[10:07 PM

Office of Hector Shatner

Lexington, KY]

The call with Snow had gone better than expected. After exchanging pleasantries,  Hector has explained his dilemna to Cledus Snow, owner of the San Antonio Calzones De Laredo. Snow is sympathetic, but wary of letting go of Duane so close to the start of the season. He needed to know how it would affect the Calzones plans. He needed to talk to his GM, but Hector should expect a call back within the hour.

For his part, Snow was just buying time. He was still contemplating the contents of the email he had received hours earlier. Much like Isabel, in his heart Snow knew what he had to do.

Hector paced the luxiourious office like a caged cat for the next 30 minutes, waiting for the return phone call.

Finally, at nearly quarter to 11, the phone rings. It’s Higgins. Hector anxiously answers.

“Hector, Mr. Snow has given his blessing to a deal,” says the voice on the other end. “We just need to work out the details.”

Hector is definitely feeling out of his comfort zone in having to make a deal, especially knowing that his team’s season is on the line. He turns to the computer and pulls up the scouting reports on his own team. He knows he has no idea what he’s doing, but he’s going to at least fake it.

Unbeknownst to Hector, his opponent in this dealing duel had been put in a box. The Calzones owner had admonished his GM. The admonishment echoed in Higgins head.

Give Hector a fair deal. I don’t want any fallout on this one, not like that Tugboat debacle.

Higgins was not exactly enthused about having his hands tied. But at the very least, he wasn’t going to let Hector know they were tied.

“How about you give us Gallagher?” says the Calzones GM. “Straight up for Rudis.”

Hector chuckles.

“No way in hell your getting Gallagher” says Hctor.  “I’m willing to talk, but not about Gallagher.”

Hector tried to sound confident, but making Gallagher off limits was a negotiating ploy. Hector knew his options were few. He would protect Gallagher as long as he could and hope to negotiate something better.

“Maybe Don Edwards and our 10th round pick?”

Hector waits for the response.

“Edwards is too far away” says Higgins. “How about Allen Johnson and keep your pick?”

Hector knows that whoever is second on Higgins list must be fairly good as well. He looks quickly at the scouts notes on the computer screen. He needs to reply quickly and confidently.

“How about SS Arai and 3 cases of Bourbon?” asks Hector.

Higgins jumps back with a quick reply, hoping to overwhelm Hector with his counter offer. He needed to get Hector to show his hand.“

“Well if you are throwing Short Stops around, how about Tamayo and Marshall?” asks Higgins.

Hector scrolls the computer screen. He notices the scouts have noted ‘questionable control ‘ next to Marshall. Hector ponders that for a minute.

Sounds like this Marshall is a bad apple. I don’t need some guy going all Pexego on our season.

“Marshall is possible,” replies Hector. “But we need more than just a pot bellied possibly batshit crazy GM in return.”

Hector felt he might be pushing his luck, but he remembered his baseball people saying that if you kept Higgins talking long enough, you were almost sure to get a draft pick out of the deal.

Higgins thought for a moment.

I’ve got Marshall right now. But Snow wants me to give him a square deal.

 

“Look Hector,” said the Calzones GM, “I’m going to give you my best offer here. I have two needs, Marshall, and some cash. You need Rudis. I’ll send you our top pitching prospect Mizuno. Trust me, you’ll love him, or at least Duane will. He raves about the kid. And I’ll throw in our second round draft choice. Duane raves about that as well. Duane raves about a lot of things. He’s a raving type of guy.”

“And I send you Marshall and some cash?” asks Hector.

“Yes” replies Higgins.

“How much cash are we talking?” asks Hector

“I need two million,” replies the voice on the other end of the line.

There was silence on the other end of the line.

“Look,” said the Calzones GM after a moment of awkward silence, “ we are both in binds, different though they may be. This deal solves everyone’s problems, and straight up talking here, this is the best I can do.”

Hector hated parting with the cash. But as the numbers spun around in his head, he knew a playoff appearance was going to be worth well more than $2 million dollars in the long run. He tapped his pen on the desk nervously. He knew what he had to do.

“Done,” Hector moans into the phone grudgingly.

“We have a deal then?” asks Higgins.

“Yes, but only if you post it to the league,” replies Hector. “I have no one here to handle the paperwork at this hour.”

“It will be done,” replies Higgins. “Have a pleasant evening, sir.”

