Tim Moungey and the Phoenix League

[Izulde]

"I can't believe this ****... ****ing old man Benvuneto died?!"

Josue is in shock. So are we all, I think.

It's a day after the news hit the papers and all 26 Secrets and I are sitting on the front lawn of my house. Most of us are staring blankly out into the street, though Katamor is busy tearing up strips of grass. Normally I'd be pissed, but I'm so hollow inside I don't care that he's wrecking my front yard.

"Yeah.. He died in his sleep they said. Looks like the Octopus League is done, too. Heh. Looks like I'm back to six bucks an hour job at Victoria's Secret and you guys are going back to wherever you came from originally."

Not something I want to say, but it's the truth. The article in the paper today had quotes from his heirs, all of whom said they refused to continue the league.

"This is ****ing bull****!"

Delbert leaps up and runs to the lone tree in my yard and punches it savagely, fury in his face. With a low growl, he whirls around to glare at us, his body shaking like I've never seen it before.

"Do any of you ****ing know what it's like to grow up poor in the ghetto?! Do you?!"

None of us answer. We're too stunned by this sudden outburst from one of the most easygoing guys in the team. From the street, our eyes snap to Delbert, most of us with our mouths open.

He smiles bitterly and leans against the tree, flexing the fingers of his now throbbing and bruised hand.

"Yeah man, going up black in the ghetto is the ****tiest thing that can happen to a person in this country. There's only three ways out of there... You either join the church, join the gangs, or play sports well enough to get a scholarship. I wanted to become a major league baseball player, but Mama told me to study hard and get an academic scholarship. My dad walked out on us when I was two and I ain't never seen him since then, so Mama raised me by herself."

A breath is taken as he closes his eyes, falling away from us, going back into a past we've never known about him before this.

"I didn't want to do it, but something told me Mama was right. So I did it. I busted my ass off in school and got a full ride to Florida A&M. Graduated with a degree in African Studies and then went to graduate school to get my teaching certificate so I could teach high school history. But I still had that dream of wanting to become a pro ball player. So I joined one of the independent semi-pro teams in Storrs, cuz I was at UConn for graduate school. Funny how things worked out because of that."

We watch in spellbound silence as he inhales some more air, peeling a leaf off the branch directly overhead. As he tears the green maple leaf along its veins, he continues.

"One of the games, I went 4 for 4. Hit two homeruns, had 5 RBIs, and we won 7-4. After the game, I'm packing my bat away in my bag when this old man comes to me and says, "Hell of a game you had there, son."

I didn't think nothing of it, so I just said, "Thanks" and kept right on putting my stuff away.

He watched me for a moment before he put his hand on my shoulder and said, "Son, how would you like to play professional baseball?"

I'm thinking Okay, this old goat's just pulling my leg, but I decide to humour him, so I smile and say, "That'd be great, Mister, but somehow I don't think the majors is gonna come calling for me. Though when I was a kid, that's all I wanted to do was play ball in the majors. But you know how it goes. We make compromises and sometimes have to give our dreams because that's what life makes us do."

He laughed then and I started to get mad, and I mean really mad. I think he could tell that I was about to punch him, because he held up his hand to hold me off before he spoke again.

"Son, I'm sorry for laughing, but it's something I hear too many times from too many people. They don't realize that it's possible to still pursue their dreams, even when it seems like all is lost." After he got out a cigar and lit it, he said, "My name's Nigel Benvuneto and I'm starting a professional baseball league. It's not Major League Baseball, I know, and we play a short season, but it's a pro league and who knows? As we grow and get more attention, maybe some of the big boys' scouts will come looking. I'd like you to come and try out for the league and put your name in the dispersal draft. From what I saw today, you've got what it takes to succeed."

By this time, Delbert's got the leaf scattered in tiny pieces all over the lawn, but we don't notice. We also haven't moved. This is just too amazing, too surreal to risk breaking the moment. Exhaling, he adjusts his Racine Secrets cap, his eyes glistening with tears that are more shocking than anything else we've seen so far. Delbert doesn't cry. He's too cool for that. But he is. He is crying, and as I look around, I see more than a few of the rest of us are too.

"The old man believed in me when nobody else did. I owe the ressurection of my dream to him. These last few months have been the best of my life, and I don't give a **** how much the plane ticket or the hotel or any of that **** costs. I'm flying out to Hartford and attending Nigel's funeral! I owe him that much, at least."

By this time, we're all crying. A bunch of grown men all in tears on a front lawn in the unemotional Midwest. It's absurd and the people going by are probably laughing at us.

But that doesn't matter as we all run forward, instinctively having the biggest group hug this side of a Boston Red Sox championship.

"We're all going, Delbert. Every last one of us."

Scotty's spoken for all of us.

It's decided in that moment that every last one of the Racine Secrets are going in person to pay homage to the man who gave all of us the chance we thought was lost forever.

As Delbert says, we owe him that much.

[Izulde]

We're on a plane now, heading to Hartford. We flew out of Milwaukee. General Mitchell is the middle child of the three sibling airports in the area. Smaller than big brother Chicago O'Hare, but bigger than little brother Chicago Midway.

