“…your front shoulder and head were locked onto your target throughout your stride, and you kept your shoulder and hips closed, ready to uncoil, just like we worked on. You had perfect symmetry today, Patrick, but form will only you carry you so far. Sandy Koufax said many pitchers master the physical aspects of baseball, but most never become big winners because they fail to develop the mental part of their game. Sure, you thrive in the pressure situations — I love that about you. But games can be won and lost with two outs and no men on base. You gave up a meaningless home run to a backup catcher hitting.225 because you didn’t feel challenged. Mentally, you had already ended the inning. As a result, you rushed a curveball that never broke instead of delivering it smooth and easy.”
Her bare right thigh is pressed against the back of his left hand. Her tan flesh is silky smooth. He attempts to inch his hand beneath her leg, only to jam his finger painfully against the buckle of her seat belt.
She closes her eyes, stifling a giggle.
“Every pitch counts. You need to play mind games. Challenge yourself so that you attack every hitter. Steve Carlton would visualize the lanes of each pitch before he threw, as if the batter weren’t even there. Focus on the catcher’s sign. Take a moment to visualize the successful flight of the pitch. Inhale slowly as you visualize, smell the fear in the batter’s sweat.”
Strands of the girl’s long blond hair lay on his left shoulder. He inhales the scent of jasmine shampoo, her pheromones an aphrodisiac to his senses.
“You make a bad pitch… let it go. Walk off the mound. Get your anger under control by breathing. Remember, breathing is affected by what and how you think. Clear the negativity. Visualize success. Retake the mound only when you’ve regained control of your emotions.”
The tips of her fingers inch closer to his groin, the girl now in full control of his body. What had begun as an innocent game of chicken has turned into something far more exciting, and he’s unsure of what to do next. Sitting upright and at attention, he’s afraid to breathe as she casually inches her hand closer to his genitals, the fabric of his uniform stretching…
“—ice the shoulder as soon as you get home, the last thing we need is swelling.”
Her fingernails work the inside part of his plate — teasing him before retreating high and outside. Completely under her spell, he exhales and closes his eyes as she moves in again.
“I know pitching again on two days’ rest is asking a lot, but if we can get you on the mound again Friday, then you’ve got a week to rest before the finals. Are you sore? How do you feel?”
“Baby, I feel great.”
Patrick Shepherd sat up in bed. Eyes wide. Heart pounding. Tee shirt matted to his back and neck in perspiration. Anxiety builds. He searched the darkness. Focused on the glowing red exit sign. A temporary lifeline.
Reaching to the bedside table on his right, he searched inside the top drawer for the envelope. Inside was the partially burnt Polaroid. Taken before his first deployment, the picture was shot inside Fenway Park just after he had been called up from the minors. In the photo, his wife was holding their two-year-old daughter while Patrick, wearing his Red Sox baseball uniform, was leaning in from behind, embracing them in his arms.
A sudden rush of phantom pain. Shep squeezed his eyes shut, the crushing, bone-stabbing sensations causing every muscle to quiver.
Breathe! Regain control of your emotions.
He forced slow, deliberate breaths. The agony tapered off to a more tolerable level.
He sank back against the pillow. Attempted to sift through the shards of memory that always seemed to accompany the bout… the memory of the accident, the last day of his final deployment.
Gray sky. Warm metal in his left hand. A blinding light. The skull-rattling blast obliterating all sound, the sensation of his liquefying skin submerging him in blackness.
Shep opened his eyes. He shook loose the horror. Returned his attention to the Polaroid.
The explosive had been doubly cruel; not only had it robbed him of his left arm while gouging a hole in his memory, it had stolen the lasting images on the photo, singeing his wife’s head. Try as he might, Patrick could not lock down her face, his mind’s eye catching only fleeting, frustrating glimpses.
For wounded vets, the psychological scars associated with losing a limb run deep, often leading to bouts of depression. For Patrick Shepherd, the burden is nothing compared to the empty feeling of being separated from a wife and child whose presence he registers in his heart but whose faces he can no longer remember. The loss remains a constant assault on Shep’s identity. In waking hours, it could be overwhelming; during sleep, it fostered intense nightmares.
His doctors in Germany had given him a choice as to which stateside VA hospital he wished to be sent, and the choice was simple. From that day forth, he had imagined himself lying in bed, or perhaps engaging in therapy when his soul mate and daughter — now a teen — entered to reclaim him.
Through the partitioned curtain surrounding his bed, he listened to the snores and catcalls of his fellow war vets, his eyes glazing over with tears as he locked his gaze upon the glowing red exit sign, feeling as alone as a human being can possibly feel.
November
"The force of a correction is equal and opposite
to the deception that preceded."
Situated on the outskirts of Mexico City’s historic downtown, the town of Tepito was located in the borough of Delegaciôn Cuauhtéemoc, an area composed of three neighborhoods — Tepito, Lagunilla, and Peralvillo. Together, they made up one of the largest flea markets in all Latin America. Lagunilla and Peralvillo are bohemian markets, selling everything from tee shirts to antiques and jewelry. Tepito, also known as the “Barrio Bravo” (tough neighborhood), was strictly black market.
Tepito’s history dated back to the Aztec Empire, which established the area as part of its slave trade. When the people were forbidden to sell their goods in Tlatelolco, the Tepiteños set up their own market — a place where thieves could move their stolen goods.
Today, the neighborhood was ravaged with crime, policed by more than fifty gangs, and ruled by drug cartels. Enter the market, and you would find fake designer clothes, stolen cameras, and stall after stall of pirated CDs and DVDs. Used electronics were sold as new, cookware and other goods bore unbeatable prices, having “fallen off the truck.” Lose your passport, and you could probably buy it back in Tepito for $5,000. Need phony documents or a gun while visiting Mexico? Tepito was your destination.
The people of Tepito were very religious. There were altars erected on almost every corner, dominated by the presence of La Santa Muerte—Saint Death.
No one knew for certain how this female Grim Reaper came into being. Historians traced her origins to Mictlantecuhtli, an Aztec death goddess whose skeleton was said to belong to the Virgin Mary. Condemned by the Roman Catholic Church, the cult of Sante Muerte remained underground until 2001. From one altar in Tepito rose twenty, the “skinny girl’s” growing congregation demonstrating that the power of prayer was not limited to those who chose to live life without sin.