Hard Pass Page 2

  Me: You know what they say: Cash is king, baby.

  555-4439: Right, but what if I jump you and leave you lying there?

  Me: That’s really dramatic. Besides, I can outrun you.

  555-4439: Pfft, how do you know?

  Me: Trust me. I can outrun you.

  He—or she—has no idea she’s talking to a guy who can run all the bases on a field, from home plate and back, in under seventeen seconds flat.

  555-4439: You sound pretty confident for someone I’ve never met. For all you know, I’m an Olympic sprinter.

  Me: Are you?

  555-4439: No.

  555-4439: Why’d you have to go and ask that? You took the wind out of my sails.

  I resist the urge to banter back—it’s tempting, so, so tempting—but I need to get back on track, i.e. discussing the card.

  Me: Where have you been keeping the card and where’d you get it?

  555-4439: It’s in a plexiglass box, always has been. I’ve never taken it out, not even to clean it.

  Clean it! Hell no. Bad idea.

  Me: Yeah don’t do that. Don’t ever clean a baseball card.

  555-4439: The card was my grandfathers. I have his entire collection in a safe deposit box.

  Safe deposit box? Who even uses those anymore?

  No one, that’s who.

  Me: What are you doing with the other cards? How many are there?

  I’m interested to know which players she has and what she wants for them—before she lists them one by one on the damn internet.

  555-4439: Quite a few legends. Maybe a dozen total that are worth anything, the rest aren’t players anyone cares about.

  I’ll be the judge of that—I care about each and every one of them. I would be willing to give her a price for the collection as a whole, if she’s willing to entertain it.

  I get why she’s selling them one at a time—in this day and age, no one would be willing to give her what the collection is probably worth. Six figures at least.

  I have cash to spare and I’m itching to spend it on history. If the rest of the cards are in as excellent condition as the Hank Archer seems to be, I want to see them. In person, close up.

  Me: Have you figured out a price for the entire collection?

  555-4439: Don’t be ridiculous—you can’t afford it.

  I love how cocky and sure she sounds, giving me the set-down. Does she honestly believe a man who can shell out $25,000 for a scrap of cardboard in a clear box can’t afford to pay more?

  I can pay more.

  I can pay lots more.

  However, the art of negotiation has taught me not to show my cards (pun intended) and despite haggling for this purchase without my agent, I feel capable.

  Me: I’m definitely interested to know which players you have in the collection as a whole before you sell them off individually.

  555-4439: I’ll have to check. I had them appraised—as I mention in the ad—but don’t have the list memorized. I feel like…

  The message comes through, sentence unfinished, and I stare, waiting.

  555-4439: I don’t know, don’t quote me on this, but I think there is a Dwight Powers?

  Powers. P-A-U-E-R-S.

  Dwight Pauers—she spelled his name wrong.

  My heart races.

  555-4439: And a Toby Jenkins? Or is it Lenny? I don’t remember.

  Me: Leroy Jenkins?

  555-4439: Yes! That’s it.

  Holy shit. It’s starting to sound like she has the entire World Series winning team from 1928 in her hands.

  Sweat beads on my forehead and I wipe it with the back of my hand.

  Me: Cool. I’d love to see those. Can I send you a deposit so you’ll hold them?

  555-4439: Are you still buying the Hank Archer first?

  Me: Yes.

  555-4439: What day works for you? You want to look it over and all that first, I totally get that. I am free Wednesday through Friday after two. Then Sunday at nine.

  Wednesday? Fuck, that’s two days from now.

  I’m itching to hold that card.

  Me: Wednesday works. I can meet you around four if that’s cool. What spot isn’t going to weird you out?

  555-4439: LOL How about…

  555-4439: The parking lot of the police station down on 54th?

  Great. They’re going to think we’re doing a drug deal in the parking lot. Or someone will see me and all hell will break loose and the last thing I want is to be photographed by fans in the parking lot of a cop shop. I don’t need my ugly mug plastered all over tabloids, television, or social media.

