Numero Siete

And that's how it came to pass, that on the second-to-last day of the work week, the kickball crew that tarred the plate factory roof in the spring of '15 wound up sitting in a row at nine o'clock in the evening, drinking icy cold vodka style water, courtesy of the newest manager that ever rounded a base at Roberto Clemente State Prison...I mean Roberto Clemente Field...The colossal prick even managed to sound magnanimous. We sat and drank with the moon on our shoulders and felt like free men. Hell, we could have been playing kickball at one of our own houses. We were the Lords of all Creation. As for Coach, he spent that break hunkered in the shade, a strange little smile on his face, watching us drink his vodka...You could argue he'd done it to curry favor with the ref, or maybe make a few friends among us players. Me, I think he did it just to feel normal again, if only for a short while.