He's sure they all feel it; how can they not? The sudden change in stadium temperature seems a kind of foreboding chill to him, an omen akin to misplaced crib notes the morning of a final. Dark, ominous clouds race in from over the foothills as the huge, luminescent scoreboard atop the bleachers (a gift from the Alumni Association) silently reminds everyone: Visitors 1, Home 0.

And he doesn't know why, but that scoreboard seems to be taunting him. Like a BMW billboard, or his GPA.

The players take their positions to open the bottom of the ninth inning. On the first pitch, a sharply hit ground ball to second base promptly scoots through the legs of a boyishly handsome nineteen-year-old wearing a Diablos jersey. But neither the center fielder nor right fielder backs him up. The confused second sacker sprints to the outfield, picks up the ball and hustles it back into play, exactly the way all infielders do (except those on the '62 Mets). The same thing happens on the next play. And the one after. Bases are now loaded with nobody out. The teen signals for time, looks at his teammates and shrugs his shoulders as if to ask, What's going on? But they all turn away. On the next play, another grounder is hit to him. The runners on second and third break for home. He bobbles the ball, picks it up and fires it to the plate. The catcher, however, steps aside and lets the ball go by. Both runners score as the Diablos lose.

The coach, a large frustrated middle-aged man who looks like a walking ad for Dexitrim, Paxil, and Viagra all rolled into one, runs onto the field and rips the uniform off his second baseman as if it were attached with only Velcro. The kid is left standing there in nothing but his jockstrap. Female spectators point and laugh as the young man stands, frozen, with a horrified look transfixed upon his face.

All of a sudden Al Roker is singing, which is an even worse nightmare.



The messy studio apartment was dark save for the faint glow emanating from a small television across the room. It was 6:30 A.M. and Jim Carrelli, the young second baseman now a slightly graying early thirty-something Generation X-er, sprang up dripping from a cold sweat. He regained his composure and sighed. It was the same bad, recurring dream. Try as he might, he just couldn't shake this nightmare, and it was starting to affect his sleep. Some nights he couldn't doze at all, fearing this inevitable nocturnal haunting. And he had tried everything. Psychologists, hypnotists, any show on Lifetime; nothing seemed to knock him out lately.

He fumbled for the remote to silence the tube while wondering, Why is Al Roker singing "The Christmas Song"? Haven't I suffered enough this morning?

He got out of bed and opened a little cardboard window on the Advent calendar taped on the wall next to an I LOVE N.Y. poster. The date, December 8, 2000.

Jim stumbled into the bathroom. Upon his exit, hair still damp from the shower, he maneuvered his way through a maze of fast food bags to a Charlie Brown-type Christmas tree nestled in the corner. He grabbed a red golf shirt doubling as a tree blanket off the floor, smelled an armpit, and jerked his head back as he grimaced. For some odd reason, he suddenly thought of Gina, his old college girlfriend who always did his laundry for him. He had wanted to marry her until he caught her fooling around with his best friend. Those two eventually ended up tying the knot. They were dead now or living in Bakersfield, he couldn't remember which. Although he did remember the last thing his God-fearing, church-going mother had said to him on her death bed regarding Gina. She had pulled him near and whispered, "Don't you dare marry that tramp!" And with that, took her last breath and passed. His dad didn't like Gina either, though he'd never even met her before he died. But his family was from Naples; Gina's, Sicily. Enough said.

Jim crumpled the golf jersey, threw it in the hamper, and grabbed a white polo shirt, this one doubling as a VCR cozy. Again he smelled an armpit. Not too bad, he thought, and put it on along with a pair of light-blue denim relaxed-fitting jeans, white leather Nikes with a red insignia, and a beautifully crafted antique gold cross and chain.

He ambled into the kitchen and poured himself a bowl of Captain Crunch, still his favorite after all these years, and flicked on a five-inch black & white TV sitting on his table. Some "doctor" was rambling on about another inane, morning-talk-show topic. First "Nat King" Roker, now THIS? Exactly how desperate for morning ratings are network executives? he wondered. An image of Katie Couric modeling lingerie suddenly flashed across his mind. He started looking for the Mylanta.

". . . Where people report an encounter with an angel in a time of crisis. Now, I've interviewed these people, given them polygraph tests, and they all seem truthful. And these aren't weirdoes or crackpots, just average folks . . . parents, teachers, shopkeepers, people like you and me." The anchor, who really aspired to star in a sitcom one day, nodded knowingly and responded.

