Ghost Runner on Second

Ghost Runner on Second

All Rights Reserved © 2002 by Bobby Alvarez

No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping, or by any information storage retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher.

Writers Club Press

an imprint of iUniverse, Inc.

For information address: iUniverse, Inc. 2021 Pine Lake Road, Suite 100 Lincoln, NE 68512 www.iuniverse.com

ISBN: 0-595-25814-X (pbk)

ISBN: 0-595-74221-1 (cloth)

ISBN13: 9781469707785 (ebook)

Contents

Trek

Number One

Hitting a Homer

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

Trek

Number Two

Doubling Down the Line

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

Trek

Number Three

Striking Out

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

About the Author

To my incredible wife, Dorothy, who doesn’t believe a word of this.

Trek

Number One

Hitting a Homer  

CHAPTER 1  

1990

Ghost runner on second! twelve year-old Travis Campbell yelled as he hopped up from the small grassless divot, which had over time replaced any need for a real second base, and ran back toward home plate. As he passed by the pitcher’s mound, which was actually just a slice off an old tire they had found laying in front of the Campbell household one day, Travis clicked his tongue twice, just to make sure that the pitcher knew that he knew that the double he had just hit meant that today’s possible winning run was just about to step into the batter’s box. The intended recipient of that clicking, the pitcher and Travis’ best friend, Scott Holloway, already knew; in fact, he was already mad enough to spit nails and needed no cute little reminders. In Scott’s mind, Travis had had very little to do with the last hit; when you leave the fattest curve ball in the history of the world hanging over the middle of the plate just begging someone to hit it straight into next week, you really don’t need to give the hitter much credit when he does just that.

Travis quickly made it back to the rock-outlined square of cardboard which would be home plate until the next time it rained hard or until the next really strong wind gust, leaned down to pick up the black wooden bat he had left there, and heard the radio play-by-play announcer. Actually, what he heard was his little brother, Mikey, who played catcher no matter who was batting, and who bided his time behind the plate by serving as the game’s play-by-play announcer, color commentator, and surrogate home-town crowd.

Haaaaaaah! was how Mikey had the simulated wild fans express their joy. Then, he had the play-by-play guy cut in, This, my friends, is what it’s all about: game seven, bottom of the ninth, Cubs down by one, two outs, runner on second, and the winning run coming to the plate in the form of Sam-my! So-sa! Haaaaaaah!

Sammy Sosa’s not left-handed, doofus, Travis countered, as he stood taking a few practice swings just outside of the two foot-holes which showed to anyone passing through the clover field exactly where the kids had stood to bat nearly every day over the past three summers. Pick someone else.

And, besides, he continued, if Sammy was coming up to bat in a situation like this, they’d intentionally walk him so they could get a force out at any base.

Everybody’s on their feet! said Mikey the commentator, momentarily ignoring his critic. I bet the only fans who aren’t completely hypnotized by the play on the field are the frightened kids wandering around the concessions stands because they had to go pee and their dads said, ‘And miss this? You gotta be nuts! If you can’t hold it, you go find the bathroom yourself!’

Cut it out, Travis chuckled as he stepped away from the plate. Mikey, unable to usually get even a smile from his older brother, stood up from his catcher’s stance, pridefully puffed out his chest, and squatted back down. Though he was about ten feet back from the plate—the result of a maternal edict etched in stone the day after Travis had clocked his brother just above the eyebrow with an errant backswing—Travis still saw the whole show out of the corner of his eye. He smirked and shook his head and once again approached the plate.

Can you believe it? the play-by-play announcer continued. The Cubs are bringing in a pinch-hitter for Sam-my! So-sa! They’re calling up the retired switch-hitter Mario Mendoza, he of the famous Mendoza Line of batting mediocrity, to stand in for the superstar!

Shut up, butt-head, Travis barked, but he shouldn’t have. For baseball is a game of split-second decisions, and the time you spend insulting your brother is time you don’t spend focusing on swinging the bat. By the time Travis quit talking and actually found the incoming pitch and started to move the bat forward, there was simply no way he was going to catch up to Scotty’s high fastball. As it flew by Travis, Mikey reached up, caught the speeding bullet in the palm of his mitt, then threw his glove to the ground and howled. Only after the searing pain in his hand had dissipated did he yell, Steeeeeee-rike One!

