Completely revised today. Probably some mistakes because I changed the perspective from which I wrote it but borrowed some of the first draft.
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All the bases were loaded. George Adams, rookie unknown soldier, stepped up to the plate with bat in sweaty hand. His big break, the chance to make a name for himself, had finally arrived after years as the absolute lowest of the locker room hierarchy.
The stadium lights burnt down on him. They all focused on him like a magnifying glass over an ant. Little beads of perspiration streaked down his forehead, dampening his eyebrows. He breathed, quickly yet heavily, in dizzying gasps as he studied the motley blur of the crowd. Not a single face could he recognize, and though every one of them could see him clearly, not a single face recognized George. His vision narrowed to the pitcher’s mound.
The pitcher moved swiftly, fluidly. Each muscle’s motion was delicately proportioned: not a single spark of energy was wasted on an unnecessary movement. The stitches of the ball rolled away from his fingers and the baseball defied gravity for one triumphant moment. To George it seemed slow in approach, but then as it neared him he perceived it as speeding up rapidly until it peaked, perpendicular to the plate. Then it was gone, poofed away like magic dust in the catcher’s weathered mitt. George had let it go.
“Steeeeeriiiiiiiiike!”
The continuous, omnipresent roar of the crowd raised its volume.
Pitch number two took flight at ninety-two miles per hour. At that speed, even in imaginary slow motion, it can be difficult to tell when the ball is just out of reach.
George missed it by a mile.
“Strike TWO!”
He felt like he was on fire. He tightened his grip and dug his back foot into the ground.
Hit it hit it hit it hit it hit it…
He had barely had time to blink when the final ball rocketed toward home plate. He swung, and the bat struck like lightning. It made a sharp sound while at the same moment, silently, there was a terrible thunder in George’s chest. His stiff body fell sideways into the dirt with the bat still firmly clutched in his hand. He lay there posed, like a plastic army man that had fallen over, his face still tense with determination. His vacant eyes would never witness his final victory. Concerned teammates and officials rushed to him from across the field.
Abram watched from the stands. There was a wave of silence cast over the crowd, followed by soft chatter. A considerably large group had amassed around the fallen player. Two or three minutes passed and it seemed that all of the security guards were busy ushering herds of fans through every useable exit.
“Game’s cancelled!”
“No refunds!”
Abram made his way to the rail that separated the seats from the field. Masses of people bumped up against him, nearly knocking him over. He wondered to himself whether anyone would notice if he were to jump off. As they walked by, the people only stared at the crowd at home plate. No, he decided, no one would notice.
He grasped the rail, put one foot steadily on the top, and swung himself over. It was a considerable drop. The force of impact delivered a sharp pain in the heels of his feet and knocked off his glasses. He grabbed the glasses and stood up. Slowly he walked toward the group of bystanders. Sirens wailed from outside. With the stadium in a state of chaos, not one person questioned him. He worked his way through the crowd, pushing people aside briskly.
“Excuse me... Sorry... Coming through…”
Now he was near enough to see the assistant coach bent over the lifeless player, trying frantically to resuscitate him. The head coach was waving his arms, yelling, “Get those cameras out of here! I want all cameras off the field! What’s wrong with you people?”
Something hard knocked against the tip of Abram’s shoe. He looked down to see the dead player’s bat. It must have been pried away from him and thrown aside when they attempted to revive him. What an important piece of history it would be! What a glorious gift that Abram would be there that day to be the one to find it. He tried to fight back his widening smile. He had just received one of the most valuable artifacts in the history of baseball. The joy of it overwhelmed him.
He stepped carefully on the end of the bat’s handle. As the other end swung upward he caught it subtly in his right hand. Again, no one paid him any attention. Two paramedics clad in orange and blue burst forcefully through the crowd.
“Everyone get back!” one of them yelled. “If you’re not directly involved then you need to leave.”
The paramedics went to work while the people gradually began to disperse. Security guards were starting to appear nearby. Abram held the bat at his side and tried to walk as casually as he possibly could. The stadium exit drew nearer. He was almost there.