"Now, Dr. Appenzeller, your book also claims that when it comes to people we meet in our lives, there are no random occurrences. Can you elaborate?"

Jim laughed. He knew she had to have read that off a cue card because it was well known this anchor wasn't bright enough to know what elaborate meant. The "doctor," though, a local TV personality who was rumored to have graduated from an unaccredited on-line academy, making his title only slightly more credible than the namesake of Jim's breakfast, didn't seem to know that about her. He answered in earnest.

"Yes. There's a widely held belief that we really don't meet others by chance. We all have guardian angels-some prefer the term spirit guides-who bring people into our lives and then touch us in some significant way. And we, them. And we probably never even realize how, when or why."

"Sort of like . . . Touched by an Angel?" questioned the anchor, who thought this was a good opportunity to plug a show on which she was hoping to land a guest spot. Jim just smirked, grabbed an angel-shaped liquor decanter tucked accessibly at the back corner of the table, and winked at the TV as he started to pour a shot into his coffee. But then he remembered he was going to work. So he set the bottle down and reached for an already opened, half-filled packet of Sweet-N-Low instead. He skimmed the remaining channels and lit on a station with another wannabe sitcom anchor, but only because this one was giving basketball scores.

". . . Sacramento over the Knicks, 107-82. And in local sports, the Angels dealt veteran infielder Bobby Pacho to the Yankees last night. Pacho, a former Diablo•" Jim, disgusted by this announcement, snapped off the TV. He knew Pacho, hated him in fact. They played ball together back in college. And Jim was a far better player. Or at least he thought so. But that was before "the incident."

The doorbell rang unexpectedly. Jim's eyes immediately shot to the clock on the kitchen wall. Seven forty-five, who could that be? his puzzled look demanded. He answered the door and a small elderly woman was standing there dressed in a Salvation Army-type uniform, although he couldn't specifically see the words Salvation Army anywhere. She seemed so frail; he worried for a moment that a strong gust might come along and blow her down the stairs. The fall would surely kill her, plus he'd have to call 911, wait for the police, and be late for work.

"Good morning, sir," she started in soft-spoken fashion, "we're going door to door to see if people have anything they'd like to donate today. All items help bring in money used to make some poor family's Christmas a little brighter."

Jim politely shook his head. "Sorry, nothing today." He started to shut the door. But the old woman stuck her head in his apartment to stop him, though, he being a transplanted New Yorker, it barely did.

"Are you sure?" she beseeched with a timidity akin to Oliver Twist begging the Headmaster for more gruel. "I'll wait if you'd like to check." Jim, as he was sometimes prone to do when asked for something by strangers, became suspicious and annoyed.

"Hey, how do I know you won't just spend the money on yourself? Besides, take a look around." He yanked the door wide open as if inviting an inspection. "Do I appear to be someone who can afford to part with anything?"

The woman's face shriveled like that of a rummy sipping an O'Douls on St. Patty's Day. "Yeah, your friggin' attitude. Merry Christmas, jerk!" She disappeared in a huff.

"Oh yeah, I love the holidays," he muttered to himself.

He returned to the kitchen and flipped on a baseball mitt-shaped radio, a gift from Sports Illustrated mistakenly delivered to him instead of the guy across the street. But since that neighbor never even apologized for the huge dent his kids put in the hood of Jim's car with their football, Jim figured, Screw him.

Paul McCartney's "Wonderful Christmastime" jingled merrily in the background as he finished his breakfast. When he was done eating, he put on his N.Y. Yankees warm-up jacket, grabbed his briefcase and headed out the front door.

Jim's apartment was a guest unit above a garage. The property's main house, a California version of an early '60s Cape Cod, was badly run-down and considered an eyesore by most of the neighbors. It wasn't exactly where Jim wanted to be at this point in his life, but it would do until he could get himself out of debt.

He bounded nimbly down the stairs, moving the way most athletes do, except golfers, who, everyone knows, aren't really athletes. When he got to the bottom, he headed over to his aging dinged-up Nissan Sentra.

Molly, owner and resident of the "big house," stood at the end of the driveway near a rusted mailbox that teetered on a weathered white post. The address on it read 1225 Mistletoe Lane, though the last e was missing a screw and had flipped upside down. Jim saw this as a metaphor for his landlady's life. Poor Molly; she was a harmless but scary sight with a frizzy white mane and slightly bulging eyes that made her seem old and tired, though she was only in her early sixties. Her left arm, crushed in an accident years earlier, had atrophied and all but withered away. It was nothing more than a grotesquely short, limp piece of flesh. And every day she wore what looked like the same worn out, rumpled housedress.