Travis pulled the bat back and readied himself for the next pitch. He hadn’t won many games that summer since Scott had upped the ante by learning to throw a screwball—which, when thrown by a left-handed pitcher, breaks into a left-handed hitter—so he had to take advantage of every opportunity that came his way. Travis was undoubtedly the better hitter, but Scotty was the better pitcher. And, since good pitching will almost always win out over good hitting, Travis usually ended up outside rather than inside the winner’s circle. It wasn’t often that he even had a chance to win a game, and now he only had two strikes left.

The catcher puts one finger down, and lays it high up against his right thigh, calling for the chin music, continued Mikey, making calls more insightful than those usually made by real play-by-play announcers. Mikey always called the pitches; both Scott and Travis, whether pitching or batting, always ignored him.

When the pitch came, it was a screwball. It was probably the best pitch of the year. It started by heading so far outside that Travis initially didn’t even flinch at it. When, however, it actually started moving, it curled back further than he ever dreamed a pitch could, barely nipping the outside corner of the plate. Travis stood both dumbfounded and flat-footed. He held his breath in anticipation.

Ball one, Mikey the umpire called. Thankfully, or unthankfully depending on whether you were Travis or Scott at this exact moment, no one could argue the call; to stop the incessant bickering which used to always occur during their games, one of the new rules of summerball was that Mikey’s strike zone decisions were final. No matter that both Scott and Travis thought the pitch had been a strike; Mikey said it was a ball, so it was a ball.

Catcher calls for a curve ball. Unbeknownst to the batter, the outfielders shift slightly toward the right-field line, anticipating that Mendoza will pull any ball he hits, Mikey continued after the reset. Of course, that couldn’t be true. Nintendo and soccer had decimated the pool of potential summerball players to two. So, Scotty was one team all by himself and Travis was the other. And, Mikey called the balls and strikes. Ball two, he cried, as the fastball sailed well outside.

Whoever pitched had to field. Since there were no other fielders, though, summerball had some pretty strange rules: once the fielder grabbed any hit ball, the runner had four seconds (actually, four Mississippi’s counted by Mikey) to get safely to a base or be called out. Similarly, whoever batted had to keep batting until the third out. If you made it safely to a base, you had to leave a ghost runner there while you went back to bat again. Ghost runner rules were almost too numerous to keep track of: ghosts never led off from a base, they never tagged up after a pop-out, and they could run no faster than their visible clone.

Ball three, was a curve ball that didn’t curve, forcing Travis to crumple to the ground like a rag doll. As he stood up and dusted himself off, Mikey started up again, Three-one count. A real hitter’s count. Even if he guesses completely wrong, Mendoza’s still got another strike left to play with.

It was time for everyone to place their bets: the color commentator guessed curve. Travis guessed fastball. Scotty threw another screwball.

But this time, Travis saw it. For the first time in his life, he attained complete insight into a pitch. He found the ball while it was still in Scotty’s hand, he got a glimpse of Scotty’s index and middle fingers split ever so slightly across the front seam, and he watched Scotty’s wrist cock inside to snap the ball on its way.

His mind was processing information faster than he ever thought possible. It was just like when you get lucky and figure out one of the long words in a crossword puzzle and then watch as all the rest of the words fall into place with almost no effort. He spotted the rotation on the ball before it got through one spin; he was far enough ahead of it that he saw it start to drop; he could even see when it started to curl back toward him. Then, he did something he had never had the chance to do before: he used all his new-found knowledge to predict exactly where the pitch would be when it crossed the plate. He slowed down his bat ever so slightly to adjust from guessing fastball to knowing screwball.

And, he hit the ball as hard as he ever had. It leapt off the bat and went straight back. Because, even if somebody tells you exactly what he’s planning to throw, you still have to tag the little 2.5-inch diameter ball very close to its center to get any respectable distance from your hit. Travis’ bat had just been a couple inches too low at contact.

Oh, my God! Mikey yelled, reacting to the fact that Travis’ foul ball had missed his head by less than the two inches that the bat’s sweet spot had missed the ball. Oh, my God! Travis said, nearly hyperventilating, unsure of how to react to the fact that he had, over the course of one pitch, seen more than most mortal hitters ever would. Go get the ball, egghead Scotty barked, waking both brothers simultaneously.

