by Tim Wheat
It wasn’t so much that his father had difficulty finding a job, it was the excesses of American life that brought him down. A drunk and a frequent patron of brothels, his father was a terrible role model for the young man and failed him at almost every turn. When he died, drunk, face down in an alley when the boy was eleven, the youngster didn’t shed a tear. He continued to fend for himself, and for a short time did rather well peddling papers and shoe shines. Then, one day, he was shining a gentleman’s shoes when the man startled him with a statement he could still hear in his mind. In perfect German, the man said,
“I am your uncle Dietrich Hoff, your mother’s brother. I became aware that she died on her ill-fated journey with your moronic father and would very much like to have you come live with us in Germany.”
Street smart as he was, the young man trusted and believed Mr. Hoff without question. A day later he was on a steamer, heading back across the Atlantic to the Fatherland, in his very own cabin. It was quite an adventure for the boy and one that he would never forget. Mr. Hoff took care of his every need on the trip. He got new clothes, took a shower, and was even brushing his teeth on a daily basis. Although Mr. Hoff had lots of business to attend to while en route to Germany, the young man spent his time touring the vessel, playing with other children, and, well, just being a kid. That was a specific luxury he had never known.
Upon reaching Germany he rode with Mr. Hoff to his estate in the Rhineland which was straight out of a postcard. No other houses were within miles of the estate and the rolling hills seemed to flow on forever. The Hoff family was a large one, perhaps the largest he had ever seen. His new adoptive mother, Anelie, was the kindest woman he had ever met. How she managed to mother fourteen boys and three girls, and look younger than even he, was a mystery to him still today. The next few years flew by as he spent his time studying, playing with his brothers and sisters, and learning how to be a good German. He wasn’t the smartest or most athletic of the bunch, but unlike some of the others, he was loyal to Mr. Hoff, and to Germany. When he turned seventeen his duty to the German Army was near and Mr. Hoff encouraged him to be the best soldier possible. After meritorious service in some places that he never expected the German Army to send him, the young man went home for a short leave. It was on this leave that Mr. Hoff approached him about working in conjunction with the army on a special project being headed by Hoff himself.
Something bad, but exciting must have happened on the field because he became aware of cheering, and then a hush amongst the crowd. He turned his gaze from his quarry to the field in time to see one team leaving the field, while the other took it. Already bored again with the game his eyes averted from the field, and his mind drifted to the day Dietrich Hoff propositioned this trip to America. He remembered being taken aback at the time, as he still didn’t know Mr. Hoff’s profession. He knew that he worked in manufacturing and government, but didn’t know that he possessed the kind of contacts in the German Army he was touting.
Mr. Hoff sat him down, and as his most loyal son, he had called him son, laid out a plan for German prosperity for the next thousand years. It was an ingenious plan, a plan that needed to be put into effect soon, and a plan that Mr. Hoff needed his help to put in motion. As an American citizen, the young man was in a unique position to help fight against the country that caused his mother’s death and turned his father into a drunken solicitor of prostitution. He could guarantee that all children received the same luxuries he did upon his arrival in Germany. It seemed like it all happened so fast, but he knew what needed to be done.
Now, he sat resting near the top of the bleachers with hundreds of other onlookers. What none of them knew, however, was that he could not care less about the baseball game being played. It was a game he despised as a youth, and he looked with disdain at the players down below. All these people lived a hedonistic and greedy lifestyle, but before long he would help them all realize the truth, or they would be dead. He found it curious that he no longer treated death with reverence. He remembered grieving for days, even years, over his mother’s passing. Now, the murder of hundreds, thousands, or even millions didn’t affect him at all. Matter of fact, he even seemed to get a slight kick out of it. War and death hardened him, and even at the age of twenty-one he had seen enough to last him a lifetime. A few more deaths to further the cause were of no consequence.
To his right, the young spy noticed the subjects of his investigation were cheering and clapping. He looked onto the field of play and saw a powerful looking man rounding the bases. The player on the field almost seemed as if he didn’t belong with the others, a man amongst boys. He strode around the bases, tipping his cap to the cheering mass, his tall muscular frame seeming to glide, as if he were putting no effort into it at all. Upon reaching the plate he tossed his hat upward, loosing a mass of tousled blond hair. His teammates slapped him on the back in congratulation, and the young spy assumed that the player had somehow won the game. These matters were not why he was here, though, and he re-focused his attention on the two men he had orders to follow. It seemed like a colossal waste of his time, but Hoff was insistent that it be done. With all the work still left, the young spy didn’t know how he was going to find time to get it done, but he had orders, and he was an obedient soldier.
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4.
Chase was in trouble, which on the baseball field was a rarity. He had put in a near flawless performance until the ninth inning, but the opposing pitcher was also throwing a gem and as the score sat, Harvard was up 1-0. That lead looked to be in danger, though, as Chase walked the first two batters of the inning, and the third batter attempted to sacrifice just to have the first basemen drop the throw from the catcher. These were situations where some men cracked, but Chase took the throw from the dejected first basemen, smiled, and took note of the situation.
