Adam Dunn is smart?

Ok, a few people convinced me to post more of this story, so here it is. The part about Adam Dunn and existentialism is supposed to be funny, but maybe it isn't.

chapter 1 part 1
chapter 1 part 2
chapter 2 part 1
chapter 2 part 2

Casey seemed unusually reticent the next time he and Sidney went to a game. Sidney wasn’t one to put his nose in the personal affairs of others, as long as those personal affairs had nothing to do with him. Was Casey thinking about Anne? Trying to predict the outcome of the game?

It was a day game – the heat was unbearable, the Ohio’s contents spilling into the air, coating skin like an oil spill. It was even too hot for beer, which merely accelerated the dehydration process. For once, Casey thought about leaving a game early, but it was against his principles, like leaving Mass before communion, and he couldn’t bring himself to do it. Besides, he and Sidney were supposed to have dinner with A.J. and Adam Dunn after the game.

Aaron Harang was pitching a gem, like he was trying to hurry up the job to escape the heat, but the offense was as lifeless as the dwindling crowd in the stands. Harang looked pissed when the Reds batters went down in order in the bottom of the seventh and proceeded to strikeout the side. When he returned to the dugout, an argument ensued between him and the manager about batting. He was due up second in the inning, and apparently he won the argument for he batted for himself. Suddenly, Casey perked up.

“Finally, we’re getting some offense going.”

“What? Is the heat making you delusional?”

“No, Harang’s pissed off – he’s going to double, Freel will bunt him over, and Dunn’s going to hit him in.”

“You are delusional,” Sidney smirked.

“But look!” Casey replied as Harang connected on the next pitch. A double into the gap. Sidney said nothing. Freel bunted Harang to third, followed by a Dunn single. Harang finished the gem, and the crowd managed a wilted cheer as fireworks limped out of the smokestacks into the heavy, wet air. Casey and Sidney walked to the restaurant to have drinks while waiting for the ballplayers.

As soon as the bartender sat drinks in front of them, Sidney spoke.

“How’d you do that?”

“What?”

“How’d you know what was going to happen?”

“I don’t know. I just get these feelings before something happens, not all the time, but at random times. Although it does seem to come more often during important games.”

Casey shifted in his seat and stared into his drink hoping Sidney would drop the subject, but Sidney couldn’t read Casey’s discomfort. Or he ignored it.

“Do you realize how much money you could make from this?”

“What? How?”

“Placing wagers.”

“Betting? Sorry I don’t bet on baseball.”

“You sound like a guy named Pete.”

“Difference is, I tell the truth. In fact, I don’t bet on anything. Sure, I’ll play those scratch off lottery games, but those are just for fun, and I just play for tickets, really.”

“Don’t you hate your job?”

“Yeah, but my love for this game far outweighs it.”

Sidney’s face continued the conversation though his mouth spoke of other topics. Casey noticed but said nothing, though his hands slid up and down his glass and his eyes did the same to the clock in anticipation of the ballplayers’ arrival. He had met Dunn at a party but had not had much of a conversation with him in such an intimate setting like a table for four.

He arrived in a hideous blue and yellow Hawaiian shirt and loafers with no socks. His hair was still wet and disheveled from his post game shower, and he strutted in like he was the antithesis of James Bond, a classless redneck from rural Texas. Turns out, though, that Casey was wrong. In fact, Adam was so polite and full of class that he wondered if this man were really Adam Dunn.

“Sorry, we’re late guys,” he said. “Manager called a meeting about the roster expansion. Appears we’re getting Bruce and Stubbs for a cup of coffee.” A barely discernable frown crossed his face. It occurred to Casey that six outfielders were too many, and with Dunn’s hemorrhaging average…

“Casey, how you doing?” A.J. asked. “Adam, you’ve met Casey, right?”

“Yeah, how’s it going?”

They took a table in a far corner of the restaurant to distance themselves from the stares of the other patrons. Casey observed people with amusement. There were various degrees of politeness in recognition, ranging form sideways glances to long, direct gazes. Adam’s massive frame was their focal point, for he was hard to miss and had been around Cincinnati for years. At one point a boy no more than ten slowly made his way to the table to ask “Mr. Dunn” for an autograph. Adam obliged, then leaned over and asked, “Don’t you want A.J. Sullivan’s autograph, too?” The boys eyes lit up as an affirmative smile spread across his face. “That’s A.J.” Adam said, pointing. A.J. gave Dunn a dirty look and grabbed the kid’s pen and paper, scribbling his name like he were writing a prescription for an infectious disease.

