“… the Portland Geoducks will be without their star catcher, Jake Reynolds, for a couple of weeks. Both he and his understudy, Alejandro Escobar, were placed on the 15-day DL after sustaining injuries in a brawl during yesterday’s game with their team’s longtime bitter rivals, the Vancouver Eagles. The team expects both to return healthy after their short stint on the disabled list…”

“Could you turn that off, please?” Greg asked.

His cabby sighed but complied with the request, switching off the radio and allowing Greg to enjoy the ride in peace. The news he had just heard didn’t come as a surprise; he had observed the brawl on TV with his own eyes, watching with a combination of concern and guilty longing as Reynolds and Escobar, both clearly in considerable pain, were lead off of the field.

He wasn’t sure how to feel when he later found out that both catchers were injured and would miss time. Everything he had learned about sportsmanship had told him that he should be remorseful for his colleagues and pray for a speedy recovery. That’s exactly what he tried to convey when he received calls from his teammates who had seen the game also. Each of them seemed reading from the same script when they spoke, going on about what a shame it was and how screwed the team would be without Reynolds.

But you know, they would swing the conversation, with Escobar out too, they might give you a shot at the big time. Greg would chuckle and hem and haw, always giving them some variation of we’ll have to see what happens. He could only hope that his feigned indifference covered up the fact that he hadn’t been this excited about baseball since Little League, and that he was inwardly profusely thanking whatever force was at work for him that both catchers were hurt on the same day. With any luck, he didn’t sound too eager when, later that evening, he finally received the call from his coach, who proudly told Greg that the Geoducks had decided to temporarily promote him to the majors and that he needed to be on the first flight out to Portland the next morning.

For five years Greg had played catcher for the Riverton Barons, the Geoducks’ Triple-A affiliate. Whenever he wasn’t playing, he was at home watching intently as Jake Reynolds had one All-Star season after another. On the bench, there’d always be an able backup to spell Reynolds whenever he needed a day off, a Latino import with a capable arm and a decent bat that’d play for slightly above the league minimum. And in the meantime, Greg toiled away in organizational hell, a seemingly permanent fixture on a forgotten little minor league team stranded in the nondescript nothingness of the Midwest.

Greg had been drafted by the organization right out of high school, beginning his furious tear through the team’s ranks before the ink on his diploma had dried. Over the course of two years, his life consisted of nothing but baseball, playing everywhere from the rickety run-down parks of the Appalachians to the sun-bleached fields of Hawaii, feasting on the raw untamed pitching and the twitchy, inept baserunners of the lower leagues. His confidence grew with every sloppy, fat curveball he laced over a crudely-painted wooden wall, every wide-eyed youngster he gunned down for having the nerve to try and steal a base on his watch.

He arrived in Riverton sure that he wouldn’t be spending more than half the season there. After all, the Geoducks had been doing nothing but hole plugging at the catcher position for years, signing whatever free agent they could get on the cheap. Greg would dominate at this level the same way he had in every league he had ever played in and be in Portland just in time for the All-Star break. Good thing, too, since Riverton was the most depressing place he had played since short-season.

The stadium had been built in an earlier era, a time in the city’s history when industry was the booming lifeblood of the community. It rose up out of an abandoned concrete tomb, surrounded by shells of deserted factories and workhouses, great ugly boxes of rotting metal and broken glass. A shambling wreck of a ballpark, crafted of warped wood and crumbling brick, ancient and unloved.

The outer structure barely contained the expanse of metal chairs within, the washed-out paint crusty and chipping from each and every seat. Its field was nothing more than a triangle of swampy mahogany mud surrounded by an unkempt tract of dying grass and weeds. Just beyond the center field wall, balanced on raw, exposed steel pipes, stood the scoreboard, a half-functioning electric rectangle littered with broken bulbs, so dim that the sun overpowered its meager light during day games. Greg was able to put up with the disheartening surroundings at the time, confident that it wouldn’t be too long before he’d be playing in a real stadium cheered on by tens of thousands of good honest baseball fans.