“Don’t worry about it Sam. I’ll take care of it.”
The delivery oozed with confidence, because despite struggling with his control Chase was still very certain of his abilities. His fastball reached ninety-eight miles per hour with ease, and the next two batters in the order hadn’t shown the slightest ability to even touch it. The third guy, however, was the real deal. The man could rake, and Chase wouldn’t be throwing it by him. First things first, though and Chase called his catcher to the mound.
“Alright Bob, whatya think?”
Bob Poppen looked at the taller man, his mask in one hand, his mitt on the other. “I don’t know man, I say throw it by ‘em.”
Chase smiled. “I know, just wanted to catch my breath.”
“Glad I could help. We gotta be careful with that third guy man. He can mash, and he’s a lefty. You might have to throw that slowball of yours.”
Chase had developed a pitch where he wrapped his hand around the ball, slowing the speed from the mid nineties to the mid eighties. The ball would start across the plate to a left handed batter then dive away from him, and vice versa for a righty. Most of the time he kept that pitch in his back pocket, though, as many of the batters didn’t have a chance against the two variations of his fastball. This lefty coming up, though, had proven he could hit Chase’s four seam fastball and the two seam fastball, not a feat many at any level could say.
“Alright Bobby, I’m gonna gas all four seamers past these first two suckers, then we’ll go back to signs on the lefty. Left knee indicator?”
“Left knee indicator,” Poppen said as he turned and trotted back to the plate.
Left knee indicator meant that depending on where Poppen had his mitt on his left knee, the order of the signs would be different. If his mitt sat on top of his knee it would be the second sign. If it was on the side of his knee it would be the third sign. If he picked up some dirt and played with it in his right hand it was just an automatic four seam fastball. If he gave him the middle finger he’d plunk the batter in the back.
Chase smiled at the thought, since hitting this guy wasn’t even an option, but a couple wee
ks earlier a batter from Yale had felt a ninety-eight mph heater in his lower back. It was just a little retribution for the dating, and presumed de-flowering of Bobby’s eighteen year old sister. It had given Poppen a reason to pat him on the back with a little more zeal after the game. Bobby Poppen was back down in his crouch now so Chase went into his stretch and checked the runners. He noticed the man at second was straining to steal the sign, but since there was none, Chase delivered the ball to the plate.
The ball rocketed from his hand as if propelled from the barrel of a gun. Onlookers could hear the seams cutting through the air as the ball approached the batter at one-hundred mph. His eyes closed, his muscles strained, the batter swung for all he was worth, but to no avail. The ball rocketed past at eye level. Nobody could hit that pitch, but he had just tried. Chase took the throw back from Poppen, knowing that he’d have to throw better pitches to the big lefty, and thankful that the current batter lacked the discipline to take a pitch. The other team’s third base coach scolded the batter for swinging at a ball so far out of the zone when the pitcher was having control problems, and advised him not to swing. On the mound Chase took a deep breath, exhaled, and delivered to the plate again. The delivery was smooth, almost effortless, but the ball hurtled through the air at a speed unmatched by any of his peers. This time his aim was true and the offering pierced the middle of the plate.
“Steeerike two,” bellowed the rotund umpire.
Chase was quick pitching now, a strategy meant to upset the rhythm of a batter and get the pitcher in a groove. As soon as he received the ball back from Poppen he got into the stretch and was delivering the pitch at almost the same time the batter looked up to address him. The ball sailed past before he knew what was happening, and the visitor’s bench erupted in catcalls for the umpire to allow the batter time to get in the box.
“Three,” was the reply of the umpire as he signaled a strikeout.
Chase got the ball and was one out closer to finishing. He dispatched the next batter on three straight pitches, but now had to deal with one of the best hitters he had ever seen. He had never faced the Babe, but this guy looked a lot like the living legend, and Chase knew he couldn’t throw it by him. His first three at bats the man had gone three for three, lacing doubles down each baseline, and breaking his bat, but muscling the last inside fastball into left field. It was time for the slowball.
Poppen gave the signs, his mitt on top of his left knee. The second sign was a three. Chase got into his set, reared back, and the slowball began its path to the plate. Unlike the fastballs of before there was no audible rush of air as the seams sliced through the sky. Even though most couldn’t throw a ball 85 mph, this pitch from Chase seemed to hang in the air for hours before it dove away from the batter, sending Poppen to his knees to block the pitch in the dirt. The big left hander, having never seen a similar pitch, flailed at the air, missing the ball by a large margin. Poppen gathered himself and threw the ball back to the mound. There was no doubt what pitch he was calling next.
Chase took the sign and delivered a more precise offering this time. The big left hander had an amazing eye, and had learned his lesson on the first pitch, but as the ball hurtled straight for his head instinct caused him to dive to the ground, just as the ball made its violent move down the middle of the plate.
“Steeeerike TWO,” called the umpire.