Hector turns off the phone, sits back in his chair, and contemplates what just transpired. Duane Rudis was coming home. Hector wiped the sweat from his brow. A disaster averted. A season, and potentially a fortune, saved. And he unloaded a potential troublemaker in Marshall. It felt like a win. He certainly hoped so. His entire financial future might be riding on this season.

 

12:15 AM

April 1, 2018

The Calzones GM had just hung up the phone with Hector. He felt a huge wave of relief cascade through his weary body. He wanted to go home and sleep, but there were a few more tasks to accomplish.

The Calzones offices were long since deserted. He walked over to the window, and cracked it open. He quickly lit a cigarette and took a long drag. He normally had to duck into his private bathroom to avoid the no smoking policy. He had disabled the smoke detector in there. But that was during normal business hours. Late on a night like tonight, he could crack open the window and feel the warm Laredo breeze as he enjoyed his vice.

He looked out across the quiet town. The lights of Laredo, on a warm and breezy night, had a different kind of look and feel than any other place on earth. It was something he never quite understood, but it was something he always felt when he saw the lights of Laredo in the early morning quiet. Something about those lights that always struck a chord with him, as if they told him ‘this is home’.

He took another  drag on the cigarette and turned his attention to the tasks at hand. He reached for his cell phone on the desk, and flipped through the most recent calls. He found the one he was looking for, and he pushed the button to re-dial that number.

After 5 or 6 rings, he heard a weary voice on the opposite end answer.

“Dan” he said into the phone, “good news. We’re a go on that deal. Duane is out my hair.”

“It’s almost 2 am here,” the sleepy voice replied. “This could have waited until morning, you ass.”

“Look, you told me to let you know as soon as possible,” he replied. “This was as soon as possible.”

“Okay” the voice replied, “next time I will remember to be more specific and specify to let me know during normal business hours. Jesus, I’m amazed you can dress yourself.”

“Look, you know” replied Higgins, searching for a response. “You could have let it go to voicemail, you would have got the message in the morning.”

“Yeah, yeah, ok” came the reply. “I didn’t want to sleep anyway. I’ll fax the paperwork. Thanks. Jackass. ”

Higgins heard the click of the call ending. And with that, he had the starting pitcher he felt he needed to solidify the rotation.  He had acquired Marshall to strengthen the bullpen. Now all he needed was another bat. But that could wait. Until morning at least.

No need waking up half the league at 2 am. Although screwing with that Dudas guy in Manchester could be sort of fun. Maybe I’ll just order him a pizza.

He has one more order of business. He needs to inform Duane. It’s not quite 1 am in Laredo. He dialed Duane’s number and let it ring. No answer. He hung up and tried again, with the same result. The second time, he left a message.

“You’ve been traded to Kentucky. Your a GM again. Congratulations. Your on a flight to Lexington at 9:30 in the morning. I’ll email you the confirmation code. Good luck Buddy.”

He turned off the phone, and returned to his desk. He had instructed Rosa to make the flight arrangements earlier that afternoon. He found the email, and forwarded it to Duane.

Adios, amigo.

Higgins sat back in the chair, and contemplated what he had just accomplished. Duane gone. Reliever acquired. Starter acquired. Now all he needed was a bat. He knew it could wait until morning, but he couldn’t help but start to look through the scouting reports of the various teams. He looked wistfully at a few players, but realized he was getting tired and had better head home for some sleep.

Tomorrow is another day.

He gathered his laptop and several files, and locked up his office. As he entered the hallway, he turned and looked towards Duane’s office at the end of the corridor. He made a mental note to himself to have that turned into a workout room. He would set up a meeting with the contractors before the week was out.

When he made it down to his car in the secure lot adjacent to the Calzones offices, he stopped momentarily to enjoy the warm breeze of the Laredo night. He looked around at the way the town glowed. There was just always something about a warm evening in Laredo that made life feel so special.

 

7;30 AM

April 1, 2018

Duane’s small aprtment

Laredo, Texas

Duane rubs his eyes and looks for the cell phone. He was sure it was on the nightstand crammed between the undersized bed and the all too close wall.  Did he hear it ring, or was he imagining it? He listened, and there was no sound.

He pulled the blanket back over his head, determined to go back to sleep. Within a couple of minutes, he was startled back to conciousness by the annoying ringtone. Again he looked for the phone, and after a couple more rings he realized it was not on the nightstand at  all, but under the edge of the bed.

Must have knocked it off the nightstand in my sleep.

