RUSS:.

LOL, Steve. Pretty sure our definitions of getting some are different.

STEVE:.

Yeah, mine doesn't involve waking up with a shaved p.e.n.i.s on my chin and a dude's finger in my a.s.s.

TOMMY:.

BURN!.

RUSS:.

WTF? Burn??? Are you 8 years old? And f.u.c.k off, Steve, at least my wife's calves are smaller than the G.o.dd.a.m.n Manhattan subway tunnels!

STEVE:.

Yeah, well, your a.s.shole isn't.

TOMMY:.

OOOOH, SNAP! BURN!.

RUSS:.

Jesus, this is like texting with a r.e.t.a.r.ded boy band.

DWAYNE:.

Alright, fellow Jedi warriors, gotta go eat dinner with the family. Russ, I'll see you at 11:00 p.m. Tommy and Steve, see you tomorrow at the game. Tap that a.s.s like the Rebel Alliance tonight, boys!

Dwayne had been texting from the living room while watching ESPN with Alex. Estelle was putting the final touches on vegetarian enchiladas, a recipe she'd gotten from her fitness club. A story came on the television about more major league baseball players being suspended for steroid use. One of the players was Alex's favorite, and he was pretty crushed.

"Why do those guys do steroids, Dad?" he asked. "They already have it made. They get to play baseball for a living. What more could they want?"

"Wow, bud," Dwayne answered. "That's probably the best comment I've heard about the subject. I think what it comes down to is that they only love themselves. You've got to love the game if you want to be great. They're just trying to cheat their way into the record books. If you love something bigger than yourself, you wouldn't do that. They don't deserve to have the honor of walking out onto a baseball field."

"I agree," Alex said. "I wish they knew how lucky they were."

"Well, if it makes you feel better," Dwayne added, "their b.a.l.l.s have most likely shriveled up into tiny little beans, and they'll most likely go to jail at some point for flying into a c.o.ke-induced rage and locking a prost.i.tute into a motel closet after their home is foreclosed upon and the IRS seizes all of their remaining a.s.sets that haven't been p.a.w.ned on eBay for OxyContin ... followed soon after by several stints in rehab and early organ failure. Karma is an unforgiving b.i.t.c.h."

This particular information was hard for Alex to process.

"Oh Jesus, Alex," Dwayne said with mild concern. "My bad. But it's good that you learn these things early."

Alex returned to watching SportsCenter, not sure what his dad had meant. Dwayne could tell it had flown over Alex's head, so he didn't feel the need to do any sort of damage control.

Dwayne had thoroughly enjoyed watching Alex play ball that afternoon. The kid was gifted. The team had come together in support of something bigger-the joy of playing baseball the way it was supposed to be played: turning the body just right to make the double play, keeping a foot on the base while stretching out as far as possible to make a catch and beat the runner, fully extending the body in a dive toward a ball that was uncatchable, and catching it.

Dwayne hadn't seen that for a while. It was beautiful.

"Dad, today was awesome," Alex said.

And that was all Dwayne needed to hear.

After dinner, Dwayne retired to the back porch for a doobie and a gla.s.s of whiskey. Estelle had taken Alex upstairs to help him study for a math test before tucking him into bed. She hadn't done that for a long time Dwayne felt warm all over, and not just from the whiskey. Alex deserved a lot of love and attention, and he was finally getting it. Not many kids showed such respect for others or cared so much about doing the right thing. Alex paid attention in school, never let his friends down, and showed compa.s.sion. He was the kind of kid every parent wanted.

Alex was going to get the notice he deserved in baseball, too. Dwayne couldn't wait to get out on the field with the boys and allow them to properly compete in the greatest game ever played. He was excited for the boys. He wanted them to have a strong sense of accomplishment and achievement.

He took a long pull from his joint and slowly exhaled. There was hardly any wind at all, and the smoke lingered delicately in front of him, slowly changing shapes in the moonlight.

A rattling commotion by the trash cans jarred him from his dance with inner peace. Unsure of what he would find, Dwayne set down his whiskey and grabbed a baseball bat that was lying in the yard.

There had been a significant racc.o.o.n problem in the neighborhood due to the location of several dumpsters behind the high-end apartment complex around the corner. Roving bands of black-eyed rodents scurried through yards and over fences at night. They knocked over trash cans, tore up trash bags, and ate the outdoor dog and cat food. Aside from arrogant fundamentalist trust-fund babies, they were the most damaging things Fort Worth had ever seen.

Dwayne snuck to the side of his garage and found an overturned trash can with garbage scattered all around. Perched atop the toppled container sat the most ma.s.sive racc.o.o.n in the state of Texas. It wasn't afraid of Dwayne at all. The racc.o.o.n simply sat and ate, as if at any moment it would reach out its paw and shake Dwayne's hand.

The quality of the weed Dwayne had been smoking played no small part in Dwayne's fascination with the critter. He leaned in closely, watching the c.o.o.n strip every bit of meat off last week's KFC. Dwayne giggled when the racc.o.o.n tossed a bone over his shoulder. He felt like they were bonding. Perhaps it was a Jedi thing, he thought. He was still holding the joint, so he took a ma.s.sive hit from it and blew the smoke at the rodent's face. It just shook its head quickly, glanced up at Dwayne, and tore into another piece of chicken. Dwayne could've sworn the racc.o.o.n smiled.

He glanced down at his watch. It was time to head to the ballpark. He used the bat to push himself up from the squatting position he'd been in and tried to maintain balance. He stood tall and pointed at the fence at the far side of his yard. Dwayne spread his feet shoulder width apart, bent his knees slightly, shifted his weight to his back leg, and lifted the bat into the "loaded up" position, just as he had taught the kids at practice. Then, he turned with his hips, exploding forward with a step, and offered up a beautiful level swing that caught the racc.o.o.n right in the teeth.

The racc.o.o.n did approximately twenty backflips in the air, spraying blood out in every direction as it spun, and hit the far fence with a loud thud. Dwayne was mildly disappointed that the racc.o.o.n didn't make it over the fence, but he also knew to never be upset with a solid line drive.

Dwayne's phone let out a quack. Russ had started a group text with Dwayne and Dave the umpire.

RUSS:.

You guys ready to take out the trash?

DWAYNE:.

Yup. Headed to the field in a second. Just killed a c.o.o.n. It was awesome.

RUSS:.

You killed Tommy???

DWAYNE:.

No, you f.u.c.king racist! I killed a racc.o.o.n! It was in my garbage.

RUSS:.