“What’s a kid doing in a restaurant like this?” A.J. asked him.

“My mom and dad took me,” the boy replied with a hint of fear in his voice.

“Lighten up, A.J. He’s just a kid,” Adam said.

“There you go kid. Go back to your parents.”

“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”

“Why’d ya have to be like that?” Adam asked when the kid had gone.

“Like what?”

“Like a jerk. He’s just a kid who saw a ballplayer in a restaurant.”

“Yeah, a ballplayer. You should have kept it that way. I don’t like kids. They give me the creeps.”

“What? They’re so innocent.”

“That’s it. They remind me of innocence lost. Plus they have some sort of intuition, they can see your soul or something.”

[Adam’s response - something scientific about a child's intuition. must do a bit of research, too lazy right now.]

Casey’s mouth dropped. This was Adam Dunn, a man purported to have read two books in his life, who was “too stupid” to make adjustments at the plate.

“How do you know that shit?” Sidney chimed in.

“I did go to college, you know.” Adam rolled his eyes and continued. “You have a point about that lost innocence thing. I think our whole culture is based on that loss of innocence. I mean, look at us. As adults we play video games, buy expensive toys, and play a game for a living. And where has it gotten us as a society? It has created a hunger for spirituality. We have ballplayers claiming God makes them win ballgames. We have the religious right trying to establish a theocracy. Hell, we have a new crusade going on in Middle Eastern deserts, and though it didn’t start as a religious war, its supporters often view it as that. It’s like existentialism with God.”

Existentialism? Adam Dunn? Stage irony at its finest. Casey began to laugh out loud.

“What’s so funny?” Adam demanded.

“Adam Dunn is talking about existentialism.”

“So?”

“How’d you get the reputation for being an idiot if you can have a dinner conversation about existentialism?” He broke into a grin as wide as his body.

“Shh…” he said with a wink.

When they had finished their dinner, A.J. took up the check, refusing to let the others pay. As he was signing the receipt, Casey noticed he had left a meager tip. Since it was A.J. Sullivan and Casey did not want to alienate him, he said nothing, only left more money as they were leaving the table. A.J. had obviously never waited tables in his life – how else could he be so cheap?

Casey had trouble sleeping that night. He couldn’t stop thinking of Anne. Why had she come into his life again? He had been over her, though it had taken such a long time.

There was a time, out in Monterey, that was one of his favorite and most painful memories. It was a Friday night, a full moon in November, the warmest time of the year for that area. There had been a retirement ceremony for some Lieutenant Colonel that he had never heard of nor did he care about. Casey’s disdain for forced overtime was firmly rooted in these excessive and unnecessary forced ceremonies which took away precious free time far too often. Real work, productive work, wouldn’t have been so bad, but the stupid formations and marching ceremonies were counterproductive and served as fuel for malcontent. That night, he was supposed to meet Anne for their anniversary dinner at 7pm. By the time the marching and the inane ceremonial crap had ended, it was 7:30 and the moon had risen over the coastal mountains, shining out over the bay as if the Pacific really were a peaceful sea. He knew she’d be angry – she didn’t understand the military, and quite frankly, neither did he. There was no rhyme or reason for these excesses - these things should have been voluntary. Let the dorks with no lives brownnose their way to the top.

Casey ran to his car, knowing full well a furious Anne would be home by then, but he stopped by the restaurant to make sure. When he didn’t see her, he stopped the host.

“Did a furious woman leave the restaurant in the last half hour?”

“Furious? No, but about ten minutes ago a woman left in tears.”

“Oh no. It wasn’t my fault; I couldn’t leave. She doesn’t understand.”

“You will have to do something special to make up for it.”

“Like what? I’m clueless about these things.”

“Order dinner, get some wine, and take her to Asilomar Beach. The night is beautiful – she’ll forget your tardiness.”

“Oh, that’s brilliant! What’s your name?”

“Claude.” Really, a waiter named Claude. How original.

“Thank you so much, Claude. Can I order two of whatever is the special?”

“Grilled Mahi Mahi in a ginger and garlic sauce.”

“Her favorite fish. Perfect.” I’m going home to get her, and I’ll pick this up on the way to the beach.”

After the initial tears and the shouting match, the night fell into something resembling perfection. If there was no cornfield in Iowa with a baseball field in the middle of it, then that night on the beach had to be what Heaven was like. She cried with joy, they made love on the beach, and he thought he would spend the rest of his life with her. The memory was enough to send him to a refreshing sleep, though he couldn’t shake the sadness he felt upon awakening.