He rolled to the edge of the bed, and reached under, but he couldn’t feel the phone. He rolled himself off the edge of the bed and onto the floor, where he lay gazing under the bed. After hearing another ring, he spotted the phone and reached for it. He looked at the caller ID. It was Sweeney. 

What the hell can he want?

Duane answered the call, still lying on the floor between the bed and the wall. He noticed the carpet smelled sort of funky, not something he had ever noticed before. Of course, he didn’t make a habit of spending much time laying on the carpet. At least not sober.

“Duane, glad your coming back. The Thoroughbreds have needed you old buddy” said the voice on the other end.

“What?” asked a still sleepy Duane.

“Your the Thoroughbreds new GM,” replied the voice of Sweeney. “I mean, your the old GM of the Thoroughbreds, but now your the new GM of the Thoroughbreds.”

“Sweeney!!” Duane yelled into the phone. “Stop. Slow down. Put down the crack pipe if you have to.”

“Hector traded for you” the Sweeney said excitedly. “Your back. Your old job. Your old office. Just like old times. Except new times. Because now we’re gonna win.”

“DUDE!!” Duane screamed into the phone. “Your scaring me here. Should we increase the dosage of your meds or what?”

“You have a meeting with Hector later today. We’ll talk then. This is gonna be great. I’ll have everything ready”

The phone went silent. Duane lay stunned on the funky smelling carpet. He stared at the ceiling.

Poor Sweeney. He’s lost his freaking mind.

He tried to quickly forget the call. He tried standing up from the floor, and suddenly realized what a bad idea that little roll on to the floor in the first place had been. He suddently felt soreness in several places, at least one of which he was unaware existed before the twinge of pain. Eventually he made it onto all fours, and then used the bed to lift  himself up.

He looked again at the phone, and realized there had been a voicemail left in the middle of the night. He listened to the voice mail as he stumbled towards the kitchen. Not to make coffee certainly. Oh dear god, he thought to himself, he would go to Starbucks for that. No, he stumbled towards the kitchen mostly out of habit. He knew there was nothing there, but he wasn’t quite ready for a shower yet. He needed to wake up first.

He listened to the message. It was the jackass. Fitting. He was the only one rude enough to call when people are surely sleeping.

“You’ve been traded to Kentucky. Your a GM again. Congratulations. Your on a flight to Lexington at 9:30 in the morning. I’ll email you the confirmation code. Good luck Buddy.”

What the hell? This must be a joke.

He scrambled across the small apartment, and opened up the laptop. It seemed to take forever to load. Which was always the case when he had something to do NOW. Eventually he got into his email, and found the one forwarded by Higgins. With the confirmation code for the flight to Lexington. At 9:30 AM.

What the hell? This must be a joke.

He stared at the email, looking for a clue. And there it was. The date.

April 1, 2018.

April Fool’s. That’s it. It’s an April Fool’s joke.

He studied the flight details. It seemed like a legit ticket. He decided to call the airline, and sure enough, he was booked on the 9:30 AM flight out of Laredo on American Airlines. A change of planes in Dallas. Another change of planes in Charlotte. He would get to Lexington about 5:30 in the evening.

I’ll play along. Yeah, that’s what I will do. I will play along. The joke is on them.

Duane showered and called a cab to go to the airport. He didn’t bother to pack a bag, not even a toothbrush. He had skipped breakfast, but he wasn’t skipping coffee. He directed the cab driver to the Starbucks on Del Monte, which conveniently was along the route to the Laredo International Airport. He ordered a venti mocha, and also paid for a regular coffee for the cab driver. He noticed the thermometer at the bank. 94 degrees. It wasn’t even 9 am yet.

I’ll be back by tomorrow morning. It’s all one big joke.

Duane boarded his flight, and as soon as they were airborne, he laid his head back and closed his eyes. He thought about the big joke. The big April Fools joke on him. They must all be in on it. He laughed to himself, content to play along. Then suddenly, without warning, a more sinister thought crept into his mind.

What if this isn’t a joke? What if….he let the thought trail off.

Try as he might, for the remainder of the flight Duane could not shake the thought. Hector was not the joking kind. He wouldn’t have played along with a prank. Duane added up the pieces in his mind.

Bill….dead.

Duane…fired for investigating Bill’s death.

Rankin….missing under mysterious circumstances.

Duane… rehired by Hector after some goofy trade with the Calzones.