It was so easy. He had passed the gates unquestioned. He laughed. Truly this was the greatest moment of his life. He had to restrain himself from running all the way home.
His second floor apartment was plastered floor to ceiling with baseball posters. Some were faded and frayed while others were smooth and glossy as though they were straight from the press. They reflected light into the room in such a way that it had an odd, kaleidoscopic look about it. On the tables and shelves there were autographed baseballs, bats, gloves, catcher’s mitts, and even a couple trophies. One table was dedicated solely to five bulging spiral binders filled with cards spanning several decades of players. His collection was his life.
He sat down in his creaky leather chair to examine the bat more carefully. It was fairly new, made of what looked like oak, and very smooth. Near the end there was a gray smudge where it had hit the ball.
The ball, it suddenly occurred to him, was still out there somewhere. He only possessed one half. The set was incomplete without it. If he were to acquire it he would become the owner of perhaps the greatest, most notorious collection in the world.
For the first time he noticed that the television was on. A slick-haired news anchor was accompanied on screen by a picture of the dead player, George Adams. Abram thumbed the remote control to turn the volume up.
“On one final note, the record-breaking home run ball has not been recovered either,” read the anchor.
Abram stared at the television. He had assumed the baseball had landed in the hands of some undeserving, snotty little kid on the far side of the stadium. But no! It was missing. At the end of the exclusive story, the TV displayed the clip of the camera that had followed the ball. Adams had hit it right out of the park. It had to have landed somewhere nearby. Abram grabbed a flashlight and left to begin his search, again leaving the television turned on.
It was evening now and a little cold. He brought his sand-colored overcoat with him. Months had passed since he had bought the coat and it was tight on him now, especially in the midsection. He supposed that he had gained some weight since his purchase. He crawled on his hands and knees through yards and bushes, scouring the terrain for the missing baseball. Soon he lost track of time. Finding the ball was more important than hunger or exhaustion. Hours into his search, the flashlight began to dim. The grass became speckled with dew but still he crawled, groping in the dark with his bare fingers. It was not there. Sunrise fell over the land yet he still had not found the lost piece of his collection. It simply was not there. Someone had taken it and not told anyone. There was no other explanation.
He sat back and dug his fingers into his curly brown hair to warm them from the cold of the grass. Maybe someone did not know what it was and threw it away. People were careless. Priceless things were thrown away all the time. The thought of it made him shake with rage. On this assumption, Abram spent the entire morning searching through nearby dumpsters and garbage cans. He was constantly harassed by the people who owned the garbage cans, telling him to leave and threatening to call the police. What did they know? He was looking for something important. As he walked by the local school playground he looked at children with scorn. Children were the most careless of all. They folded baseball cards, mistreated equipment, smudged autographs, and essentially had no respect for anything valuable.
It was then that a powerfully startling site caught his attention. A group of boys was fighting and yelling over a baseball. To the uncivilized eye it would appear average, but this was not just any baseball. It had the mark of the stadium clearly made on its white leather and the red stitches had been torn as though it had been hit with deadly force. Unquestionably, he had found the missing piece.
This time he was chased away by an angry teacher. He hid in an alleyway close by and waited for school to adjourn. The waiting time was maddening. He plotted his action. First he would try to bribe the boy. There was a hundred dollars in his wallet; a small price to pay for the ultimate treasure. If that did not work, he would threaten the boy. Abram had responded well to intimidation as a child, why should this kid be any different? In the end, if all else failed, Abram would make good of his promises and do whatever terrible acts he needed to in order to claim his prize. The boy’s life, too, was a small price to pay.
With a clang of the school bell students poured over the front steps. Abram spotted the little thief, a scrawny blond boy, walking alone on the other side of the street. He followed him from the far side for a while but eventually crossed so that he was right behind him. The boy seemed to walk steadily faster with every step. Abram could tell he was nervous. At the end of the street the boy stopped to look both ways at the crosswalk. By this time Abram was right behind him.
“Hey there, little buddy,” he said softly.