Days turned to weeks turned to months grinding away in that desolate environment, his effortless grace and talent replaced by an awkward, bumbling mediocrity that took hold on opening day and steadfastly refused to let him go. Greg initially tried to rationalize it as a slump, a temporary adjustment period to the sharper pitchers and quicker, stealthier runners of Triple-A. It wasn’t until halfway through July that he realized he wasn’t just in the midst of some passing funk. He was playing as well as he was able and it just wasn’t good enough.

It took countless whiffs at brutally sharp sliders and devilishly deceptive change-ups before he finally understood just how devastating even a watered-down version of major league pitching could be. And when he was behind the plate, it seemed as though every prospective basestealer was halfway to second before he could even get out of his crouch, their speed and finesse leagues beyond what he had experienced in the lower classes. Greg was sure that with enough time he could adapt, learn to see a 12-to-6 curveball as it came out of a pitcher’s hand, strengthen his arm to the point that he could gun down Wally West himself if he was taking off for second. But the Geoducks were in the midst of the tightest pennant race in years. They needed production at the catcher position and they needed it now.

Greg was stretched out on his couch when he found out about the trade, his legs elevated, bulging bags of ice strapped tightly to his knees. He was drifting off into a much-needed nap when the excited yammerings of the sports news program playing on the television snapped him to attention. His brow furrowed, Greg slowly pulled himself into an upright position as the breaking news splayed across the screen, detailing in bold bright text how the Geoducks had just traded for star catcher Jake Reynolds. Two empty suits on the screen began to bicker about the merits of the deal as Jake’s brain struggled to process what he had just heard, his entire body growing as cold as the ice that chilled his knees.

It was on that day that baseball became a job for Greg and stopped being the fulfillment of a dream. He went to the ballpark, put in his time, and came home. Road games were nothing more than a business trip, an extended annoyance in an anonymous city miles and miles away from his warm, familiar bed. With Reynolds locked up for years to come, Greg resigned himself to making Riverton his permanent home.

And after a while, he had actually grown to accept that. He was twenty-five now, too old to be considered a prospect any longer. With each day, it looked more and more likely that he had fallen short of his ultimate goal. But he strived to never become one of those bitter never-weres, constantly pining for what could have been, obsessed with thoughts of redemption and entitlement. At the end of the day, he got to play baseball for a living. Not a bad deal.

But as much as he tried to hide it, ever since he received the call from his coach a childish giddiness boiled within him, his calm demeanor a front for the jubilant little boy on his way to achieve his dream. His mind was filled with thoughts of playing on that shining, immaculate field alongside the champions of the sport, idols that he had watched with abject admiration for years. Greg grinned as he imagined himself meeting some of the Geoducks’ veterans with the irritating excitability of a rookie, tripping over words as he fumbled through uncomfortable introductions and sweaty-palmed handshakes.

So there he was, in the backseat of a cab speeding towards GenCorp Park, the recently constructed taxpayer-funded monument to baseball proudly set smack in the middle of downtown Portland. From the freeway Greg could see the stadium rising out of the horizon, his eyes widening as they took in the grand coliseum of flawless glinting steel, adorned on all sides with gigantic, dramatic images of the Geoducks in action. He couldn’t help but smile as the cab approached the park, realizing that by the evening it would be teeming with life, packed with fans hanging on his every action.

The cab pulled up to a concealed entrance in the back of the stadium, manned by a single security guard standing in front of an imposing metal gate. Greg hopped out of the car, paid the cabbie and strode towards the gate with his eyes cast skyward, taking in the skyscraping tips of the upper deck like an awestruck tourist. He introduced himself to the guard, who, upon confirming Greg’s identity, opened the gate for him. With a whine and a prolonged cringe-inducing squeak, the fence slowly retreated and allowed Greg passage into the stadium. He cautiously stepped beyond the barrier and into the park’s outer sanctum, pulling open and entering the nondescript metal door that promised entry into the inner workings of the park.

The interior was surprisingly plain, the walls almost completely white save for pinstripes in team green and black that split the surface exactly in half. Greg quietly made his way down the hall, glancing at the framed images of the Geoducks’ most celebrated moments that flanked him on both sides. Nearly tiptoeing, he moved through the stadium’s seemingly uninhabited inner workings and eventually reached the appropriate door, giving it a gentle rap so as to not offend whoever might be on the other side.

