Base Ball Dads

by Matthew Hiley

  “Now, one more time for the record books, troops,” Dwayne screamed. “Pull this one from deep down. Let the whole world hear you. WHAT DO TIGERS DO?”

  Their young voices rose up at once, “TIGERS KILL!!!”

  The world did hear them, or at least those in the stands did, and the intoxicating cheer invited thousands of fans to echo the boys. “TIGERS KILL!!! TIGERS KILL!!! TIGERS KILL!!!”

  Every Mariner on the field jolted, stopped what they were doing, and looked over at the Tigers. A wave of fear swept over Pastor Jim as the crowd ignited into a wildfire of screaming cheers.

  Behind the backstop, a large banner was unraveled that read, “FEAR THE BAT.” Another banner opened up next to it, with a ten-foot-tall illustration of Batman wielding a baseball bat. News camera-men dashed out onto the field to get a shot of the banners and were swiftly yelled back off the field by Pastor Jim.

  Dave the umpire squirted a splash of whiskey through his mask, then turned to Dwayne and nodded. It was time. “PLAY BALL!” he announced loudly.

  The police sharing the Tigers’ dugout patted the coaches on the back as they broke into their third case of beer. Russ grinned back over his shoulder at them as he walked out. He had what most would consider to be a difficult assignment. He was the first-base coach. He would be standing just feet away from Pastor Jim’s dugout.

  Russ took a quick bump of cocaine and strutted across the field, lighting a cigarette on the way. With the police on his side, he felt invincible. He took his place beside the first baseman.

  Dwayne stepped out next to take his spot beside third base. The crowd erupted, blowing air horns, cheering, and whistling. Several women flashed their breasts as they chanted his name. “Dwayne! Dwayne! Dwayne!”

  Jackson Paisley and TJ Johnson emerged from the dugout, swinging their bats. After a few swings, Jackson approached the plate.

  “Hey, Noah,” Russ called out from first base. “You hit my kid with a pitch and I’ll gut you with a rusty knife, you satanic little bastard!”

  Noah didn’t acknowledge Russ. He refused to let him get inside his head.

  Pastor Jim couldn’t believe what he’d just heard. “I’ll accept that to be your resignation as deacon, you heartless, drug-addled demon, and I expect you to drop off your deacon’s jacket immediately,” Pastor Jim shouted to Russ.

  Russ extended a middle finger behind himself in the general direction of Pastor Jim, without ever turning to acknowledge him.

  Russ looked down beside him at the kid playing first and noticed that the kid had a bad set of buckteeth. “Holy shit, son, have you ever thought about seeing an orthodontist?”

  The boy frowned, trying to ignore him.

  “I bet you can mow through some serious fucking corn on the cob with those goddamn gopher choppers, Bucky. Jesus, you may be the ugliest kid I’ve ever seen.”

  The boy tried to hold up against Russ, but he couldn’t. His lip quivered. He was about to cry.

  “By the way, that’s my boy Jackson at the plate,” Russ continued. “If you try to get him out after he smashes the ball in a minute, I’ll be using those fucked up teeth on your decapitated head to open my beers tonight.”

  The kid took a few steps away from Russ, watching him out of the corner of his eye. Noah went into his windup. He delivered a screaming pitch right down the pipeline before Jackson was ready. It was a cheap play to send a pitch that quickly after someone entered the batter’s box, but it was technically fair.

  “STRIKE!” Dave the umpire called out.

  Russ glared at Pastor Jim. Pastor Jim returned a smug grin. The crowd booed.

  Noah watched the catcher for his pitch sign. He nodded when he received it, and went into his windup again. It was an inside changeup, easily half the speed of the first pitch.

  Jackson waited on it, made a split-second adjustment, and drilled the ball down the first baseline. The ball caught a bad hop at the last second, hitting the first baseman directly in the eye. He dropped to his knees, clutching his face, with the ball lying just a few feet away on the ground. Jackson came barreling by, reaching his hand out to high-five his dad as he turned and headed to second. Noah ran and grabbed the ball, then whipped it over to third to hold Jackson to a double.

  Noah was pissed, and he screamed down at the injured first baseman until he rose to his feet.