Hector must think I’m onto something. I must be close. Damn, I left my investigation notes at home.

Duane suddenly felt a cold shiver.

Hector is going to kill me next. I need to be very careful.

 

5:50 PM

April 1, 2018

Lexington, Kentucky

Duane had napped somewhat restlessly on the multiple flights it took to arrive in Lexington. The uncomfortable thought that Hector may plan to kill him next was unsettling, to say the least. 

As Duane departed the plane, he eyed everyone with suspicion. He knew Hector didn’t have the guts to commit a murder himself. He knew it would probably be someone for hire. As he made his way through the concourse of the airport, Duane was careful to make sure he wasn’t being followed. Instead of taking a straight course to the ground transportion, he would turn around unexpectedly and walk back into a store to buy something, all the while watching to see if anyone else turned around. He even ducked into a mens bathroom, though he soon realized that was a foolish choice. Because even under duress, Duane could not bring himself to break a MAN RULE.

NO EYE CONTACT IN THE PUBLIC RESTROOM.

After sheepishly leaving the bathroom and feeling like a complete dolt, Duane wandered through the baggage claim area, even pretending to be waiting for luggage at one point. He hadn’t spotted anyone who made him feel like he was being watched. So far, so good.

Duane had planned to rent a car, though he knew no rental car would be as great a chick magnet as his Stratus. But Duane thought better of leaving a paper trail at the car rental counter. He would need to take a cab.

After making it out to the cab staging area, Duane wanders up and down the sidewalk for a bit as if he is waiting for someone. He scans those passing by, as well as those stopping and waiting much like himself. None of them look like killers. He also scouts the cab drivers, particularly suspicious of the driver first in line. He was definitely not taking the first cab.

The second cab was driven by an older gentleman wearing a turban. Which meant english was probably not among his first three languages. And he might be good with a box cutter. Pass.

The third cab in the line was a possiblity, he walked past the line of cabs, and scoped out the young female driver.  Another pass. She looked too much like Uma Thurman, and Duane had seen that movie. Nope, he wasn’t going there.

The fourth cab. That was the one. With the fat old woman driver. Unless she could wing a doughnut like Bruce Lee hurled a throwing star, he was probably safe with her. Unless she made a pass at him. Then he would just do the honorable thing and kill  himself.

After waiting for the first three taxi’s to load, Duane rushes over to the old woman’s cab as it makes the front of the line. He climbs in and tells her he needs to go to Churchill 1. But not right away. He wants to wander around town first. He has a couple places to go first.  He tosses $140 on the seat next to her.

“Make sure we’re not followed,” he says to the old woman.

The woman looks at the money on the seat, and then somewhat suspiciously at Duane. Then she nails the gas and Duane is slammed back into his seat as the heavyweight version of Danica Patrick tears out of the airport and into the unsuspecting evening traffic of Lexington.

After a moment Duane is able to peel himself away from the seat and leans forward. He asks the driver to find a grocery store. He needed to get more cash from the ATM. From there he directed the old woman to several more stops. He watched the mirrors constantly while he was in the cab, and he made his stops brief and was careful to make sure no one was watching him. Not even the cab driver.

Finally he directs the  old woman to a Starbucks about six blocks away from Churchill 1. He tosses another $40 on the seat and thanks the woman, and tells her he can walk the rest of the way. She reaches out and hands him a card with her phone number on.

“Give me a call if you need another ride,” she says, and then she winks. Duane politely took the card, and tried to politely smile, while at the same time trying to not vomit in his mouth. This was no easy feat, and Duane immediately realized he had executed the manuever poorly. But he pockets the card, knowing full well that there might be a time when the Thoroughbreds need  a slump buster.

As he exited the car, Duane glances upward, takes a very deep breath of the crisp spring evening air, and notices how green and inviting the surroundings were.

This is more like the way things are supposed to be’.

He was free from the stifling heat of Laredo. There was something special about the cool spring air in Lexington. Something comforting. Something that said home.

But was he home? Even Duane was not sure. This could all be one big April Fools joke. Or….and the sinister thought had returned, spoiling his tranquil moment in the cool spring evening. Or Hector was out to kill him. The paranoia ratcheted up more feverishly inside of him, sending him into a cold shiver. His hands were now clammy.