As Mikey ran back to get the ball, Travis stepped back up to the plate. Omigod, omigod, omigod, he whispered every time he took a practice cut. He looked out toward the oblivious Scotty, and felt the hairs stand up on the back of his neck, all the time wondering if he’d ever be able to see a pitch that way again.

Three balls and two strikes for the ballgame, Mikey yelled as he tossed the ball back in.

Payoff pitch, Scotty answered.

More than you’ll ever know, Travis thought to himself.

This time it was a fastball: index and middle fingers tight together across all four seams; a snap down to force a slow backward rotation and to help the ball rise; thrown harder than any other pitch that day; and released just a little too late so that instead of starting off belt-high and moving too high to hit, it started too low and moved right into Travis’ wheelhouse. In days gone by, Travis would have missed the cues signalling the ball’s climb, swung under the riser, and thrown his bat to the ground in disgust after striking out.

But this was a different day: Travis was now a hitter. He brought the bat around with a slight uppercut and connected with such speed and such power that the sting of the hardball into his wooden bat and onto his hands did not even register.

There is supposedly no direct causal relationship between a well-hit baseball and the breath of everyone who sees it, but the three kids who witnessed Travis’ phenomenally-struck ball sail away would undoubtedly dispute that supposition. At the crack of the bat, all three inhaled loudly without even meaning to.

Mikey, the incessant talker, came out of his stupor first. He began squealing phrases that he had been saving all summer: It could be…It might be…It is! Cubs win! Cubs win!! CUBS WIN!!! Holy Cow! Scott twirled like a top to keep the ball in sight and started to give chase, only to realize it was futile. Even if he could have summoned Superman-like speed to get the ball, there are certain rewards due those who hit a ball that well. However far this ball landed would, from this day on, be known as home run distance

And Travis? First, he watched, mouth agape and bat still in hand. Once the ball bounced off the street and careened into Mrs. Fitzgerald’s yard, he began to move. Unsure of whether to pump his fists like Kirk Gibson or to jump up and down like Carlton Fisk, he decided instead to trot slowly around the bases, savoring his accomplishment. Of course, his stride was not the right size, so he was forced to shorten his steps as he approached each base. No matter, he thought without the slightest hint of arrogance, I should have ample opportunity to get better at this trot as the summer goes on.

During the walk home, with the bat on his shoulder and the gloves hanging from the bat handle, Travis smiled. He couldn’t swear that the clouds were whiter or that the sky was bluer or that the birds were chirpier on this day, but it sure felt like they were.

CHAPTER 2  

1995

Travis sighed. As he stepped from the bus, he finally came to grips with the fact that he truly hated high-school baseball.

It wasn’t the fact that they had very nearly lost the district championship game; they had played well enough during the regular season that they would have qualified for next week’s state championship no matter what had happened today. It wasn’t even the fact that he had played a spectacular game, but had had no real effect on the emotion-charged outcome.

No, it was the juvenile yelling and gnashing of teeth that the entire coaching staff was now subjecting them to which had Travis mildly riled up. Undoubtedly, the worst thing you could ever do in America would be to come in as a huge pre-game favorite and then barely win against brazen underdogs. Unless, of course, you were the coach of the huge favorites, because such an outcome would allow you to vent all your pent-up anger against some kids who either didn’t care at all or cared way too much.

The yelling, coupled with the daily practices full of useless stretching exercises, endless wind sprints, and inane batting and fielding drills that had started during the dark afternoons of January and had still not ended though it was now May, was finally taking its toll. Baseball was no longer a game; it was a stupid job.

Travis sighed again as he trudged through the subdued locker room. There was a team rule mandating silence in the bus and in the locker room after a loss—the rule was so unbelievably far-reaching that if you drove your own car back from the game you had to drive with the CD player off and not talk to your passengers until you got home. Raucous behavior was encouraged after wins, but since Coach had seen fit to turn today’s win into a near-loss, nobody was really in the mood for raucousing.

Scott Holloway was about the only one smiling. Truth be told, he had basically won the game on his own, so he was actually the only one with an excuse to smile. What made it even cooler was the fact that Scott had basically been predicting all season long that he could get away with the trick he had just pulled.

It had been a rough couple of seasons for Scott. All the warnings you hear about kids who throw junk pitches when they’re eleven cracking a