Baseball Dreams and Bikers: A Book of Short Stories

By Douglas Robbins

"Baseball Dreams and Bikers" is a compelling collection of short stories that delves into the intricate lives of individuals entangled in the realm of dreams, family, and unforeseen circumstances.

 

In "Someone Anonymous," the search for a missing piece of oneself takes center stage. As readers ponder whether they should be living a different life and if there is an untapped version of themselves yearning to break free, they are invited to join the enigmatic world of SA, where the missing "someone" eagerly awaits discovery.

 

"Charlie Hero" introduces Charlie Frieze, a fifty-year-old struggling to make his mark on the world. Faced with a sense of desperation, he takes drastic measures to pen his magnum opus, even at the cost of jeopardizing relationships and betraying those closest to him. Explore the lengths one man is willing to go to achieve his aspirations and the consequences that unfold.

 

The title story, "Baseball Dreams and Bikers," revolves around Donny, a gifted high school baseball player poised for a bright future. However, his path to success takes an unexpected turn as his splintering family dynamics and the arrival of his ex-con biker uncle disrupt his dreams. With his parents separated and his father's job loss, Donny must navigate the consequences of his choices. Will he succumb to the pressures and risk losing not only his dream but also his family?

In this captivating anthology, "Baseball Dreams and Bikers" explores the fragility of dreams, the impact of familial bonds, and the unforeseen challenges that can shape lives.

 

Each story immerses readers in a world where aspirations collide with the complexities of existence, painting a vivid portrait of the human spirit's resilience and the choices that define our paths.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Rebel Press
• Release date: Oct 24, 2023
• ISBN: 9798218257897

Douglas Robbins

Douglas Robbins, a passionate writer and author, discovered the profound impact of words at a young age. When his teacher assigned the class to write a poem, Robbins unearthed a power within language that captivated him. Driven by an undeniable connection to words and ideas, Robbins began writing more seriously as time went on, realizing that it wasn't merely a career choice but a necessity. While he pursued higher education and joined the workforce, Robbins continued to dedicate his spare time to writing, seeking solace and purpose within his craft. However, a series of unfulfilling jobs left him frustrated and yearning for something more. Finally, after enduring years of waking up sick and dreading each day at a thankless corporate job, Robbins made a life-altering decision. Despite having meager funds in his bank account, he resolved that if he were to live or die, it would be by the pen. With unwavering determination, he bid farewell to the corporate world, embarking on a journey to fully embrace the profession that truly made sense to him. In 2019, Robbins unveiled his sci-fi novel, "Narican: The Cloaked Deception," marking the commencement of an enthralling sci-fi series. Inspired by his boundless imagination, he currently devotes his efforts to crafting the next two books in the Narican saga, promising readers more thrilling adventures in the near future. Adding another feather to his literary cap, Robbins released "Love in a Dying Town" in May of 2021. This poignant tale delves into themes of struggle, love, and commitment, set against the backdrop of a fading factory town. Through his writing, Robbins weaves together a narrative that touches the hearts of readers, leaving a lasting impact.

Book preview

Baseball Dreams and Bikers: A Book of Short Stories

Douglas Robbins

Published by Rebel Press, 2023.

This is a work of fiction. Similarities to real people, places, or events are entirely coincidental.

BASEBALL DREAMS AND BIKERS: A BOOK OF SHORT STORIES

First edition. October 24, 2023.

Copyright © 2023 Douglas Robbins.

ISBN: 979-8218257897

Written by Douglas Robbins.

Title

License notes: This book is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This book may not be resold or given away to other individuals. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, please purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons—living or dead—actual events, locales, or organizations is entirely coincidental.

Baseball Dreams and Bikers: A Book of Short Stories

Published by Rebel Press

Cover Design by Damonza.com

Copyright © 2023 by Douglas Robbins

ISBN: 979-8-218-25789-7

www.douglasrobbinsauthor.com

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

For all who fight for the calling…

Table of Contents

Someone Anonymous

Charlie Hero

Baseball Dreams and Bikers

About The Author

Someone Anonymous

"I was supposed to be someone," the old man with thinning gray hair says under his breath. He drops the newspaper onto his lap after reading about a woman who is hiking the Appalachian Trail with her dog, from Georgia to Maine. He stares out at the building tops of New York City high-rises and reaches to close the window. Putrid smells and dust enter his nostrils and thoughts. Noise enters his ears. It’s the tail end of rush hour down below. Feeling cold on this early fall day, he pulls the orange-and-black throw blanket over him. His brown eyes close briefly with the weight of sorrow and regret.

