have to be postponed. Game called on account of the National Pastime.

Continuing up I-75, a town appears on our left. Not just any town, it is Bradenton aka Sarasota’s ugly stepsister. Bradenton has precisely two claims to fame. It is the home of Tropicana Orange Juice, and for six weeks every winter, the home of the Pirates. This is where it all began for me, February 2000, spring training with Pittsburgh. I arrived on the afternoon of the 15th – bringing with me a glove and a dream. When a Major League team drafts you in the 30th round, your signing bonus will just about pay for a baloney and cheese sandwich. I couldn’t care less. I was a Professional Baseball player.

In all, three summers would pass toiling in the Pirates minor league system. I started playing “A” ball in Lynchburg, Virginia; the year after “AA” in Altoona, Pennsylvania; and finally, “AAA” in Nashville. While down on the farm, I played with guys on the way up, some others on the way down, and a few on the way out – has-beens and never-wases, prospects and suspects. The Pirates told me I was a prospect. So I rode the buses, slept in team motels, ate a lot of fast food, and waited. In the spring of 2003, my time finally arrived.

With Bradenton in the rearview mirror, we now transition to the I-275. The high-strung Elise is loafing along in 6th gear at 80 mph and goading me on as the road bends right. Coming into view is our local “Jewel in the Crown,” the Sunshine Skyway Bridge, according to some expert the third greatest bridge in the world. It’s the gateway to St. Petersburg, the back way to Tampa.

At the end of spring training, I was called into the manager’s office. There would be no going back to Nashville, I had made the team and would go north with the Pirates. The word I was looking for was incredulous, because some way somehow, I was headed to “the show.”

The end of the Bridge is the start of St. Petersburg. A city of two hundred and fifty thousand, it sits across the bay from Tampa and faces the Gulf of Mexico. If you are poor, you live in Tampa. Rich? St. Pete.

Further up the 275, accompanied by the wind noise around my open car and the whine from the supercharger a foot behind my head, I decide to fight back. Up comes the volume on the Lotus’ CD player. A note about my music – I was educated by parents who explained to me that modern music sucked and rap is crap – ‘60s rock and roll is the only real music. Thus, the CD changer has everything from the Beatles covering “Ain’t She Sweet” to the Rivingtons and their immortal “Papa-Oom-Mow-Mow.” Then mix in a dash of Francis Albert Sinatra, and since this is Florida, a dollop of James William Buffett, and presto – music.

When we arrived in Pittsburgh, I was told that my starting days were over and I was now a short reliever. In the lexicon of Baseball, a left-handed “short reliever” is the guy who arrives in the 8th inning, with the game hanging in the balance, for the sole purpose of getting out the other team’s best left-handed hitter. So, I had a role to play.

That first year in a Major League clubhouse was an education. I learned the official language of Baseball – profanity. Players are quite skilled at using modifiers: “That frigin’ ball went so frigin’ far and so frigin’ high!” They also like adding the word “mother” for emphasis. The boys are also adept at coming up with phrases to describe particular situations. If a pitcher goes nine innings and allows two hits, a player might be apt to say he “stuck the bat up your butt.” Conversely, if a reliever comes in, faces four batters, gives up four hits and allows four runs to score, he has just “shit all over the place.” Then there are the ladies. What to a rock guitarist is a groupie, to an outfielder is an Annie. Baseball Annies, like groupies, come in various sizes and shapes, some rather good, some with lots of “personality.” They have one thing – all right, two things in common. They want to meet a ballplayer, and they know the exact location of every team’s road hotel. Some players will always choose quality over quantity, but for others, “a ten o’clock two is a two o’clock ten.” And, of course, there are the bird-watchers, those drawn to the mating call of the double-breasted mattress thrasher.

The year before, Pittsburgh had opened a glorious new ballpark right on the river with a view of downtown. Unfortunately, their silk purse came with a sow’s ear – the Pirates. That summer, the team mustered just seventy-five wins to finish fourth. We outdid ourselves the following season, seventy-two victories. Ta Da!

For two years, I did my job, did it pretty well, and then awoke one morning to learn I had been traded to the St. Louis Cardinals. The Pirates had started yet another urban renewal project. Rebuilding was the one thing they led the league in. Desirable assets, me I suppose, were being exchanged for still more prospects. I was headed for my second team, having been swapped for the legendary “player-to-be-named-later.”

