Fiction

In biblical lore there are numerous stories of God’s miracles, a virgin birth, water into wine, the parting of seas. But his one true miracle according to various scholars was the creation of baseball. A perfection of exactness that in no way could be altered for improvement, ninety feet in between bases, sixty feet six inches from home plate to the pitching rubber. Right angles that create a diamond whose foul lines could go into infinity. That was the beauty of the game, its exactness yet uniqueness, while the symmetry of the infield was unchanging, the outfield could go on forever. And that’s what made it perfect. No two fields were ever the same, yet in baseball terms they were.

Our town’s field, while not quite up to major league standards, was a manicured yard of love. It was green where it should be green, and possessed an infield that knew no bad hop. It had a short left porch and alleys that went on into the next county. Baseball here was a religion, and that’s how the town folk treated it. On opening day, each and every season, they would even have the local Pastor, Robert Bob; say a blessing so that no evil spirits would play a ball against us. For to them, this was sacred ground.

I suppose I should begin by introducing myself. My given name was Trevor Wynn, but everyone called me Bucky. I’m the shortstop on the town’s team. The rest of the team had given names but where seldom if ever used. Our first baseman was Fish. Toddler played second. Brooks rounded out the infield at third. From left to right in the outfield were Bozo, named for obvious reasons when seen, Noodles patrolled center, and Joe played right. Now Joe was the only one on the team not to have a nickname, because if you ever saw him, Joe was the only name you could think of. It just fit. Our ace pitcher from the right side was aptly named Ace, who had a penchant for eating leeks before each outing. On the days he wasn’t pitching he simply put the leeks in his back pocket. The only logical reason we could figure for such behavior was that he generally liked the feel, which tended to isolate him from the rest of us. From the left side we had Bulwinkle. Now why he was called Bulwinkle no one really knew, or for that matter wanted to know. But he had a pick off move that only God himself could detect, and even that wasn’t a given. And last but not least was our catcher, Rockmeat. He was bestowed this moniker for one of two reasons, his size, or his intellect, which if you lucked into the process of conversation would become quickly obvious that he had none. This naturally made him a brilliant signal caller. Because no matter how astute that batter might be, Rockmeat would so deviate from the norm, that it was doubtful he knew of his genius. That would explain sixteen curve balls in a row. Or simply telling the batter what was coming, and then call that pitch. It was so fool proof that scouts from various teams ventured by to see him from time to time. But the legend of Rockmeat, at least as it was to become known, wouldn’t occur until later in season.

It should also be noted that we played with wood bats, real baseball, none of those aluminum ones that create a false bravado of power, a crack instead of a ping. The way baseball was meant to be played. I only mention this in passing because it plays a part in the ending of what becomes a beginning.

But first and foremost, I have to set our scenario. One month before the season was to begin, our coach, Mr. Zanero, died of what forensic experts described as an accidental decapitation while cleaning out his barn loft. How exactly he decapitated himself or for that matter why, were never made public, but it was no secret among the town that his lifestyle, while certainly Italian, resembled nothing that could be juxtaposed with the New Testament. But in the world of baseball it meant only one thing, we needed to find a new coach. And we needed to find one fast. A few of the more affluent in the town tossed their ceremonial hats into the ring, but most were doing more for the recognition than the actual desire. But then a funny thing happened. One day while we were taking batting practice, a man with one leg in a cast and the other heavily bandaged, slowly limped on to the bleachers. He didn’t say anything a first. He just sat there, taking an occasional sip from a flask. But his eyes told the story. He watched every move we made, then every once in awhile he’d make a suggestion, then another, and then another. And after each suggestion we’d notice that that minor adjustment, being the tilt of the bat, or just the mechanics of throwing, worked. This guy knew baseball. And we needed a guy who knew baseball. And that was how Ben Fitchett became our coach.