The boy turned around and looked up, terrified.
“Rumor has it you’re the one who’s got that baseball everyone’s talking about.” He knelt down to eye level with the boy. “I want it.”
The blond kid said nothing, but looked deeply into his eyes.
“I’m willing to pay you for it, see?” Abram pulled a bill from his wallet. “How’s ten dollars sound, hmm?”
The boy looked as though he were going to be sick. He shook his head at the offer.
“No? Fine. Fifteen? Twenty?”
No.
“Fifty?”
No.
“Greedy little prick. Here’s one hundred dollars, now give me that ball.”
“You can’t have it,” he said shakily. “I’m turning it in to the police so they can give it to George Adams’s family.”
Abram’s hungry eyes narrowed. He grabbed the boy’s shoulder tightly.
“That’s not going to happen. Give me it now or I’m going to cut you up into little pieces and hide you somewhere they’ll never find the body.”
With the baseball in his hand, the kid made a fist and punched Abram in the nose. He cut his hand on Abram’s now broken glasses. Breaking free from his grip, the boy began running, likely faster that he had ever run before, gaining a fair distance between himself and Abram. He stopped at the door of a house, wrapped his fingers around the doorknob tightly and pulled but the door would not move. Rejected, the kid darted around to the back side of the house. Abram followed him, faltering momentarily in the slippery grass.
A window had been left partially open. The boy thrust it upward, frantically busted out the screen behind it, and pulled himself inside. Abram got to it a moment too late. He tried as hard as he could to jar the window open but it would not move. He rattled the back door violently though it was equally forbidding. Neighbors were now peering from their own windows curiously. Abram swaggered home in blinding rage.
His glasses were gone now. Blood streamed from his burning nose. He mopped up most of it with his coat and threw the bloody article aside. Grabbing his new bat, he headed for the door again but stopped. He would wait. Yes, he would wait a few hours and cool down. When he went back to the house, he would talk to the boy’s parents, say he was George Adams’s cousin or something, and they would give him the ball. He waited until a quarter to eight and left with the dead man’s bat still in his hand.
“Can I help you?” the boy’s father asked him. It appeared that he had interrupted them in the middle of dinner.
“Hello, my name is Daniel. I’m a relative of George Adams,” Abram lied. “I understand that your boy has come into possession of Georgie’s home run ball. I’d like it back, if you would be so kind.”
The kid stood up, knocking over the chair behind him.
“What’s the bat for?” asked his father.
He silently cursed his mistake. How could he explain it?
“It was just by chance returned to me by the man who had stolen it. Poor guy was talking like a maniac. I suspect he needed mental help.”
The father nodded in agreement.
“I have it right over here,” said the mother as she went for the place on the mantle where she had sat the ball.
“No!” the kid yelled. He ran past her and grabbed it. “You can’t let him have this! He’s not a relative of George, he’s a liar. He tried to kill me today!”
His parents looked utterly confused.
“The boy is making things up,” Abram assured them. He turned to the kid and said quietly, “Do you know the value of what you’re holding? Do you know how many collectors would kill just to get their hands on a trophy like that?”
“Trophy?” the father said sharply. “Look, I don’t know who you are but we are turning this thing in to the police tomorrow and then you can have it, no problem. Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I’ll leave when I get that baseball!” Abram yelled as he lunged toward the little thief.
The father caught him by the arm but Abram swung at him with the bat, which the father grabbed hold of with his other hand. They struggled over the bat but Abram prevailed and threw the boy's father down on a wooden footstool that collapsed underneath him. Abram raised the bat ready to bludgeon his opponent but he stopped abruptly. He let out a gurgling scream as the mother plunged the sharp, rusty tip of an old umbrella into the soft flesh of his back. He stumbled toward the mantle, trying to grab hold but only grabbing family photos instead. He fell backwards, the handle of the umbrella between him and the ground, and the sharp point rammed through his body. The very tip of it emerged pink with blood through the front of his shirt that was now pushed up like a tent. He lay there, deceased, on their living room carpet with the baseball bat still tightly clutched in his unknowing hand.