At least I was going to a winning team with a great manager in Tony La Russa. In 2004, the Cards won a stupefying 105 games to take the pennant before having their lunch handed to them by the Red Sox in the Series. The team had front row seats for the death of the Curse. 2005 looked to be more of the same as we won 100 games and swept the Padres in the first round. In the next round, however, we got swarmed by the Astros’ killer B’s. Bagwell, Berkman and Biggio sent us packing in six games.

I enjoyed my season – notice I used the singular and not the plural – in St. Louis because the fans were arguably the best in Baseball. Soon, it was moving day again. The Cardinals had some young arms ready to come up from the minors. “Young arms” is a euphemism for rookies who play for the minimum, and I was a highly paid veteran – as a result of arbitration – at over $1,000,000 a year.

There is a dirty word for what I had become, a “journeyman.”

And while we are on the subject of dirty words, now appearing on your right is Tropicana Field, by unanimous consent the worst ballpark in the world. To me, it’s the box St. Petersburg came in, a domed monstrosity full of girders, cables, catwalks, and about a million-and-a half-ground rules. All of which begs the question, what genius decided that on a summer evening Floridians wanted to be indoors?” Happily, I had the displeasure of playing there on precious few occasions.

So, the Cards shipped me off to the Atlanta Braves. Talk about your boomtown, you can feel it growing around you. In Buckhead alone, there is enough nightlife for five cities, and, per square foot, more beautiful women than anywhere else in the world. You can’t swing a fungo bat without hitting a major babe. Needless to say, my three years in Atlanta were a lot of fun, thanks in large part to a new, lucrative three-year contract.

While there, I got to play for another big-time manager, Bobby Cox. There is a problem with playing for the likes of Cox and La Russa – they are used to winning. For fifteen straight years, the Braves had made the playoffs. Well, we put a stop to that.

Not only did we not make the playoffs, we chalked up the first losing season in fifteen years.

“Oh Lord, I hope they are not rebuilding.”

The Braves were a team in transition, learning to cope without future hall-of-famers Greg Maddux and Tom Glavine. The next season, we somewhat righted the ship – 84 wins left us five games behind the Phillies.

In reality, all we did was rearrange the deck chairs on the Titanic. The win total dropped to 72 the following year. Then we were 20 games adrift of the Phils. It was time to rebuild in Atlanta and time for me to go. During the winter, I was traded again, this time to Philadelphia, and in February 2009, I reported for spring training with the Phillies in Clearwater.

“Would it have killed somebody to trade me to the Red Sox?”

Clearwater is precisely where we are now. Having exited the 275, we are now northbound on U. S. Highway 19. First stop is the Lotus Dealer where I am leaving the Elise to be serviced. Note to anyone who plans on buying a high performance British sports car – make sure you know where the dealer is. Mine is fifty-five miles from home.

I am fortunate that the appointment only takes about three hours, and the service manager gives me a loaner car lest I miss an appointment and wind-up with parts stamped “Made in England” littering the Interstate. Ten minutes later, we are back on the Highway.

Spring with the Phillies did not start well. The Club already had left-handed relievers, so, why did they trade for me? There was talk about my going back to the minors, hardly music to my ears.

After six years in the show, the thought of playing out the summer in Allentown, PA, toiling in AAA for the Lehigh Valley IronPigs – whatever they are, was almost too much to bear. Now, for the first time ever, the “R” work crept through my mind. Retirement.

That said, pitchers can be notoriously fragile. Sure enough, a ligament tear here, a pulled muscle there, some tendinitis, and surprise – once again I was invaluable. That summer, the Phillies used twenty-two different pitchers.

I hated Philadelphia – didn’t like the town or the people, and the cheese steak will never replace the sub sandwich or a slice of Regina’s pizza. The poor man’s Cradle of Liberty held no allure for me since I grew up in the real one. The Phillies had moved into a new stadium in 2004, a big upgrade over the dump they used to play in. Citizens Bank Park is many things – pitcher friendly is not one of them. It wasn’t so much a ballpark as it was a launching pad – Canaveral, without the alligators. There were precisely three saving graces. The first, the Phillies were winners. Second, thanks to my now being eligible for free agency, they were paying me over $6,000,ooo a year on a three-year deal.

The third came in June of 1910, when a Delta charter landed at Logan Airport. As a result of inter-league play, the Phillies came to Boston. The next day, I walked on the grass at Fenway Park. You can change grass to sacred soil because, to any true New Englander, this is hallowed ground as surely as the sod on Lexington Green. I got to pitch in Baseball’s Basilica.

