National Treasures

by Ryan McCord

CHAPTER 5 NEW ENGLAND & MR. WALKER'S DAUGHTER

  Once the news spread about Gerry, who happens to be one of the more popular guys in the clubhouse, at least 15 acquaintances came by to pay their respects. Then once they were convinced he wasn’t going to cry, each and every one of them followed with this question: What are you going to do now?

  Gerry’s emotional intelligence is at an all time high today. Throughout the history of baseball, almost every player that has been unwillingly released for the first time immediately sees this drawback as a right to self-pity. On a day when all your baseball rights are taken away, out of sympathy, the social rules can bend a little. Gerry could have sold out to his baseball brothers and said, “I really don’t want to think or talk about it right now.” Or he could have stood on a soapbox, engaging in persuasive discourse premising why the Presidents are the worst organization in sports. Or he could have put off an outwardly sulky vibe leaving his peers no choice but to perceive him as unapproachable to begin with. All of this could have happened, and nobody would have thought lesser of him; especially on a day he played at a prime level.

  “I’m thinking of going to Donghorn (Longhorn Steakhouse) for a steak, potato, and about eight draft beers while watching the NBA,” Gerry told the first cluster of guys with a very worry-free smile on his face. “But at this moment, not only is it out of my control for at least 24 hours (in accordance with baseball’s tampering policy should another team be interested), but I owe that time to myself to decide the Million Dollar Question: Finish the season or not.”

  A few guys thought he was down right bananas, but pretended to be supportive anyways. Another guy flat out didn’t believe a word he said. But a few of the younger guys not only made mental notes, but they wanted to hang around Uncle Gerry and listen to more. And because Gerry was, understandably, occupying a bubble of preoccupation, he had no idea just how inspiring his all around positive attitude towards the situation actually was to some people. He was going to leave the clubhouse that day, and in the process, perhaps bid farewell to his life-long dreams with class.

  James didn’t really know what to do or say, but since no other players happened to be in the parking lot at the time, he kept an honest smile on his face and gave Gerry a typical brief, two-pat male hug. Gerry appreciated it, but James could tell soon after he didn’t need it.

  “So who was the messenger?” James asked.

  “Blankenship.”

  “What, because you didn’t invite him to the wedding?” James smirked.

  From there the two briefly discussed whether or not it was a good idea for Gerry to immediately inform his family and fiancé. All things considered, Gerry was in a good place mentally, but he did not look forward to telling the same story over and over again on the phone. His mother would have been sad, and therefore, worried. That would have saddened him a little more. His fiancé would have wanted him home on the next flight out. Gerry owed himself a little bit of decompressing time. Something kept telling him that it was okay to keep the news to himself until he officially cleared waivers from the Presidents. After all, he was a professional athlete, and non-athletes simply cannot empathize with him in this bind.

  Gerry thought if no other affiliated team was interested in signing him, then it was time to head back home and start his new life. James told him that he would be happy to hang around until his exit strategy for Florida was made.

  Once he finished clearing out his equipment from the clubhouse, he was sent over by an official to the Presidents’ human resources office to pick up his final check. Once he got there, a clerk took him into his office and asked Gerry to list his agent’s primary contact number. The clerk went on to explain that someone in the organization, in accordance to baseball’s collective bargaining rules, would proceed with faxing his signed unconditional release form to every team in affiliated ball. Since Gerry only speaks to his agent once in a blue moon, he decided to list his own phone number as well.

  The clerk then inquires, “Are you going to be driving or flying home?”

  Gerry did not see this question coming. He just assumed everyone flew. But then again, not everyone from Washington State gets released in Florida while they have a friend in town who happens to be headed back west via the interstate highways.

  “You know what?” Gerry replies. “That’s completely up in the air right now.”

  The clerk then informed him that if he was to be flying, they could make the arrangements for him right then and there. They would pay for the ticket, but he would receive no additional compensation. But if he were to be driving, he would receive $550 in cash.

