HIGH HEAT - The Bingo Coles Story

[laxman2789]

Tib's going to be taking a break from the dynasty we all have come to love so I figured I would try my hand at getting something off the ground. Here goes nothing

[laxman2789]

CHAPTER ONE:

Bingo is my Name-O

I may not have the most control, the best stuff, or the coolest head in the draft, but one thing is for certain: I’m the best looking mother f*cker out there. Coaches always give me grief about the frosted tips, countless Nike wristbands, and gold cleats, but like I always say, “If you look good you feel good, if you feel good you play good.”

How do I describe my game? I’m a crazy S.O.B. on the mound. I got only two pitches, a blazing 98 mile-per-hour heater and a dawdling, pedestrian changeup lunging toward the batter from the left side of my body. I have accrued a rather impressive police report as well. In eighth grade some pigs caught my friends and I egging houses. Sophomore year I got busted with a half-O of marijuana in the glove box of my pickup and was sentenced to a week in prison. I’m still on parole from the incident. Mom says I carry the off-field nonsense with me onto the field, but I think I just have anger issues. I lack poise, but what’cha gonna do, shoot me?

My temper has really been causing problems for a long while. It definitely affects me on the mound but most of all colleges have overlooked me because of my off-the-field issues. No school seems prepared to commit four years and $100,000 in scholarship money to a “drug lord.” I have received just two scholarship offers, but their baseball programs are so abysmal the chances of me taking my game to the next level after time spent in their program is slim to none. I want an education, yet I do not want to sacrifice my baseball career for one, so I decided to declare for the 2004 ABCB (American Bi-Coastal Baseball) draft.

On draft day you couldn’t tell the difference between me and Mr. Bush on 9/11. I know, it’s a bad analogy considering the repercussions of the horrific day, but I just did not know how to react after that first phone call. “Bingo? It’s Amanda. Just wanted to wish you luck and remind you not to forget me when you get famous.” I snapped. I should have thanked her and got off the line ASAP, but instead went on a rant “explaining” the importance of the day and notifying her to leave me the f*ck alone. My nerves got to me, and I proceeded to go for a walk to the local Starbucks to quell my lingering attention deficit disorder. I brought my cell.

Most people describe their draft day as an otherworldly experience shared with family and close friends. I shared this day with six strangers in the Starbucks and two confused teenagers behind the counter making my double-chocolate mocha latté. When Chris (I read his name tag) handed me my specialty drink I hugged him. “Really sir it was nothing, just my job.” No one realized the beautiful stud standing in front of them had just become the newest member of the Wichita Witches.

Former Oklahoma City great Scott “Wild Thing” Utterback, now Wichita General Manager, rang my phone. “Hey, is Bingo around?”
I know it sounds corny, but my childish instincts surfaced as I shouted, “Bingo is my name-o” into the phone.
“Uh,” he paused, a little confused. “Welcome to the Witches. We selected you with the second pick of the fifth round (106 overall) this afternoon.”
Before I could thank Mr. Utterback I was in a friendly embrace with complete stranger Chris. “That’s great Sir, I promise to give you my all.”

With that call “it” happened. That call ushered my professional life to the forefront of my attention. I was a professional ballplayer. I was a Witch.

[laxman2789]

CHAPTER TWO:

50 Gs, Amsterdam, and the Manager

About two weeks following the draft a black, M-class Mercedes-Benz rolled into my drive way. A flashy, well-groomed man emerged from the dark vehicle in the driveway. He wore a white, pressed, French cuffed, Brooks Brothers button down tucked into his khaki pants, flowing down to his white gators. His hair, slicked back, was a perfect gray, without a hint of his former hair color. The starkness of his white façade contrasted the shadows of the sedan he parked in my driveway. I heard a knock at the door.

My mother grabbed a giant pitcher of lemonade from the fridge and offered our guest a cool, refreshing drink.
“No thanks, lemonade is not my cup of tea,” he replied.
“O, you want some tea?” My mother asked.
“It’s an expression.” The man opened his briefcase. “Some water would be nice actually.” Mom left the room. “So Bingo, my name is Robert Long. I’m the manager for the Double-A Broken Arrow Angels. You’ll be pitching for us next season.”
I wanted to say a million different things to this man, but all that could come out was, “O.K.”

Mr. Long sorted through his briefcase and finally retrieved a packet of legal documents. I can’t tell you what half of them were, but I do know that one of them entitled me to a $50,000 signing bonus. “Don’t spend it all in one place. Oh, and by the way, we are aware of your past. Any sh*t and your @ss is gone.” With that, he left. I was to report to his office in Broken Arrow in six weeks.