“Come in.” replied a distracted voice from within.

Greg took a deep breath and pushed the door open. Sitting in the back of the room was a portly, whiskery middle-aged man, dressed in a worn polo shirt, his glasses precariously balanced on the bridge of his nose. One hand furiously scribbled away at some sort of paperwork while the other held his head aloft, weighing so heavy on his palm that it looked as though it might fall clean off of his neck without support.

Having never seen him out of uniform, it took Greg a second to realize that the man before him was Coach McKenzie. He cocked his head slightly, finding it hard to believe that the man who projected such an air of authority and confidence on television could give the appearance of a disheveled, overworked accountant in person. Suddenly, Coach McKenzie looked up, put down his pen, and motioned towards a chair in front of his desk.

“Greg, right? Have a seat.” He instructed in a businesslike tone. He took the glasses off his face and folded them on his desk as Greg quickly sat down, an accommodating smile on his face. With a heavy sigh, the coach sat back in his chair, laid his interlocked hands on his protruding stomach, and locked eyes with Greg.

“You must be pretty excited.” He finally said, his expression impassive and unblinking. Greg cleared his throat and widened his smile before answering.

“Absolutely.” Greg said. “I’ve been - ”

“Glad to hear it.” the coach interrupted. Greg raised an eyebrow as McKenzie sat up and began shuffling through the sea of papers strewn haphazardly about his desk. “I’m sure you’re familiar with Mike Mancini, our third string catcher. He’ll be starting while Reynolds and Escobar are on the DL.”

Greg’s smile soured. Mancini was an unremarkable journeyman, a warm body meant to fill a spot on the batting order and to put behind the plate just to let baserunners know that they weren’t entirely conceding second base. A perennial non-roster invitee that some team would inevitably pick up for the sole purpose of having a third catcher on the roster in case of emergencies. The fact that the only reason Greg was even sitting there was due to just such an emergency escaped him for the moment as he tried his best to put on a gracious face before McKenzie could look up and see his disappointment.

“Here we go.” the coach found the one piece of paper he needed and handed it to Greg. “You’ve got a reservation at the hotel across the street. Get back here for practice by four. Any questions?”

“…no, coach.” Greg mumbled. “Thanks.”

“Mmm hmm.”

And with that, McKenzie put his glasses back on and returned to whatever it was he had been working on. After taking a second to accept that the conversation was truly over, Greg stood and left the office, closing the door softly behind him. As he headed towards the exit, Greg could feel the excitement that coursed through his body mere minutes ago rapidly disappear, replaced with a defeated, crushing resentment. I shoulda known, he thought to himself. I’m here as nothing more than an insurance policy in case the real major leaguer goes down. The absolute last resort.

It’s gonna be a long two weeks.

*

Later that day, Greg found himself in the Geoducks’ locker room, surrounded by ballplayers in various states of undress. His locker was distinguished as his own only by a piece of scotch tape inattentively glued to the top of the frame, his first initial and last name scribbled on it in magic marker almost as an afterthought. The cubby was empty save for the uniform pants and jersey that hung from the rack, perfectly clean, the immaculate white fabric almost glowing under the locker room’s harsh fluorescent light. Greg was heartened somewhat at seeing REYNOLDS splayed across the shoulders of the jersey in a delicate curve, but the feeling quickly vanished when he saw the number they had given him. 96. The kind of symbol they assigned to kids in spring training who had no shot of making the team. With a sigh, he tossed his bag into the locker and started to change, figuring he could at least put on the façade of being an actual member of the squad.

“Yo, kid!”

Greg looked up to see a squat, barrel-chested man enter the room, dressed in jeans and a plain white t-shirt and walking with the unmistakable gait of a lifetime catcher. Christ, Greg thought, I didn’t think Mancini was that short. For a moment, Greg entertained the thought of diving at Mike’s knees and making like he had tripped, figuring that they couldn’t be more than one good knock from blowing out completely. He considered just how convincing his acting ability was when Mike came up to him and extended his hand with a cheek-splitting grin on his face.