After ordering his venti mocha, Duane walks slowly through the quiet downtown neighborhood that borders Churchill 1. It was an older residentual neighborhood, but well kept. The houses were dignified, with an air of southern charm about them. With large porches that ran across the entire front of the house. And on every porch, a swing. The yards were well manicured, the houses painted in soft colors. If there was one word to describe the neighborhood, Duane always thought that word should be  ‘inviting’.

Most of the neighborhood had remained unchanged. Most of the businesses seemed the same. Dorothy’s bakery, with the sweet delights in the window, told  him he was just three blocks from the stadium. Two blocks from the stadium, he passed ole Russ’s barber shop. The shop was closed this time of evening, but there was enough light inside to see the walls, where ole Russ still hung his Thoroughbreds collectables. Duane could even make out the row of bobbleheads on the bookshelf on the far well.

Home.

The thought ran through Duane’s mind again.

Home. This, is home.

A block from the ballpark was the landmark that marked the neighborhood, even before there was a ballpark or there was a Kentuck Thoroughbreds organization. Archie’s Pub. Long a favorite of the locals, but it had become almost mythical among the Thoroughbreds fans.

Duane glanced in the dark window as he passed Archie’s, noting the place seemed rather quiet, and then he recalled that it was Sunday Night. And baseball season had not started yet. The few customers in there on a night like tonight were the real locals.

Duane made a mental note to himself. He wanted to drop by Archie’s on a quiet night, sort of incognito, and talk to the locals. He wanted to get the pulse of the neighborhood. Not tonight. But soon.

The one notable change in the neighborhood had been the addition of birdhouses, almost all of which seemd to be occupied by purple martins. Nearly every house, even the small businesses, they all had a birdhouse. Duane could only chuckle to himself.

Have to figure out who gets the poop scoopin duty this season.

Hector had expected Duane to be arriving by around 6 or maybe 6:30 PM. It was now well after 8 pm, closer maybe to 8:30 thought Duane. He only ventured a guess as to the actual time, he was too busy with his coffee to reach for his cell phone to check the actual time. But no matter. Hector was known for making people wait. Just to be a douchebag, Hector would make people wait. This time, Duane was making Hector do the waiting.

Duane pauses across the street from Churchill 1. Taking in the last sips of coffee while glancing at the stadium, he feels like he is home. Almost.

A slight an unexpected gust of wind interrupts the tranquility of the streat. And with it, a foreboding chill runs down Duane spine. He takes a deep breathe. Whatever lies ahead, he has to face it.

Bring it on Hector. I’m ready.

Crushing the now empty cup, Duane crosses the street and enters the nearly empty offices. On one hand, he is surprised that the doors are unlocked. On the other hand, well they were expecting him after all. He was not quite sure what to make of it.

Duane passes the reception area, and decided to take the stairs up to the second floor, where he expected Hector would be waiting. Duane reaches the second floor, and walks slowly towards Hector’s office He fights off a slight grin.

Bring it on Hector.

Duane walks confidently into Hector’s office without pausing, and without apology. He takes a seat in the chair across from a visibly annoyed Thoroughbreds owner.

Hector does not greet him, but glares at him and instead asks if there was a problem getting here from the airport.

Duane ignores the inquiry. He looks at Hector, sizing up his nemesis.

“You do know why you are here at least, do you not?” asks Hector.

“Well,” Duane replies,”at first I thought it was just a big April Fools joke that Higgins conjured up and that you were playing along.”

“April Fools joke?” ask Hector. “You think that’s what this is?”

“No” replied Duane. “I said I thought that at first. Then I realized that you have no sense of humor and wouldn’t recognize funny if it was beating you over the head.”

Hector tried not to squirm in his chair, but Duane was making him uncomfortable. Maybe Duane was even more unhinged than he suspected.

“This,” Duane continued, “is a plot to kill me. I’m on to you. First Bill. Then Rankins. Now you have to get rid of me because you think I know too much.”

Hector felt slightly queasy.

Duane has gone completely Mayberry. Damn you to hell Higgins. You knew Duane was batshit crazy.

Hector paused to search for words. He was staring across at a complete madman. A madman who thought he was a madman. A madman who was staring back at him.

“Duane, I assure you this is no joke. It’s not an April Fools joke, or a joke of any kind. I brought you in to GM the Thoroughbreds. I only learned of Rankins dissappearance yesterday.”

Hector pauses and looks out the far window, which looks out over a partly lit stadium. He points towards the field, but notices that Duane’s eyes do not follow. They remain trained squarely on Hector.