Fifty thousand dollars. Fifty f*cking thousand dollars. That’s more money than I could ever dream of. What did I do with the money? I would like to tell you I invested it: hired an accountant and financial manager and bought some mutual funds. Instead, since I had so little time left with my buddies, I paid for a vacation where I and three of my closest friends went to “Germany.” We flew into Berlin, spent the night, and then in the morning hopped a train to Amsterdam. We masked our visit to Amsterdam since I didn’t think the Wichita organization or any of our parents would support our visiting considering my legal history.

The trip was everything I could have ever asked for. I wish I could explain in detail each and every night spent in the country of legalized marijuana, but truth be told I cannot remember much. I smoked, I drank, I partied, and I solicited a few morally-deprived females. The last night we rented the Tower Suite at the NH Grand Hotel Krasnapolsky, the largest 5 star resort in the Netherlands. We hired a stripper or two, and hit a four-way hookah on what became the wildest night of my eighteen years on this planet. The best part of the trip was everything cost Euro and I didn’t know the conversation rate, so I had no f*cking clue how much money I was actually spending.

Our return flight got us back into Pennsylvania about a week and a half before I had to leave for Broken Arrow. It left just enough time to say my goodbyes and sober up for my journey to professionalism. Everyone who was everyone stopped by, except one man, my father. I haven’t seen the estranged bum for years, after he abandoned my mother and me twelve years prior.

[TwinsFan86]

Alright, cool. Nice start.

[Tib]

It's a great idea to have the story of an anti-hero as a dynasty. "The guy you love to hate", etc. Terrific possibilities, unusual situations, unexpected turns. I'm looking forward to reading more about Bingo.

[jaxmagicman]

Great start. I feel this is going to be really good.

[laxman2789]

Hopefully none of you have yet to pick up on the fact that my grammar sucks, but when you do please point out the mistakes. I will be more than eager to tweak the posts as necessary.

[laxman2789]

CHAPTER THREE:

The Roommate

The flight from Philadelphia International Airport to Tulsa International Airport took about seven hours. When we touched down I searched, head on a swivel, for the beautiful girl the franchise sent to pick me up. I found an overweight, acne-riddled kid, around the same age as I, holding a sign that read my name. He pointed towards the baggage carousel then told me to get my bags and meet him in parking lot A13. So much for the red carpet welcome.

My driver’s name was Billy, the intern/office bitch for the Broken Arrow Angels. His beaten up 1996 Toyota Carola shone a dilapidated silverish-green and the words “Angels” ran across the side of the vehicle. The drive from Tulsa to Broken Arrow was only about 20 minutes, welcome news to me, a city-boy at heart. Billy dropped me off on Aspen Avenue, an exit off of Highway 51 in front of a Holiday Inn. “Your lodging,” announced Billy.

I lugged my bags out of the trunk to the hotel’s automatic doors, which of course did not open. I jumped up and down on the mat, trying to get the doors to open, but eventually gave up, and managed a balancing act of putting down one bag, opening the door manually, putting my foot in the door to prop it open, than picking up the bag and squeezing through the door sideways.

I went towards the front desk to check in but a hotel employee directed me to the lone meeting room. Guess I looked like a ballplayer. Inside the sorry excuse for a meeting room stood ten other young men, presumably teammates, and one middle aged recognizable face. Ramon Henriquez strolled over to me, hand outstretched, and bellowed, “Welcome to Broken Arrow! The smiling men around you are your fellow pitchers.”

Henriquez, an interesting story in his own right, serves Robert Long as the pitching coach for Double-A Broken Arrow. Despite not being a hall-of-fame caliber pitcher, Ramon stuck around for seventeen major league seasons, all for the San Antonio Silence. Henriquez, a lifetime 241-240 pitcher, has a career 5.15 ERA, yet ranks eighth all-time with 4487 strikeouts.

Everyone was conversing, at least everyone but the three other rookies. I walked over to one of the silent young arms and introduced myself. The kid I spoke with was David Rubalcaba, the closer we choose this season in the second round. Dave was only eighteen like me, and seemed to be an interesting character. The other rookies were Leo Plaza, a reliever selected in the tenth and final round and John Funston, the club’s first round pick.

We pitchers were put up in that Holiday Inn for our first two days in Broken Arrow before moving into our permanent residences. Each person was assigned a roommate, and I was paired with Dave Rubalcaba. The first couple minutes alone with Dave in our room were awkward, than I broke the ice. I opened my suitcase and pulled out my black, leather pouch, and emptied the contents onto the desk by the TV. “You smoke?” I asked him. I rolled probably the best blunt of my life, sealing the Dutch with honey and gave my new friend the ceremonious fist hit. From that point on we got along just fine. At the end of the two days everyone departed the hotel for our new domiciles. Veterans were allowed to live whichever way they pleased, but the rookies were inserted into houses currently occupied by families with an extra bed.

