As if Yankees fans weren’t already anticipating seeing the Bombers back in action, we’ve received some reassurance from MLB.com beat reporter, Bryan Hoch, this morning.

Putting it perfectly, he wrote, ”Yes, baseball is back,” and detailed the following from Tampa:

The Yankees had a 9:45 a.m. meeting this morning to kick off the first full-squad workout of camp, which included Joe Girardi’s state of the team address…There’s a few hundred fans already sitting in Steinbrenner Field, scanning the $1.00 rosters that are being sold on the concourses — it’s true, you can’t tell the players without a program, especially the guys wearing numbers in the 80s and 90s.

The boys are certainly back in town.

For an industry so reliant on sex appeal and fast cars, ‘War Horse’ is a pleasant change. For me, anyways.

It might be not a game changer for the whole of Hollywood, or even that of equestrian based plots if you’re the average moviegoer, but you’ve probably seen ‘Seabiscuit’ at least once.  Chances are, though, you don’t really remember it and in general, don’t have much of an opinion on these films.

Sad but true, I have to add.

I grew up just south of Saratoga Race Course in Saratoga Springs, NY, and naturally, was exposed to horse racing at an early age. And like everyone in my own and the surrounding towns, loved this place from the the first time I visited.

Consequently, maybe even ironically, I worked at this track every summer since I was 18 and fell even more in love with it. That’s another story, but I wanted to point it out to connect my relation to this sport, these animals and my natural taste for any films that portray them. Because here’s the truth: they’re tender, moving and considering the cinematography in them, are just as advanced and brilliant as the summer blockbusters we always look forward to.

‘War Horse,’ too, doesn’t disappoint. Unlike its predecessor films, it strays away from the plot of a horse who wins the big race in the end, as a result of the misfit team who went through incredible feats to train and support it.

Instead, it tells the story of Joey, an animal that is incredibly lucky, and considerably smart, who does overcome obstacles, numerous actually, but all at a heavy price and in a setting that is much more solemn than a gambler’s haven.

Obstacles of war, detachment, and heartbreak surround Joey and the humans who interact with him. It’s a story that’s not shiny because the let’s face it, Europe during World War I was far from it, as director Steven Spielberg highlights. The battle scene, where Joey’s owner, Albert, fights along with the English troops at Tromme steals the show. All because of Albert’s determination to make it across no man’s land and into the enemy’s trench as well as his reaction when he sees that his childhood friend has made it safely across too.

It’s not just a vibrant, spectacular visual, though. In grand scheme (a given with Spielberg), comes his right hand man John Williams, who time and time again accompanies screenplays with scores that are unforgetable. ‘War Horse’ is no exception. Williams’ score carries this film through, evoking the spirit from Joey to survive the war and make it back home to Albert at all the right moments.

And all the right moments, amidst a dark and ever-realistic struggle on a innoncent animal, are blended with humor and optimism, too.

-1871-

If Quick Tips had another name, he refused to acknowledge it.

He was an orphan and his first memory was of being pointed at for stealing bread from the nursery by the other children. One girl, though, with long blonde hair and bright eyes was amused by his action. She giggled and told Madam Long, the head caretaker, that he must have quick fingertips, for such a feat.

It was only natural that such an endearment from such a pretty girl would stick, though it was shortened to Quick Tips as the years went by. It was also only natural that her term came to be rather fitting for his character.

He spent the rest of his childhood performing magic tricks for anyone who’d care to see. On the streets of New York, in dark alleys, next to thriving factories, where he’d gamble his fortunes by night. Dealing out Aces and returning with Kings, or by pushing coins in one ear and out the other. Never a night passed without Quick Tips returning heavier in change than before.

He was quiet, but it was known that he spoke tremendously through the motions of his hands. A trait that caused interest in his gimmicks. Aside from this, though, he was pitied.

His dark eyes and their tendency to stare were the reason he was the oldest orphan. At 17, he never had considerations from family seekers. Only Madam Long cared, in spite of his commotions outside her caretaking realm. She was to him, his own mother, really, and it pained him to cause her distress when he left for hours at a time.

It was only her and the young girl who had left their nursery years before that he ever loved.

Her name was May and she never forgot Quick Tips. Her foster parents had moved her only a few blocks away, but it wasn’t until years later that she saw him again. At 16, having to contribute to her family’s financial stability, she was working at the factories too. For hours and days on end.

It was a hot August night when it began to downpour in New York. Just when the city’s laborers returned to their crowded homes, only to sleep for 5 hours or so. On this particular night, May was stuck in a commotion outside that caused her to take a different route. And soon enough, she understood what it was about.

A crowd continued to gather, only a block ahead. Normally she’d avoid it, but something pulled her towards it instead.

Only seconds passed as she fast approached the front, and her reality was revealed; it was the boy himself, suffering and clutching his stomach on the ground, as the rain showed no mercy.