  Gerry then asked the clerk if he could return in about 15 minutes with his answer. The clerk told him that was not a problem, just ask the receptionist for Markus.

  James is just hanging out in the truck, parked beneath the shaded side of a tree. The windows are down, the R&B channel is playing as he munches on a bag of trail mix. Gerry then approaches the truck and leans in through the passenger side window.

  “So Big G,” Gerry said optimistically. “How do you feel about taking your boy home with ya?”

  As an experienced cross-country driver, that was music to James’ ears. He had made the unforgettable journey before, but never with a good friend to share it with.

  To James the American cross-country road trip experience, when its done right, is a stretched out 65 mph sedation so symphonic and sublime that it would’ve influenced Twain himself to recreate it to the masses. It’s not that it exhilarates like jumping out of an airplane. Nor is it life changing like finding Jesus. It doesn’t comfort the way Grandma’s Apple Pie does. And it certainly cannot be compared to making great whoopee. But if one can live this trip without having to deal with screaming kids in the back of a minivan, and instead with one or two kindred spirits and a reliable whip, prepare to experience an inimitable pastime composed by pure, fundamental human freedom. It’s a rare but doable flee for Americans to go out, be, and enjoy.

  “I feel like we could leave Florida by tomorrow morning,” James responds.

  After further discussion, Gerry agrees. Originally, he wanted to hang around for an extra day in case another affiliated team called in request for his services. But he soon realizes that if he were to get another shot, the new organization would fly him from wherever he happened to be at the time, and James could continue on from there. The only question that was up the air now, with the keys to the entire country now at their very own four-wheeled vantage point, was where to go first?

  James had an idea, as he not only got an email but a voicemail from his soon to be 40-year old cousin living in New London, Connecticut. Today is Thursday, and Sherrie McEwing is celebrating her monumental birthday on Saturday evening with what she calls “The Posse” of about 20 of her closest friends. She assumed James was still in New York City, so she invited him to come stay for the weekend.

  James has been to one of her bashes before, and because Sherrie’s basement has been refurbished and dressed as an Irish pub (bar, stone fireplace, big screen television and various decorum) her cold-weather parties had a mix of ski trip and college-like quality to them. But there was something else, an “x” factor if you will, that garnishes Sherrie’s shindigs with an uncommon, yet harmless appeal to them. He knew for a fact that Gerry had never been to a party like this one. Therefore, he insisted that they head for New England.

  “Why does New London ring a bell to me?” Gerry begins to ponder.

  “You played near there last year, in Norwich,” James reminds him. “You told me all about the casino.”

  “That’s it.”

  “Listen,” James begins to propose. “This is my only request. The rest of the trip is your call. Whatever you want to do or see, in any direction you want.

  “But I assure you, this will be the type of party that not only will you never forget, but you may never experience the likes of again.”

  “Okay, let’s go to New London,” Gerry shrugs. “But
what’s the big secret?”

  “Think of it as a surprise,” James insists. “Let’s just say we are going to be with good people. I just wanted you to be aware of the kicker, that our type will be in the vast minority.”

  “Are they bruth-uz?”

  James laughs and replies, “See this bastes the trip with different type of tone already. I’m not saying any more. But I promise you it will be tasteful, mostly legal, and definitely fun.”

  James concludes, “Gas to Connecticut is on me. This might end up being your retirement party, too. You won’t be let down.”

  Gerry knows and trusts his buddy isn’t the type to associate in any way with Muslim extremists, heroin addicts, pedophiles, vegans or any other unpopular establishment of demographics located in the USA. This fill-in-the-blank act is an imperfect part of the Big Game James mystique that only people close to him know and understand. So despite the fact that James is leaving out a significant nugget of information, Gerry still manages to head back to the President’s Player Resources office with a heightened sense of anticipation.

  Since it would take close to 20 hours to get to New London from Brevard, the two decide it would be best to just drive all the way through, and ultimately crashing at Sherrie’s place Saturday morning until it was time to whoop it up.

