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.

All in the Game

I say this. You just can’t leave the Hall of Fame to people. It isn’t reasonable. How are you going to ask people, I mean, people for Christ sakes, to judge the merits of their peers? Are you kidding me?

People fail at judgment. There’s this great word floating around Webster’s defined as hypocrisy, a label that at least 97 percent of the population falls under. To be a hypocrite is a great and noble thing, because you fit in. I’d be a liar if I didn’t cop to my own hypocrisy at times. How are we supposed to judge a person’s career properly if we fail in even judging ourselves?

/

You know something? I empathize with the writer who submitted an empty ballot in last year’s election. Sure, it’s a scummy move that cheapened the supposedly sacred voting process in the name of publicity, but he really had the right idea. Why should sportswriters be allowed to decide something so utterly important? There are fantastic sports scribes out there, without a doubt. But, for every open minded, hard working, earnest caretaker of the game, there are the shameless, the self-promoting and hypocritical, the irrational and inflexible. Just like people, just like life.

Honestly, how is Goose Gossage not a Hall of Famer? I mean, is there a valid, concrete reason for the decisions of these voters?

Or do we just get spineless rhetoric, empty, yet emphatic sentiment, questioning the “dominance” of a particular player? Joe Sportswriter opines that Jack Morris wasn’t the “dominating” pitcher of the era. When a sportswriter ponders the “dominance” of a player, all they are admitting is that this player, for whatever reason, didn’t appeal to their tastes, didn’t forcefully forge a conclave in their memory, solely a manner of opinion. Perception isn’t reality, yet the two are constantly mistaken.

/

Bert Blyleven isn’t in the Hall because some random guy 20 years ago decided he was good, just not great. Who was the guy?

No one knows.

But one thing is for sure. Whatever guy it was that started such a completely unfounded, untrue idea, must have been pretty influential, because his blueprint is still being followed to this day.

See, there are no plausible, sensible reasons.

This can apply to the positively wacky Hall of Fame voting, where Dante Bichette can grab a couple of votes purely for giggles, or any other affair in this wide world we live in.

There will always be a segment of the population that follows the crowd. Never mind if the herd is wading slowly into a bottomless lagoon labeled ignorance, if there exists enough, than they will be followed, no questions asked.

/

Should steroid guys be elected into the Hall of Fame?

What about relievers, becoming more and more valuable by the season, and whose merits need to be acknowledged?

These are complicated queries that our future voters just will not be able to analyze with an even hand.

Mass stupidity will surely ensue.

To wit:

A slugger will get elected to the Hall of Fame, on the basis of a spotless record entwined with strong statistics.

15 years later, one random night on an empty country road, his car will be pulled over by the local police department, after weaving erratically all over the road.

The cops will investigate his car, only after he pukes all over them of course, and discover steroid vials in his trunk, right next to his Hall of Fame plaque and an empty bag of Doritos.

Only one thing can be certain: the fallout will be mind numbingly stupid.

Talk radio callers will vent, the invention of the Internet continuing to allude them. They will demand the slugger’s name and accomplishments repealed from the Hall of Fame. They will wallow in the tragedy of lost greatness. They will bemoan their kids, who have nobody to look up to anymore, not like they did, when President Rodriguez broke the home run record clean and was a role model to the youth all across America.

Confusion will reign.

When the dust settles, and the slugger is removed from Cooperstown, quoted in a Sports Illustrated column that he doesn’t really give a damn about the fans and “I’ll still be eating a steak dinner tonight”, nobody will learn anything.

There will still be glass heroes, paper villains, and empty morals to uphold.

My question is: why bother with all the nonsense?

Turn that beautiful building in Cooperstown into a museum.

Put an end to the hypocrisy entrenched in the voting process, and the paradoxes it produces, where Ty Cobb is a Hall of Fame person and player, and Mark McGwire is not.

Acknowledge Baseball’s entire history, the good, the bad, and the ugly.

We need to stop pretending. We need to embrace reality, and learn from our mistakes, instead of masking them with simplicity.

Life is complicated. People do wrong, sometimes. These errors shouldn’t be in vain.

The Hall should proudly exhibit Baseball’s best drunks, juicers, and amphetamine users.

/

Have a plaque of Raffy Palmeiro, pointing his finger in defiance.

Have a plaque of Barry Bonds, with an enlarged dome.

Tell a story, not a fairy tale.

/

The Hall of Fame is a great idea.

Allowing the “experts” to vote players into it is a great idea.

Safeguarding the game’s legacy from the ugliness imparted by steroids is a great idea.

But in life, there are ideas, and there is reality… and both are kind of messed up sometimes.

Live and learn.