It's the middle of the night, about two am roughly. The plane's a small one, as evidenced by the fact that we occupy approximately a quarter of the seats. Just about everyone's asleep, except for me, Josue, and Delbert and those two are lost in the world of music pumping through their earphones.

I'm glad the flight isn't long enough for a movie. There's nothing worse than watching a film on an airplane. The small picture, the tinny sound coming through the headphones, the cramped quarters and odious smell of too many people packed into one place... It's enough to make even The Godfather a bothersome annoyance.

I've traveled a lot in my twenty-six years and by just about every medium imaginable. Long car rides I hate. It's too small a space and you can't really lose yourself all that well in your thoughts, though I manage it better than most. I can't stand driving. Don't have my license and I never will. To drive requires too much concentration, too much focus on what's going around you. I'd much rather be a passenger and lose myself in the world of my daydreams and ruminations.

Trains and buses are great, the first better than the second. On a train, you're closeted in a private world that's shielded off from others thanks to the sliding glass door of the car you're in. There's something magical about locomotives, too, something enchanting and endearing that whispers of history and of the panaromic and ever-changing terrain of Europe's countries.

Buses, on the other hand, are still good for letting your mind wander where it wants to, but it can be really sad to experience, too. There's few worse feelings than the emptiness and loneliness you feel when every seat on a bus is taken but one, the seat next to yours. It's like the other people onboard are saying 'No, you're not good enough to sit next to.' Even more heartbreaking is when the bus *is* full and your seatmate crinkles their nose at you and makes an ugh face of disgust, like having to be by you is their own miniature version of hell. All of my elementary, middle school, and high school field trips were like that. I was always the kid everyone hated to sit by. Why that is, I don't know. It's something i wonder about even to this day. Bus rides are slow too, damnably slow. Eventually you just get tired of sitting and want to get up and move around, but you can't really, especially if you're sitting by a window.

The one advantage that planes have over all other modes of transportation is their speed, and that plus is so great that I take advantage of it whenever I can. To go from one place to the next in the briefest span of time possible is something that I relish and adore, though if American trains were as fast as their Old World counterparts, I think I would take them more often.

As I'm sitting in my tiny seat, I find myself remembering trips of the past. Family vacations all across the broad expanse of our forty-eight states. A summer of train after train in Europe. Buses to other places in my home area. But most of all, the airplane trips. There have been good journeys and bad ones. The best, forty-three hours and twenty minutes of the most wonderful heaven I've ever known, in the state of desert sun and desert temperatures, where the earth yawns for at least a mile deep. The worst, two and a half days in the state where worshipped are sun, film, and youth.

But of course, with every slice of paradise, there is invariably a cloud of red and black sulfurous hell to go with it. The way to that too brief ecstacy was marked by pain and agony. I'd forgotten to bring chewing gum with me, and so partway through the flight, I was moaning and writhing in my seat, my ears being ripped apart by the excrutiating torture of the pounding pressure. No attendant came to my aid and the flight was not even half-full, so none of the passengers tried to assist me. Since that time, I've always made damned sure to always have gum, and at least two packs of twenty, besides.

As we continue to navigate through the dense blackness of the nocturnal clouds, a snatch of song passes through my mind.

There's so many times I've let you down
So many times I've played around
I'll tell you now, they don't mean a thing

Every place I go, I think of you
Every song I sing, I sing for you
When I come back I'll wear your wedding ring

So kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me like you'll never let me go

'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
I don't know when I'll be back again
Oh, babe, I hate to go

Now the time has come to leave you
One more time, oh, let me kiss you
And close your eyes and I'll be on my way

Dream about the days to come
When I won't have to leave alone
About the times that I won't have to say ...

Oh, kiss me and smile for me
Tell me that you'll wait for me
Hold me like you'll never let me go

'Cause I'm leaving on a jet plane
I don't know when I'll be back again
Oh, babe, I hate to go

[Izulde]

A spiderweb of red lines cracks across the whites of my eyes. I'm shaking from lack of sleep, overindulgence of cigarettes, and the pink and blue sky of the early dawning.

Five am now or thereabouts. We're checked into our hotel, a mediocre place with cheap paintings on the walls, peeling white plaster, and of those damnable shower/bath combos that no matter what you do runs out of hot water inside of four minutes.

Though it's technically morning, to me it time has lost all semblance of meaning. Chronos's river has broken its boundaries and overrun the shorelines that demarcate it. I am a lone sailor, swept along the surprisingly gentle tides. Everything around me as I stand outside and watch this sad cement altar to the god of Man's Ingenuity has a surreal cast to it. This is not reality. This is a film set, and I am a simple actor.

Or is it more real for the lack of mere conscious thought? Are the vistas and outlook points that spring up when our subconscious usurps the throne of the mind the ultimate truth in the end?

It's worth consideration, but I can't stay in any one spot right now, neither in my thoughts nor in my newly weightless and airy body. Across the street, a homeless man preaches to a dead world the coming return of Christ. In the harsh and perversely obfuscating light of day, he would be no more than a peripheral notation, gone out of memory before he even has a chance to be captured by Remembrance's snapshot camera.

In this singular moment, he is transformed, made into Moses on the Mount. Sighing Sinai, place of the given Commandments while on a lower plane, fickle revelers revered a profane golden calf. Israelites as Hindus? Perhaps in a corrupt maharajah's ideal utopia, but to one with a more wordly view, it smacks of ludicrious sacrilege.