Now baseball in our neck of the woods started in early April, when the winters hold was just starting to let loose. It’s not overly bitter, but still not comfortable enough to swing freely, especially when an inside fastball off the handle could send you into a conniption of splintered torment. But we didn’t care. It was baseball. And after a winter of perpetual misery baseball meant only one thing. The God’s would bring back our smiles. And smile this year we did.

It all started with an omen two days before our opening. It was on that day that Isaiah Book, one of the few local Amish still in residence, was seen wandering about in leftfield. Now someone wandering about on our field was not an unusual event, but when it was noted that it was in fact Isaiah Book, only then did it take on a different, if not special dimension. For this Amish man felt baseball to be a spiritual transpiration, and according to his dogmatic view, it was a sacrilege for anyone but a ball player to even touch what he considered a chapel. But there he was his hat in hand, shoes off, slowly sauntering about in what looked to be a spiritual meditation. It was almost if he was having a religious experience. And in fact it turned out, he was, because it was later said that when Isaiah Book was out in leftfield, he was seen to smile. And Isaiah Book never smiled.

We started the season off three and one, our only loss a real heartbreaker on a suicide squeeze in the bottom of the ninth. But you could tell it was early, most of us were still having timing problems, and the pitching wasn’t as consistent as it needed to be. And the few of us, who were hitting solid, at least in a sporadic sense, weren’t forcing the other teams to alter their games plans, if in fact they had one. That was the one thing Coach Fitchett instilled on us, game plans. He’d go over every batter before the game, and not just with the pitchers. He wanted every position player to know exactly where they should be with each batter, and what pitch he either wanted thrown or avoided in about every conceivable situation. Positioning was the basis of a great defense he said, and the way we were fielding there was no way to argue, because we were getting to balls that in previous years were not only sure hits, but the main reason we constantly hovered at the five hundred mark. And that was totally unacceptable to Coach Fitchett. Five hundred was for the mediocre. Six fifty and above were the only standards we were allowed to conceive.

He began to sculpt us. Cohesiveness, that’s what made a team he’d tell us. The better we got to know each other, the more likely we were to know what the other was thinking, and in a team sport, knowing where the other players might be was the difference between winning and what might have been. That’s why he had us spend most of our time off the field together, because in baseball, nine defined one unit, and one unit made a team.

Coach Fitchett had lots of sayings like that. Some we understood and others were too esoteric and recondite. But as we were to learn over time, it was just the writer in him. Sometimes he would turn a speech into a sentence and other times a sentence into a speech. It just depended on the moment and what motivation was needed. But he was rarely wrong. And on those moments when he was completely sober his platitudes took on an ambiance all their own.

“The infinity of perseverance leads towards the ambiguity of darkness,” was the one that stood out most in our minds. It was days before we even had inkling as to what he was talking about. And of all people it was Rockmeat who decoded the declaration that was to inspire. “It ain’t over until it’s over.” That was the beauty of Coach Fitchett, he made us think. Maybe not consciously sometimes, but in the end, the equation he’d sprout would lead us directly on the path he desired. And baseball was a thinking man’s sport.

After a three and one start, we ran into a few technical difficulties. We started to lose. Not a lot, but just enough to make things interesting for the rest of the league. We just couldn’t locate that needed rhythm that would create what the baseball gods call sync. But then something miraculous happened. Isaiah Book began to watch.

I think he started to appear somewhere around the fourteenth or fifteenth game. He’d always sit on the third base side, about ten feet from the dugout, and always on the outfield side. He’d be garbed in his straw hat, smoke a cob pipe, and wave about some form of octagonal sign every time the opposing team came to bat. He never uttered a sound during the ritual, but judging by the seriousness nature of his visage, we felt it best not to ask exactly what the intended mania of purpose he possessed.

But then something funny happened. We started to win. And win instantly. We didn’t know if it was because of Isaiah Book and his hex, or if the sync suddenly materialized, or a combination of the two. But all that mattered was in the time span of a fortnight we jumped from fourth place in the standings all the way up to second, an entire seven games. And if that wasn’t enough to get the town’s jerky strolling, all the teams in front of us began to lose. It was a streak of nature unlike any ever seen in these parts.

