* * * *
I’m starting to wonder if anticipation can actually kill something. The week before the break, Tommy texts that the property won’t close due to title problems, so it’s out for our holiday. This comes on top of him getting benched twice in a row as the rookie is hitting over three hundred while Tommy’s slump has him down to two-fifty.
“Well, shit,” I say out loud when I read Tommy’s text about the cabin. Where the hell now? I try to come up with an idea, but strike out. It has to be somewhere remote, some place where we won’t be recognized. But where in the country is baseball not present?
Isn’t there somewhere else in the woods?I text Tommy.
I’m working on it. Nothing so far.
Two days before the break, Tommy calls. I’m at home, he’s in Arizona.
“How about camping?” he asks.
“Where?”
“On those five acres we’re buying. We don’t have access to the cabin, so let’s pitch a tent in the woods. Screw amenities. Shit in the woods, wash in the lake. Really rough it.”