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Strike Three
All the bases were loaded. George Adams, rookie unknown soldier, stepped up to the plate with bat in sweaty hand. His big break, the chance to make a name for himself, had finally arrived after years as the absolute lowest of the locker room hierarchy.
The stadium lights burnt down on him. They all focused on him like a magnifying glass over an ant. Little beads of perspiration streaked down his forehead, dampening his eyebrows. He breathed, quickly yet heavily, in dizzying gasps as he studied the motley blur of the crowd. Not a single face could he recognize, and though every one of them could see him clearly, not a single face recognized George. His vision narrowed to the pitcher’s mound.
The pitcher moved swiftly, fluidly. Each muscle’s motion was delicately proportioned: not a single spark of energy was wasted on an unnecessary movement. The stitches of the ball rolled away from his fingers and the baseball defied gravity for one triumphant moment. To George it seemed slow in approach, but then as it neared him he perceived it as speeding up rapidly until it peaked, perpendicular to the plate. Then it was gone, poofed away like magic dust in the catcher’s weathered mitt. George had let it go.
“Steeeeeriiiiiiiiike!”
The continuous, omnipresent roar of the crowd raised its volume.
Pitch number two took flight at ninety-two miles per hour. At that speed, even in imaginary slow motion, it can be difficult to tell when the ball is just out of reach.
George missed it by a mile.
“Strike TWO!”
He felt like he was on fire. He tightened his grip and dug his back foot into the ground.
Hit it hit it hit it hit it hit it…
He had barely had time to blink when the final ball rocketed toward home plate. He swung, and the bat struck like lightning. It made a sharp sound while at the same moment, silently, there was a terrible thunder in George’s chest. His stiff body fell sideways into the dirt with the bat still firmly clutched in his hand. He lay there posed, like a plastic army man that had fallen over, his face still tense with determination. His vacant eyes would never witness his final victory. Concerned teammates and officials rushed to him from across the field.
Abram watched from the stands. There was a wave of silence cast over the crowd, followed by soft chatter. A considerably large group had amassed around the fallen player. Two or three minutes passed and it seemed that all of the security guards were busy ushering herds of fans through every useable exit.
“Game’s cancelled!”
“No refunds!”
Abram made his way to the rail that separated the seats from the field. Masses of people bumped up against him, nearly knocking him over. He wondered to himself whether anyone would notice if he were to jump off. As they walked by, the people only stared at the crowd at home plate. No, he decided, no one would notice.
He grasped the rail, put one foot steadily on the top, and swung himself over. It was a considerable drop. The force of impact delivered a sharp pain in the heels of his feet and knocked off his glasses. He grabbed the glasses and stood up. Slowly he walked toward the group of bystanders. Sirens wailed from outside. With the stadium in a state of chaos, not one person questioned him. He worked his way through the crowd, pushing people aside briskly.
“Excuse me... Sorry... Coming through…”
Now he was near enough to see the assistant coach bent over the lifeless player, trying frantically to resuscitate him. The head coach was waving his arms, yelling, “Get those cameras out of here! I want all cameras off the field! What’s wrong with you people?”
Something hard knocked against the tip of Abram’s shoe. He looked down to see the dead player’s bat. It must have been pried away from him and thrown aside when they attempted to revive him. What an important piece of history it would be! What a glorious gift that Abram would be there that day to be the one to find it. He tried to fight back his widening smile. He had just received one of the most valuable artifacts in the history of baseball. The joy of it overwhelmed him.
He stepped carefully on the end of the bat’s handle. As the other end swung upward he caught it subtly in his right hand. Again, no one paid him any attention. Two paramedics clad in orange and blue burst forcefully through the crowd.
“Everyone get back!” one of them yelled. “If you’re not directly involved then you need to leave.”
The paramedics went to work while the people gradually began to disperse. Security guards were starting to appear nearby. Abram held the bat at his side and tried to walk as casually as he possibly could. The stadium exit drew nearer. He was almost there.
