I see great things in baseball, It will take our people out-of-doors, fill them with oxygen, give them a larger physical stoicism, tend to relieve us from being a nervous, dyspeptic set, repair those losses and be a blessing to us. -Walt Whitman
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It was almost like she didn’t want to go tonight. But, that can’t be right. Of course I want to go. I want to see Roy. I’ve missed him. And yet, it seemed like she didn’t really want to go. The thought of getting ready, driving over, sitting watching the game… somehow it made her limbs feel heavy.
Pam looked over the painting she had been working on- her brow drawn in frustration. It was missing something, but she didn’t really have time right now to dwell on what that might be. Something’s missing. (Yeah, what else is new?).
It was time.
Time was up. Time to put away this project and get ready for his return. Her motions were slow and practiced, mindlessly moving the still wet canvas to a drying rack. Her hands knew exactly what to do; gather the brushes to be washed, pour out the clouded cup of water, pick up the splattered drop cloth from beneath her easel. Folding, folding.
She moved with ease, unthinking. At the sink she pressed the soap dispenser, slowly lathering her hands, removing all traces color, letting the stream carry away all evidence. When she finished, she turned off the tap, and let her hands fall limply to the edge of the basin still dripping. She inhaled a slow breath, forcing her lungs to expand. When she let it out her unseeing eyes blinked once, twice: snapping her consciousness back from wherever her mind had drifted.
She looked around herself, seeing the tidy kitchen in the afternoon sunlight. He would be here tonight- filling up these spaces again. She was ready and she wasn’t. It was nice to have time for herself, but she missed him when he was away. The hardest part was to constantly change gears. She had to consider someone else when she was used to being alone and then turn around and be alone in silence once she had gotten used to him being home. She felt as if she should be ashamed of herself for not being able to be satisfied, but she lived her life in two separate halves… it was hard to ever feel whole.
It was time.
She knew she would feel better once she got to the ballpark; it was hardwired into her psyche. Going to a baseball game was her comfort ritual, her meditation. She would watch the players, concentrate on the mechanics of the play. Baseball was neat and ordered with lines and rules and definites even if life was unsure. No matter what problem was going on in her life outside the park, the sights, the smells, and sounds of the game soothed her.
But.
It was almost like she didn’t want to go to the game tonight. Something (a voice) inside her didn’t feel like being soothed. There was a voice in her head that had been speaking lately (are you happy?), a voice that maybe didn’t want to be drowned out.
It’s a funk. That’s exactly what this is (No). I’m in a funk and I need to just snap out of it. (Listen)
I just need more B vitamins. (But it’s more than that).
Be more positive Pam. Mind over matter! You’re engaged to the man you love (who’s never here). You’re taking art classes you love (but something’s missing). You’re young and healthy and pretty damn cute (so why doesn’t Roy notice me anymore?).
It was time.
Time to go. Time to get ready. Look pretty. Smile big. Live in the present! Enjoy the life you have! Yeah. It was almost as if she didn’t want to go tonight. Almost.
Maybe it’s simpler than this, she thought. I’ve just missed Roy. I’m ready to have him here, holding me, touching me, being my partner. He’s been so wrapped up in the game, doing so well. He deserves to be recognized (Are you jealous?). He’s worked so hard for this, his whole life (this is his whole life). This is his whole life (where do you fit?).
In contrast to her spinning thoughts, Pam’s movements were deliberate. She reached up to take down her hair, letting her curls halo around her head as she removed her painting shirt. Untying the drawstring from her sweats, sliding her pants and panties down to step free of them. She looked up to see her reflection in the bathroom mirror and wished for the thousandth time that there was a way to peel away insecurities the way she peeled away layers of clothing. To step free from the cloak of self-judgment that irritated like cheap wool.
Instead she made herself ready. She showered and shaved, a focused her thinking on tonight, visualizing Roy’s homecoming. She smiled, and pictured his pleasure at seeing her, so she took extra care to look good for him. She would reach out for him, and feel him reach out for her. No, she couldn’t shed her insecurities, but she could paint on confidence. She could look good and smile brightly. She could take care with her hair, put on a bit more make-up, and put a touch of perfume in a place he would discover later. She could try. It was a good time to try. (Now or never).