  I mind, but my buddy won’t.

  “Wallace, what are you doing Wednesday after practice?”

  “Masturbating. Why?”

  “I need you to do me a solid.”

  My teammate sighs heavily, burdened by a task he’s not even privy to yet.

  “Fine.”

  Me: Sounds like you have a deal.

  555-4439: What’s your name, so I know who to look for?

  I glance over at Buzz.

  Me: Friends call me Buzz. I’ll be driving an annoyingly clean black Beemer with creepy tinted windows and wearing a Chicago Steam cap.

  555-4439: LOL are you being serious? You’re already skeeving me out. Tinted windows? Beemer, aka pimp car?

  Me: Basically, yeah.

  555-4439: Oh lord, I better let my friends know I’m meeting a random man in a random parking lot.

  Me: It’s the police station—you’ll be fine.

  And you won’t be alone—far from it—not once the cops take one look at the catcher for their hometown professional baseball team.

  555-4439: My name is Miranda, by the way. You can call me Randi if you want.

  Me: Randi?

  I think I’ll stick to her actual name and call her Miranda. I create a new contact in my phone so I’m not confused the next time she texts me and to make it easier to find her when we’re negotiating.

  Contact: Miranda Baseball Cards

  Satisfied, I hit save, tapping on her incoming message.

  Miranda Baseball Cards: Do you want me to bring the other cards along when we meet for this one, or…?

  Me: No, no—we should work out the details first. You can do more research and tell me what you want for them. I don’t want you to feel rushed or taken advantage of. Come up with a number and we’ll talk.

  Not to mention it’s not safe for her to be meeting dudes in parking lots with valuable merchandise. Granted, this is me we’re talking about, but she doesn’t know I’m not a creep. She doesn’t know I would never take advantage of her—or anyone else, for that matter.

  I’ve paid my dues. I’m one lucky son of a bitch who prays every day and thanks the good Lord for blessing me.

  Shit, listen to me getting sentimental.

  What the fuck is my problem?

  Wallace has his feet up on my coffee table and is stuffing part of the meat and cheese tray he brought into his mouth. Sure, he’s a mooch, but on occasion he remembers to contribute, like today with the snacks.

  We don’t have practice today because we have a scrimmage tomorrow for spring training, so we’re chillin’. The rest of our buddies/teammates aren’t scheduled to arrive for a bit.

  The plan is to watch another team—the team we play for the season opener—and study their game. Watch the pitcher, the shortstop, how they move and communicate with the coach and catcher.

  Shit like that.

  Also, we’ll drink.

  Not shitfaced drunk, but Anderson Stevens is bringing a keg, so no man will leave here thirsty. Anderson’s wife also just had their third baby, so we’re celebrating too, kind of like a bachelor party but for babies?

  A baby shower?

  No, that’s not right either since she already popped the kid out.

  Whatever.

  “What the fuck are you still doing over there, Betty Crocker?”

  “Ha ha.”

  Caterers dropped
off a few platters of appetizers, so I have nothing to do, but fuck around idly at the counter.

  “I’m messaging the owner of the Archer card.”

  Buzz grunts and I can see him shove a hand inside the waistband of his gray sweatpants and rest it there. Jesus, this guy has no class—it’s like he forgets he’s at someone else’s house.

  Miranda Baseball Cards: You’re right, yes. Okay. That’s what I’ll do, figure out how much I want for the whole lot. In total there are twenty-four cards, twelve of which are heavy hitters.

  Me: That’s fine.

  Miranda Baseball Cards: You sound so sure, LOL. I haven’t even told you who the players are.

  She’s told me enough.

  Hank Archer. Dwight Pauers. Leroy Jenkins.

  I’d buy the entire lot for a stab at owning those three cards alone. Six figures don’t put a dent in my paycheck; I’ll give her whatever price she wants.

  Even so, I put my game face on and flex my proverbial haggling muscles.

  Me: True. Send me some pictures when you have a chance?