It was so easy. He had passed the gates unquestioned. He laughed. Truly this was the greatest moment of his life. He had to restrain himself from running all the way home.
His second floor apartment was plastered floor to ceiling with baseball posters. Some were faded and frayed while others were smooth and glossy as though they were straight from the press. They reflected light into the room in such a way that it had an odd, kaleidoscopic look about it. On the tables and shelves there were autographed baseballs, bats, gloves, catcher’s mitts, and even a couple trophies. One table was dedicated solely to five bulging spiral binders filled with cards spanning several decades of players. His collection was his life.
He sat down in his creaky leather chair to examine the bat more carefully. It was fairly new, made of what looked like oak, and very smooth. Near the end there was a gray smudge where it had hit the ball.
The ball, it suddenly occurred to him, was still out there somewhere. He only possessed one half. The set was incomplete without it. If he were to acquire it he would become the owner of perhaps the greatest, most notorious collection in the world.
For the first time he noticed that the television was on. A slick-haired news anchor was accompanied on screen by a picture of the dead player, George Adams. Abram thumbed the remote control to turn the volume up.
“On one final note, the record-breaking home run ball has not been recovered either,” read the anchor.
Abram stared at the television. He had assumed the baseball had landed in the hands of some undeserving, snotty little kid on the far side of the stadium. But no! It was missing. At the end of the exclusive story, the TV displayed the clip of the camera that had followed the ball. Adams had hit it right out of the park. It had to have landed somewhere nearby. Abram grabbed a flashlight and left to begin his search, again leaving the television turned on.
It was evening now and a little cold. He brought his sand-colored overcoat with him. Months had passed since he had bought the coat and it was tight on him now, especially in the midsection. He supposed that he had gained some weight since his purchase. He crawled on his hands and knees through yards and bushes, scouring the terrain for the missing baseball. Soon he lost track of time. Finding the ball was more important than hunger or exhaustion. Hours into his search, the flashlight began to dim. The grass became speckled with dew but still he crawled, groping in the dark with his bare fingers. It was not there. Sunrise fell over the land yet he still had not found the lost piece of his collection. It simply was not there. Someone had taken it and not told anyone. There was no other explanation.
He sat back and dug his fingers into his curly brown hair to warm them from the cold of the grass. Maybe someone did not know what it was and threw it away. People were careless. Priceless things were thrown away all the time. The thought of it made him shake with rage. On this assumption, Abram spent the entire morning searching through nearby dumpsters and garbage cans. He was constantly harassed by the people who owned the garbage cans, telling him to leave and threatening to call the police. What did they know? He was looking for something important. As he walked by the local school playground he looked at children with scorn. Children were the most careless of all. They folded baseball cards, mistreated equipment, smudged autographs, and essentially had no respect for anything valuable.
It was then that a powerfully startling site caught his attention. A group of boys was fighting and yelling over a baseball. To the uncivilized eye it would appear average, but this was not just any baseball. It had the mark of the stadium clearly made on its white leather and the red stitches had been torn as though it had been hit with deadly force. Unquestionably, he had found the missing piece.
This time he was chased away by an angry teacher. He hid in an alleyway close by and waited for school to adjourn. The waiting time was maddening. He plotted his action. First he would try to bribe the boy. There was a hundred dollars in his wallet; a small price to pay for the ultimate treasure. If that did not work, he would threaten the boy. Abram had responded well to intimidation as a child, why should this kid be any different? In the end, if all else failed, Abram would make good of his promises and do whatever terrible acts he needed to in order to claim his prize. The boy’s life, too, was a small price to pay.
With a clang of the school bell students poured over the front steps. Abram spotted the little thief, a scrawny blond boy, walking alone on the other side of the street. He followed him from the far side for a while but eventually crossed so that he was right behind him. The boy seemed to walk steadily faster with every step. Abram could tell he was nervous. At the end of the street the boy stopped to look both ways at the crosswalk. By this time Abram was right behind him.
“Hey there, little buddy,” he said softly.
The boy turned around and looked up, terrified.