"Hi, Jim. The post-man, he came ear-ly to-day," she labored in a slow and deliberate tone while holding up the mail with her good arm.

The young tenant stifled a chuckle. "Molly, he comes this time every day." Jim wasn't laughing at her, he just thought it amusing that they went through this same routine every morning, like a scene out of Groundhog Day.

He took the mail and thanked her; she just stood there staring at him blankly. He'd seen that vacant stare many times before, and he wasn't sure why, but his heart ached for the loopy old dame. "Was there something else?"

"Oh, no, I should say not," she declared as she turned and walked away.

Jim watched her for a second, then took out a key and tried to open his car door. The lock, however, wouldn't turn. He tried again. And again. Still, though, no luck. So he smacked the window, then winced as the ensuing twinge radiated throughout his hand. And just like a long lost relative right after you hit a huge trifecta at Belmont, Galen, his congenial white-haired next-door neighbor, suddenly appeared out of nowhere. For some inexplicable reason, he was dressed like he'd just stepped out of a Steinbeck novel. His baggy overalls and 1930s-style lid drew an odd look from Jim, even though in the short time Jim had lived there, he'd seen his pal in other "costumes" before. The reaction always amused Galen, who thought his young neighbor a bit too anal for someone his age.

"I just got back from visiting some friends," Galen grinned as he indicated his outfit with a sweep of his hand from neck to knees. "It's a little game we play."

"Personally, I prefer poker with my buddies," Jim shrugged. "But, hey, whatever." He looked back at his car, then shook his head in disgust before muttering, "Explain to me how the Japanese can make micro-chips fit on a pinhead, but can't make door-locks that work."

Still grinning, Galen pointed to the Sentra. "That car was made in New Jersey."

"Ahh," nodded Jim, as if that explained everything. He opened his briefcase, whipped out a hanger, and maneuvered it through the window seal, something he'd obviously done many times before. The lock popped open. He folded himself into his car, rolled down the window, and cranked the engine just as something dawned on Galen.

"Hey, what happened? I thought you were getting a new car?"

"Yeah, well, no one will finance me because of all my student loans." He gazed resignedly at his dashboard. "But I suppose it could be worse."

"Yeah, think of all the people who have to ride buses."

"Or drive Hyundais."

"Look, if you need a loan•"

"Thanks, but no. I don't like•"

"Yeah, yeah, I know. Listen, stop by when you get home. I want to show you that thing," his wackily-clad neighbor teased with a wink.

Jim responded with a nod of his head towards Galen's garage. "Your secret project?"

Galen smiled slyly before answering. "It won't be a secret much longer. Oh, by the way, I went to the anagram website again last night."

"What did you get?"

"Well, I still don't think it's fair, considering you're a teacher and all."

"No excuses, just your score."

"Eighteen of twenty," Galen frowned. "And you?"

"Perfect twenty. I'm telling you," Jim boasted, "there's not an anagram out there I can't figure out. I can spot them a mile away." He was very good at word puzzles, anagrams especially, and took great pride in the fact that no one he knew could match his skills at them. Competitive juices still simmered within him, a lingering side effect of donning a jockstrap all those years.

"Why don't we play a real man's game sometime," suggested Galen. "Like chess."

"Sure. Should I bake some quiche?" Jim deadpanned as he backed out, waved, then pulled away. But he hadn't driven ten feet when he remembered wanting to tell Galen about the oddly dressed woman he saw on his porch the day before. She was young and dark skinned and wore an outfit unlike any he'd ever seen; maybe she was a foreigner. They hadn't spoken because he was late for work, and besides, he hadn't noticed her till he was driving by. But she seemed lost and somewhat harried. Anyway, now, when he stopped the car to tell him, Galen was nowhere to be seen. How could he disappear so fast? Jim wondered. He made a mental note to mention the woman when he saw Galen that night. But in an instant, as if suffering from a sudden memory lapse, he absolutely couldn't recall why he stopped or what he was just thinking about, as if whatever it was had just been erased from his consciousness.




1225 Mistletoe Lane can be purchased at your local bookstore (or ordered if they don't stock it), most online bookstores (i.e. Amazon.com, BarnesAndNoble.com etc.), by calling my publisher at (301) 695-1707, or by following these links -

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