Carnival Baseball

by Colby Cox

  When Tanner threw the third pitch to Hooker, Lynchburg’s center fielder Volt Jones noticed something shiny peek out from underneath the pitcher’s sleeve. He then caught a whiff of it. He smelled metal on the rookie and it made him raise an eyebrow. Metal in Lynch Park was a weakness, a weakness that could be exploited.

  Clyde Barrow hit a weak grounder straight to Ralph Sankey. Sankey scooped it up and sidearmed it over to Sarge at first base for an easy second out. The entire crowd was again on their feet. Many had yelled their voices hoarse and there would be a lot of sore throats around town in the morning.

  Thunder Teasley brought in Henry Brooks to pinch hit. Brooks was a clutch hitter for Lynchburg, a reserve player that seemed to thrive on making the impossible happen. He was a quiet man that let his stellar abilities speak for him. As he dug into the batter’s box, the crowd yelled his name.

  While Brooks readied himself, Volt Jones heard a clear whisper echo through his mind. He turned his head to see who it was and he was struck by a vision. Volt saw a wondrous mansion on a hill with manicured lawns and gardens that stretched to the horizon. He saw a basset hound at his feet. The dog gave a gruff, low bark. Volt then saw a white man in the distance seated at an outside table. The man was impeccably dressed in a three-piece suit. He turned to Volt, smiled at the ball player, and whispered the words Volt had heard before.

  “Volt, bring down the lightning.”

  When Volt Jones raised his hands high into the air, his teammate Nap Hill saw him do it, but could not believe it. Nap yelled at his teammate to stop and he ran towards him, but he was too late. Volt snapped his arms down hard to his sides and a single thin streak of white light shot down from the dark sky. It connected with Tanner’s golden pitching arm with a deafening crack. The young Nebraskan fell to the ground in a heap.

  Mink sprinted out of the dugout and was met by Sarge, who thew his mitt off and knelt down next to the boy’s side. He gingerly touched the rookie’s shoulder. Steam rose off of Tanner. Gasps and screams rose from the crowd and several women fainted. Everyone fell silent. Thunder Teasley ran to Sarge’s side. He felt helpless.

  “My God, Sarge. I don’t know what got into Volt. My God!”

  Nap Hill, one the most respected people in the town was in Volt Jone’s face, scolding the man up and down. Jones could only hang his head in shame. He could not explain why, even to himself. Nap shoved him hard and told him to get off the field. Volt turned and walked away.

  The right field gate opened and two men ran through with a stretcher. Thunder and Mink began to windmill their arms towards them in an effort to get them to the mound quicker. The rest of the Whispers team huddled around and broke open to let the stretcher through.

  Sarge placed Tanner’s head in his lap. The kid looked so much like his father that the coach kept flashing back and forth between the moment Tanner Senior died in that dank French cave to the moment on the mound at Lynch Field. He was the obedient soldier again. He watched Senior die. He watched Scratch take his soul. He was the baseball coach. He watched Junior struck down. Everything he touched turned to dust. All that was good in his life was nothing but illusions.

  Sarge felt a commotion behind him and turned to see Simon Says urgently squeezing his lean frame through the tangle of players that surrounded him. Simon put a hand in the center of Sarge’s chest and motioned for the coach to move back. Sarge silently obeyed and yelled for everyone to make some room.

  The two men with the stretcher were held at bay by Mink and Thunder Teasley as Simon knelt down next to Tanner and placed his ear against the pitcher’s chest. Blue puffs of smoke still billowed from the witch doctor’s ears. The wooden beads around his neck clanked against one another and got caught in his nose bone.

  Simon’s head popped up and his wild eyes locked onto Lynchburg’s coach, Thunder Teasley. He began to grunt hard and motioned for Thunder to come over next to the wounded pitcher. Thunder pointed at his own chest to confirm that the witch doctor wanted his help, and Simon furiously nodded his head.

  When Thunder Teasley was close enough, Simon pulled Tanner’s uniform shirt open. Buttons flew everywhere. He then spat on his palm and slapped his hand against the rookie’s exposed chest. Simon yelled a few unknown words and pulled a wooden stick out of the belt of trinkets around his tribal skirt. The witch doctor threw the stick in his mouth and bit down hard. Using his free hand, he quickly reached out and grasped Thunder Teasley’s nearest arm.