“Rumor has it you’re the one who’s got that baseball everyone’s talking about.” He knelt down to eye level with the boy. “I want it.”
The blond kid said nothing, but looked deeply into his eyes.
“I’m willing to pay you for it, see?” Abram pulled a bill from his wallet. “How’s ten dollars sound, hmm?”
The boy looked as though he were going to be sick. He shook his head at the offer.
“No? Fine. Fifteen? Twenty?”
No.
“Fifty?”
No.
“Greedy little prick. Here’s one hundred dollars, now give me that ball.”
“You can’t have it,” he said shakily. “I’m turning it in to the police so they can give it to George Adams’s family.”
Abram’s hungry eyes narrowed. He grabbed the boy’s shoulder tightly.
“That’s not going to happen. Give me it now or I’m going to cut you up into little pieces and hide you somewhere they’ll never find the body.”
With the baseball in his hand, the kid made a fist and punched Abram in the nose. He cut his hand on Abram’s now broken glasses. Breaking free from his grip, the boy began running, likely faster that he had ever run before, gaining a fair distance between himself and Abram. He stopped at the door of a house, wrapped his fingers around the doorknob tightly and pulled but the door would not move. Rejected, the kid darted around to the back side of the house. Abram followed him, faltering momentarily in the slippery grass.
A window had been left partially open. The boy thrust it upward, frantically busted out the screen behind it, and pulled himself inside. Abram got to it a moment too late. He tried as hard as he could to jar the window open but it would not move. He rattled the back door violently though it was equally forbidding. Neighbors were now peering from their own windows curiously. Abram swaggered home in blinding rage.
His glasses were gone now. Blood streamed from his burning nose. He mopped up most of it with his coat and threw the bloody article aside. Grabbing his new bat, he headed for the door again but stopped. He would wait. Yes, he would wait a few hours and cool down. When he went back to the house, he would talk to the boy’s parents, say he was George Adams’s cousin or something, and they would give him the ball. He waited until a quarter to eight and left with the dead man’s bat still in his hand.
“Can I help you?” the boy’s father asked him. It appeared that he had interrupted them in the middle of dinner.
“Hello, my name is Daniel. I’m a relative of George Adams,” Abram lied. “I understand that your boy has come into possession of Georgie’s home run ball. I’d like it back, if you would be so kind.”
The kid stood up, knocking over the chair behind him.
“What’s the bat for?” asked his father.
He silently cursed his mistake. How could he explain it?
“It was just by chance returned to me by the man who had stolen it. Poor guy was talking like a maniac. I suspect he needed mental help.”
The father nodded in agreement.
“I have it right over here,” said the mother as she went for the place on the mantle where she had sat the ball.
“No!” the kid yelled. He ran past her and grabbed it. “You can’t let him have this! He’s not a relative of George, he’s a liar. He tried to kill me today!”
His parents looked utterly confused.
“The boy is making things up,” Abram assured them. He turned to the kid and said quietly, “Do you know the value of what you’re holding? Do you know how many collectors would kill just to get their hands on a trophy like that?”
“Trophy?” the father said sharply. “Look, I don’t know who you are but we are turning this thing in to the police tomorrow and then you can have it, no problem. Now I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”
“I’ll leave when I get that baseball!” Abram yelled as he lunged toward the little thief.
The father caught him by the arm but Abram swung at him with the bat, which the father grabbed hold of with his other hand. They struggled over the bat but Abram prevailed and threw the boy's father down on a wooden footstool that collapsed underneath him. Abram raised the bat ready to bludgeon his opponent but he stopped abruptly. He let out a gurgling scream as the mother plunged the sharp, rusty tip of an old umbrella into the soft flesh of his back. He stumbled toward the mantle, trying to grab hold but only grabbing family photos instead. He fell backwards, the handle of the umbrella between him and the ground, and the sharp point rammed through his body. The very tip of it emerged pink with blood through the front of his shirt that was now pushed up like a tent. He lay there, deceased, on their living room carpet with the baseball bat still tightly clutched in his unknowing hand.