<div class="floatleft">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/6/69/Vedaa_Joe.jpeg)</div><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 14pt;"><strong> Joe (https://docs.google.com/document/d/1Q-aqg2Y8RQJG8CwTzELOm8DUiDTjtAlG984nufI67Rc/edit)</strong></span><br/><div class="floatright">(https://elliquiy.com/elluiki/images/0/0e/Vedaa_Joe_3.jpeg)</div>Thoomph!<br/><br/>*Crack*<br/><br/>"Again."<br/><br/>Thoomph!<br/><br/>*Crack*<br/><br/>"Watch that leg! Too straight and follow through is weak, too bent and you swing low."<br/><br/>Joe watched the judge's son as he swung versus the pitching machine. The kid had power, but no aim, no timing, and least of all, no form, but he could learn. They had started with power, at the judge's insistence. Now the judge was paying for extra lessons to shape the powerhouse kid into a ball player. It did little good to swing for the fence if you never connected. Joe had finally convinced the judge after increasing the kid's distance by almost a hundred feet on the long flys. That was math though, the kid needed to angle the ball lower with his swing, at 45 degrees the ball will travel the farthest, any higher and you trade distance for height, any lower and the ball will hit the ground before it expends its power.<br/><br/>Joe stepped forward pointing the remote at the pitching machine and shutting it down. A lesson in form was needed.<br/>***************       ***************       ***************       ***************<br/><br/>As Joe packed up his bag of balls and bats, the pitching machine already in its bag, he hefted the two satchels up to a shoulder and began walking, their weight negligible to him. He reviewed the address, across town, a warehouse he had found out yesterday as he had taken the bus to find out how much time he needed to give himself to be there on time. The warehouse had not intrigued him or disappointed him, like  himself he doubted it was the same on the inside as it was on the outside.<br/><br/>He stopped at the greyhound station and stored his pitching machine in the locker that he kept there. paying his two bucks in change and stowing the key again. It was local to this side of town and he fancied keeping it local. The bus ride may have been a bit harrying to those of higher scale, but the troll found little upon the conveyance to fear, aside from the cuties that kept looking him up and down in fear themselves. He wondered whether he should smile at them and ease their tensions, or growl and encourage them to be cautious. He wasn't in danger, yet they were little things. Their stop came before his slow mind would allow him to decide so they left with only the glance he had offered when he stepped on board.<br/><br/>His mind wandered to next weeks schedule, three students for batting practice, one needing coaching on when to slide and when to run, and three athletes for math tutoring. He would need to add a couple of students over the next few weeks or the summer may be slight. He wasn't concerned, this was nothing compared to Cuba and even less compared to the other side of the Hedge. He liked that his fetch had made such a name for himself, it made coaching opportunities easier when they mistook him for his fetch. His results offered a reason to keep him, his face offered a reason to hire him.<br/><br/>As he approached the warehouse today he noticed there was someone to meet him this time. He hadn't actually tried to enter yesterday, but he had found where the door was. He looked her up and down, both views catching his wandering eyes, and visions of pleasure made him smile. "Robyn, please call me Joe." His smile was warm and offering.<br/><br/>As he entered he could not keep his eyes from the feast before him, the food looked good too. There was a veritable bevy of beauties. "I am most glad to be of any service I can." He wished he had the glib tongue of Barney Stinson, that man could swoon the stars.