The Cards of Unknown Players: Digital Science Fiction Short Story

by Vincent L. Scarsella

  THE CARDS OF

  UNKNOWN PLAYERS

  Digital Science Fiction Short Story

  Vincent L. Scarsella

  A Ctrl Alt Delight Short Story

  DIGITALFICTIONPUB.COM

  The Cards of Unknown Players by Vincent L. Scarsella

  Of course, he did not find the slightest indication of Uqbar.

  - Jorge Luis Borges, Tlon, Uqbar, Orbis Tertius

  I dozed and dreamed again that Timothy was playing baseball.

  First, as a kid, his present age, ten years old, the best kid on his team, a pitcher with a fastball so mean, the other kids are scared to face him and always swing late. When he isn’t pitching, Timothy plays short. An all-star, naturally. A .500 hitter. Runs like the wind and is aggressive as hell. Reckless sometimes, too, a fierce competitor who hates to lose.

  Suddenly, he is older, almost a man, the star of his high school team, recruited by Arizona State and after four wild years helping them to four national championships, he is the first round draft choice of the New York Yankees. As a rookie shortstop, he hits .327 and is named Rookie of the Year. The next season, he is named to the All-Star team and the Yankees win the World Series for the first time in seventeen years.

  But I know I must be dreaming. It is impossible for him to do any of this.

  My son, Timothy, cannot even walk.

  I woke up and looked across at him. In his wheelchair, his head was cocked in a funny, unnatural angle. There was drool on his chin. His hands shook as he sifted through a pile of baseball cards at the table where his wheelchair had been placed.

  “Dad?” he asked. His voice, as always, was garbled, slow. “Who’s this?”

  After a yawn, I sat up and squinted at the card in his outstretched hand.

  “Is it worth anything?”

  I got up from the sofa and took the card. It was a Topps, this year’s issue, depicting a strapping kid with a confident grin by the name of Kevin Gleason. According to the card, he pitched for the Yankees last year.

  The Yankees. My team. But I had never heard of him, odd since the card reported that the kid had posted some pretty respectable numbers last year, going 11-3 with a 2.17 ERA.

  Frowning, I turned the card over a couple of times.

  “Kevin Gleason,” I mumbled to myself while Timothy stared up at me, waiting. “Gleason.”

  But not a single image of this rookie phenom came to mind, only the old, over-priced, under-enthused, injury-prone wastes that had littered the mounds of Yankee stadium last year, making for another dismal season. I couldn’t recall seeing Gleason pitch even once, despite watching thirty or so Yankee games on TV last summer. And he hadn’t pitched in a single game I had watched this year.

  “Dad?”

  “Never heard of him,” I said, scowling at the card.

  Pointing to the twenty or so other cards scattered before him on the floor, I asked Timothy where they came from.

  “The new card shop in the mall,” he said. “Mom took me there this afternoon.”

  I remembered that Timmy had been off from the special school that day, teachers’ conference or something. Beth had taken him shopping for an early birthday present.

  After putting down the Gleason card, I asked him to hand me up a couple of the other cards scattered before him. Except for some rookie who had played for the Atlanta Braves at the end of last year, I recognized each of them. Only Kevin Gleason’s name didn’t ring a bell.

  I retrieved the sports section from today’s newspaper and spread it open to the baseball pages on the table next to Tim. Gleason wasn’t listed in the boxscore of a game the Yankees had lost to Cleveland last night. I had watched the end of that game on TV and remembered, with a frustrated sigh, how they had blown a two-run lead in the bottom of the ninth.

  I put down the paper and went out to the garage. From the pile of newspapers in the recycling bin, I sifted through a week’s worth of sports sections. Gleason wasn’t listed in a single game there either.

  Back in the living room, I retrieved the Gleason card from Timothy and stared at it for a time. This kid, so cocky, and what numbers. Still, nothing registered.

  Frowning, I mumbled to myself that it must be a counterfeit or something. A fake.

  “What, Dad?” Timothy asked.