  Russ leaned over to the kid. “Wow, kid, that sucks,” he said. “A little bit lower and you could’ve gotten new teeth. That would’ve been awesome for you. But now you have a big swollen eye and really fucked up teeth. You might as well cut your pecker off. You’re never getting laid.”

  The kid wiped the tears from his face and dropped into the ready position. His eye was swelling quickly. He focused as much as he could, watching TJ step into the box.

  Dwayne made eye contact with Jackson. He touched his hat and then his earlobe. It was the “steal” signal. Jackson stepped out and began to gather a healthy lead off the base.

  Noah watched Jackson closely. He didn’t think he’d go for it, so he went to work on the batter. As soon as the fastball was released from his hand, TJ dropped down and tapped a perfect bunt. Jackson slid into third, avoiding the tag, and TJ easily crossed first base.

  Noah paced. He needed some outs. He saw that Jonathan was coming up to bat. Noah knew he had it this time. Before he could put his strategy together, TJ took off for second base. It was bait he wouldn’t take. He knew that if he tried to get TJ out at second, Jackson would take off for home and score. He just grunted and took it.

  Jonathan couldn’t help but crack a smile. He knew what was about to happen. He just hoped they could pull it off.

  Noah went into his windup. He always led with the fastball. Jonathan knew this. He stepped in front of it, dropped down, and laid out another perfect bunt. Jackson and TJ both pretended they were going to run just long enough for Jonathan to make it to first.

  Nobody bunted twice in a row. It worked exactly the way Dwayne had hoped. The crowd went nuts as Alex walked out of the dugout with his dream scenario … loaded bases, no outs. A large banner that read “BATKID” unrolled behind the backstop.

  Noah put his hands on his hips and pretended to size up Alex as he made his way to the batter’s box. Noah glared at him and spit. Alex gave him a big smile as he assumed the position and raised his bat.

  Noah sent Alex a fastball, painting the outside corner of the plate. Alex didn’t budge.

  “STRIKE!”

  Noah spit again and grinned.

  “What are you grinning at?” Alex called out to him. “Is that all you’ve got? That sucked!”

  Everyone in the stands behind Alex began to laugh at Noah. They loved it. These kids were serious.

  Noah wound up and sent an even faster fastball to the exact same spot. He strained to throw it as fast as he did. It was a perfect pitch with gruesome speed. Alex simply watched it go by and laughed. Noah frowned.

  “I don’t understand why everyone’s so scared of you, man!” Alex yelled out to him. “Come on, sissy! Put some pepper on it for me!”

  And so he did. Noah gave it everything he had. He used every muscle in his body to throw the fastest ball he’d ever thrown. Alex sent a thundering, level swing right back at him.

  And then that amazing sound echoed throughout the ballpark …

  TINK!

  Noah’s arms dropped to his sides and his head tilted upward. His eyes followed the arc of the ball through the atmosphere until it disappeared far beyond the center field wall. Alex took off, jogging through the thick screams from fans, which didn’t let up until well after the bases had cleared.

  The yelling and whistling from the stands thankfully masked Pastor Jim’s voice as he walked out to the mound and castigated Noah. Noah got right back in his dad’s face, poking him in the chest as he screamed back. Pastor Jim stormed off the field and into the dugout, kicking over a bucket of practice balls.

  Whatever the pastor had said to Noah apparently worked, howeve
r. He struck the next three batters out with ease, attempting to get his swagger back. And he knew the game was far from over.

  63.

  The expression on Alex’s face when he took the pitcher’s mound left no questions about his confidence. His warm-up pitches commanded respect. He paid no attention to the craziness and commotion occurring all around. He was unaffected by it.

  Alex worked his magic on the first two batters, striking them out. He wasn’t so lucky with the third. The third batter got a decent read on the pitch and hit a solid double. That wasn’t what Alex wanted.

  When Noah walked from his dugout to the batter’s box, you could have heard a fly fart. There was total silence. Alex and Noah stared each other down the entire way.

  “You gonna throw the ball, or just stare at me like a dumbass?” Noah yelled to Alex.

  Alex didn’t respond. He was waiting for his sign from the catcher, Jackson. Jackson dropped a middle finger down, the universal sign for “fuck this guy, throw it so fast he can’t see it.” And that’s exactly what Alex did.