  Tanner’s body suddenly glowed a brilliant blue and rose from the ground. Wicks of heat lightning shot up from him and straight to Simon. The witch doctor vibrated up and down and every muscle in his body constricted. His teeth clenched hard into the stick and cords of tendon stuck out from his neck. His wild hair shot forth sparks and began to smoke. He clamped down tighter on Teasley’s wrist and brought the man to his knees.

  Tanner’s body fell back onto the dirt mound as Thunder threw his free arm into the air. A tremendous bolt of pure energy shot from his hand upward into the night sky where it exploded like a firework over the stadium. “Oohs” and “aahs” broke out from the crowd at the beautiful light show.

  Simon collapsed to the ground in a bizarre fit of laughter. Tanner rose to his feet. He seemed to be as healthy as a horse as he dusted his pants off and fixed his shirt. Teasley was not certain what he had just been a part of, but he was relieved by the results. He looked down at the witch doctor who rolled on the ground in hysterics. Thunder tilted his giant frame back and threw out a hearty laugh. Sarge grabbed Tanner by the shoulder. His rookie pitcher grinned at him.

  “Let’s play some Carny Ball, coach.”

  The stadium was filled with thousands of confused Lynchburg fans. Most were certain that the young visiting pitcher was dead. Their respectful bowed heads and moment of silence was cut short when they looked up to see the dead pitcher back on the mound. They then watched in silent disbelief as the Tanner kid threw three straight strikes to Brooks to end the game and deliver the Lightning’s first home game loss. Most of them walked away from Lynch Park emotionally exhausted. It was a roller coaster ride that “The CIty Unto Itself” would talk about until it deservedly became a piece of their historical legend.

  As the bewildered fans left, two men stayed behind. The first was strikingly handsome, but he wore a threadbare pair of brown pants and jacket instead of his usual high dollar attire so he would not attract attention. He was there solely to blend in and observe. He showed no loyalty to either Lynchburg or Wilmington and was no fan of Carnival Baseball. The fact was he loathed the game and felt it was beneath him. He enjoyed the sports of gentlemen and baseball simply did not make the cut. However, what he had observed left a bad taste in his mouth. It was bitter and acrid and was something that the incognito Mr. Scratch never experienced before.

  Scratch tasted fear.

  The second man hid in the shadows of the exit stairs in the right field bleachers. He too, like Scratch, had no interest in Carny Ball. He had spent the whole evening stuffing fistfuls of popcorn into his mouth and keeping a close watch on Scratch. The second man could not blend in with the crowd even if he had tried. Those fans who were seated around him would nervously watch him when they were certain his attention was elsewhere. He was a walking mass of bone and muscle. He wore a wool nautical sweater in defiance of the muggy summer heat. His hair was a wild mess and his full beard brushed against the upturned collar of the shirt he wore underneath the heavy top layer. What little they could see of the man’s face looked like chiseled wood and displayed a pair of dark eyes like those of a shark.

  Russ Priestley, a die hard Lightning fan, sat behind the stranger the entire game. He alone noticed a very strange detail. During the fifth inning, the man laced his fingers together behind his head to stretch. Russ could clearly read a word tattooed on the four knuckles of each of the stranger’s hands.

  “HATE.”

  The man in the shadows watched as Scratch disappeared from the empty bleachers in a cloud of smok
e. A smile formed behind the beard and he tilted the popcorn bag he held to his mouth. He crunched loudly on kernels and a few fell into his whiskers and hung there. As he walked away, the man smashed the empty bag, threw it in a nearby trashcan and spoke his thoughts out loudly so he could hear them.

  “Scratch, you bastard. You are going to learn that paybacks are a bitch.”

  That night, the worn and weary men of Wilmington walked the three blocks back to their hotel. The hills of Lynchburg seemed a cruel joke played on them as they were forced to traipse the inclines and steps after the grueling nine innings of play. They took turns lugging the wooden indian uphill. A few of them had enough strength to undress before they crashed onto their beds, but the majority did not.

