NO SAINTS ALLOWED

He drank because alcohol never demanded he change his ways or question his athletic prowess. The severity of his personal failures diminished with each vodka he drank, and Lucas VanArsdale could avoid his past temporarily. His right hand shook uncontrollably, the shot glass dropped behind the bar and the splintering glass startled the two patrons, propped up at the end of the bar. He ignored the patrons’ frantic expressions, then he leaned on his hand at the bar to stop it from quivering. Lucas breathed heavily and tried to focus on his twisted reflection in the bar mirror. He shook his head hoping to clear his vision, like a dog with a tick but he accomplished nothing, just looked foolish. Lucas’ striking features were plastered on city billboards and advertising platforms near the ‘L’ train. His endorsements ranged from nationwide sports stores to electrolyte drinks, several popular Chicago restaurants and an international shoe manufacturer used his name as part of their insignia. Everyone knew LUCAS V. - RBI KING of CHICAGO, commercials with the jingle from Star Wars, playing off the Luke Skywalker character. The Chicago Saints worshiped Lucas to the tune of an extended three-year contract for over $130 million dollars, an unprecedented contract for his time in the majors. His league leading RBIs and home runs were the envy of his competitors in the game, and Aaron Judge were just several opponents who publicly complimented him on his selective eye at home plate and his seven Golden Gloves. Lately his confidence was shaky, and his usual unbridled enthusiasm was not at the plate. His rally cap team leadership likened him to Hall of Famers Mickey Mantle or Carl Yastrzemski, authentic competitors, and Lucas born to win pennants- five to be exact. His best friend, Lefty McGill, pushed him to lay off the booze and concentrate on his swing. McGill and Lucas became instant friends in the minors more than ten years ago and still maintained a brother-like bond despite Lucas’ one-sided success. McGill, a mediocre catcher with a decent bat, faded in the shadow of Lucas’ staggering batting championships, three over the past few years, but all bets might be off for this year. Rumor on the street was that the Saints maintained McGill’s contract to keep Lucas with the team, unfortunately it was a budget cutting year, the blood sucking media declared Saints’ management were making room for rookie players, hungry to win. The fact was that Lucas depended on McGill for unbridled honesty and McGill received financial assistance to pay off his indiscretions. It was mutually beneficial, with no complaints from either man. Now Lucas perched on the bar stool and peered bleary eyed at the most recent blackmail note, still fighting to sit upright at the Babylon’s bar. The note was from anonymous extortionists, and they demanded he check himself into a substance-abuse treatment center in the next week. Just what he needed. Automatically he’d be off the Saints’ roster for the rest of the season. On the other hand, if he didn’t do what the notes outlined, his past would be splattered on every tabloid from Saginaw to Timbuktu - something about an old girlfriend and a baby out of wedlock He thought the authors fabricated the baby out of wedlock to sell controversy, otherwise he believed he was squeaky dishwasher Dawn clean, but even a whisper of him abandoning a woman he loved with his child, made him wince with self-loathing. He couldn’t deal with this, was overwhelmed with shame and refused to share this with anyone, not even McGill. For now, alcohol was his barrier between reality and his troubles. “Lord, please forgive me. I don’t deserve your mercy but only say the word and my soul shall be healed.” Lucas prayed in a whisper, then stuffed the blackmail note in his cargo shorts pocket. He had not read his Bible for far too long and had been focused on superficial issues of this world. Lucas whispered out loud, one of the few Bible verses he still remembered, “Because you have so little faith & tell you the truth, if you have faith and as small as a mustard seed, you can say to the mountain,” Move from here to there” and it will move. Nothing is impossible.” It had been four weeks since the first note arrived, but it seemed like four years to Lucas as the threat hung over like a pending jail term. Usually, he resembled a disheveled Christian Bale, or so he’d been told by members of the press and special women. Now he looked in the bar mirror and saw Walter Bleary, unshaven and shaggy hair, like he’d been homeless for months. His eyes were sunken in from the lack of sleep and heavy, dark circles developed, giving him a heroin addict resemblance. He sat at the bar at the Babylon, not in the sauciest or trendiest part of Chicago, located just off Wells Street, only a few footfalls from Merchandise Mart. There were hordes of college students, combined with generation X folks around happy hour, hovering and slamming their two -fer drinks, but The students cleared out of the bar immediately by 7:00 p.m. - no more specials. It was quiet middle- class establishment, unlike the numerous dives Lucas used to visit. The refuge of the dimly lit asylum of anonymous faces made escape easier. Lucas wrestled with his sins and dared to wonder how things might have turned out different if he had just managed to connect with his old flame. The stale smoke smell, the low murmurs of the innocuous, nearly invisible patrons and their vodka Collins; these reminders sent Lucas reminiscing to a much happier time from his past- Poughkeepsie, New York. His Triple-A team had an unusual combination of camaraderie and success. He and his teammates practically camped out in bars like the Babylon, except the bars were overrun with groupies climbing over chairs and tables to seduce ball players like him. Ironically, conquer and divide had been a slogan of the time, a younger, arrogant man had a different focus. Lucas laughed at himself. There was comfort in those memories and a strength he hadn’t felt since he’d made it to the majors. Maybe it was the woman he’d been involved with back then. She hadn’t been impressed by Lucas’ alluring professional ballplayer status. Originally, she’d found him annoying. Now he admitted to himself it was most likely because he’d been so full of himself in those days, the challenge of winning her over and her alluring, azure, blue eyes made her even more enticing. The first night they met, they exchanged sarcastic taunts. First, she’d resisted as Lucas pursued her over several weeks, then she became softer, less adversarial. He recalled her laugh was captivating, her eyes were intense with ideals not yet soured by the world. Lucas felt a distinctive magnetism between them. Their dating continued through the summer, and they had been inseparable. She had been the only woman he’d truly loved but his promotion to the major leagues had thrown him on the road and another woman tried to take credit for a one-night stand. Dena didn't know the truth, but the future they had planned together was ruined. The memory wrenched his gut and filled him with acidic, cramping nausea. It was a horrible mistake; now ten years later, no take backs, no apologies. One pastor Lucas had professed the issue with had warned him the worst sin was complacency and not making a wrong right with a loved one. Lucas Michael- his mother used his given name, no one else did, and he ordered another double vodka trying to drown the anxiety building in his heart. Not sure why he thought of his mom at this low point in his life. She had been the most caring and altruistic person he had ever known. Her God-fearing heart spilled on to his sister Claire, not sure he could claim any of those pure characteristics now. Now he was surrounded by the patrons in The Babylon, who reminded him of empty, shallow shadows.