Oh, do not mistake me. I am not Christian, though I was raised in the school of tragic Luther's forced devising. If anything, I would call myself a spiritual and shifting soul in search of an abode where I may anchor and build a bold fortress of faith unshakeable. But I am Gemini by sign, bipolar by disorder, and thus afflicted with too many confounding dualities. Paradox, I am your Avatar. Strange, some have said I resemble Jesus in appearance.

The idea of being a Saviour is a very appealing one to me. Was Christ ever anguished by self-doubts and uncertainties that made him wonder at times if he wasn't in fact insane, slowly and by degrees falling deeper and deeper into the chasm of insanity? I don't know that we shall ever know for certain, save for if the Christians are right and he resides in heaven for us in the afterlife. It is something that I shall ask him if I get there, I think.

By the time this circuit of introspection is complete, the downtrodden evangelist has vanished and the block is almost fully deserted, my presence all that prevents it from being lonely in its eternal grey cement and black asphalt skin.

Should the Rapture happen as some Protestants say, will it be like this? This great void where one has the sensation that everyone else has been taken away to some smashing party and there is only yourself left, the last and least person on earth... It would be the ultimate rejection, I believe. After all, God is said to be quite the magnamonious fellow and to not get into *his* fete is to mark you as the lowest of the low and most unworthy of the unworthy.

Enough of this. I need to go somewhere. I need to see people, to hear their voices and watch their bodies move... I need to know that I am still alive and breathing.. that the world still exists.

I'm in luck. Two blocks down, a coffee shop is open for business.

Were I in a desert, my mirage oasis would not be a glimmering blue pool of cool water. It would be one of these very coffee shops, a temple to caffeine and bad poetry.

Enough thought. To a treat of cafe mocha I go.

[Izulde]

Wait. Maybe I'm imagining things and the neon red Open sign is just a hallucination caused by my already mentioned cornucopia of alterants.

No. The door pushes open and admits me to the sanctuary.

It's a clean, well-lighted place, even in these soft, pastel morning hours. Pink and white seem to be the dominant colours in the decor. A little too girly for my bleak subjects of mental dissection at the moment, but I'll take what I can get at this point.

A quick sweep of the room with my eyes reveals the usual early clientele of old people, hung over college students, and harried businessmen and women in need of their pre-work pick-me-up.

A few minutes later, my turn in line arrives. One of those fat, boring girls with plain brown hair who worship such awful authoresses as Anne Rice and Danielle Steel is my servant for this transaction. Ah, well. My luck never has been good in the world of females, the Morrigan incident a prime example.

"Hi. What can I get you?"

"Grande Cafe Mocha, please. Two shots of espresso, no whipped cream."

I could be on the brink of death and still deliver that order flawlessly. It's the same thing I order every time I'm in one of these places.

While waiting for my order, I swivel my head around the shop again... and without warning, angels begin to sing hymns and the world goes completely dark.

The only illumination is a spotlight on the door, phosperous and glowing.

There... there... Oh God, oh God!

All background noise, all others, all scenery vanishes into the black velvet of this moment.

In another world, a mocha that I ordered in that other time and place is set on the counter. I don't even know it's there. My eyes, my centre of universe have shifted... focused solely on... her.

Words of description fail me, for when you have been destroyed by Eros's arrow, what petty paragraph can propose to paint the perfection now before you? What high-brow hosanna can hope to highlight the upheaval that your life, your world has undergone in the space of a second?

Oh, you angry and impatient mindreaders, let me try, let me try! My brushwork can not be bold enough to bring forth her brimming beauty, but I beg of you, let me try!

...Trite phrases, be gone! I can not make do with you!

Where do I begin? What is my point of origin? Suggest something, silent slyphs! Muses, lend me your mystical power!

Her hair! Start with that and work your way down!

No, no, by all that is newly holy, do not fall into that tepid trap!

Yes, yes... there it is.

Her feet, honey-hued, comfortably cuddled by black sandals, smug shoewear that suavely caresses the delicate turn of her fine-boned ankle.

Her legs, a study in the worst kind of cruelty, sheathed in blue jeans that seem born to be blessed by being against her body.

"Sir? Your mocha?"

Silence, you dumb dog! Do not distract me!

Her upper body, thin-armed and slender-stomached, in a flowing-sleeved shirt of orange-pink. ...I dare not mention the beauty of her chest's curves, so let us hurry up to her face before I punch the clerk for her audacity of interruption.

"SIR! YOUR MOCHA!"

...Bitch.

Sighing heavily, I turn and reluctantly collect my purchase.

By the time I turn, she has left the doorway and is waiting in line, a line that has been made quite long by my reverie.

"Do you think you could hurry up? You're holding up the line."

...Shut up, old man or I'll cut you with the knife I don't have.

Bowing my head, I make as elegant an exit as I can manage under the circumstances.

I don't dare to speak to her or look at her.

My embarassment in this ruined moment is too supreme.

Simultaneously elated and downcast, I escape into the outside world and race back to the hotel.

I am an idiot.



And to think that I didn't even get her name...

[Izulde]

"Does my hair look all right?"

