Lowell Eddy is my nemesis and he bats in the five spot. I bat sixth. Don't know how it all began. A perceived slight in the clubhouse – was it that dreary rain delay when we played cards with Raul and Esteban and Trainer Mike? I ridiculed his dealer's choice, some follow-the-queen claptrap. He spat a wad of chaw at my feet and said at least he didn't strike out not just once but three times last night, one time lookin'.

"Twice," I protested.

"Twice lookin'?" he asked, with mock, journalistic seriousness.

"No... twice... total," I explained lamely. Jesus, it sucks to have to explain something like that. Never be in a goddamn position where you're explaining you only struck out twice. "Never fucking mind."

"Two time, three time," he argued dismissively. "Three times a lady," he added bizarrely. Mike chuckled. What a moron.

"I done tired of gettin' on base and havin' you strike out, Kel," Lowell said, shaking his head. "I can get up there on first, 'cause I got a hit, took one for the team, whatever, I'm a man, see, and I can tip my hat and salute Old Glory and make the base my pillow. 'Cause I ain't goin' nowhere."

Mike hooted and snorted with glee. Raul and Esteban chuckled darkly. Only 'cause they like a fight.

Mike always had a towel draped over his right shoulder. Never did it bother me more than at this moment.

Suddenly I threw my hand in Lowell's face and it was a pretty good one, too. Ace-ten, suited, as I recall. There could have been upwards of $350 in that pot.

"Fuck you!" I said. Accent on the fuck. And I clomped away in my cleats. Over my shoulder they were laughing and going ooh-ooh. Like a table of little girls in the cafeteria. God I hated them all at that moment.

But mostly Lowell.

And Trainer Mike.