  “Nothing, Tim,” I said. “I just never heard of this guy.”

  “So its not worth anything?” he mumbled. I patted him on the shoulder, and wiped away the spittle from his chin, thinking how sad it was that the only thing kids worry about these days is the value of their cards and not the simple pleasure of collecting them. Or attaching them to the spokes of their bikes.

  “I’m not sure, Timmy,” I told him. “I’m just not sure.”

  During my lunch hour the next day, after gobbling down a sandwich at my desk, I rushed five blocks to the county library, hoping to solve the mystery of the Kevin Gleason card.

  I had taken it with me to work and, that morning, showed it to one of the other associates in my department, Chris Davis, a Cleveland Indians fan with a thorough knowledge of baseball.

  Scowling for a time as he examined the card, Davis finally looked up at me. With a shrug and sheepish grin, he said he didn’t have a clue. He had never heard of the Gleason kid either. Then, he snapped his fingers and came up with the idea of checking him out in the current edition of the annual baseball encyclopedia. He advised that they should have one in reference stacks at the main branch of the county library just a few blocks from the office.

  A smiling, matronly librarian led me to it, a thick, heavy tome, containing every conceivable baseball statistic from the 1860s through last season. Most importantly, anyone who had ever appeared in a major league game was listed alphabetically in the player register of that fat book.

  Pulling it from the reference stacks, I lugged it to a reading table and quickly flipped it open to the Gs. There were four Gleasons listed: Adam, Harry, Kid, and Paul, but no Kevin. I read that Harry and Kid were brothers, and that Kid had managed the infamous Chicago “Black” Sox team which had thrown the 1919 World Series. But not Kevin Gleason. I straightened my back and let out a sigh, more befuddled than ever.

  I checked the last two editions of the encyclopedia with the same results. Nothing.

  According to the annual encyclopedia, at least, Kevin Gleason didn’t exist.

  Back at the firm, I found Chris in his office, daydreaming as usual.

  “Nada,” I told him. I held up the Gleason card. “He doesn’t exist. He wasn’t listed.”

  “But his card was in a pack of other Topps cards,” Chris mused, scowling at the card. After a time, he looked up. “Of players who do exist. It’s even got a number – 313.”

  I nodded and mentioned that the encyclopedia did list the name of the other player from the pack whose name I hadn’t recognized – that rookie kid who had played only a few games for the Braves last September after the minor league call ups.

  After a few moments, Chris suddenly turned to me. I could check with Topps, he suggested. After all, it was a Topps card. And it seemed so genuine, so real. At very least, a clever forgery. If anyone could solve the mystery, they should.

  He nodded to the computer. They probably had a website.

  We had online access and though it was reserved for firm business, everyone made personal use of it from time to time. As long as you didn’t go onto a porno site, or spend an inordinate amount of time surfing the ’net on company time, nobody got into trouble.

  After connecting with our internet browser, upon Chris’ suggestion, I
typed in the obvious, “Topps.com,” and a few moments later, the Topps Company Home Page came up. The page listed twenty or so series of cards that had been printed last season. The banner ad at the top of the page read: “STADIUM: Check out the NEW series.”

  With Chris peering over my shoulder, I clicked on the “checklist sample” line for Topps Series 1 and within a moment, a list of categories popped up on the screen. You could search by number, alphabet, team, or category. I selected number and scrolled down, but saw that it ended at Card #220.

  “Go to Series 2,” Chris said.

  I quickly followed his suggestion and found that Card #313 was Carl Ford, not Kevin Gleason.

  “What the–” said Chris from behind me.

  “Son-of-a-bitch,” I agreed.

  I sat back, thinking what to do next. How to find the goddamned card.

  “It is a Topps, right?” Chris examined at it again, seeing for himself that it was a Series 2 issue, Number 313. “Unlucky number,” he mumbled.

  I shrugged and blew out a breath.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Now what?”