"...Delbert. You have stubble on your head. Stubble is not hair."

"Oh. Right. Thanks, Coach."

Are all such conversations before funerals so farcical as that little snippet? I don't know. This is the first one that I've been to.

The church we're in is a good-sized one, Catholic and modeled after Brunelleschi's San Lorenzo in Florence, right down to the very architecture of the interior pillars.

It's rather fortunate that it's so large, because there's a lot of people here. Several hundred I'd say. All of them look pretty solemn and sad. Understandable, of course. Death is never a happy thing, no matter how touching some creative types want to make it.

The Secrets are scattered throughout the sanctuary, all dressed in their finest clothes. Quite a few of us are rather stressed by the sensation of having to wear formal clothing, but I'm not one of them. Suits fit very well on me and I've worn them enough times that I can move in them with the same ease of movement that I do in regular clothes.

"Hey Coach. We better go get ourselves some seats."

I nod and follow Delbert's lead down the aisle, stepping into the spaces he creates by seamlessly shouldering people aside. Josue's busy watching a video of Nigel's life they've got playing in the rear of the church.

Delbert slides into an open aisle and I'm just about to join him when I look up... and discover that the world around me is suddenly suspended in time.

There by the altar, there by the closed casket as if she were Death's own Bride is her.

Everyone else I've seen so far looks aged ten years beyond what their actual number is. Not she, not she. If anything, the pain of tragedy in her blue eyes and pink lips removes a few years. Too, the flush of red in her cheeks adds to that intoxicating allure of youth. Makeup? The heat of the room? Embarassment? Impossible to say and besides, she's still too far away to make out the fine details.

"Hey uh, Tim? You going to sit down or what?"

No, Delbert. Shut up, Delbert.

"Hey, what's with Coach?"

"I don't know, Josue."

"Maybe he's having a religious vision."

"That'd be real funny, Scotty, but I think it's something else. I mean, we were moving along just fine and I sat down and all.. Next thing I know, he's just standing there and not moving at all."

"Your friend's been hit by the lightning bolt."

Unbeknowst to me, a tall, young man of long, flowing blonde hair and thoughtful green eyes in an Armani suit has joined us with that interruption. Delbert looks him over with a raised brow.

"The lightning bolt?"

Jose laughs.

"You mean that crazy Godfather ****?"

"Yes, I mean the Godfather reference."

"Man, that's just crazy."

Scotty clears his throat and smiles with full teeth.

"Okay, one of you two jokers want to explain what this lightning bolt business is all about?"

Our newcomer shrugs and studies his impeccable nails, "It's quite simple, really. It's what happens when a man sees a girl and is completely taken away by her beauty and presence. It's not infatuation and it's deeper and more powerful than simple love. It's a life changing event that I'd say only about a third of all men are fortunate enough to experience in their lifetime."

"So who is the girl?" Hello, Katamor. He and the rest of the Secrets are filing in the rows, creating a Racine section in the pews. Not that I notice. My attention is still only on her as her lips move to make inaudible conversation with a few other people by Nigel's casket.

The elfin-faced man smiles, tracing his nails over the front of his bright purple tie, his eyes gleaming with humour that's wicked in its outer edges.

"That, my friends, is none other than Danalia... Danalia Benvuneto, that is. Old Man Nigel's granddaughter. She just turned eighteen last month and is going to college next fall, though I don't remember exactly where just now."

Scotty chokes on his coffee and sprays it all over Delbert's brown head.

"What?! Nigel's granddaughter?! Tim, do you realize who this girl is?!"

"Danalia..." Her name is all I ever want to speak again. It's so unbelievably pretty and yet, feels so fragile that all I can do is whisper it, for fear of breaking the delicate glass letters of her name.

"...Christ. Let's get him outside for some fresh air, boys and let's knock some sense into him. Sir, I'd be much obliged if you would keep our seats for us."

"Not a problem. And if your friend wants, I'll be happy to introduce him to my cousin."

"You will? Then let..." Before I can finish the sentence, I'm being bodily dragged out by an army of grim Secrets who are determined not to let me walk into the firestorm unprotected.

As we exit out on to the lawn in front of the church, Delbert's voice breaks our silence.

"Man, Scotty, you're damn lucky I'm black for one and have no hair for two, or I'd beat your white ass for messing up my hair and giving me a coffee tan!"

[Izulde]

"You will come to know pain, but in your suffering, you shall be free"

"What?"

I'm weightless, floating in a room of purple crystals, staring at the creature before me.

She unfurls her white feather wings, Athenian grey eyes staring intensely at my pale face.

"I can not tell you more than this. These things will come to pass. The end game still hangs in the balance, but the next moves are already fixed."

"I don't understand"

She smiles with sympathetic pathos in her lips as she sweeps forward, brushing a kiss over my perspiring brow.

"In time, you will learn. For now, awaken and prepare to die, so that you may one day hope to be reborn."

Then she is gone in flash of light.

Around me, the walls rumble, the crystals shattering as the room goes from purple to red.

I'm cast down to the ground, ripped apart by the flying shards. My blood, so bright in its redness, mixes with the glowing ruby of the collapsing room.

I try to scream, but no sound comes out.

Then everything disappears in a wash of red and I am aware no more.