  Two excited teammates could not find sleep until dawn. Gary South and Charles Tanner were overflowing with adrenaline and pride. The one hit a historical home run that gave his team the lead, while the other pitched with such strength and fortitude (even cheating death) to ensure that they kept it. They found one another pacing the hallways so they adjourned to the porch to chew tobacco and relive the game over and over.

  14. The Stranger

  The next morning, Mink found Sarge at a small diner off of Jefferson Street, drinking coffee and watching the world go by.

  “Say hey, Sarge. What’s the Rumpus?”

  Mink grabbed the seat opposite him. He grimaced a little as the stiffness in his throwing arm gave way to pain.

  Sarge never broke his gaze from the street outside.

  “Morning, Mink. You ain’t gonna tell me you love me again are you?”

  Mink barked a quick laugh and shook his head.

  “You are a piece of work, you know that?”

  Sarge smiled and slurped his coffee.

  “How are the rest of the guys doing?”

  Mink gave the head coach a brief status report on most of the lineup and then he went into potential starting pitchers for the Lightning. Sarge silently listened to his old friend as he watched a house wren dart in and out of a hole in a power box outside of the diner.

  When Mink finished, the men discussed Gary South’s performance at the plate and the possibility of moving him into center field as a starter. Sarge agreed that Gary had showed he was ready and with Savoy Special and Wonderboy at the corners, the Whispers could potentially have the best outfield in the league.

  Their discussion turned to results of other Carnival Baseball games around the nation and they then landed on the topic of Charles Tanner. Mink could still not believe what he witnessed the night before.

  “Damn, Sarge. My heart was in my throat when Tanner took that bolt. You know better than anyone that I have seen some crazy things in my days, but that....”

  Mink could not find the words to describe the feeling. Sarge knew how he felt about the young man because Sarge felt the same way. They felt responsible for Tanner Junior. The bond they had with his father was like no other. The three men had entrusted their lives to one another. Sarge and Mink were lucky. They had gotten to keep theirs. Tanner Senior had not. Now that the son was in their midsts, they shared that link with him.

  Sarge told Mink that before he left the hotel, he visited with Simon Says and thanked the witch doctor for his heroic actions the night before.

  Mink laughed.

  “I bet that was one enlightening conversation.”

  Sarge fidgeted with his bow tie and signaled the waitress for another cup of coffee. He continued with the tale. It was a rarity for him to put more than five words together at once. The only two people who were able to draw more out of him were Mink and Delilah.

  “Yeah. Simon just looked at me and smiled. You could tell that he strained himself using too much spirit juice. He just laid in bed and looked up at me. Then he motions me to come closer, right? So I lean in tight and he puts his hand on my cheek. I figure this is pretty weird, but what the hell, the guy just saved Tanner’s life a couple of hours ago. So I let him pat my cheek. I thought it was some tribal gesture of friendship or something.”

  Mink jerked up and down with laughter and was having a tough time catching his breath. Sarge put a hand up in the air.

  “Wait. It gets better. Do you know what he did? He suddenly put two fingers up my damned nose and he plucks out a couple of hairs. I was going to kill him!. But he just laid there and smiled like this sort of thing is done all of the time. This is something that people do. Then it was like he forgot I was there. Simon just stared at my nose hairs between his two fingers and starts his Chew-on Man rant. I’m telling you, Mink. I had to leave the room right then or we would be burying a Tanzanian here in the shadows of the Blue Ridge Mountains.”

  Mink was torn between hard laughter and the pain in his shoulder that came along with with it. Tears fell from behind his shades and down his face.

  “Sarge, please, it hurts when I laugh. Stop.”

  Sarge thanked the waitress for the coffee she brought him. He fell silent with content and shared his time between watching Mink laugh himself into anguish and the labors of the little wren outside.

  Wilmington lost the next two to Lynchburg. The second evening game was a sold out crowd and thousands more lingered outside of the stadium and crowded the nearby restaurants, cafes, and underground gin joints. Savvy kids who wanted to earn summer spending-money would run back and forth between the packed businesses and the ball park to yell out the score and highlights.