  It isn’t until after they made it all the way to Dunn, North Carolina, that James decides he is going to pop if he keeps another bit of headline news from Gerry any longer. Eleven hours of road time had passed, Gerry has been sleeping too much, the sunlight was fading, and therefore, initial rush of enthusiasm that so often comes with a road trip of this caliber had worn off quite considerably.

  “You ever heard of the King Cartel?” James says skittishly, as Gerry inclines his chair forward from what must have been his third two-hour nap.

  “What is it?” Gerry squints straight ahead, awaiting his eyes to adjust to the piercing red and orange blends throughout the twilight.

  “Mostly marijuana,” James affirms. “It operates here in the states actually. Some guy at spring training was telling me about it.”

  “Where at?”

  “Vermont.”

  James will go on to tell Gerry all about his Benny King experience, even revealing that Benny was the guy playing Peter Frampton out of the Humvee during the homerun. James also goes on to tell Gerry how he didn’t want to disclose the info concerning the possession of the Vermont’s Finest Doobies, which were still sealed in the cooler in the bed of the truck, until after they got out of the Bible Belt. Since the region itself goes well into Virginia, the two devise an irrational case, as if they were high already, to validate smoking the first joint in a parking lot away from the vehicle during the upcoming gas stop.

  And once they feel like their bearings were appropriately acquainted with the effects of THC by taking a stroll through a mini-mall, they re-hit the road. And not long after, as if it were supernaturally on cue, the track volume to one of their old shared favorites, Isaac Hayes’s “Shaft” theme song, builds throughout the truck. That was enough for the two to jumpstart nearly 10 hours of winning dialogue all the way to Connecticut. They relive the abundance of monkey business they committed during their college days before conversing on topics that ranged anywhere from popular USA conspiracy theories, baseball, city life vs. country life, music, artists, handicapping the odds that their respective trades will ever provide them a career, the greatest quarterback of all time debate (James: Montana, Gerry: Elway), previewing Saturday night’s Final Four contests, and of course, women.

  “It amazes me that more of them aren’t committed lesbians,” Gerry says, as they are now just a few blocks away from their New England destination. James just mutters back in agreement, his attention focused primarily on the task of finding Sherrie’s place.

  Winter jacket time. It’s pre 10 am here and the average temperature in the northeast is about 50 degrees colder than it was in Florida. Each exhale is now clearly visible. Remnants of snow from the previous week scatters the front lawn, and the grass crunches as you walk on top of it. James signals to Gerry to stop for a minute and enjoy the air as he begins to lift his arms above his head to stretch.

  “Now nothing beats the Fall flavored oxygen here,” James contends. “But even still, on any given day, the taste of the New England air is one of the most indispensable cultural advantages in the country.

  “And this is just urban Connecticut, you know?”

  Hands in jacket pockets, Gerry pauses, closes his eyes, points his nose to the sky and takes in three concentrated breaths.

  He nods his head a few times in recognition, “Yeah, what do you think it is?”

  “I don’t ever want to know what it really is,” James shrugs. “But it always makes me think of that 1776 chapter in my history book, you know?”

  In case Sherrie is still sleeping, James figures it an appropriate hour to lead them in without knocking. But he is only half surprised when he hears her voice in the kitchen.

  She’s a spitting image of actress Tina Fey, bifocals and all.

  Already a few beers in, she is smoking a cigarette, finishing up a conversation with one her half asleep friends on the speakerphone. Just like their grandmother, Sherrie always has a radio on in the kitchen playing the local oldies station. The custom jingle will soon prompt, “Good times, great oldies…Kool 101” in segue to the start of “The Cheater” by Bob Kuban & The In-Men.

  The first thing heard out of Sherrie’s mouth is, “Well I say tough titties little kitty, because the cow ran out of milk.”

  She continues on, as James and Gerry tip toe in the act of eavesdropping.

  “Her whole situation reminds me of what my Uncle Sid always tells me.”