  “STRIKE!”

  The crowd went nuts. Alex didn’t smile, flinch, or respond. He just caught the ball as Jackson threw it back and waited for his sign again.

  He got it. Middle finger down.

  “STRIKE TWO!”

  Noah kicked at the dirt, and then raised a hand to step out of the batter’s box. The people in the stands behind him began to taunt him.

  Alex stood ready, checking his shoulder for the steal. He knew they wouldn’t dare steal against him or Jackson, but he continued to check just in case. Noah stepped back in, looking ready.

  Jackson dropped another middle finger. Alex nodded.

  Alex only loved that sound when it came from his bat … but this time, it came from Noah’s. Noah got ahold of it. The ball cleared the fence behind the right fielder. Noah grinned at Alex all the way around the bases. Alex simply smiled back at him.

  The game was 4–2. It stayed 4–2 for the next four innings. No one scored. There were a few singles here and there, but the defense on both sides was outstanding.

  Going into the sixth and final inning, both pitchers had reached their maximums. The second strings came in. The backup pitchers were almost as solid as the starters.

  The only ones who weren’t playing their A game by that point were the Tigers assistant coaching staff and the police officers seated beside them. They had consumed several cases of beer and two ounces of weed. And that didn’t include the flask refills that took place under the bench.

  Russ walked out of the dugout, pointed to the stands, and ripped his shirt wide open like a superhero. Everyone in the stands went nuts. He slammed the beer he was holding, crushed the can on his forehead, lit a cigarette, and made his way across the field to his first-base coach position. Halfway there, Russ tripped and fell flat on his face, not moving for several seconds after. A large roar erupted from the stands moments later as he jumped to his feet and threw his arms in the air.

  The buck-toothed Mariner, who now also had a swollen black eye, was again on first base. “Jesus. All that beer, and you’re not a damn bit prettier,” Russ told him. “Can’t you file those fucking teeth down or something? Do you have any idea how distracting those things are? It looks like you’re trying to eat a couple of diving boards or something. Fuck. I feel like I could do a gainer off of your face.”

  “You know, mister, if you can’t say something nice, you’re not supposed to say anything at all,” the boy said.

  “That’s a stupid fucking rule, kid. Almost as stupid as your goddamn face. I’ll tell you right now, you need to get really good at fighting and really good at masturbating. Your future will be filled with a shitload of both.”

  Russ turned and looked back at Pastor Jim.

  “Hey, Pastor,” he called over to him.

  “Yes, Russ?”

  “Go fuck yourself.”

  Russ dropped down into a baseball ready stance, and looked across at TJ, who was coming out to bat.

  “COME ON, DARKY, JR!” Russ yelled. “KNOCK THE SHIT OUTTA THAT BALL!”

  TJ gave Russ an uncomfortable thumbs-up, then cracked a solid double off the first pitch. Then out came Jonathan, who cracked a perfect single that advanced TJ to third base.

  A deeply profound look of concern swept over everyone in a Mariners jersey when Alex walked out of the dugout. It was the last inning. The Tigers were up 4–2 with no outs, two men on base, and arguably the most talented little league batter in all of Texas stepping up to the plate.

  Suddenly, the sound of Metallica’s “For Whom the Bell Tolls” filled the air at a deafening level. Alex glanced back toward the dugout and saw Detective Loffland holding a speaker box over his head, smiling at Alex, with sunglasses on and a cigarette dangling from his lip. Alex couldn’t help but grin and throw him the international hand gesture for rock on.

  Then, Alex did something that no one, including Dwayne, expected. He walked to the left side of the plate. He decided to switch hit … batting lefty. It was the ultimate middle finger to the Mariners, as if to say, “You’re so bad, I can beat you from both sides of the plate.”

  Alex raised the stakes further by raising his right arm and pointing to the center field wall. The crowd leapt to their feet, yelling as loudly as they could, cheering, going crazy …

  The backup pitcher for the Mariners was visibly shaken. He looked over at his coach, Pastor Jim, for direction. Alex could see Pastor Jim mouth the words, “walk him.” This pissed Alex off.