  The first night after their victory, Wilmington lost 3 to 4 in eleven innings of play and they then lost 7 to 4 during the third and final afternoon game. Once the last out was called to end the three game series, the people of Lynchburg in attendance gave a standing ovation to show their appreciation for some of the best Carny Ball they ever experienced. They refused to stop until both teams stepped from their dugouts for some hand waves and cap tips. A few tears were shed when Volt Jones walked across the field with his ball cap held against his chest and apologized to Charles Tanner Junior for his heinous action during their first game. Lynch Park exploded with cheers and applause when Tanner stepped past Volt’s extended hand and hugged him tightly. It was a heart warming scene that created the infamous “Lynchburg Seven Hills Toast”:

  If your fellow man strikes you down with lightning,

  may you rise only to strike him with friendship.

  Hours after the Wilmington club left their town far behind, the five founding members of the Lightning Baseball Club, Oscar Clayton, Nap Hill, Clint Jones, Art Teasley, and Ted Siddle, met as they always did in a private dining room tucked away in the back of Early’s. Early’s was a renowned city restaurant that served legendary southern dishes and was named after the Confederate General Gene Jubal A. Early, victor in the civil war battle that had occurred nearby. The five considered themselves brothers and their meals together at Early’s had been a tradition that they held after every Carnival League home series. A rectangular table was replaced from the room years ago by a round one made of oak with a picture of the team’s lightning bolt logo carved in the middle. They had much to celebrate, for they held the best record in the Southern Division and had placed two more wins under their belts, taken from one of the toughest teams in the business.

  Their minds weighed heavily, however, on the actions of Clint “Volt” Jones during the first game. Once they all finished their desserts of bread pudding and coffee, The wait staff was politely told by Thunder Teasley to give them some privacy. The uncomfortable silence that followed was broken by Oscar Clayton when he stood and demanded that Clint Jones explain to the rest of them why he had struck the Wilmington pitcher down. Lynchburg was built upon a reputation of playing hard. They never played dirty.

  Jones winced and dutifully stood. He could not bear to look his friends, his teammates, his brothers, in the eyes. The shame he endured was palpable and it pained Sparky Siddle to see Volt that way. Jones visibly shook and his hands twisted his napkin. He finally began.

  “I take full responsibility for my treacherous d
eed. I have not slept in three days and my heart is heavy with this feeling of guilt. I am not trying to make excuses, but it was as if someone else took control of me, some sort of wicked power.”

  Volt Jones then explained to them about the vision of the wealthy white man and the mansion in the country fields. All faces around the table looked very confused about the tale that Jones told - all except Nap HIll. Hill’s face went pale and he focused his eyes on the lightning bolt carved in front of him. He could not look up at Jones.

  When Jones finished his story, he asked for forgiveness and sat back down at the table. There was a long silence. As Thunder Teasley began to rise from his chair to express his thoughts, he was interrupted by a loud crunching sound. All five men turned their heads and were surprised to see a huge, giant of a man seated next to the closed door. He was eating an apple.

  Thunder Teasley’s chair struck the floor as he shot across the room with clenched fists. His enraged voice grew loud with anger at the audacity of the Stranger to sneak into the teammates’ private affairs. He stood a few feet in front of the interloper and was ready to soundly waffle the man. The Stranger, however, just sat in his chair and said one word.

  “Scratch.”

  He then took another big bite of his apple and leaned the chair back on its hind legs so the back rest tapped against the wall.

  Thunder was furious.

  “I beg your pardon, sir, but what the hell are you talking about?”

  The man stood from his chair and nonchalantly walked past Teasley. Juices from the apple ran out down his chin and dribbled into his wild beard.

  “Your man Volt here saw a vision of Scratch. Scratch played him like a fiddle. Scratch made Volt bring down the lightning on that kid.”

  As he spoke, the Stranger walked around the table. The other four men of Lynchburg took turns stretching their necks behind them to keep him in their line of sight, for he did not seem the type to turn your back upon. When he reached Thunder’s chair lying on the ground, he kicked at it with the toe of his boot and it shot back up on its four legs. He bit down on the apple one final time and threw the core into the corner of the room.