[Izulde]

It looks like he's finally starting to wake up."

"About damn time! Josue, get me a beer from the minibar, will you?"

Does my team ever stop drinking? Probably not. I fear for all of our livers.

Blinking, I slowly open my eyes and look around the area I'm in. I'm careful not to allow too much light in my eyes all at once, but gradually allow my pupils to adjust.

I'm in a bed. Scotty's at the head of it, Delbert's at the foot, and Josue is just coming back with Delbert's beer.

"...Where am I?"

"You're back in your hotel room. We carried you outside the church and you just started babbling about Danalia." Scotty's closest to my ear, so it makes sense that he'd be the spokesperson.

"...I was?"

Delbert looks up from his opened beer after taking a swallow, a slight grin on his face.

"Yeah, Coach. You kept going on and on about her... talking about how she was an angel come down from Heaven and Hallmark **** like that. So finally Carmelo just snuck up from behind and sucker-punched you to knock you out. I mean ****, man, you were making a real asshat out of yourself there and we didn't want word getting back to the fox whose hole you want to visit."

"Ugh.. Great. She probably did hear and thinks I'm some psychotic nutjob now. Heh, how'd the funeral go?"

Our centerfielder leaps up from his seat and jumps over to the televison.

"Let's just say some real crazy **** went down. We got a videotape of it after it was over... You're definitely gonna wanna see this."

He pushed play on the VCR and an image flickers into view of a balding, somewhat pudgy man in a grey tweed suit standing at the podium in front of Nigel's casket.

"...Nigel was a great man who saw potential in me. I was just a young boy on the docks in San Francisco in the days when the company was on the West Coast and one day I made a mistake in labeling a shipment. A lot of problems came from that error, because it involved a very valuable client of ours. Mr. Benvuneto came down to discover what happened.

I'll never forget it. I was standing there, getting chewed out by my supervisor when Nigel comes strolling down the dock and asks what the problem is. My supervisor explains that I was the one who made the mistake and was responsible for all the trouble.

'Did he admit to his error when he realized it had happened?' Nigel asked my boss.

'Well yeah, he did but you can't have these kinds of--' and there Nigel cut off my supervisor and said these words that I'll never forget.

He said, 'It takes a strong man to be able to admit to his mistakes. That he came to you and confessed his error right away speaks highly of him. In fact, I'm promoting the boy to your position. You are fired. I won't have you treating the men you oversee like that. In another company you could get away with it, maybe even be applauded for it. Not here. Pick up your things and go. You can get your last paycheck on Friday.'

My supervisor was angry of course, but he didn't have any choice in the matter. From that day on, Nigel Benvuneto was my friend and my hero."

The man pauses and I ask, "So who is this--"

"Shut up, Tim. Just listen."

I shrug and do just that, since the speaker's already resuming.

"...All my life, I've wanted to do something to repay Nigel for his kindnesses to me and now, with his passing, and my subsequent promotion from Vice President of Sales to President and CEO of Benvuneto Shipping as required by Nigel's will, I am able to do so."

He turns stern in his expression, glowering down at the front pew where the Benvunetos are sitting, my darling among them.

"His last year of life was filled with love for and happiness gotten from the baseball league that he started, the Octopus League. He told me the other day that he hoped to see the League continue even after his death, but feared that his worthless offspring wouldn't see to that part of his wishes. Sadly, he was right."

A cough breaks the tense silence after that announcement while the new President takes a sip of water from the glass at his side. Though I can't see their faces, I imagine the relatives aren't feeling the best at the moment. Then again, neither am I. It's been a draining day.

"But now that I'm in charge of Nigel's corporation, I can fulfill his dream. The League *will* continue. Benvuneto Shipping's board of directors has already agreed that the company will sponsor the league."

At this point, applause breaks out in the church, matched in the hotel room by the happy yell and fist-pump by my hand.

"Yes! The Octopus League is saved!!"

"...Just wait, Tim. There's more." Yes, Scotty.

The celebration onscreen dies down after a few minutes, everyone attentive to each word now.

"However, the Octopus League as we know it is dead. Racine, Boston, Miami, and Seattle have all had their corporate owners pull their teams out and they refuse to be a further part of the league. Hence, we will have to find four new owners and bring four new teams into the fold.

And because of the situation that we then have, a new league will be created, the Phoenix League. The Minneapolis Lumberjacks, Memphis Rebels, New Orleans Mardi Gras, and San Diego Bishops will all join the league, but because half of the teams will be new and because it's a new league, all contracts are null and void.

A new dispersal draft will be held. New players will be allowed to submit their names, as will old ones. And as a nod to the established fanbases the old Octopus League clubs have and the history they've developed, each of the Original Octopus Four as we call them, will be allowed to keep one franchise player on their squad.

In addition, statistics will not carry over from the Octopus League, but will start fresh and new with the Phoenix League. We at Benvuneto Shipping felt that this was the best way of keeping in line with the idea of this league being a rebirth."

He goes on to add more praise of Nigel, but I don't hear it. The free and giddy gale of my joy has been killed and all that is left is the airless desert of my despair.

"...So we're all out of a job?"

Scotty nods and rubs his chin, "Looks that way, Tim, though I imagine quite a few of the players will re-up for the draft. A lot won't, though. It's too much instability for them."