Toddler’s Father said he’d seen something like this once before, back in the fifties. But it was football. Out west. And they were Mormons instead of Amish. But that one didn’t have quite the same feel, this one felt different, almost magical. You could sense it in the town. People who were only casual fans now flocked in droves; some as early has two hours before the first pitch. Because at this point it was first come, first serve on the seating. The only member of the community that could arrive at any time, and sit in the exact same place was Isaiah Book, for he had reserved seats. And Isaiah took this as a right.

He became a pariah at games. Not out of dislike, but out of fear, fear that by just being near him would jinx the omen or hex depending on our point of view. And that was the one thing a true fan knew, never mess with a streak, for streaks were rare and far between. It didn’t matter how or why the streak began, or for that matter why they thought the streak would continue. All that truly mattered was that believed. And true belief was the one magic elixir.

It was like nothing could go wrong. Broken bat hits, shoestring catches, a strike zone the size of San Francisco when we were in the field and one the size of dime when we were at bat. It was as if the baseball Gods declared it to be our time, and Isaiah Book was our God.

The town started to treat him as a Deity on non game days, free lunches, store bought butter, and one man even went as far as to try and find him a wife for his farm so he could create miniature Isaiah Books, and there was even talk of an Isaiah Book Day. But Isaiah took it all in stride. Never once deviating from his normal routine, and never once expecting to be treated any different than he was prior to the streak.

It was an amazing thing to behold and last it lasted all the way up until the final game, the championship, one game, winner take all. The game, once finally underway, deviated from the past few weeks as we found ourselves in the unusual position of being down 3-1 at the end of two. We weren’t all that concerned though. Isaiah Book was in place, and his hex sign was completely intact being directed at the opposing team’s dugout. The only problem that seemed to arise was that it didn’t seem to be working its usual magic.

The top of the third started with a bad hop off Brook’s nose, which brought in the first run. And the next two were the result of a wind blown ball that sunk just below a diving Bozo in left. Toddler however quickly got us back in the game with an inside the park homer, that took a nifty bounce off the right fielders knee, and caromed halfway into the bullpen. The next three innings were scoreless, but in the bottom of the sixth, we finally got the magic revived. Bozo lead off the inning with a rocket up the middle. He quickly stole second, and then Brooks sacrificed him over to third. Joe singled him home, and Rockmeat followed by getting called out on a pitch that was so bad that even the other team looked on in complete bewilderment. Luckily the God’s ignored that call as I extorted a two run shot to put us ahead. A lead that would last until the top of the ninth when their cleanup hitter, Randy Bando, hit a two run monster to put them once again on top.

Fish started the bottom of the ninth off with a walk. Noodles then bunted him over. With one out and a man on second they decided to intentionally walk Bozo to set up the double play. The problem was they walked Brooks too, loading the bases. Joe flew out to short center. And that brought Rockmeat to the plate. All he’d done this afternoon was strike out in his three trips to the plate. The first pitch was low and away that he took for a ball. The next one he fouled back. After a great deal of patience, he managed to work the count full. We all sat there realizing our season was riding on the next pitch. A walk and we tie it up. A hit and we win it. There were no other thoughts going through us as losing wasn’t an option.

What happened next was so surreal that I only remember it as being in slow motion. It was a fastball. That much was obvious. Rockmeat unloaded. The ball splintered the barrel of the bat, which went flying down the left field line. The ball however, went into right field, dropping just over the second basemen’s glove driving in both the winning runs.

It wasn’t until we all got to home plate to celebrate that we noticed it was abnormally quiet. There wasn’t a sound being enjoyed outside of anyone but us. That was when we noticed everyone standing in a circle down the left field line, around where Isaiah Book was.

He was killed instantly they said. He never saw the bat coming. It bounced off his head and that was it. But that wasn’t what got our attention. It was his hat. It was all alone if left field. In the exact same place that Isaiah Book was said to have seen smile, for the only, and the last time.