He continues reading about the woman, who is just a few years younger than he. She’d been out there for over two months and brought only a backpack with some basics, wearing sneakers on her feet.

I was supposed to be someone, he says as if speaking to the article after reading the same line several times now.

Saul, his equally elderly roommate, sits on a blue recliner and rolls his eyes. "You are someone. You’re a loudmouth old fool. Now be quiet. I’m trying to nap." He shuts his eyes again.

Ehh, you never understood life.

Ehh, I understand plenty. Saul waves him off.

The old man looks at his watch. You schmuck, I have to get to my first Someone Anonymous class.

You’re wasting your money with those shysters. Saul spits when he speaks.

The old man folds the newspaper, tucks it under his arm, and hurries out the door, dropping the blanket to the floor.

Class

In a local high school on the east side of Manhattan, the meeting room is on the second floor. The room is large. Seven black folding chairs make a semicircle in the center over the hardwood floor. Small pieces of furniture and an upright piano have been pushed against the far wall. An American flag stands drooping in the corner.

Breathing hard, the old man walks in with others.

Welcome to the first class of the new you. The instructor stands in the center, an imposing presence the size of a black Tony Robbins with an equally giant head and horse teeth to match. With afro trimmed short in military style and sporting a goatee, he opens his hands in welcome. Get comfortable, folks, because some of the discussion may not be. The classmates sit, not knowing what’s in store for them.

Thank you for coming. He stares each new member in the eye. It takes guts to embark on this journey of self-discovery. They sit and nod to one another. One seat to the right is still vacant.

Although we are in a high school, and usually in school we would go around the room during the first class and introduce ourselves by saying our names. The difference today is you will go around the room without saying your names, yet stating only descriptions of how you feel. For example, sad, happy, insecure, lost, et cetera. Tell me what you’re about, what you want, and who you think you are. Definition matters here. How we define ourselves is how we live our lives. Names will come later. It is the identity you have been living with we want to get at.

As they settle in, the classroom door slams open, hitting the white plaster wall, sending an echo ringing throughout the room.

A sweating, somewhat fat, jiggling white man runs in. Sorry. Sorry. I hope I’m in the right class and not KA, Knitters Anonymous. Soft and scared, in his mid-forties, he is still trying to find that lion within. He was always last picked, last noticed, if noticed at all. And he’s never been in love. Yet he sings when no one can hear him.

A muscular man with tattoos sits on the other side of the semicircle with a scowl on his face, not believing in anything.

Welcome, says the instructor. The jiggling white man sits and nods to the others with a broad grin on his chubby face. His blue eyes sparkle.

The instructor begins. "We are all in this room to find answers. We are seekers here. When we stop seeking, we stay stuck. So many people walk the streets feeling empty, hurting and lost, not knowing why. The answer is self-examination. Each of our hopes may appear different. For instance, I never wanted to be a fireman or astronaut, though some of you may have.

I will tell you my name, but only for convenience’s sake and flow of discussion. Instead of saying ‘Hey you,’ I am Charles. Hello and welcome to Someone Anonymous. He opens his arms wide and sits. "Some of you may feel as if you’ve lived before. Others may feel as if you are destined for greatness, and some of you may feel trapped, living a lie or that something is simply missing. At Someone Anonymous, we are here to find that missing you. It is the identity in which you have been living that we are here to address. Even if you don’t feel it, there is someone special inside of every one of you." He points at each of them. The six students all feel a hint of validation, sitting slightly upright in their seats.

"Feeling anonymous, unseen, is a horrible place to live. Let’s start changing that tonight. To reiterate, I do not want to know your names, only how you see yourself and the true you: the one dying to get out. Names are simply an assignment, but identity is what governs our lives. So, let’s start with where you are and why you are here.

Close your eyes. They do as instructed. We’ll go around the room and first say who we think we are and how we’ve been living. Don’t be shy. This is a safe space. Remember, only reveal how you see yourself.

His large black eyes close peacefully. "I will begin. I am Charles, warrior of truth. I am powerful and strong. I stand up to injustice and help others in need. I stand with a shield of honor and humility.

I was also once anonymous, working too much, being too little, living a small, hidden life. I was alone in my shame when I reached bottom and four hundred pounds. About to take one more bite of a Krispy Kreme donut, my hand and body rejected it. My heart said, ‘no more.’ Images flooded back to me from when I was a boy and my mother would feed us with a black eye after my father hit her or he had come home drunk. As I aged, I emotionally ate, through joy, sorrow, depression, loneliness, anxiety. That eating, those emotions, were hiding the true me.

The bitter man to his left rolls his eyes and says, A fatty that no chicks wanted, huh? He laughs maniacally. Go figure.