“We need a GM. Being that the season begins tomorrow, I did not have any choice but to agree to making a deal to bring you back. The Thoroughbreds cannot operate without a GM and because of the timing you were my only option. But more importantly, you were the best option.”

Duane leans forward, narrows his gaze, and stared directly into Hector’s eyes.

“Hector, if I find out that any part of this is a joke I will be coming for you. I assure you of that. Just one piece of evidence and you will wish you never knew me.”

“Duane,  you still think Bill’s death was something other than natural causes. You have always suspected me, and that makes me uncomfortable. But I forgive you. My dad played hard and lived freely, he was a very good man, that is something on which we both agree. But he wasn’t murdered.The police and the coroner both have stated that there was no foul play. You have to let it go and move on.”

Duane leans back in the chair. He remains silent, but never takes his gaze off Hector.

“You have never trusted me. It makes me uncomfortable. But my dad trusted you. Now I’m trusting you. I need you. I need you to get the Thoroughbreds to the playoffs. It’s the final piece of business. Get the Thoroughbreds to the playoffs. For my dad.”

Duane still doesn’t trust Hector. In his heart, he knows he never will. But he promised Bill a winner. He owed Bill a winner.

“Hector, I am here. I’ll do the job. Just tell me one thing.”

“And what’s that?” asked Hector.

“Who did you trade for me? Tell me it wasn’t Gallagher.”

“Oh,no” replied Hector. “We sent that uncontrollable malcontent Marshall to San Antonio. He’s Higgins problem now.”

Duane thought about Hector’s answer, and then decided better of pursuing the subject any further. Gallagher was still a Thoroughbred. Duane had his unicorn.

“Your old office is ready,” Hector states. “Where’s your things?”

“I didn’t bring anything” replies Duane. “I didn’t expect the meeting to last this long.”

“I have scheduled another meeting for tomorrow at noon,” Hector states.

“And your point?” replies Duane.

“Be there,” Hector states curtly. “We have but one more day to prepare for the season. I’ll have the manager Juan
Hernández there as well.”

“Hernández?” asks Duane. “Uh, where’s Carver?”

“New Jersey,” answers Hector matter of factly.

Duane rests his face in the palm of his hand.

Now I’m starting to actually hope he does kill me.

Duane gets up to leave, and as he does Hector holds out his hand.

Duane takes the hand offered, and shakes it. Not out of friendship. Simply out of respect. Hector was  his boss again. Whether he truly liked it, or not.

“I have work to do” said Duane, and he turned and walked out. He was now on a mission.

Win.

Win for Bill.

Duane made his way back down the stairs to the first floor, then across the narrow corridor which leads to the clubhouse. Where he found his office, much as left it.

Not an office so much, but simply a converted janitorial closet. Not that there was much conversion. It was still used by the janitorial staff. There was the mop sink, with it slow but constant drip. Several shelves of dry goods and cleaning supplies lined the back wall.

To the left, against the narrow wall, was his old desk. Which wasn’t so much a desk as a few pieces of plywood strown across a couple carpenters horses. He thought about his card table desk at home in Laredo.

Possibly a little sturdier, but beggars can’t be choosers. At least that’s what mom always said.

The old Dell computers was still there, plugged into the wall. It even had a network connection. He walked over to the makeshift desk, and searched for the small stool that served as a chair. It was in the far corner, near the wall of shelves. He picked it up and brought in over to the makeshift desk.

He looked around to make sure the floor wasn’t wet, because standing in water and turning on a computer was not recommended. At least not by the manufacturer. Or the surgeon general.

The computer came to life, and the sign on display came up. His name was still in the sign on box.

Guess janitors don’t use computers.

He sat for a moment and took in his surroundings. His office. Dingy though it may be, it was situated perfectly near the clubhouse, where he could keep his pulse on his team. He listened to the faucet of the mop sink, with it rythmic drip. Music to his ears. 

He looked out into the corridor that led to the clubhouse, remembering the sounds of years gone by. The sounds of the blood, the sweat, the tears of those brutal losing seasons in Kentucky. 

The sound of cleats hitting the cement as they walked up the tunnel and out on to the beautifully manicured field of Churchill 1.

The sound of lockers slamming.

The sound of the post game meal table being over turned by an angry manager or coach.

The sound of relaxed laughter during the rare winning streaks.

The sounds that were in his soul, that could only be heard here. In this office. Where he kept the pulse of his team.

His team.

Duane’s team.

Duane was home.