Fastball

A Short Story

The sun sprayed vibrant beams off Monty’s shades and he smiled, tapping the bat lightly against his cleats. He briefly surveyed his surroundings, knowing any minor lapse in concentration was well worth the beautiful view. The crowd at Yankee Stadium was monumental, three decks deep, a summer splashed collage of sweat and vigor, humming with anticipation.

He thought, sighing with peaceful resignation, that there was no place in civilization he’d rather be. He was a happily hopeless addict, forever in search of a satiating 2-0 fastball, and society appeased him, with the power and glory, with the money and fame, with the booze and broads. All of it was his, all of it was now, and all of it could be gone in an instant.

Stepping back into the batter’s box, his safe place, Monty offered a cursory glance toward his eternal bane, the pitcher. Max Rutherford, a tall and lanky lefthander, shot back a stare of disdain. Monty felt a delicate strand of hatred pulsating between them, for reasons unbeknownst within his shallow consciousness. He quickly scanned his baseball memory bank, an encyclopedic rolodex of people, places, and parties, and found nothing of relevant relation to Max. Max Rutherford… just another name Monty would never remember… Came up in ‘98 with Boston, a big time prospect, and flamed out, ruined his arm. Fought back with the Pirates and won 15 games, signed a decent contract with the Mets. Pitched his way out of New York and bounced around, with contenders and pretenders, more bad than good. Finally landed in Baseball purgatory, trapped in that ugly Devil Ray uniform. Presently in control of this game, spinning a real gem.

Monty locked into his stylish batting stance, twirling the bat above his head, and waited.

Max clawed at the rosin bag, attempting to regain the grip that had long evaporated from his fingertips. Dropping the chalky artifice onto the mound, he reflected on all that hadn’t been.
Adjusting his cap, he climbed back on top of the mound, king of the hill, ruler of nothing. He noticed Monty McKnight, the opposing hitter, searching around the stadium, his attention amiss from the game. It infuriated Max. Monty, contorting the event to fit his self-righteous presence, finally readied himself with that oh-so arrogant batting stance. It was a pall in the eyes of Max. Old man McKnight had made a career of overrating his transient value to the game, and would presumably be gone sooner than he thought. Max could remember it like yesterday, back when Monty was a superstar, back when he was untouchable. Was it all so long ago? Max had been ordered by his pitching coach to unleash fastballs on Monty, his bat speed deteriorated by time. He was batting eighth in the lineup, a cruel joke, retirement the punch line. Max thought his pitching coach was a real prick, and gloried in proving him wrong, so he flung a breaking ball on the first pitch, which McKnight promptly drilled foul into the upper deck. It was probably his best contact in months. Ahead in the count 0-1, Max agreed with his catcher, Bishop, that a fastball was in order. Max shook his head, up and down, left and right, in mock conversation, before freezing his glove in the set position.

Monty gripped his wooden instrument, tightly, knowing a fastball was coming. He had been beat on fastballs all season, fouling them back, popping them up, often flat out missing, and was sick of it. The damn newspapers were calling him over the hill, past his prime, printed daggers deeming his future as a big leaguer completely and utterly futile.
They couldn’t take this from him. Not the media, not his manager, not that kid breathing down his neck in AAA… nobody could take his love.
It was just a mechanical flaw, a little hitch he picked up on that pointless tour of Japan back in December. It was all so simple.

Dropping his hands…

He was dropping his hands.

That was it. That was all.

He had spent his time in the cages, he had put in the extra work, and now
Monty was ready, ready for his reward, ready for all that had been taken away to be given back, all that was his.
He’s the centerfielder for the New York Yankees. Of course it’ll come back.
And today was the day. Against Max Rutherford and his puny 86 MPH fastball, against Max Rutherford and his cement mixing Curveball.
It mattered little that Max was a lefthander. Monty had always hit his brethren in the past. He owned them.
Shoulder in.
Hands high.
Bottom four.
No score.
It all comes back today.
Here comes the fastball.

Even after a fresh ball was tossed in his glove, blemish free, Max remained in a state of shock. Monty had been gifted a mistake, a two seam piece of junk tailing back over the plate, and was late to his own party.

He hit a harmless foul, a line drive into the third base stands that disappeared down the corridors of Gate C, two Afternoon drunks in pursuit.

Max had made consecutive deliveries equal only in awfulness. He squinted into his dugout, where his manager rocked back and forth uncomfortably. The coaching staff had little trust in him, often ending his outings at the first sign of trouble. Max had been labeled gutless, a man unable to cope with pressure, after his tortuous tenure as a Met.
The booing, the defeat, the entire failed experience with the Mets, it washed over him, a momentary wave of tumult.

As he stared in for his next sign, anticipating a waste curve in the dirt or a fastball high and outside, Max drowned back into that time and place.
And he could no longer breathe.

Max had destroyed his rotator cuff with Boston, and the depression, the drinking, the misery that buoyed his rehabilitation, decimated his marriage.