"Well... I hope you guys all get re-drafted. Heh... Looks like I'm out of luck, though."

And just like that, a day that opened with promise when I saw Danalia in the coffee shop has now turned into an afternoon of misery.

The girl I love thinks I'm an idiot, my team no longer exists, all my friends are going away, and I'm unemployed.

...I hate to think what the night is going to bring.

[Izulde]

A few days later and I'm back home in Racine, sitting in bed. Acid screams in sadistic glee as it refluxes back up my poor, abused esophagus. I hate the feel of it in my chest and the taste of it in my mouth. Bile is a loathsome regurgitator.

I'm still numb over the events of the funeral. Danalia. The announcement of the Phoenix League. The loss of my job.

I don't want to have to go back to work at Victoria's Secret. After having been free for so long, how can I go back to that pink and white jail, my fellow black-aproned inmates and I abused by unreasonable and uptight customer-wardens? Retail is a career area I loathe. It's just too bad that I'm very good at it. Better than I am at managing a baseball team, it seems.

The rest of the former Secrets are out drinking now. They wanted me to go along, but not tonight. Tonight I want the liberation of solitude, where I don't have to respond to any stimuluses save for those I create. Were I a dog, I would have bitten off Pavlov's genitals for interrupting my train of thought with his damned bell.

In my hands, turned over and over, around and around, is a picture given to me by Danalia's fae-faced cousin, whose name is Oliver, I came to find out.

"She was sixteen when this picture was taken, chum. Don't let her know I gave it to you. Just keep it and dream of her. We all need dreams to live. I'd introduce you two, but now isn't the right time. Next time you get a chance to come out East, I'll arrange the meeting. Even if nothing comes of it, you at least deserve the chance", he told me as we stood just outside the airport terminal.

She was lovely even then, in some ways perhaps even more so, for I adore longer hair in girls.

It's strange how often the disruptive, world-changing moments in our lives come not one by manageable one, but in a devastating chain of shakeups, one immediately following after the other in a wave so brutal and so swift that we barely have time to breathe.

Why it happens this way, I don't really know. Maybe it's God's way of testing us and of allowing us to see just how great our resolve and strength is at human beings. We are after all physically inferior in many ways to animals. There is no natural protection for us. We are not naturally inclined to supercede all else of creation-evolution. No, the only advantage we have is our sentinence. Were that to be extinguished, I do not doubt that our entire race would be wiped off the slate of Earth's ancient, chalky accounting, all of our creations left to dissolve into so many mounds of forgotten dust.

Everything would turn into the spectre of ashes, no longer remembered and no longer valued. All would be meaningless and everything that we have ever done and accomplished will have amounted to nothing in the end.

Or would the very pleasure and satisfaction in the doing of these things at the time they were done be enough to still make them worthwhile?

The hour is late and it tires me to think of such depressing things. Come now, let me kiss you, image of my darling, and go to sleep, to dream of a paradise of song and beauty, where you and I waltz freely with no troubles and no problems to haunt us. There we shall know happiness. There Eden will be revived.

And bliss will be eternally ours.

[Izulde]

Phoenix League Born Out Of Octopus League: Two New Teams Announced

It is official. The Phoenix League will arise out of the Octopus League. Gone is the Tentacle in name only, for we former staffers of that paper have created a new league newspaper, the Firefeather, of which this is the first issue.

As announced at former Octopus League founder Nigel Benvuneto's funeral, a new dispersal draft will take place, with the records and statistics likewise wiped clean.

Four teams are joining the Phoenix League from the old league; the San Diego Bishops, the Memphis Rebels, the Minneapolis Lumberjacks, and the New Orleans Mardi Gras. No change is expected in the ownership or management for any of those teams. Furthermore, as per the new league rules laid out in the initial announcement, each of the four former Octopus squads will be allowed to keep one player from their old team in exchange for their first round pick in the draft.

All four have declared that they will do so, and it was revealed earlier today the protected player for each team.

New Orleans will be retaining C Wayne Dewitt. The Lumberjacks will keep RF Roido Hachemon. Staying with the Rebels is 3B Edward Mauldin and remaining a Bishop will be SP Heriberto Perez.

In addition, two of the four new teams were confirmed in the press conference held at league headquarters in Hartford.

Joining the league are the Hartford Octopuses, owned by a group of private citizens who wish to preserve Nigel Benvuneto's legacy in the new league and will be using the team to further those ends and the Redmond Super Marios, sponsored and owned by Nintendo of America.

The two new entries will be taking the place of the Boston Burgundys, now a minor-league affiliate of the Boston Red Sox, and the Seattle Coffeemen, respectively.

Two more teams have yet to be determined, though following the precedent set by the original Octopus League, they will be in the geographic regions of the teams they replace. Hence, one will be in the northwest corner of the country east of the Missippi River, the other in the southeast corner of the eastern side of the U.S.

A 24-game schedule will be adopted, with Opening Day still to be determined.

[Izulde]

Final Two New Teams Announced; Returnees Dispersal Draft List Released

It was a busy day here in Hartford as a press conference was held at Phoenix League headquarters to introduce the last two teams to be joining the eight-team association. They are the Racine Cheeseheads and the Savannah Peachmen.