Tonight is going to be better. She told herself. It just is. I’m going to be confident and cocky and I’m just going to ‘Create My Own Reality’, as Mom would say. (Fake it ‘til you make it). I love Roy. I’ve really missed him this last week and I can’t wait to get back to our happy relationship.
YES! I love Roy and he loves me. Me! No more waiting on him to get his head out of his ass and be with me. I’m going to be beautiful! And confident! If he’s got any sense at all he’ll want to come home and ravage me completely. And if that doesn’t work I’ll whisper in his ear that I’m wearing black lace panties---how’s that for cocky?!
Pam took a final deep breath and checked her reflection in the mirror. Good. Very good.
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Oh, put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;
Put me in, Coach - I'm ready to play today;
Look at me, I can be Centerfield.
-John Fogerty, Centerfield
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Being stuck in a Best Western in Scranton Pennsylvania was bad enough, but trying to rinse shampoo out of his hair with a showerhead that was about even with the bridge of his nose was about to drive Jim Halpert insane. One hundred dollar per diem is not worth this shit. He wouldn’t have bothered with the shower at all, as his assignment was basically to go sit in the late afternoon sun and get sweaty all over again—feigning interest in some pitching phenom from the Dominican Republic. But, the long day’s drive had left him feeling grimy, and the thought of then wearing that feeling through the evening was too much.
It took both scratchy white hotel towels plus a hand towel to dry off completely, which he unceremoniously abandoned in a pile between the toilet and the door before proceeding into the remainder of room 206. This room was pretty much a carbon copy of every other motel room Jim had been in lately- with the shades drawn you wouldn’t know if you were in Central Florida or bum-fuck Pennsylvania and in the middle of the night, it didn’t really matter.
At this moment Jim’s entire agenda involved a clean pair of boxers, his laptop, and a whiskey (neat), not necessarily in that order. He had exactly one hour before he was due at the ballpark and then about five hours after that (six if the game went into extra innings) Karen would be expecting his game summary and 1000 words on why Pedro Garcia was or was not worth the hype. If I could get a good quote from him, that would make things SO much easier. But the truth was Jim’s Spanish speaking experience topped out in 11th grade, and he doubted that reciting the colors of the rainbow for Garcia was going to elicit any response he could use.
By the time Jim’s cell began to ring, he had rescued his little pint of Jack from his duffle bag, poured two fingers into one of the four disposable plastic cups, and set up his little road office at the desk. He knew it was Karen on the phone, and he knew that whatever it was she had called to say, she had probably already said it in two or three emails that she wrote while he was on the road. In fact, he mentally wagered himself $50 that the first words out of her mouth would be “have you checked your email?”
-“Hey Fillipelli. Just getting ready to walk out the door.” Lie. I’m not even dressed yet.
-“Hey Jim, did you get a chance to read the emails I sent you?”
This is the problem with wagering against yourself, even if you win, you still make no money.
-“Uh, that’s actually what I’m doing right now. Just have to let it boot up.”
-“I thought you said you were getting ready to walk out the door.” Busted. Oh fucking well.
-“Well I would be, but I have to take the time to read your 59 emails or you’ll get all pissy.”
-“You don’t have to read all of them, but definitely check out the one with the attachment.” Karen’s voice had an unusual singsong quality that made Jim instantly suspicious. “This is big news… someone in Steinbrenner’s office has leaked a ‘short list’ of managerial candidates. There’s some pretty interesting names on that list- it’ll probably make front page tomorrow morning if I can get a coherent write up out of Howard.”
-“Wait, what? Ryan!?! You’re giving that story to Ryan?” Jim’s mentally kicked himself for allowing his voice to register his frustration, but he just couldn’t help it. “Ryan?” Whoa Halpert, be cool, it’s done. It’s done.
-“Yes Ryan. I don’t exactly have a choice- you’re in Scranton and I’m covered up with NFL training camp coverage and just, yes. Ryan.” Karen did not take criticism of her choice of assignments well, which Jim was very well aware of. It was one of her buttons that he secretly enjoyed pushing.
