He is tracing circles in the dirt with the tip of his Louisville Slugger. He is five, maybe six feet from homeplate; Yankee Stadium is a plastic glass rocking back and forth and spilling up and over its rim.

Kelly's been getting the right kind of eye from a blonde in the front row, so he tugs up his sleeve to show his new tattoo—undershirts are for candy-ass outfielders— VH. (Van Halen, man: fucking 1984).

He shifts the tobacco from his right cheek; moves it without flaw to his left. There's a way to spit, he is thinking. Show balls and class; Kelly's always been a great spitter. (Fucking rights).

He calls a up a good wad of tobacco juice, mixes just the right amount of his own saliva, then closes his eyes and uses his tongue to pick the stray bits of chew off his teeth. His fucking perfect teeth that no six dollar bag of chaw is going to fuck up. Especially now with the blonde all over him; staring right through him: practically sliding off the chair, Kelly chuckles inside.

He thinks he will flash the "Cadillac Grin" when he drills that first ball fastball eighteen rows deep to right. He thinks he'll pull out the "Number One" trot too, can't hurt to lay it on thick, what with all the possibilities screaming and crawling in their seats. Waiting for Kelly. He nods in agreement with himself, face gone all serious now and pensive all of a sudden. (Yeah, check that out).

He spits a long thin line onto Olerud's weight-rod, the blue thing he likes to swing in the on-deck circle. Only a fucking college boy would swing something so goddamn pansy. (Fucking Olerud).

He laughs as the clear-brown spit wraps itself around the handle and he smiles at how stupid that bastard will look when he picks it up. (Can't wait to see that face).

He hopes the blonde saw how perfect that was, how all-in-one-motion it was. (It was so perfect).

He wonders how good his ass looks in these nice away uniforms, and at the same time, almost as an afterthought, what the score is.

 

* * * * *

Day 13 | Kelly Home | Day 15