And all May knew then was that Quick Tips was leaving her forever, as she had already done to him. Her breath caught short, but she fought forward anyway. She kneeled next to him, lowering her face over his.

Quick Tips was beyond belief. He couldn’t believe she was there.

“Finally, you again,” he gasped, “May.”

“Quick Tips, what happened?” she pleaded, “Who did this to you?”

“Dunno, but he was the first person to not pity me,” he said, struggling to get his final words out, “he wasn’t happy I’d won his earnings from him, May.”

She wasn’t sure what he meant by this. She knew Quick Tips performed tricks when they were younger, but didn’t know he did so at others’ expense. It was something she couldn’t worry about, however. He needed her now.

So she grabbed his blood soaked hands and entwined them with her own, periodically tracing them with her thumb or placing their palms against each other. And she told him the truth. That she wanted to feel his fingers against hers. The fingers that she had named. And also that he was wrong. That she was the first to not pity him. That she loved him.

It was all he needed to leave this world in peace, and let the rain continue on.

Hope dwindled.

The only thing left for Ones, he considered, a week after the incident with the mother and teenage children, was to find out the man’s name.  Then he would fall back into dreams, never to wake again.

Try as he might, though, this wouldn’t happen.

Bills were only roused when considered, as themselves, a fortune in and of itself. It was ironic, this law. How it bounded them among their many constraints. They would not return to their former state until abandoned, whether by chance or intent, by those who addressed them. It was a thought Ones developed in the darkest hours of each night. When there was no brewing, no business, no man.

“There’s no way out, then. At least not until he wants to get rid of me,” thought Ones. “I know he won’t forget, but I wish he would.”

And Ones was right. The man never did forget.

Another few weeks went by, the days grew shorter, and the man still wouldn’t move the bill.  Even though it stayed there, in his eyes, waiting for others to occupy the jar with it.

“You are lucky though,” said the man to Ones. “James’ condition hasn’t worsened.”

He hadn’t said this out loud yet– the comment about James. Something that was growing on his conscious.

It was a recognition that gave him reason to change everything at the shop.

The man’s approach from then on, presented to Ones a whole new man. He started right after, smiling to the shop’s visitors. The next day, he arrived clean shaven and even attempted at conversation. Most were shocked, and had nothing to say, but a few were rather honest. They were upset he had seemingly left, but they wanted to respect his privacy. They also told him they would never leave his business based on the unfair accusations made against him. Some said they knew he’d come back.

Ones was astonished. The man’s history was unveiled a little more each day. Still, though, nobody said the man’s name and nobody tipped him, either.

“Maybe they don’t believe he’s back to himself,” thought Ones. He wanted to know about the accusations and who James was. It was enough not to wish he’d be disregarded.

Soon after, it all came together.

A young man entered the shop on a rainy afternoon. Upon recognizing this customer, although Ones had never seen him, the man welcomed him and offered a coffee on the house.

“Not today, Reed,” he said. “I came to see you.”

“What? See I’m alive again?” Reed muttered.

“So it is. You talk like that when you’re embarrassed,” replied the young man.

“So it is, Alan,” Reed said, taking a deep breath. ”I’m ready now. For everything.”

“It wasn’t your fault, Reed. That night was never your fault,” said Alan.

Reed hesistated, but got the words out.

“1 drink. It’s what’s done me in. I can’t let that go and neither can the rest of town.”

Alan disagreed, but continued to talk to Reed, getting him to say more than Ones ever thought possible. He watched them make small talk, and eventually cross into Reed’s touchy subjects. The crash. Jeanne, his wife, and her funeral. How Reed got by since ignoring Alan after the service. About home and the shop. And about James, Reed’s 4 year old, still recovering from the crash.

It went on for hours. Reed attended to customers here and there, but everyone knew to leave. It was clear to them all, including Ones, that Alan was the closest friend Reed had. They knew not to interrupt.

Finally they discussed what made Reed change.

“The kindness of an older woman,” he said. “But not until weeks later did I realize it. She gave me that dollar over there, even when I was rude to her. She wasn’t from this town, but it’s almost as if she knew. Since I got that tip, I dunno. It’s been different.”

Alan found this amusing and took out a single himself. He emphasized that it was for Reed’s own good, motioning towards the jar.

“Hilarious,” Reed muttered, refusing the bill.

Alan insisted, placing it next to Ones and telling him that it was lucky.

Reed laughed, telling him that that’s what he called the other bill. Their ongoing conversation, though, no longer mattered to Ones. He never thought it’d happen, but here he was, in similar company.

“Where am I?” asked the new bill.

Like Reed, Ones was changed. His hope surged and his outlook on his and his fellow bills’ constraints was altered forever.

_______

End.

6 days passed and Ones was the only tip the man received. He still didn’t know his name, either.

Customers came and went and the small tables scattered in the shop stayed vacant. When they weren’t, they seated an individual or two, busy with other concerns. Concerns which blinded them from the beauty of the place. The mohagany walls, with the man’s painted villages hanging on them.