  “Call ’em,” suggested Chris. “Call Topps directly. Ask if they can help you figure out what the hell is going on. Who the hell Kevin Gleason is.”

  That sounded like the next best way to solve what was becoming an aggravating mystery.

  With Chris still at my side, I dialed the number listed in the Topps web site, and waded through a voice tree until I was speaking with someone from consumer relations.

  “What number is he?” asked the kindly representative after my somewhat incoherent explanation why I was calling, what the mystery was.

  “What?”

  “The number of the card,” he said. “The number.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Three-thirteen.”

  I heard him tapping on a keyboard, checking his records, some computer database.

  “Are you sure of the number?” he asked. “I show Carl Ford as three thirteen.”

  I picked up the Gleason card just to make sure one more time. It was most definitely Number 313. He has me double-check the year, which was likewise confirmed.

  With a sigh, he said he’d do a name search.

  “We don’t seem to have issued a card for a player by that name,” he finally told me. Then, he added: “Last year, or any other year.”

  “Well, how can that be?” I asked. “I’m holding it in my hand. Right here, Kevin, ‘J’ for James, Gleason.” I flipped the card over and read the brief lines of biographical information.

  “Perhaps,” said the Topps representative, thinking to himself, before adding, “it’s an existential.”

  “A what?”

  “An existential,” he repeated. “Card collectors have reported this phenomenon from time to time. A rare occurrence, and, as far as I know, it’s never been explained. These cards, they just pop up, cards of unknown players. Like that Gleason kid. The card exists, looks real, appears to be entirely genuine, but the player it portrays doesn’t exist. He never played – at least in this universe. He’s a phantom or a ghost or something.”

  The consumer rep laughed.

  “Sounds ridiculous, doesn’t it,” he said. “I know – but sounds like you’ve got one in your hands.”

  I looked at the Gleason card and shivered momentarily. I hardly listened as the Topps rep suggested that I should call Cooperstown. The National Baseball Hall of Fame. Their archivist was fabulous. If he couldn’t find that Gleason kid, no one could.

  But fabulous or not, the Hall of Fame archivist couldn’t find Kevin Gleason in all his records either. It was nearly five o’clock by the time I finished with him and gave up on solving the Gleason riddle that day. Finally, with a yawn, I gathered my briefcase, thanked Chris all his help, shuffled out of the office, and headed home.

  I sat wearily at the kitchen table for a time, staring at the Gleason card.

  With a sigh, I turned the card over and read the couple lines of scant biographical data:

  Born: November 8, 1976 Asheville, New York

  Ht: 6’ 2” Wgt: 195 Throws: Right Bats: Right

  Finally, it hit me, what to do. To find Kevin Gleason, all I had to do was call Asheville, New York. Certainly, someone from his hometown must have heard of him. And his family, his parents, might still be living there. He might still be living there.

  If he existed, that is.

  With the card firmly in hand, I retreated to my den and called directory assistance for Asheville, New York. Moments later, an operator told me there was no listing for Kevin Gleason in Asheville. I asked her how many Gleasons are there, and, after a moment, she said, only one, James Gleason. Upon my request, she gave me that number while I scribbled it down on the pad next to the telephone.

  But before I had a chance to call James Gleason, Beth called me to dinner. As we ate, Beth suddenly looked up and asked what was wrong. I had been so quiet, so distant. I had not even asked Timothy about his day at school, or delivered the joke-of-the-day, which had become a funny ritual around the dinner table the last couple years.

  “Problems at work?”

  Trying to soothe her fears, I told her that was it exactly – problems at work. A difficult project, and the department chief, Corbin, ever the demanding asshole.

  She nodded feebly and let it go at that.

  For some reason, I couldn’t tell her that I had been driven to distraction because of a peculiar baseball card Timothy had purchased yesterday, an “existential,” as the Topps consumer rep had called it. After all, it was rather a silly problem, not something that seemed to merit the energy of an entire day. I’d have to deal with that, find the solution, if one existed, alone. It would remain my secret until I was able to tell her something credible, some facts that made sense of the mystery. Otherwise, she might not understand. After all, I didn’t quite understand it myself.

