One day a kid named Alexander moved to a big city from a small rural town in the South. His friends tried calling him Alex, but he preferred the longer, almost as a designation of class, of being above the stay in the same town for generations type of folk that surrounded him. He knew he was better than that, and like the Alexander of old, he would conquer his own world, nation by nation. His trip began with a scholarship to a school based on his ability to throw a baseball really well.
And like the credits sequence of the first Karate Kid film, it was a long drive with his mother across the nation in an old, dusty 1990 Ford Crown Victoria.
Once there, he said his goodbyes and hellos, he found his room, and went to sleep.
The first night he dreamt he had it all
The second night he dreamt he lost it all
The third night he did not dream at all
Alexander went to his first week of school. Throwing a baseball did not help him in the classroom.
Luckily, he had a team of tutors and bookkeepers and high level grade manipulators that allowed him to throw that baseball in the spring.
One year passed. Two. Then three.
The fourth year, graduation. 4 years of classes have had their toll on his sleep. 4 years of baseball has a toll on his arm. 4 years of women had a toll on his ability to reproduce effectively.
Lucky for him, the pros want you for your arm and not your ability to reproduce. The draft came, and he was picked well into the first few rounds. Corporate bosses who had a hobby of owning baseball teams loved him.
"That Alex kid can pitch" they would say
"That Alexander," the team coach would correct
"Who cares!"
The Sports Center mouths praised his Spring Training performance. The local media advertised his appearance at the Burger Spot, or the Sports Authority.
His name became worth more than a number 5 on the menu at McDonald's.
His first year would probably be in a minor league bus, but he knew in time he would make the big time.
He always did.
On the first night, he dreamt he had it all.
Alexander took it all in. His mouth humbled in front of the mic, his mind on his career, his heart in the game. Lucky to have gone this far. Lucky his arm overshadowed his incompetence behind a book, above an essay, under a math problem.
One year. Two years. Three. Then four.
He had made it. He wore the uniform of champions. He tasted victory. He tasted glory. He tasted champagne.
And wine.
And beer.
And vodka.
And whiskey.
And rum
And a drink made in someones kitchen sink.
And, like for many people, down came the rain, and washed the spider out
The arm no longer wanted to pitch.
Impotent arm.
Useless.
Year 5, spent in a daze.
The mind numbed by Bacchus's drink
And unlike Rookie of the Year, surgery does not lead to a faster pitch.
Nor where there any Angels in his outfield.
He never made a team again.
His money, slowly waning.
Because of wife #1.
Or maybe #2.
His motivations waning.
That was wife #2's fault.
He thought.
Year 6. Then 7.
8, then 9.
Alexander was on the street, in the center divide, with a sign in his hand.
"I need money for beer"
And on the second night, he dreamt he lost it all.
As time went by, his face became unrecognizable, no longer surviving was that clean shaven smile that donned his baseball cards. and in its place, was a face of weariness, worn, weathered.
The smile was no longer there.
His mind on regret.
He wanted forgiveness.
He wanted love.
He wanted peace.
He wanted a Time Machine.
But Doc Brown was nowhere to be found.
He continued on his days, thinking there was no more hope, thinking if he should give up. He spent his Sundays staring at all the people smiling and talking in front of churches. He spend his Mondays looking at people rushing off to work, forgetting about what they learned on Sunday.
But Alexander always held on to one hope.
His name.
He was Alexander. Not Alex.
And little did he know, Alexander would once again be a millionaire.
His sign out in full force on a busy Friday lunch, a man handed him two one dollar bills. He thanked him with the usual head nod, and walked to the 711 for a drink.
He had quit the booze by now.
2 months sober.
He realized you get less money on the corner when you smell like the alley of the after party or if your eyes are glazed over from the deep long swigs of cheap liquor.
Which by now, no longer pleased his demons.
His 2 dollars this time, bought him a coke and a lottery ticket.
He bought the coke, drank it, and put the lottery ticket in his pocket, to wait for tomorrow's numbers on the little TV behind the counter.
The numbers
2, 4, 16, 22, 30 and the special sixth number 1.
2: The number of wives
4: The number of years of effective pro pitching
16: The day of April his mom was born
22: His uniform number
30: His age now.
1: In his mind, Alexander would reach number 1 again. Somewhere, somehow.
In order to win you had to get the first 5, plus that last separate number drawn out.
Sometimes 10 million. Sometimes 50.
Even 100.
This time, it was 100.
100 million.
In about 24 hours, there was going to be someone with 100 million dollars attached to their name. 100 million wishes. 100 million solicitors. 100 million friends out of the woodwork.
100 million problems.
But 100 million dollars to forget about the others.
He goes back to the street to try for a few more dollars. He gets just enough for a nice little meal at a diner down the street.
The waitress there gives him her discount. Usually.
He puts down the sign.
Its already dark.
He grabs the backpack that was on the floor next to his feet, stuffs the sign inside, and walks off the edge of the center divide.
His eyes focused on the sidewalk across two lanes of traffic.
His hearing, never the best thanks to the screaming music of his college and baseball days, only had gotten worse, as biting cold nights tend to have an adverse effect on human ear drums.
His reaction time, once what had made him such the athlete, slowed because of years of drinking, drugs, drowning.
One more lane to cross...
Party goers in the back seat smoking.
A girlfriend in the front talking loudly while texting on her iPhone
And the driver, without any inhibitions for the night, speeding past traffic lights and stray cats crossing the street.
A typical car, flying by the streets on a typical night, typically ignoring dashed lines of safety and signs of car driving etiquette.
"Lets go to the next party!" one said.
"No, lets go downtown to a club!" the other interjected.
"We just came from downtown, idiot! How do you think we got wasted?" said the driver.
"But its still so F***** early!" repeated the first.
Laughter
The kid where you close your eyes to stop the tears.
It wasn't even that funny
No screech of tires.
No pulling over to see.
Just a loud thud.
"What was that?"
"Who cares, just go!"
"Shit!"
Soon, sirens.
Soon, silence.
Soon, the sound of prison bars, the tears of getting caught more than remorse.
The driver, manslaughter, among others
The passengers, public intoxication, among others.
The body is identified with an ID card. The coroner speaks.
"I saw him at the Sports Authority. I got his autograph"
The next day, the Lottery is announced. A few people at the liquor store crowd around the small television screen, with their numbers in one had, and some with a freshly purchased pack of smokes in the other. A lady overdressed for a green screen in an under budget studio with a vacuum like machine with numbered balls in front of it calls out the numbers
4, 16, 22, 2, 28...
and...
The TV screen shuts down. Someone had drilled into an underground cable while fixing a pothole in the street. No one in the block knew who won. No one really cared. Most were more concerned about getting their TV back on. They were going to miss their favorite show. They weren't able to log into Facebook, so they turned to their smart-phones, but for some reason, for some sick twist of momentary fate, they had lost reception. They lost the ability to communicate for a moment. A few seconds. Maybe a couple of minutes. To them, their world had ended.
And somewhere in a bag with bloodstained clothes, a lottery slip waited to be claimed.
And on the third night, he didn't dream at all
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