Bottom of the ninth
I never would have purchased this house if I'd known that Dirk McBride lived next door. Dirk was a household name to Major League baseball fans. I'd never heard of him.
When I discovered his background, I wondered why he lived in a slightly upper middle-class neighborhood. I always thought pro baseball players were millionaires who lived in gated communities or estates in the country. Now I know why Dirk was our neighbor.
Dirk was an all-star shortstop for the St. Louis Cardinals for twelve years. When I asked my husband Randy why they used to call him "Dirk Devil," he explained that he was like a Dirt Devil vacuum cleaner. He scooped up every baseball that came near him.
But he was also a devil off the field, and he is the neighbor from hell.
It's not the wild drinking parties or midnight skinny-dips with Hooters' girls and their incessant giggling and laughing in the backyard next door that made me this way. Nor was it Dirk's obscenely loud Orange County chopper or the frequent visits from our local deputies that pushed me over the edge. It was how Dirk had corrupted Randy, my near-perfect husband of 23 years.
Randy was obsessed with Dirk. Being a former shortstop in high school, Randy was overwhelmed when he discovered that our neighbor was Dirk "Devil" McBride. I'd never seen Randy act like such a child. It's like he diverted back into the skin of a ten year-old boy. He worshipped Dirk. He even found his dusty baseball card collection at his mom's house in Kansas two summers ago and pulled out all nine of his Dirk McBride cards so he could get them autographed by his neighbor.
At first, I thought Randy would get over his fascination with Dirk. But they began to spend more and more time together. Not at Dirk's parties. Randy knew better than to get involved in the party scene at Dirk's house. It was on the quieter evenings when it was just Dirk and Randy together at Dirk's house on the internet.
Gambling.
First, it started with betting a few dollars a week on pro football games. Randy progressed to the NBA, Major League baseball games, college football, horse racing, NASCAR, and the PGA tour. Dirk taught him all of the tricks of the trade and introduced Randy to his "connections."
Thanks to Google I discovered that Dirk's downfall in the major leagues wasn't that he lost his ability to scoop up ground balls or score runs. He was kicked out of the league for gambling on other Major League baseball games – even his own. He'd also gambled away millions of dollars and, according to a recent news article about his recent bankruptcy filing, he owed millions more.
Now Randy and I are bankrupt.
Randy's demeanor changed over time. The giddy school boy idol worshipper began to get obsessed with sports on TV. He got angry when teams he'd never been interested in before lost a game. I couldn't figure out why he was upset when North Carolina State lost a football game or when the Brooklyn Nets lost a basketball game.
Randy's loyalties had always been with the Missouri Tigers, his alma mater. He'd never been passionate about any other sports teams until we moved next door to Dirk.
I guess I should have picked up on it sooner. Looking back, it had become obvious. Maybe I had just hoped that, if I ignored it, it would go away.
But the phone calls kept coming. The bill collectors started showing up on our doorstep at night during supper. Randy wasn't sleeping. He talked of getting a paper route or moonlighting at a local telemarketing center. He was belligerent and angry. We fought. He was cross with the children. He swore and cussed more than ever. My formerly calm, cool, levelheaded husband had been transformed into an obsessive, addicted, gambling maniac.
I thought about taking the children to my mother's house. I didn't realize the depth of the problem until it was too late. When Randy finally confessed and told me how bad it had gotten, I was at first, shocked, then furious, and finally, devious.
Our life will never be the same again. There is no way we can pay off our debts. Well, maybe there's one way. Our house is our only asset. That's why tomorrow I'm setting it on fire.
This story was originally a writing contest entry that had to start with “I never would have purchased this house if I'd known that…” and end with “That’s why tomorrow I’m setting it on fire.”