Charles’s eyes open and glare at him. Let’s try to choose more positive verbiage. We are here to better each other. Not condemn or judge. You struggled. You were unhappy. Why don’t you go next, hmm? Charles is firm, staring at the man, yet monkish and serene all at the same time.

The bitter man is tattooed and thick with taut muscles from years of lifting packages at UPS. He wears a black T-shirt and has brown eyes; his hair is rustled and mostly parted to the side. I’m a dick. I feel like a dick every morning I wake up, and I act like a dick through the day. The world sucks, and I don’t trust any of you. It’s just how I feel. He shrugs, looking at them, then leans back in the folding chair. Not sure why I’m here or what I want. My aunt gave me fifty bucks if I promised to come. All the others had voluntarily signed up. He shrugs again and looks over at the American flag.

She must love you very much, Charles says.

Bitter Guy shrugs, his eyes refocusing on Charles.

So, what do you want for yourself? How do you see yourself? Tell us more. You’re safe here. Why did she give you fifty dollars? Clearly, she believes in you. Maybe more than you do.

She thinks I can do better.

Do better than what?

I drive a truck, and I’m always pissed off. People, traffic, road rage. I punched a guy in the face the other day. The asshole cut me off. I caught up to him at a traffic light. Pulled him out of his car. Of course, I took my UPS jacket off first, so he couldn’t report me. I damage packages when I have a bad day. I get a weird hard-on, sorry ladies, when I hand that damaged package to a person. Told you I’m a dick. It’s all liars and cheaters out there anyway. He grows quiet.

You’re just hurting.

Bitter Guy shakes his head, annoyed that he took the fifty bucks. This self-help shit is self-help crap, he says, piling it on. I don’t believe in any of it. I like to see people fail, get dragged through the mud, tested, to show them what a lie life is. He pauses. "If you want to know the truth, I want to see you fail. You ain’t gonna save me." Bitter Guy leans forward, attempting to stare Charles down to stop the questions.

Charles takes a few deep breaths, pausing without response. I’m not here to save you. Only you can save you. I am here to provide you tools. Only your defenses say you don’t want to be saved, your fears. Is that really true? Did you really only come here for the fifty dollars? Don’t you want to feel better?

Bitter Guy locks eyes with him but receives no antagonism in return, only acceptance.

Who do you trust, a family member, a friend?

I told you, my aunt, Bitter Guy snarls, keeping his eyes on Charles.

Charles responds as if without noticing. Just humor me for one more minute. Tell me about your family growing up.

Bitter Guy leans back in his chair. I’m adopted and was in foster care. Fought a lot. Been fighting my whole life.

So, you’ve had to fight for your existence, for your survival?

He shrugs, looking away.

Did you like your foster family?

He shrugs again.

Close with any of your brothers or sisters?

Damn, you ask a lot of questions. I told you, my aunt! He tightens his fists again and squares his shoulders, threatening Charles and in turn, the safety of the entire classroom. You’re starting to piss me off.

You keep people away with violence and anger, thinking you’re keeping yourself safe. Is that correct? Charles leans back.

Told you I get into a lot of fights. What’s one more? Antagonism and acceptance stare at each other.

Charles looks the class over. I’ll tell you something. My mother was murdered at the hands of a man who had made advances. A murmuring explodes in the room. A woman to his right covers her mouth.

Oh, we’re so sorry, Charles, the old man says.

"Thank you. This was after she left my father and all that she had endured. When I was twenty years old, I took that anger to Iraq. My thoughts dripped with the same blood, the same distrust and hurt, the same desires to kill and protect. I was at war with myself yet only found disillusionment in the battles and bloodshed. I killed many and saw many of my friends die.

"There’s something I’m not proud of, but I was dishonorably discharged after being wounded and refused to go back to the front lines after two years in combat and eight raids. Nothing was gained, I told my commander, and then I sat down on the hard, sandy soil back in the neutral zone, refusing to fight.

In that madness, I decided to only fight for my salvation, and that of others after experiencing the mangled bodies of innocent civilians, when their only crime was to be in the hell of a country being torn apart.

With hands sweating, he looks down and rubs them together. He takes several deep breaths and wipes his eyes with a tissue from his pocket. This is a safe space to let go of what holds you back.

Bitter guy says, Sorry, man.

Charles says to him through gritted teeth, We all carry pain.

All six students look around at each other and nod.

Charles pauses and breathes, then sits upright, opening his eyes. I understand fighting, clawing, dying very well. He looks at them all. Behind anger is an equal-size wound seeking love and redemption. We must pour love into that wound to heal it.

Looking back at Bitter Guy, he says, "Think about your aunt and her love. Put