He always thought of Nicole, back when waking in the morning only solidified his solidarity. He used to be able to spot her, her beautiful face, outshining the masses at Fenway, and he would point, not because he saw her, but because she saw him back.
What a hotshot. He still wanted her love, after all his mistakes, but she no longer wanted him. There was a time in Pittsburgh, after his tenth win in a row, when he pulled over to the side of a road and wept, unable to find a payphone, unable to call her, unable to share his happiness.

So instead, his joy backfired, burnt inside of him, a bitter pill.

He drank and he drank and he drank, until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Any tangible feeling, any anger, any happiness, it all reverted to Nicole, to his mistakes in Boston, and he wanted to turn numb, become a breathing void.

He could never explain Pittsburgh, how he found it again, but without Nicole, it didn’t feel like achievement at all. Only the failure felt real.
He signed with the Mets, increased his bankroll.

He started over again with a new girl named Savannah, and she saved his life, opened his emotion again.

The pain rose off him, exorcised.

The future was a clean slate.

And than his dad fell ill, didn’t make sense anymore, talking gibberish.
Savannah carried him through, a radiant beacon. His pitching fell apart, but Max didn’t care anymore. The drive, the desire, it was all gone. Every night, when the Mets were home, he visited room 157 at New York Presbyterian. There he would sit, searching for vitality in his dad’s eyes.
Highlights would flash from the T.V. in 157, showing New York Met Max Rutherford, getting beaten, battered, and booed.
His dad would always watch, never wanted to change the channel. Later, Max realized they were both probably searching for the same thing.
“Who’s this bum David? Getting hit all over the place? Who is he?” John Rutherford would ask his son this question, over and over again.
“That’s me Dad. It’s me. It’s Max. Your son… Not David… Max.”
He found the drive again, after the funeral, after discovering closure.
His love secure, the game could be everything again.
But the stuff was gone. Somewhere in the suffering, velocity had become a memory.
Through it all, through four teams post New York, not a drink since Savannah.
They said Max Rutherford wasn’t tough enough to pitch in New York.
They never knew.

As the 0-2 fastball fluttered high and outside, Monty remained in a vain malaise.

He was officially worried.

Worried that he was done, worried that his time was up.

And who was Monty McKnight without Baseball anyway? He’d been through three divorces trying to figure it out.

They all follow the flame of fame, but once they stay the night, once reality dampens perception, they leave, every last one of them. And Monty was terrified of being alone. Completely petrified that there wouldn’t be a sensible mind left to offend with his arrogance, nary a soul to awe with his talent or impress with his affluence. Nobody would be in sight, without his one true love.

Baseball…

How did he miss that pitch? That was his pitch.

His.

He nervously stepped out of the box, Max taking too long preparing his next delivery, his method to end this misery.

Monty tapped his spikes, adjusted his shades, once again observed Max.
If the past were irrelevant, Monty could seek but fail to find a discernable difference between them.
They were both simply daring fate, testing time.

Here is a man with a .239 batting average. Here is a man with a 5.30 ERA. Monty would live and die by the next pitch. It was his expectation that Max would do the same.

Thinking happier thoughts, Max decided to disagree with the kid Bishop and throw a curve. Bishop put up a decent argument, long enough for Monty to step out, but finally relented, waggling two fingers. Why not? Max had been locating the curve on a somewhat consistent basis, his fastball stunk, and the reverse of anything that brainless pitching coach said was invariably true. It was Max’s game.

So he wound up, a curveball grip hidden securely behind his glove.

Monty readied for another fastball, preparing for one final embarrassment before he called the GM and expressed what everybody else believed.

He would tell him it was done, over with. He would ask for a Front Office job. He would get it. He would be empty.

Final judgment spun from the fingertips of Max, and immediately Monty was surprised. The seams rotated. The ball was elevated. Max bit his tongue on the follow through. Curveball. The son of a bitch threw a curveball. Monty kept his hands back, until the last possible moment, before violently snapping his wrists. His bat obliterated the helplessly hanging sphere, now ticketed toward the Right Field Upper Deck. Monty dropped the bat, effortlessly, it now weighed nothing. He momentarily admired the shot.

He had done it many times before. But this was salvation.

He rounded the bases, hiding his glee behind forced stoicism. He slapped an unnecessary high five with his third base coach. He practically slammed his foot on home plate, defiant. The crowd exploded, a delirious cauldron of sound and fury, signifying everything. Monty basked. He needed the moment. He needed Baseball. It was only a matter of time.

He knew.

A matter of time.

That’s why he took the curtain call.

Max figured correctly, when it was all over, that McKnight’s home run was the game’s turning point. He was unable to survive the inning.
His manager would trot out toward the mound and would ask for the ball. Max would hand it over. His exit would be barely acknowledged by the fans, their eyes busied by a Dancing Hot Dog on Diamond Vision.

As Max left his final big league game, sighing with peaceful resignation, he would search Yankee Stadium, smiling upon the discovery of all that he was looking for.

And Savannah would see him, and smile back.