  Alex watched out of the corner of his eye for the catcher, who moved a couple of feet to his right to throw the ball out of reach. The crowd booed, knowing full well what this meant. They didn’t have an opportunity to get too terribly upset, because as the pitcher went into his windup, Alex took two steps forward and drilled the ball, sending it precisely where he’d pointed … over the center field wall … left-handed.

  And just like that, it was 7–2.

  The Tigers weren’t done there, though. The entire team wanted to leave their mark that day, and so they did. The Tigers went on to score twelve more runs that inning. Their bats were on fire. The crowd stayed on their feet the entire time, jumping and yelling.

  The score was 19–2 going into the bottom of the last inning. The Mariners had given up. You could see it in the way they swung their bats. They just wanted to go home. The first two batters went down immediately.

  Noah was the third at bat. Alex was playing first base, and could tell that Noah still had some spark left in him. He knew that the last thing they needed was for the Mariners to get a new burst of energy and make this a game again. Noah had to go down.

  But he didn’t. He drilled a beautiful line drive halfway up the outfield wall. It made a thundering POP! as it hit. Ace Dale was playing center field and dashed to get the ball. Noah had already rounded first by the time Ace got to it. Ace threw the ball to his cut-off man, Jackson, as Noah made his way around third base.

  Alex sprinted to cover home, moving the catcher out of the way. Everyone knew this was something Alex had to handle. Jackson threw the ball as fast as he could to Alex at home. He grabbed it from the air and dropped his shoulder a split second before Noah arrived. They both braced for impact. Noah and Alex collided in a spectacular fashion, disappearing into a massive cloud of dust.

  Dave the umpire hovered over them until the dust cloud dissipated and he had a clear line of sight, at which point he could see that Alex’s body had completely shielded Noah from making any contact whatsoever with the base.

  “YOU’RE OUT!” Dave yelled.

  The crowd went wild.

  “What are you, high, ump???” Pastor Jim came charging out of the dugout, screaming at Dave. “I could see it from here! HE WAS SAFE!”

  “Well as a matter of fact, I am high, Pastor,” Dave the umpire responded. “But your little douchebag kid never touched the plate.”

  The crowd had quieted, and many were waiting against the fence in ant
icipation. They were waiting for the word “ballgame” to be yelled, marking the finish.

  Dwayne, Russ, Tommy, Steve, Detective Loffland, and two police officers staggered out onto the field. Pastor Jim’s two assistant coaches came out as well. Everyone was screaming at one another. Noah stood beside his dad, and Alex stood beside Dwayne while they all carried on.

  “He wasn’t safe, Pastor,” Dave grunted in a frustrated tone. “I was right there.”

  “Face it, Pastor,” Dwayne said firmly. “Your time is over in this town. You need to accept it. Your kid is out. You’re on the losing side now. People are tired of taking shit from arrogant, out-of-touch, social-climbing assholes like you. That’s what this crowd represents. This is an uprising. Suck my balls. We’re in charge now.”

  “You listen to me, you son of a bitch,” Pastor Jim lunged forward, poking his finger into Dwayne’s chest.

  And that was all it took. No sooner had his finger pushed against Dwayne’s shirt, than the barbs from a Taser gun shot forward at several hundred MPH, hitting Pastor Jim right in the lips. Thousands of volts of electricity sent his body into convulsions, causing him to fall over onto home plate and flop around like a fish.

  Dwayne was amused to see it was Detective Loffland standing behind him holding the Taser gun, smiling. “Well, I’m sure we all saw that assault take place,” the detective said. “Thank God I was here to step in with nonlethal force.”

  “Oh my God, are you kidding me?” Noah cried out. “He didn’t do anything! You guys are assholes! Somebody call an ambulance!” Noah unleashed a long line of impressively descriptive profanities at Dwayne and Detective Loffland.

  “How do those things work?” Alex asked one of the officers.

  The officer pulled out his Taser gun. “You just push this little safety button, which activates the charge,” he said as he demonstrated to Alex. “Then you pull the trigger, just like a gun. Here, try it out.”

  Alex clicked the safety button on the Taser, pointed it at Noah, and pulled the trigger. The Taser barbs stuck into Noah’s ankle—the high-voltage shock sending him to flop around next to his dad.