44 Blueberry Hill, Front Porch, Wednesday Afternoon
Sam had managed to avoid watching TV, listening to the radio, or even browsing the Web for the most part pretty successfully for the past couple of weeks. He'd been pulling off this feat of avoidance with what one might almost call a concerted effort, as a matter of fact.
A shame he'd just happened to turn on the TV a little while ago and realize that it was tuned to ESPN.
With recaps of all of yesterday's baseball scores.
He'd been trying not to think about the fact that Monday had been opening day. Hadn't been a year in his life since coming to Earth that he hadn't looked forward to opening day with an almost religious fervor, and this year he'd been dreading it. All things considered, what he'd gained since he'd been cut from the team outweighed what he'd lost, but letting go of something that had been a constant in his life for so long was still rough.
He'd also been trying really hard to quit smoking at Cole's request, but in light of his little television misadventure he lacked the willpower to stick to that resolution for the moment. Which was why Sam was slumped in a chair on the front porch of the house with his feet up on the railing and cigarette number who-knew-what smoldering between his fingers.
[OOC: The calendar dictates that I should torture the boy this way this week, but by all means, open.]
A shame he'd just happened to turn on the TV a little while ago and realize that it was tuned to ESPN.
With recaps of all of yesterday's baseball scores.
He'd been trying not to think about the fact that Monday had been opening day. Hadn't been a year in his life since coming to Earth that he hadn't looked forward to opening day with an almost religious fervor, and this year he'd been dreading it. All things considered, what he'd gained since he'd been cut from the team outweighed what he'd lost, but letting go of something that had been a constant in his life for so long was still rough.
He'd also been trying really hard to quit smoking at Cole's request, but in light of his little television misadventure he lacked the willpower to stick to that resolution for the moment. Which was why Sam was slumped in a chair on the front porch of the house with his feet up on the railing and cigarette number who-knew-what smoldering between his fingers.
[OOC: The calendar dictates that I should torture the boy this way this week, but by all means, open.]