  After swallowing a last chunk of meatloaf (Beth usually made the best, but tonight, it was dry, tasteless), I excused myself and, using work as a convenient excuse, returned to my den. Sitting behind my desk, I smoothed out the scrap of paper on which I had scribbled the telephone number for James Gleason. Finally, after a sigh, I dialed it.

  “Kevin?” said a gruff voice. “You’re trying to find Kevin?”

  “Yes,” I replied. “Kevin Gleason. The baseball player.”

  “Is this some kind of sick-ass joke or something?”

  “No, sir,” I said. “Of course not.”

  But it was too late. He had slammed down the receiver, hung up on me.

  I immediately called back. In harsh, no uncertain terms, James Gleason directed me to stop harassing him or he’d call the police. He didn’t seem to be listening as I tried to explain that I was calling about the baseball card of a kid named Kevin Gleason.

  “You just leave us alone,” he said firmly, his voice quaking toward the end, as if close to tears. “You just stay the hell out of our lives, you – you nutcase.”

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. I tossed and turned, mangling the sheets between Beth and me. She woke up in the midst of my distress and tried to console me.

  “What’s wrong?” she pleaded, knowing that something deeper than the stress from work was bothering me.

  I shrugged it off, trying to pretend that it was nothing, wondering how silly it would sound if I told her that the source of my pain was a baseball card of an unknown player.

  But she pressed, demanding to know what was troubling me. Finally, I sighed and confessed.

  After hearing me out, she suddenly laughed, more out of relief than anything.

  “A baseball card?” she said. “That’s what this is all about?”

  “Not just any card,” I insisted. “A weird card. Some kind of counterfeit. A fake card, or something. Real, yet not. An existential, it’s called.”

  As she squinted at me with a bewildered frown, I finally told her about the odd call with James Gleason, who, I speculated, must be Kevin’s father.

  “So
why don’t you just drive up to Asheville Saturday morning,” she suggested. “See what got this Gleason fellow so hot and bothered. Why he hung up on you and called you a nut-case, although right now I probably tend to agree with him.”

  She gave me that cockeyed grin I love so much and I kissed her forehead for suggesting such a smart idea. Made perfect sense. Just drive the two, two and a half hours or so it would take to get to Asheville and confront the puzzle head on.

  It was already Friday morning, three a.m. Now, I could get to sleep, satisfied that tomorrow, perhaps, I would get some answers.

  “You and Timothy want to come?” I asked.

  “No,” Beth said flatly. “This is your mystery. You should try and solve it – alone.”

  I nodded, agreeing with that. Then I pulled her close and fell fast asleep in her bosom.

  Asheville is a quaint, rural hamlet in the middle of some gently rolling hills in central New York just east of the Finger Lakes, not awfully far from Cooperstown, ironically, where baseball was born. Surrounding it are family-owned dairy farms, with dozens of cows idly munching the grass at the side of massive red, white, or gray barns.

  A state highway long ago split Asheville in two, becoming Main Street after crossing its eastern and western borders. Main Street is divided into East and West Main roughly halfway into the village at the intersection of, naturally, North and South Central Avenue.

  Years ago, even before Main Street had been paved during the slow transition from horse-drawn buggies to automobiles, a business district had sprung up and had, for the most part, changed very little in the past seventy-five years. On both sides of Main running almost the length of the village, were a variety of enduring, family-run stores in small red or yellow brick buildings, selling furniture, carpets, jewelry, men’s and women’s clothing and shoes, and hardware with names like Brown’s Shoes, Needlemen’s Carpets, and Asheville Hardware. There was also the Asheville Pharmacy, a bank, Joe’s Barber Shop, even a couple of tired-looking taverns, and at the corner of Main and Central, The Village Diner. The very existence of these establishments has recently been threatened by the construction of an immense Wal-Mart at an expressway interchange only a couple miles west of town.