A month later, it was well past midnight when we checked-in at San Francisco. I got to my room, and the message light on the phone was blinking. My dad had called and said it was urgent. I called his cell phone and barely recognized the voice on the other end. Through his trembling lips came two words, “She’s gone.” My mother was dead. Four hours later, I was in a cab back to SFO, with a reservation on the first flight home. I arranged for a high school buddy to pick me up at Logan, and we drove to Newton.

The view of our classic New England brick and wood home off Commonwealth Avenue was a sight for these sore eyes. My father was crushed. High school sweethearts, they had been married for thirty-seven years. Two days later, we buried her in Holy Cross Cemetery in Malden.

The Navy was able to get word to Tommie, somewhere in the Med. As for my dad, my only hope was that he would throw himself into his work, which he did. As for me, heartbroken, I went back to helping the Phillies win ballgames. And we kept on winning. Like every team, we had injuries, and like every good team, we fought through them.

We put together a solid 93-win season and in September, clinched the Club’s third straight Division Title. We rolled through the playoffs, making short work of the Rockies and the Dodgers, and landed a spot in the Fall Classic. I now had a shot at a ring, but looming in the other dugout was the team every Bostonian loathes, none other than the Evil Empire. Swear to God – I’d root for the plague if it were playing the Yankees.

The bastards had won the Series twenty-six times, and far be it from us to stand in the way of number twenty-seven. So, the Bronx Bombers took us out, four games to two. No title for the City of Brotherly Love, and sadly, no ring for moi.

Midway through the next season, while warming up, I felt a sharp pain in my elbow. There are two places a pitcher never wants to feel discomfort – in the shoulder, which usually means a torn rotator cuff, and the elbow, most likely ligament damage. I wanted a second opinion. It took one trip to the Kerlan-Jobe Clinic in Los Angeles and one exam by the great Doctor Jobe himself to confirm my own diagnosis, my elbow needed work. In the lingo of medicine, it’s known as an “Ulnar collateral ligament reconstruction.” For a pitcher who didn’t quite make medical school, it’s called “Tommy John Surgery.” On July 23, I went under the knife. The surgeons were pleased with the procedure, and two weeks later I began rehab.

I was three months into rehabilitation before I was allowed to simulate a throwing motion. One month later, they let me swing a golf club. By February, I was throwing off a mound with little discomfort. I then joined the Phillies in Clearwater to do more throwing and increase my arm strength. In April, I started throwing my bread and butter pitch – the curve ball. For whatever reason, it wasn’t breaking, or as players would say, “biting.” During August, there was a traditional rehab tour of the minors, and left-handed batters who I used to have for lunch were lining shots over me, under me, and through me. In September, when Major League Baseball teams expand their rosters to forty players, the Phillies didn’t even bother call me up. In their minds and mine, I was done.

No sad songs for me. I had put in nine seasons in the bigs and earned what in clubhouse-ese was a “shit load” of money, and in time, will receive a very generous pension. While no one’s idea of a miser, I was somewhat careful with my Benjamins. Teammates would pony up $250,000 for a Ferrari, whereas your humble servant would plunk down 50 large for a Lotus. A $100,000,000 contract usually carries with it a 10,000 square foot mansion. As you will see, I settled for less. And for good measure, I bought a ton of Apple at 100 and sold it at 600. In short, I’m loaded.

Ahead is the Florida Highway 60 exit, then a quarter-mile down the State Road, followed by a right onto Old Coachman Road. Our destination is in sight – Bright House Field, spring home of the Phillies. It is part of the new wave of Florida ballparks, with seats for 7,500 and a berm to accommodate an additional 1,500 freeloaders.

I’m here to have lunch with a good buddy, David Murdoch. Davy was the chief nuclear engineer on what is known in the Navy as a “boomer,” a ballistic missile submarine. As with so many before him, two months without seeing the sun got to be a little old. Having retired from the service, now divorced, and grossly overqualified, the Phillies hired him to be of all things their groundskeeper at Bright House.

We pitchers all loved him because he tailored the field to our liking. Ground ball pitchers got taller grass, and the foul lines were slopped away so a bunt would not stay fair. The bulb finally went on over someone’s head, and he was named chief electrician. He is a stand-up guy, an above average golfer, and one of my best friends.