Chase smiled to himself as he took the throw back from the umpire. The other team was screaming and yelling about Chase doctoring his pitches so the umpire confiscated the previous pitched ball. After examining it and finding no problems he put it back in his pouch. Embarrassed, the big left hander dusted himself off and prepared for another pitch. He would be ready this time, and Chase knew it. When Poppen put down the sign for the slowball again, Chase shook his head side to side. Bobby then changed up the signs, but called for the same pitch. Chase, once again, shook him off.
Poppen, disgusted, called timeout and made a visit to the mound.
“What the hell man? He looked like an idiot on both of those. One more and we’re out of here.”
“Nope, he’s ready for it now. Now it’s time for the heat.” Was the terse reply from Chase.
“He’s done nothing but rip your heat all around the ballpark today. You’ll be lucky to get out of this. Just throw the slowball.” Poppen pleaded.
It was to no avail, though, as Chase made up his mind. It was going to be power on power. “I’m gonna blow it by him Bobby. He won’t even see it.”
“Whatever, man. Don’t say I didn’t warn ya.”
Poppen returned to his station behind the plate and got in his crouch, awaiting the upcoming pitch. The air was thick with anticipation as Chase came into the set position. He checked on the runners to keep them honest, lifted his front leg, and fired toward the plate. More like a white and red blur than a ball, the pitch cut through the air with the ferocity of a badger.
In awe the fans saw the big left hander tense, and start his swing. He put every ounce of energy he could muster into the effort, and as the ball approached the barrel of the bat, he could feel that his guidance was true. The spherical object crashed into the barrel of the rounded bat with a force most had never seen.
The crack of the wood meeting wound cotton was distinct, and the true fans knew, just by the sound, that he got every bit of it. Chase’s heart sank as he realized the lefty crushed the pitch. In that instant, and traveling over one hundred miles per hour, the leather wrapped capsule sliced through the air, and before he could move, hit Chase square in the right temple.
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5.
Sonoran Desert, Arizona. U.S.A.
It wasn’t so much the blistering April heat that bothered Angela about coming to Arizona to help her father; it was the freezing wintery nights. During the day the wind kept her cool despite the temperatures in the high nineties. After the sun went down, however, temperatures dropped into the thirties. The wind was still gusting, chilling her to her bones, as she lay curled in her bed buried under thick blankets.
She had packed for just such cold weather and decided she should put on a few more clothes to keep her warm. After determining it wouldn’t hurt to stoke the fire in her makeshift cabin, Angela put on her winter parka to make a quick trip outdoors. One amenity she insisted on when agreeing to come was that she possess her own quarters. Although her father obliged, the rickety shack that was her personal desert sanctuary was anything but homelike.
From the outside it sported a noticeable lean toward the south, which she assumed was because of the constant blowing of cold air from the north. The corner posts of the 12 foot by 16 foot structure were also quite out of square. She wondered to herself what carpenter built this rickety old shack and why he did such a poor job. Even when building this old mine in the desert he must have at least owned a carpenter’s square.
As she began gathering an arm load of wood from the pile at the northern wall, she looked down the dusty road that led to the workers camp. The workers lived an even less hospitable existence a mere fifty yards away. She made out the figures of some men huddled around a large fire at the corner of the camp. They dared not build it much closer as the canvas tents they inhabited would burn to the ground in a heartbeat if attacked by even the smallest glowing ember.
Angela thought about how she might be the only woman these men had seen in months. The nearest small town was over a day’s journey, and almost all of the men had ridden out in her father’s trucks; it could take days to walk it. She felt a little uneasy at the thought of any of the men trying to take advantage of her, though none gave her a reason to think they meant any harm. Just the same, as she stooped to pick up more wood, Angela felt her calf, just inside of her boot, and confirmed the small Smith and Wesson .357 revolver was in its place.
Although she had never felt the need to use it, her father had insisted Angela train in the proper use of the firearm. No man with bad intentions would ever get within fifty yards if she br
andished the .357. She could knock the eye out of a crow flying with the reliable and accurate weapon.
Just as she took her hand off the butt of the gun, something to the left caught her eye. With lightning quickness, she dropped the kindling in her left arm, and brought the revolver to bear on whatever was coming through the trees from behind her makeshift home. For what seemed an eternity, but was just a few seconds, the offender in the trees kept coming. Angela steadied her aim until she could see some of the hair on top of the man’s head as he came around a short fat spruce tree.
“Stop.” She said.
At that instant he bolted from the trees in a dead sprint, but at an angle to her. Angela was about to spit fire from the .357 when she gave her eyes a moment to focus on the man who did not heed her warning, and now ran in the open ahead of her. She smiled, let out a giggle to herself, and lowered the weapon as she watched the mule deer run down the middle of the camp. The animal bounded with grace as the drunken men around the fire scrambled not to get run over. Any injury in the remote location was bad, and nobody desired meeting the business end of one of those hooves.
“You’re losing it Ang. You are losing it.” She said to no one.
“Jumpy much?” came the reply.
Angela, the .357 still in her clutches, spun and acquired the voice in her line of fire. Twenty feet away the man with the bright white grin stood, his hands in the air.