The Cheeseheads will replace the Racine Secrets and are owned by Samuel Johnson, CEO and President of the privately owned Johnson International corporation based in Racine. Originally the name Bratwursts was considered, but was dropped after the Milwaukee Brewers of Major League Baseball threatened to sue for copyright infringment, as the bratwurst is one of the meats in their seventh inning stretch race during Brewer home games.

The Peachmen, taking the spot of the Miami Vices, will be owned by the Georgia State Farmers Cooperative. The team name derives from Georgia's reputation as the Peach State.

Octopus League Returnees Declaring for the Phoenix League Dispersal Draft

C
Andre Carreiro
Eugene Toombs
Donald Sak
Wayne Dewitt*
Katamor Mito
Tony Whisenant
Daniel Alvarez

1B
George Marconi
Jeremy McCleery
Melvin Letendre
Scotty Harper
Neal Penney
John Bahr

2B
William Canterbury
Jaime Gutierrez
Bryan Prioleau

SS
Kendall Kain
Erik Aitken
Josue Grandison
Kenneth Hinds
Deon Maya
Carlos Rivas

3B
Bernardo Rosado
Edward Mauldin*
David Bailey
George Capra
Evelio Olivares
Donald Stine

LF
Daniel Hayes
Miguel Salinas



CF
Timothy Chesson
Delbert Cook
Jaime Gong
Curtis Jones
Samuel Chesney
David Goddard

RF
Estanis Rodriguez
Roido Hachemon*
Willie Minjares
Bennie Taylor

SP
Christopher Lobdell
Omer Houseman
Toney Kittleson
Gary Yusuke
Allen Davidson
Ronald Sheeley
Mario Troyer
Cristian Cortada
Wenceslao Martinez
Pierre Mercurio
Heriberto Perez*
Jose Leyba
Tobias Beall
Charles Creighton

MR
Timothy Wickline
Darrell Fish
Mark Seawell

CL
Jesus Loera
Anton Arispe
Chad Thole

*= The player's original Octopus League team has designated them as their franchise player and 1st round pick in the dispersal draft.

Shocking to many fans is the absence of Darrick "Superman" Carson, who electrified the Octopus League while patrolling center field for the now defunct Seattle Coffeemen. He was expected to return, as he was regarded by many to be one of the top center fielders in the Octopus League.

Carson sent out the following press release to announce his retirement.

"I am thankful to the fans in Seattle, (Manager/GM) Jake Mondo, the late Nigel Benvuneto, and the fans of the Octopus League as a whole for giving me the chance to play professional baseball.

While I would love to continue playing the game, my wife gave birth to a son this offseason and being with my family and taking care of Troy, my newborn son, has taken priority over my wish to play baseball. Thank you all for the wonderful memories and I hope everyone continues to support the Phoenix League, for without the Octopus, there would be no Phoenix."

There is no word yet on who will be the GM/managers of any of the new franchises: Hartford, Racine, Redmond, or Savannah, but former Secrets GM/manager Tim Moungey's name has come up in talks, as has former Vices GM/manager Bob Costas's. Costas is not expected to return, however.

The dispersal draft will be held April 2nd in Hartford, with the season opener tenatively scheduled for April 29th.

[Izulde]

I must sleep. I must.

When the sun reaches just past its highest point, I am to return to the drudgery of stocking and selling. To be forced to look into their faces, to have to chirp that falsely cheerful "Hi! Is there anything in particular I can help you with?"... Ugh. This caged bird will not sing, will not give a single note, unless it be the warbling of complete despair.

The smashed crown. The throne cast down. No longer am I the King of Secrets, revered by my subjects, but a despised peasant. Out of the realm flee my advisors and friends, out of my country goes the sun itself.

All that remains are the twisted shapes of my nightmares made real, the craven raven flock cawing their scorn. We hate you, hate you, hate you! You are better off dead!

She will never come to your arms. She will turn away, spurning you at once. Even if she does initially embrace you, all too soon, you will make a mistake and she will leave. Even if you are forgiven, you will make the same error time and time again, all the while damning yourself, cursing yourself, trying to keep from doing it.... And yet, you won't be able to prevent the recurrence. Again and again you will press, or you will cling, or any other number of errors that are a fault of your own personality and diseased mind.

At last she will cry, "Enough! No, I do not even want to be your friend. Just go away and leave me alone. Never talk to me again." It will come to pass, oh it assuredly will. It always does.

Do you remember? Do you remember the Katies and the Caities and the Danaes? The Maureens and the Katas and the Haleys? A searing comet each name is as it falls from my lips, blistering my mouth and sending shocks of pain through my already taxed system.

In the end, Hate and Loneliness shall be my wardens as I hunch over, beaten and broken, my battered body falling to its knees as my swollen head hits the executioner's block.

There I will stay, eyes straining to see the gleaming gulliotine blade overhead, waiting for its drop and the final cessation of my pitiful, miserable excuse for a life.

And I will wait. And wait. And wait. The hours, days, and years will stretch out endlessly, unbearably. I will see the dying of those who gave me life; I will witness the passing of what few friends might remain.

No female body, soft and warm, will comfort me. No lips will kiss away my tears. No hands will mend my ruined ego.