-“So the purpose of this call was what then- to rub it in that I’m stuck here covering the farm report on the off-chance that Garcia might get called up while the biggest story of the week gets handed to Ryan Howard? Thanks a lot Fillipelli.”
-“Wow. Vitriol. No I’m not calling to rub it in. I wouldn’t waste my time. I’m calling to make sure you’re planning on getting me something by 12:30 tonight on Pedro Garcia. You know my deadline is 1am for tomorrow’s print.”
-“Yes.” Jim was nodding with his whole head, despite the fact that she couldn’t see it. “I know your deadline’s 1 am. The print deadline has been 1 am for the entire four years I’ve worked for the Inquirer and yet you still feel the need to remind me. Every. Time.”
-“Well then just make sure I don’t need to remind you again. Anyway, read over the attachment and if you come up with an original take on the Steinbrenner leak and get it to me by 8 am tomorrow it could still make the website. You know, if you’re interested.”
-“Yeah, no, I’m definitely interested.” And you damn well know that. “I’ll work on it during the game tonight. It’s not like there’s anything new to say about the fact that Garcia’s fastball is amazing but his change-up lacks movement. I mean, if I don’t get lucky I’ll have to resort to some colorful fucking antidote about how he’s adjusting to life in America.”
-“Well there’s a hitter playing for Scranton that’s lighting pitchers up… Andrews? Anderson? Something. Maybe he’ll end up getting added to the Yankees’ roster if they need him in the playoffs.” Jim could tell Karen had already mentally ended this conversation. She’s probably writing somebody an email he thought.
- “If the Yankees make the playoffs…” Jim’s thoughts trailed off. He was boring himself with this conversation. “Whatever, I should really get moving. Big night here in Scranton and all” he said sarcastically.
There was a long pause before Karen continued, “You driving back to Philly tomorrow?” Her voice had softened considerably.
-“Um, yeah- I am.” He was hesitant “Should be back by four at the latest.”
-“Why don’t we have dinner then?” Jim couldn’t tell if she was trying to be sultry, or just avoid being overheard in the office but the thing her voice was doing right now always made him think the word Smokey. “Say, about six?”
-“…yeah, yes, Dinner is definitely an option…” Definitely an option? What the hell am I even saying? “I’ll just give you a call when I get in town.”
-“You could call later tonight too if you want. I’ll be up.” I bet you will.
-“I’ll get that story to you Karen, by 12:30 at the latest. I’ve got to get going now, don’t want to be late.”
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After their goodbyes, Jim snapped his phone shut and tossed it on the bed in order to step into his boxers. He was in no way eager to view the newsy email that was going to earn Howard a front page byline tomorrow, but like picking at a scab, he knew he couldn’t stop himself either. Somehow he doubted that he would have gotten a chance at the story even if he’d been sitting in Karen’s office the minute she received the lead. Turns out having slept with your “team leader” was a career dis-advantage, because ever since Karen got promoted to Sports Desk Assignments she went out of her way to prove she was in no way favoring Jim. He was sure that was reason he found himself buttoning up his chinos in a Scranton Best Western, getting ready to cover the ‘Lehigh Valley IronPigs’ vs. the ‘Scranton Wilkes-Barre Yankees’. He was also sure that he would never let on to Karen (or to anybody) that it bugged the hell out of him.
No, Jim figured that he was going to have to deal with whatever work stresses he had the old fashioned way- powering through them. His stubborn streak wasn’t going to let him accept any favors anyway, and like his father always said “success is always the best revenge”. He knew there was no better way to prove he was the best writer on staff than by taking whatever assignment was given and doing well with it. In fact, Jim decided in that moment that not only would he write his assigned story on Garcia, but he (I’ll show her) also would write a story on the leak (might the highest paid manager in major-league baseball history) and it was going to be (a damn good article, certainly better than that piss-ant Ryan Howard’s story and Karen’s going to just wish she’d waited and given the story to me in the first place) his best writing ever. Now he just had to read the list and see what names were on it.