  “What’s that one?” The foggy sounding voice on the other line asks.

  Sherrie gets into character, “He sounds like Cassius Clay when he talks, and he says ‘Sherrie, in life, if it comes with tits or tires, it’s sure give you trouble at some point.’”

  It sounds as if there’s more than one female on the other line now laughing. And now fully entered, James and Gerry make their presence known to Sherrie with their own laugh out loud reaction.

  “Oh my God!” Sherrie exclaims. “Washington State is in the house!”

  She then ends the phone conversation with a simple, “Okay, I’ll smell you tonight!”

  “You guys could probably use a Bud Heavy, eh?” Sherrie says, eyes lit up with a big smile before heading to the sink.

  “How ‘bout one of your butts?” James asks while grabbing a cigarette out of the pack on the kitchen counter, as Sherrie is putting her own cigarette out under a running faucet before dropping it into an ashtray on a nearby windowsill. The cousins then meet for a big hug as Sherries says, “All you can think about is rear ends on my birthday?!”

  James responds in coy, “Oh shit, that’s what we’re here for? Happy B-Day!”

  The three then spend the next 30 minutes or so getting acquainted, catching up, and hyping the evenings festivities. Sherrie informs them that the fridge down in her Pub is stock full of an assembly of the world’s finest lagers. A limo has also been reserved, although Sherrie has no specific destinations planned for the use of the luxury vehicle.

  “Nothing a couple of bee-ahs can’t take care of,” Sherrie figures in her ad hoc New England patois.

  “If nothing else, we’ll just bah-hop.”

  James and Gerry are in agreement with that proposal. They will soon enjoy a second round of beers and conversation, but not until Sherrie persuades them with “It’s bad luck to have a lonely beer in your stomach.”

  James insisted Gerry sleep in the guest bedroom, which offered a twin bed with an electric blanket. Gerry affectionately joshes, “What are you trying to see if I can hibernate, Big Game?”

  Gerry then goes to brush his teeth before laying down and falling asleep 10 seconds into a prayer.

  James is still a little wired. He shares another cigare
tte with Sherrie, discussing ideas for what his vocational future holds for him. Sherrie, a long time contractor’s receptionist, reminds him that she can get him a job as a carpenter’s assistant with her employer. The only catch is that he would have to take a 45-minute ferry out of New London harbor every workday. The job sites are mostly centered around remodeling and general year-round care for summer homes on Fishman’s Island, an Old Money golf and sailing haven. If Fitzgerald were writing The Great Gatsby today, this place would be a model research setting.

  Because he used up all his brainpower from the long drive, James’ guard is evidently down, as he did not dismiss the idea. He told Sherrie if he could talk to her boss a little first, a fellow a few years older than her by the name of Dwayne Beckus, it was worth consideration. He could live with Sherrie until he got settled. He could enjoy the world famous New England air and ethos year round. And he always appreciated the cultural attractions and accessibilities the state of Connecticut has to offer. After all, New London was sandwiched between Boston and New York City, 2-3 hours in either direction.

  And who knows, James thought, maybe there’s something on this island of all places that has been waiting for me for 30 years. Who knows.

  With this, I now have options. And where is the clear and present risk? If I don’t like it, I go back home like I am intending to do right now.

  Before Sherrie takes off for an early lunch followed by a day of antiquing with some friends, she informs James that all she needs from him is to bring in firewood from the backyard down to the pub sometime before the sunset. So he decides he might as well get it done right away.

  Sherrie reminds James to watch out for spiders and that there are work gloves in the garage.

  But before he gets started, he throws the tennis ball around for Sherrie’s golden retriever, Hawshy. The dog is a talker, and James soon learns he can trigger barking by singing to her.

  “Look out…for the cheetah!” Is how James mistakenly interpreted the song heard earlier on the kitchen radio. Chanting this to go with some whistling gets Hawshy excited.

  It isn’t until an hour later that James falls asleep on the couch watching Sportscenter with Hawshy sprawled out on the floor next to him.