  Miranda Baseball Cards: Yeah. I need to do it soon—would that be cool with you? The sooner the better, actually. I thought it would take me longer to find a buyer, but if you’re interested in them all then I’d love to get this done.

  This piques my interest.

  Me: What’s the rush?

  A stretch of time passes before Miranda replies and I imagine her debating about how much information to tell me. Me, a perfect stranger.

  I check the clock to see where I’m at for time and how much of it I have before the cavalry arrives.

  Miranda Baseball Cards: I’m using the money I make from the sale of the cards to finance a new business.

  I stand up straighter. A new business? That’s a fun development and I lean into the conversation, legitimately intrigued by this person I’ve never met and probably never will meet.

  Me: Oh? Is it your first?

  Miranda Baseball Cards: Yes, I…

  Another long pause as she decides what to share.

  Miranda Baseball Cards: Yeah, so, I actually graduated from college last semester and cannot see myself working for anyone, but myself. It’s always been my dream to open a design studio—I love designing and decorating spaces.

  She just graduated from college.

  That would make her around my age or close enough to it, roughly 22?

  I have a few years on her at 24, but I was expecting Miranda to be at least in her forties. No fucking idea why, I just did.

  Me: Design, like, interior design? Or are you an architect?

  Miranda Baseball Cards: A little bit of both, but I don’t have my architectural degree. Business with a design emphasis. I want to hire one or two people and I can’t do that without capital. That’s why I have to sell these cards. I do not want to take out a loan.

  A 22 year old new graduate starting her own business?

  I’m fascinated.

  Suddenly I’m curious about other details, like what she looks like. Where she went to school. How tall is she? What does her voice sound like? Besides my buddies and teammates, some of whom are also in their early twenties, I don’t know a single recent college graduate with this much ambition or drive. The only women I meet who are that age are gold diggers whose one ambition in life is to become a trophy wife.

  This version of girl is foreign to me.

  Even Anderson’s wife dropped out of school when they were at university together, moved in with him when he got drafted, and started having babies before he even proposed. How’s that for a retirement plan?

  Anderson never got the memo about girls poking holes in condoms.

  I’m not judging Keely; all I’m saying is she picked out her own engagement ring, the car he gave her as an engagement gift, and push presents for all three of her pregnancies. Also, she’s barely recognizable after all the surgery she’s had on her body and face.

  That woman costs him hundreds of thousands of dollars a year—and I’m not in the market for my own Keely Stevens.

  Me: That’s awesome!

  Seriously, it is, but now I’m stumped on what else to say.

  Miranda Baseball Cards: The whole thought of taking this giant risk makes me want to throw up, ya know? But if I don’t do it, I’ll hate myself. I would make THE WORST employee!

  I remember the first time I stepped onto the baseball field at Field Park Stadium, surrounded by all the seats, bleachers, and box suites. The lights. The scoreboard. It was like nothing I’d ever seen and I threw up on home plate in front of my new coach and the team owner.

  80 million dollars and he pukes on the plate.

  “Good job, kid,” Coach said, slapping me on the back and walking away. He left me to my own devices and the custodian arrived to clean up my mess. Asked for an autograph.

  I know all about nerves and being scared; I’ve lived it. I live it every time I step onto that field and the sensation of being on it never gets old, whether I’m playing or practicing.

  Me: How so?

  Miranda Baseball Cards: I would definitely be fired for insubordination and not following the rules by the end of day one. Day three if I’m lucky, ha ha.

  Me: I’ll have to take your word for it.

  “Hey dipshit, are you making love to that phone or what? Grimm just texted me—he and Dexter are on their way over.”

  Me: We’ll talk more this week about the cards and plan for Wednesday?

  Miranda Baseball Cards: That sounds great. Thanks again—you’re going to love this card, it really is in GREAT shape. My grandpa never took it out of its case.

  They rarely did.

  Which is good news for me.

  Me: Sweet.

  I set the phone down, ignoring it when it pings again with a new notification, knowing it’s Miranda. If I don’t stop messaging her, Wallace will ride my ass about it because he isn’t getting enough attention.