They drank their coffees, stared at their tablets, and were gone. Mostly, though, they waited in line, yelling into their phones or thumbing through emails, thinking about their money elsewhere.

It was always about money. Ones was shocked how some customers threw it away as if it were nothing, because they had so much, while others pored over every last cent. Yet one thing was true for them all: they talked about their bills, their groceries, their paychecks, and about everything they wanted, but only at what costs. Whether it be time, money, or will.

As he observed, Ones saw how much he and his fellow bills ruled the humans.

“We’re nothing but a commodity, but we can still bring them to mercy,” he realized.

As he fully understood the value of this statement, he decided that he hated the system. For putting the world’s and every individuals’ worries on those like him.

“Their ways highlight their freedom to choose what they want. They create their own intentions, and yet, why can’t I?” he thought.

He pondered this after a mother of two teenagers muttered that she needed to buy more cigarettes. The kids gave each other dirty looks.

“If I was in her wallet now, I’d be supporting her unhealthy lifestyle in a few minutes,” Ones acknowledged. He felt bad for the kids.”It’s hardly the worst scenario, too. I’m sure there’s worse.”

These incidents affected Ones. He wanted so badly to be like them, the humans. To choose his own intention and do some good. Especially for the man, who never spoke unless when forced by the customers.

“I’d help him,” thought Ones. “I’d do everything I could.”

All because of what he and the elderly woman shared with the man. Lonesome.

Strangely, he was Ones’ last hope.

“Where am I?” Ones thought to himself, while absorbing the space around him in the coffee shop.

The man finished addressing him and placed him back in the tips jar.

Ones had been in the elderly woman’s purse for some time, though he wasn’t sure how long. His awakening by her voice was his first– she had called him lucky too. It was all he could think of as the lighting of the shop blinded him. He had never seen so much color before.

“If I’m beckoned by being called lucky,” thought Ones, “then why did I fall back into unconsciousness?”

The woman had won a scratch off lottery. It was a gift for her 88th birthday from her only son. It wasn’t much, though. Just $15. Ten of which went towards pink tulips for her home, and the rest she stuffed into her bag. Before she did though, she held just one single, Ones himself, and said that he was lucky. Because he was a gift. A gift that proved she wasn’t forgotten.

And that was it.

Ones then spent the next few weeks forming his identity and trying to understand the world he lived in. All in complete darkness. He could observe, but that was all. He had no way to communicate his thoughts.

As for the other bills he shared the bottom of the bag with, he was confident they hadn’t woken because he was the only one spoken to.

After figuring this out, however, he slipped back into sleep. “Maybe it’s because she forgot about me and the other four bills” he pondered. “Maybe I wasn’t supposed to wake up at all.”

Ones then considered his position next to the cashier and was grateful. The man and this place seemed harmless. He could learn here and find what he was intended for.

It was enough for him to focus and to promise that he wouldn’t fall back into dreams.

“Have you got any smaller bills, ma’am?” asked the worn man behind the counter.

The words came out cold. He grimaced as the elderly woman pulled out a 50. She probably didn’t hear him, and she certainly wasn’t the first, he thought.

Struggling not to bite his tongue, he told her that her total was $3.12, while looking down for a moment, to double check the dim display atop the cashier. The shadows on his face displayed a decade of running a one man business, always taking its toll on his hope and youth. A trait that didn’t go unnoticed.

The woman saw his eyes contract as she went to break her large bill to pay for her coffee and muffin. She also noticed that he was younger than he appeared. At first glance, he could easily pass for 40, but for some reason, from the way his eyes reacted, she knew he was hardly into his 30s. It was so defenseless, she thought.

“Oh no, dear. I know I’ve got some ones here somewhere. Been meaning to use them for the past few weeks,” she said, stuffing her frail hand into her large purse. “At 88, you don’t get out too often,” she added, trying to lighten the mood as she dug around, and scooped up five singles she had let fall to the bottom.

The man’s pain, so evident a few moments ago, was gone. He didn’t know why, but it dawned on him that this woman was not so different from himself. He imagined her lonely too. Not to be insulting, but to find relief. A  feeling he hadn’t felt in weeks. Months, really.

She handed him four of the five singles, waited for her change, and left the last in the tips jar. She said nothing and simply walked out the door. Never to be seen again.

He couldn’t help but like her. Her gift was more than expected, but her look as she gave it convinced him that maybe she was thinking what he was. That they’re both lonely. He grabbed his tip, the first of the day, and muttered that it was lucky.

And that’s when Ones came to his senses.

If there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s knowing what I’m doing here is right. While dreading through my teenage years that I wouldn’t be courageous to share my ideas, I’ve simply been building towards the time to break free against that low, forgotten feeling.

I’m glad for it, too. Because when you push for something deep within, your former self can rest at last, and you can go on. To sail through the ocean ahead.