  He will have an unforgettable dream that he’s in a Karaoke contest, in a dim, purple and blue lit, nightclub somewhere in Japan. Himself, Bruce Willis, and Danny, his high school custodian (who looks like a “Chico and The Man” version of Freddy Prinze), are the only western patrons. Danny is a friend of the owner of the club, Mr. Walker; a Scottish businessman married into a wealthy Japanese family. Mr. Willis does not get recognized, and is loving it. In contrast to Mr. Willis’ rare social state of anonymity, an intoxicated Danny gets two Polaroids taken with “fans.” But the highlight of the night was when Danny’s pizza order, which has been requested over four times in two hours, never comes to complete fruition. Eventually, Danny starts speaking in Spanish to the waiter, while the waiter continues on in Japanese.

  Danny happens to be in the bathroom while Mr. Walker’s 20-year-old daughter (half Japanese and half Caucasian) performs her third round song. The waiter comes over to the table and passionately states, in English, “Mista Walka Daughta? Oh she sooo fine!”

  James and Bruce Willis can barely contain themselves in laughter.

  Eventually, James will manage to make it to the final four of the competition itself, where he’s matched up with a stunning Japanese woman wearing a contemporary Flapper dress. She sings an immaculate rendition of Toni Braxton’s “You Mean The World to Me.”

  James is looking at Bruce Willis for suggestions for what to sing in response. Bruce Willis requests a couth timeout to the emcee. (And in this dream world, it is seen as a sign of respect to the difficulty and overall quality of the competition itself.) Everyone lets out a short, collective, “ahhh” before giddily discussing the anticipation behind what kind of song James may counter with.

  “Travolta told me they are crazy, and I mean heart-on stronger than T-Rex’s femur crazy for Elvis here,” Mr. Willis says quietly after taking a sip of his draft beer.

  James has spent about 15 minutes of his life listening to Elvis songs, half of which was “Blue Christmas” in department stores and whatnot.

  The Emcee is summoning James to the microphone with his selection.

  James is speechless. The pressure is mounting. He’s losing control of his competitive poise.

  Bruce Willis motions to the emcee for one more minute, turns back to James and says, “But listen to me…because the door swings both ways here. If you can do a good King impression, we’re all going to be enjoying an all expenses paid day at the Yoko-Spa tomorrow.”

  “And if I bomb?” James replies with dread.

  “It will be like monkeys throwing shit,” Mr. Willis says with his signature, stone-faced squint. James will then light Mr. Willis his cigarette before heading to the stage.

  James decided to play it conservatively, singing an average version of “If This It” by Huey Lewis and The News.

  Mr. Walker’s daughter goes on to win the championship, singing Amy Grant’s “That’s What Love Is For.” The runner up is a blitzed businessman who surprised everyone with an ill-advised attempt to compete with Whitney Houston’s “So Emotional.”

  Back in reality, Sherrie is shaking his shoulder, excitedly saying, “Guess where it’s 5 o’clock!”

  “All right, I’m in the shower!” James pops right up in an attempt to quickly shake away the sticky remnants of dream world delirium.

  But as he’s in the shower, all he could do was ruminate about the dream.

  By the time he was drying himself off he realized that by completely ducking the Elvis challenge laid out by Bruce Willis, he didn’t even give himself a chance to win the competition.

  Now he wants some fresh air and a drip coffee. Once he gets dressed, he wakes Gerry up and the two go for a seven minute walk down the lighted and rain glazed street to the nearest Dunkin’ Donuts.

  Gerry decides this time is as good as any to make two very important phone calls: the first one to his mother and father, the second to his fiancé.

  “Don’t you want to do this in private?” James asks respectfully.

  “There isn’t anything I’m going to tell them that I haven’t already talked to you about pal, trust me.

  “And if I’m going to have fun tonight, I gotta have a clear conscious, you know what I mean?”

  “I hear ya,” James empathizes, still trying to forget the message sent by the karaoke dream experience.