Lunch is at the Clearwater Wine Bar & Bistro, a popular spot on the water. While we wait for our food, Davy brings me up to speed on what he has been doing.

“The Stadium has decided to update the lighting system.”

Good lights are crucial in Florida for an obvious reason – in the summer, virtually every game is a night game. Davy drew up plans for a new, million dollar system. He got the Phillies to go for it based on the fact that it was more energy efficient and would pay for itself…in just a hundred years.

“You’re going to do that job? I realize that you can take a reactor apart in your sleep, but this sounds like trouble.”

“Do you think I’m going up those towers and handle all that high voltage? How dumb do I look? An outside firm does all the installation work. Design? Yes. Touch? No.”

“Consider me greatly relieved. I have plans to clean your clock at Prestancia. When can you come down?”

“We’ll be on the first tee just as soon as I put baby to bed.”

Two ginger ales, a club sandwich, and a fight over the check later – which I won, I drop him off at the ballpark.

Now back to the narrative. One morning during that first spring with the Pirates, I finished my work out early, borrowed a friend’s car, and went exploring. Seven miles south on U. S. Highway 41, I was stopped dead in my tracks. This was it. The sign said “Sarasota”; it might as easily said Paradise. The town’s motto could have been: “aqua, aqua, ubique.” Latin? Seriously? In English, that translates “water, water, everywhere.” Remember, I’m the product of a Catholic education. The area includes two bays, one intra-coastal waterway, inlets, outlets, canals, a bayou, a river and one Gulf of Mexico. If you love the water, and I do, this is the place.

The little town seemed to have everything – theatre, opera, ballet, excellent restaurants although the search for someone who can make lasagna like my mother goes on, and massive snob appeal, which we call sophistication. How could I not love a place whose symbol is Michelangelo’s David? I heard a voice saying,

“Someday I’m going to live here.”

It was my voice.

After three years in the relative squalor of a Pittsburgh apartment, I was ready to make my move.

Siesta Key is a special place, a barrier island with the Intracoastal Waterway on one side and the Gulf of Mexico on the other. Its signature feature, however, is the beach. By acclamation, the beach at Siesta Key is one of the ten best in the world. The reason? It’s the sand, which is pure white with the consistency of baby powder. It’s mostly borax, and one can walk barefoot on the hottest day of the year and not feel it. If a pitcher isn’t pitching, he’s running. What better place to do my miles than right here?

I knew what I wanted. The Key is crisscrossed with canals that feed into the Gulf. The search was on for a home that sits by a canal. My realtor lined up a couple of choices, and number two was the winner, a three-and-a-den fixer, complete with a pool/Jacuzzi combination, and – drum roll please – a dock.

The combination of needs, work, and the bursting Florida real estate bubble made it a steal. A renovation included Alabaster walls, French doors, and a large island in the kitchen since, to an Italian, the cucina is the center of the universe. It took a month, but one day I woke up and was living a five iron from the Gulf. OK, I’ve told you who I am, where I’m from, and what I used to do. The remaining question is,

“What do I do now?”

Well, for starters, I’m a Florida first responder. I signed on as a member of the shock troops when the inevitable big one, Hurricane “fill-in-the-blank”, comes roaring up I-75. In addition, I do some charity fundraising, help coach a little league team, and in my spare time, I am something of a golfer, thanks to a membership at TPC Prestancia. The membership committee was obviously drunk when they voted me in. Oh yes, there is one more thing. I am quite possibly the first ex-ballplayer ever to become a P.I. That is correct. Vic Landell, former big league pitcher, is now Vic Landell, private investigator. Why and how I got this job in a bit, right now I’m just trying to get home.

U.S. Highway 41 is also the Tamiami Trail, or better known to the locals, “The Trail.” It is the main drag through Sarasota, Bradenton, and miles beyond. Outsiders believe the summer is the worst time to be in Florida, and they would be wrong. The winter is the worst time. Why? I can answer that with one word: snowbirds. The Trail, almost desolate in August, is our version of a California Freeway in January. Ohio and Indiana license plates outnumber those that read Florida. It took all of three weeks before I grew to loathe the interlopers.

“Bastards, why don’t they just go home and leave us alone?”

I was an official resident. Normally they are a fact of life and you just put up with them. Tonight is different – I have a date.

    “BURDEN OF PROOF” – Chapter 1 What’s in a Name? My father was born Vito Anthony Orlandella, and he didn’t much care for his name.