At long last, I shall be entirely alone, and my dying hour shall be despair and obscurity. No one will remember me and no one will care that I am gone.

Unless... yes, there are ways of taking things into my own hands and being the master of my destiny.

I creep down the stairs, taking them one step at a time.

In the kitchen awaits my edged redemption.

The house will know my blood tonight and my soul will know its salvation.

[tucker342]

Great dynasty so far, keep it up!

[SelzShoes]

I'm a big fan of Tim and the Phoenix (and the predicessor, the Octopus) as well.

[Izulde]

Originally Posted by tucker342

Great dynasty so far, keep it up!

Thanks I'm glad you enjoy reading it! It'll probably be a bit before I update again, though. I still have to transfer players over, reconstruct the league, etc.

Originally Posted by SelzShoes

I'm a big fan of Tim and the Phoenix (and the predicessor, the Octopus) as well.

Thanks! Always glad to hear that, Selz It's interesting how the Phoenix has flowed out from the Octopus.. and it'll be even more interesting seeing how the PL goes.

[Izulde]

What is this white light?

Am I dead? Am I going to heaven?

"About time you woke up, Tim."

A male voice. Funny, God sounds an awful lot like Delbert.

My vision clears just then and the brilliance of a sunlit room floods my eyes. I swear for a few minutes and wait for my pupils to adjust to the sudden influx of light behind veil-lids, then re-open my gaze to the world.

Delbert and Josue are standing on one side of the bed, Scotty on the other side. They all wear solemn expressions and from the sunken bags under their eyes, they haven't slept in a few days.

"Hey man, we were real worried about you. Your mom's been freaking out for the past three days and she's only not here now because your dad made her go home and get some sleep."

I rub my eyes and nod with a mumble of assent. It isn't until I've pulled my arms away that I finally start to remember and actualization begins to sink in.

There, lining the pale flesh of my arms, is a series of jagged slashes, hateful in their crimson scabbing. Seeing them there, I begin to recall that night; the blood splashing on the kitchen floor, the surreal red-white flashing of the ambulance lights...

My reverie is broken by the bustling in of one of those plump, silver-haired nurses who are excellent in caretaking, lousy at arousing.

"Now gentlemen, we must be off with you. The doctor wishes to speak to the patient alone."

The visitors nod and slip out of the room, muttering phrases of encouragement that I don't hear. My mind is too fixated on the import of the nurse's words.

I don't want to have to hear the judgement I fear is coming.

I don't want to lose my freedom.

Committed. The ugliest word in psychoparlance.

[Izulde]

The door opens.

In steps a fairly tall and thin white-jacketed doctor. Remarkably tan and possessing an easy smile, he strides to my bed and offers his hand.

"Hello there, Tim. Glad to see you're awake. I'm Dr. Garcia."

I return the greeting and shake his hand, my face expressionless as I hide a wry smile. Anglo-Saxon facial contours, darker skin, and a name that hints at Spanish origins. Put it together and you've got someone who has an English mother and a Hispanic father.

"If you don't mind Tim, I'd like to ask you a few questions", says my caretaker. I wave for him to continue and so the interview process begins.

The banal, prerequisite questions fly by, the answers equally uninteresting. Once those are out of the way, Dr. Garcia's face becomes more serious and intense. Right, we're down to the real inquiry now. I've been expecting this, being an old hand at the psychiatric game and so I settle back against the cushions and wait.

"What was it that caused you to make this attempt, do you think?"

Well. He certainly knows how to throw the heater right down the middle. My respect for him increases immensely with that one, a remarkable feat given my condescending nature towards professionals in the mental health community.

"I just got overwhelmed with everything, I guess... Danalia, losing my job, having to return to gruntwork at my old job... The stress just got to me. I'm twenty-five years old, Dr. Garcia and until I became the manager of the Secrets, I felt like I was lagging way behind what my potential told me I should be at."

A nod and note on his pad later, Senor Siquiatra looks up with the small frown of concentration common to intellectuals, "I see. Well, from your family, friends, and employers I've talked to the past few days, you do seem like a very bright and talented young man. I must tell you that in cases of serious suicide attempts like this, it's hospital policy to commit the patient for a indeterminate period of time..."

...What?! Has my luck finally run out? Am I to be at last jailed? It's been years since I've done something like this! He can't put me away, he can't!

Seeing the panic in my eyes, the doctor raises his hand with a neutral face, warding off the protest that's about to burst from my lips.

"...But in this case, I feel that inpatient treatment would be counterproductive and only serve to worsen your condition. I've also spoken to Phoenix League officials regarding your situation and it turns out all four expansion teams are interested in interviewing you for their manager position. Therefore, given that and what you've told me about how managing gave you a sense of purpose and accomplishment, I'm releasing you so you can pursue the opportunities you have available to you. However, I would strongly urge you to consider outpatient therapy."

The last words go unheard as I let out a scream of ecstacy, leaping out of the bed and nearly spraining my ankle in the process when I land. Ignoring the bruise, I race for the door, shouting out into the hall, "Yes!!! Yes!!! Yes!!!! I'm going to manage again!!!!"

An old man in a wheelchair and his nurse stare blankly at me, but I don't care.

Like the Phoenix, I will arise again!