When I arrived at my new home a bubbly motherly type, dressed in a long, blue dress hugged me and introduced herself as my host mother. The house was the epitome of the American home. A white picket fence surrounded the lush, green yard leading up the front stoop, and shutters lined the windows of the quaint, white house, which I soon entered. A man sat, legs crossed, at the kitchen table sipping a cup of coffee. This gentleman is the only person I can truly call Dad. The two gracious souls who opened their house to me soon explained their situation. John, the man of the house, worked at the Blue Bell Ice Cream Plant on 81st Street just off Highway 51. Diane, the warm lady that met my cab, stayed at home except for Thursdays when she worked part time as a secretary at the local high school. The two had one child, named Taylor, around my age, whom I would be sharing a room with. God I hoped that he smoked.

[jaxmagicman]

I can see some interesting plot twists with Drugs being the culprit.

[laxman2789]

is marijuana really a drug? you got that right however

[UngratefulDead]

Good stuff.

[Jestor]

Actually, from a nitpicky stylistic standpoint, you wouldn't want the grammar to be perfect, as it's not likely the narrating character would have perfect grammar

Great start, though

[Jazzmosis]

It depends on whether or not he's writing it, I suppose... from which I gauge he would. Either way, it's interesting and I'll be reading this avidly.

[Tib]

Here's my take on the grammar thing: You can write just about anything you want when it's dialogue. Look at Huckleberry Finn. But when you're writing body paragraphs or descriptive passages grammar should be correct. Spelling should always be accounted for, but the unique turns of phrase that make up a character's method of self-expression should be maintained.

[laxman2789]

CHAPTER FOUR:

4/1/04

Taylor certainly was smoking, and I don’t mean drugs. I thought I would be rooming with another guy, but my roommate turned out to be a roomette. She was incredible – about five foot six inches tall, long blonde hair, blue eyes, full pouty lips, and one hell of a tight body. There was one drawback, she had a boyfriend; however, I was willing to bet her boy did not play pro ball.

The second I met her I laid the game on pretty thick, touting the fact that I was a professional athlete. She showed me the sites, or should I say the site. A couple blocks from the ballpark, on the top of a hill, sprawled Immanuel Lutheran Church, the only church in America the shape of a “horn of plenty.” If you couldn’t already tell, I’m not the religious type. I’m closer to the Anti-Christ than Jesus Christ, so it looks like my free nights will be spent in Tulsa.

All the sightseeing made my throat dry, and I needed a beer to quell the lingering threat of dehydration. One of Taylor’s friends had an open house, and that was one party I just needed to crash. Although I had already graduated high school, the high school party was still a blast. I never really understood the concept of high school girls (you keep getting older but they stay the same age) until that night. I blacked out and don’t truly remember what events transpired, but the empty condom rapper found in my jean pocket hinted at a good time.

I actually don’t mind Broken Arrow. The coaches know their sh*t, the players don’t think their hot sh*t, and my roommate is a brick sh*t house. Towards the end of March Long called me for a meeting. His name, Richard Brent Long, was displayed on the semi-opaque door leading to his office. I’m not sure if I’m the first to pick up on it, but this guy’s nickname is Dick B. Long. I find that f*cking funny. Inside sat Long and Henriquez, engrossed in some baseball talk. They told me to sit down.

“Son, we’re giving you the ball on April first,” said Long
“Isn’t that opening day?”
I have had only two real sit down conversations with skip, when I signed my first contract and this meeting, but they both ended pretty ominously. The first ended like, “Any sh*t and your @ss is gone,” and the second, “don’t f*ck it up.” I started to like this guy.

I gave my host family and of course Tay (I started calling her this instead of Taylor, less syllables) tickets to the game. I couldn’t believe my skinny @ss would be on that mound on opening day. Turns out I pitched a gem: a 3 hit, 1 run, complete game victory. A few more performances like that and I would be getting the ball in Wichita in no time. I went out to celebrate, and I don’t mean just that night. We celebrated on Friday night, Saturday night, Sunday night, and Monday night. When it was my turn to pitch again on Tuesday I was so hung over I allowed 6 runs in only 6 innings of work. I need to get this alcohol stuff under control.

[laxman2789]

thanks for all the kind words guys I will try to keep the grammar correct

[Jazzmosis]

Good stuff, funny and well thought out...

Just one bit: "Dick" is the shortform for Richard... "Bob" is the shortform for Robert.

[laxman2789]

looks like I'm retarded, time to fix it up

[jaxmagicman]

I think this guy is going to be a guy I want to hate, but end up liking.