Lib Novel Page 7
Chapter 3
“Pretty good digs, Coop. Really, pretty good.” Ben Robbins, a staff reporter for theDispatch, sipped a cold one while surveying Coop’s apartment. “I didn’t think much of it when we hauled all your junk up here, but it ain’t half-bad.”
It was a lot better than not half-bad, and Coop knew it. He had everything exactly where he wanted it. The living room was dominated by his long, low-slung sofa of burgundy leather and his big-screen television, so perfect for viewing games. A couple of brass lamps, a nicely worn coffee table scuffed from the heels of the dozens of shoes that had rested on it and a single generous chair completed the formal section of the room.
There was an indoor basketball hoop, small-scaled, for practice—and because shooting a little round ball helped him think. A used pinball machine called Home Run, a stand that held two baseball bats, his tennis racket and a hockey stick, a pair of old boxing gloves hanging on the wall and a scarred Foosball table made up the recreation area.
Coop wouldn’t have called them toys. They were tools.
He’d chosen blinds, rather than curtains, for the windows. Blinds, he thought, that would close out the light if a man decided to treat himself to an afternoon nap.
The bedroom held little other than his bed, a nightstand and another TV. The room was for sleeping—or, if he got lucky, another type of sport.
But it was his office that pleased him most. He could already imagine himself spending hours there at his computer, a game playing on his desktop TV. He’d outfitted it with a big swivel chair, a desk that had just the right number of scars and burns, a fax, a dual-line phone and a VCR—to play back those controversial calls or heart-stopping plays.
With all the plaques and photos and sports memorabilia scattered about, it was home.
His home.
“Looks like the neighborhood bar,” Ben said, and stretched out his short, hairy legs. “Where the jocks hang out.”
Coop considered that the highest of compliments. “It suits me.”
“To the ground,” Ben agreed, and toasted Coop with his bottle of beer. “A place where a man can relax, be himself. You know, since I started living with Sheila, I’ve got little china things all over, and underwear hanging in the bathroom. The other day she comes home with a new bedspread. It’s gotflowersall over. Pink flowers.” He winced as he drank. “It’s like sleeping in a meadow.”
“Hey.” With all the smug righteousness of the unencumbered, Coop propped his feet on the coffee table. “Your choice, pal.”
“Yeah, yeah. Too bad I’m nuts about her. And she’s an Oakland fan, too.”
“Takes all kinds. Talk is the A’s are trading Remirez.”
Ben snorted. “Yeah, yeah, pull the other one, champ.”
“That’s the buzz.” Coop shrugged, took a pull on his own beer. “Sending him to K.C. for Dunbar, and that rookie fielder, Jackson.”
“They got to be crazy. Remirez hit.280 last season.”
“.285,” Coop told him. “With twenty-four baggers. Led the team in errors, too.”
“Yeah, but with a bat like that… And Dunbar, what’s he? Maybe he hit.220?”
“It was.218, but he’s like a vacuum cleaner at second. Nothing gets by him. And the kid’s got potential. Big strapping farm boy with an arm like a bullet. They need new blood. Most of the starting lineup’s over thirty.”
They argued baseball and finished their beers in complete male harmony.
“I’ve got a game to cover.”
“Tonight? I thought the O’s were in Chicago until tomorrow.”
“They are.” Coop pocketed his tape recorder, his pad, a pencil. “I’m covering the college game. There’s a hot third baseman who’s got the scouts drooling. Thought I’d take a look, cop an interview.”
“What a job.” Ben hauled himself to his feet. “Going to games, hanging around locker rooms.”
“Yeah, it’s a rough life.” He slung an arm over Ben’s shoulders as they headed out. “So, how’s the story on neutering pets going?”
“Stuff it, Coop.”
“Hey, some of us hang around the pound, some of us hang around the ballpark.”