  That dude is an attention and fame whore.

  I think that’s one of the reasons he likes hanging out with me; I let him have the spotlight when we’re out in public, shying away from it for myself when I can. Although, the two of us being out together creates more unwanted attention than not. Christ, can’t a guy just eat dinner without it becoming a big fucking deal?

  I can skate by unnoticed if I’m alone: baseball cap down low, sunglasses, baggy sweats, and layers.

  When I’m with him?

  Jesus, he’s like a walking, talking billboard for douchebaggery that cannot be ignored. By anyone. Paparazzi, fans. Women, men. Teenagers who are fans of the sport or the team. Dude cannot get e-damn-nough.

  He’s right though; our friends start to arrive, filling my kitchen and living room, flopping onto furniture. Feet up. Beers poured.

  A few of them stand at the kitchen counter with me, shooting the shit, talking about their kids and families, women they’re dating or sleeping with.

  Fucking is more like it, but still, it’s more action than I see.

  “Wallace was telling us you have a hard on for some baseball card,” Kurt Kleinman is saying, snapping a celery stick in half and dipping it in dill. “Which one is it?”

  “Hank Archer,” I say, popping a few veggies into my own mouth. “It’s mint.”

  “You ain’t seen it—how the hell you know it’s mint?”

  Kleinman is from the Deep South and his grammar drives me insane.

  “I’ve seen pictures.”

  “Are you fucking serious? Boy, haven’t you heard of Photoshop? Shit, half the women I meet look nothin’ like their pictures online. It’s all fake.”

  Fake, fake—that’s what Wallace was saying.

  I swallow hard, shrugging. “Guess I’ll find out on Wednesday.”

  Well, Wallace will when he meets Miranda and gets the card for me; he just doesn’t know it yet. Shouldn’t be tough to convince him—he rarely needs much encouragement when there’s the chance to meet a chick.

  “Who’s selling you t
his card, some old fart who needs a fat paycheck?”

  “Nah. It’s some young entrepreneur. She inherited them from her grandpa when he died.”

  Kleinman snorts. “See, that’s fucked up—people will do anything for a fast buck. Ain’t she heard of family heirlooms? Or legacies?”

  The good old boys are far more sentimental than I give them credit for.

  “What is a girl going to do with a box full of old baseball cards? They aren’t doing her any good in the closet.”

  “What if her son wants ’em? And she sold them.”

  I doubt she has a son to pass them down to and if she does in the future, who even says the kid would give a crap.

  “Guess I’ll keep them for my son then. Or daughter.” I shrug, not wanting to get into a pointless argument. “None of my business why she’s selling the cards as long as she sells them to me.”

  I expect him to keep arguing, but he surprises me by nodding. “When you meeting her for the drop?”

  My eyes roll toward the ceiling; they’re making it sound like I’m doing an illicit drug deal on the wrong side of town.

  “Wednesday.”

  “Want me to come with you? Just in case? I’ve seen To Catch a Predator—I know how this shit goes down.”

  “First of all…” I sigh. “Neither of us are children. Secondly, I doubt she’s going to try to jump me.”

  “You don’t even know for sure it’s a girl. It could be some old dude pretending to be a girl. Next thing you know—whammo, you’re being held at knifepoint in a seedy parking lot by some little dude.”

  Keep in mind: I’m six foot two, weigh two hundred pounds, and have a glare that would send a junkyard dog running in the opposite direction the way I run from home to first base.

  “We’re meeting at the police station.” Idiot.

  “You can get held at knifepoint in the police parking lot.”

  What is he even talking about? “I’m not worried.” I slide some cheese and sausage in his direction, along with the fruit platter. The more he has in his mouth, the less nagging he can do. “Besides, it’s not me who’s going.”

  The guys consider this new information, and Donahue—our first baseman—cocks his head. “You sending Rudy?”

  Rudy is my manager-slash-assistant on those rare occasions I need assisting. Mostly he just manages appearances when I have to make them and my time when baseball is in season.