Mini-Episode: Fire-Arm Johnson

Nichole Fonzarelli—Kristen DiMercurio
Ms. Johnson, thanks for finding the time to speak with me.

Valiance Johnson—Jordan Cobb
You can call me Valiance or even V, Ms. Fonzerelli. 

Nichole
Only if you return the favor. Nichole, if you please. Are you ready?

Valiance
One thing to clarify from the start: I want this to be more about the vandalism and less about the no-hitter.

Nichole
Are you sure?

Valiance
Very.

Nichole
I can’t control the potential consequences.

Valiance
I’m counting on consequences. And in some ways, the two things are related. When I went into the locker room after the win, the whole team was rallying around me. Lifting me up, carrying me, spraying me with water and orange soda—we didn’t plan on champagne, but we had an excess of orange soda. And you know what I did? I walked over to the nearest locker and punched it. I punched it hard enough to dent it in a little. My knuckles bruised, but thankfully I was fine. Yes, it felt good to beat a major league team put them in their place, defy expectations, prove to everyone that I have got the goddamn goods.But my arm? It wasn’t satisfied. It was burning with a tireless fire, and nothing I could do could put it out, nothing would satisfy the buzzing energy inside it. Celebrating that arm made it burn worse made it feel like someone had found a way to ignite a searing blaze in every one of my pores and molecules.

Nichole
Why was it burning so much? Were you angry about something?

Valiance
You could say that. A few days before the exhibition game, Mayor Bespin visited to document our progress as a team. I knew she was coming. Bruce warned us to be on our best behavior. So I took that literally. As soon as I saw her avoiding the parts of the infield that didn’t have grass, my arm itched and burned. I snuck out of practice, stole a can of spray paint out of the maintenance shed, snuck into Braintree station, shook that sucker up and tried to calm the fire. Let my arm go to town, let it say what it needed to say. You know the rest: Bespin saw it and made it a marketing thing. Sure, everyone can use the trains for the game. Why not? It didn’t even phase her. That’s the funny thing about the rich and powerful. They have this way of taking criticism and turning it into capital. Other people’s pain is dollar signs. Income. Prestige. 

I was already fired up for the game. But as I watched that clown of a mayor throw the first pitch and then hightail it out of the stadium? As I looked around Park and Ride and saw a sea of mostly white faces? As I thought about where we were—Red Line—Braintree Station—I realized that these people all bought tickets before my little spray stunt. We were sold out the day I did it. They were Red-sidents. Or maybe high-class Boston folks who could somehow afford the VICKIs. So what did I accomplish? Free rides for people who already live in Red Line? Who can afford a Prole Pass? So what? So goddamn motherfucking what good did I do?

And that’s when my arm ignited. It felt sore, but not from over-throwing. No amount of rest or ice or anything could cool it off. They would pay. They would all pay. The back of Cutter’s glove would be the face of every oblivious, soulless suit sucking on chili dogs and mowing down popcorn. I channeled it all into the throw. Because what else could I do? And the harder I threw, the more frustrated I got, because what difference did it make? What difference did being good at pitching make? Even when I took a risk and tried to spread a message I believed in, the result was the same. The house wins. We win, the suits in the bleachers win. And goddamn it, I sure wasn’t going to lose. But having them watch me as if I was winning for them? No. Absolutely not. I was throwing for the people who couldn’t see me throw. I wanted to throw so hard and so fast that I would rip a hole in time and space and let every single person who deserved to be there come spilling out, sucking everyone who didn’t into a black hole.

[Pause.]

It’s a curse, being good at something. Because it’s never good enough. I can’t make good with it. I can only win. And what’s winning to the sound of cheers from crowds of scoundrels?

Nichole
Didn’t they call you “Fire Arm Johnson” on your last team?

Valiance
They did. And I pretended to love it. It’s endearing. Really, it means a lot to me to get noticed by people who love the game, people who respect my ability. But I can’t ignore the ones who don’t when they’re my audience. So I’m telling you to tell them right now that this city needs to change. If I’m representing Red Line, I’m going to represent the Red Line that’s possible, not the Red Line that is. My arm won’t rest until it’s right.

Nichole
Do you ever worry that if things get better, you won’t be able to harness that power anymore?

Valiance
Laughs.]No. Unfortunately, there’s a lot of wrong to fuel it. I don’t think we’re going to run out anytime soon. 

Nichole
Any final words for your fans?

Valiance
Yes. I purchased twenty seats at the next game for families who can’t afford to live in or ride on Ride Line. Please contact the box office and request your tickets. First come, first serve, but this won’t be the last. It’s not much, but it’s just a start.

Nichole
Thank you, Valiance. Congrats on the game. And on the character. 

Valiance
Thanks for helping me get the word out.

Nichole
It’s our pleasure.

[Pause. Recorded]

That’s a wrap on our exclusive interview with Yard Goats pitcher Valiance “Fire Arm” Johnson. We reached out to Mayor Bespin for comment and received an ear-piercing shriek in response. Now we cut to Chuck with a story about the strange announcements from the Red Line cheese-bot drivers. Chuck?