“You must be Greg.” Mike said as he took Greg’s hand in a palm-crushing handshake. “I’m Mike. Welcome aboard.”

“Good to meet you.” Greg smiled and tried his best not to wince under the increasingly painful grip. He was just about to crack when Mike finally released his hand, whistling and crossing his arms as he looked Greg up and down.

“Lookin’ sharp, champ. You could pass for a real major leaguer.” Mike said, speaking to Greg as though he were a child playing dress-up. “Just keep your eyes on me and you’ll be alright, kid. I’m too old to play two weeks straight, so I’m sure you’ll be starting sometime. God help us all.”

Mike roared with laughter at his own joke and gave his new teammate a rough slap on the shoulder, struggling to regain his composure while Greg considered the best angle at which to dive at his legs.

“Ahhh, you’ll be okay.” Mike sighed. “See you out on the field, slugger.”

With that, Mike headed towards his own locker, stopping to raucously greet a few of his colleagues on the way. Greg scowled and quickly changed into uniform, cursing under his breath as he grabbed his gear and headed for the field. Angled light poured through the hallway, growing in intensity as he approached the doorway to the outside. He climbed the tiny flight of stairs and just like that, Greg was in the dugout. In an instant, his scowl melted into a fool’s grin, his spirit lifted as his eyes roamed over that virginal field. Its colors seemed to burst from the ground, solid and shining as though the elements had been painted onto the earth, the life’s work of some great Renaissance master.

“Hey, kid.”

Annoyed, Greg reluctantly left his daydream to pay attention to some other smarmy ballplayer referring to him with an annoying term of endearment. He turned to see someone sitting on the end of the bench, looking at Greg, his sky blue irises glowing through the weathered face into which they were set. Greg’s eyes widened as he recognized the man before him as Roy Colton, anchor of the Geoducks’ rotation and the craftiest of the crafty old lefties. Greg had never thought he’d see the man in person – he was on the other side of forty now and had been rumored to be considering retirement for years. But every season he would stubbornly show up on opening day, retiring batters at just as efficient a clip as he did ten years ago, relying on nothing more than maddening guile and boundless experience to do so.

With just a hint of a smile on his face, Roy pushed himself off of the bench and climbed onto the field, glove in hand.

“C’mon, help me warm up.” he called back as he ambled out towards left field at a leisurely pace. Greg took a minute to convince himself that he had actually just heard Roy say that before practically leaping up out of the dugout and rushing to his side. They walked in silence for a few moments as Greg searched furiously for the first thing he would ever say to the future Hall of Famer.

“Shouldn’t you be throwing with Mike? He’s the one starting today.” He finally blurted out, immediately wishing afterwards that he could slap his own forehead without appearing insane. Roy simply chuckled and shook his head slightly.

“Nah, that windbag won’t be ready for another half an hour at least.” he said. “He’s gotta go around and annoy everybody on the team before he even changes into uniform.”

Greg snickered as the feelings of anxiety and tension faded away, relieved and unendingly grateful that he had finally found someone who hadn’t treated him as a joke. He and Roy chatted amiably as they headed for the bullpen out beyond the left field wall, the back of which bumped up against the stadium’s exterior plaza. Fans already milled about outside and dozens lined and hung over the wall that separated the pen from the civilian world. They applauded and shouted generic words of encouragement in Roy’s direction as he and Greg entered, to which Roy responded by acting as though they didn’t even exist.

“Don’t make eye contact.” Roy suddenly said in a muted tone, as though advising Greg on how to deal with a rabid dog. “If you do, they won’t you leave you alone and we won’t be able to get any work done.”

He looked at Roy, incredulous, but the solemn expression on his face assured Greg that he wasn’t joking. Greg grimaced, nodded, and strapped on his gear while Roy loosened up his arm and stepped to the other side of the pen. A minute later, Greg was ready to go, settling into his crouch as Roy stood perched on the mound, his striking form somehow looming taller than the ten inches the mound elevated his body. Greg slowly extended his mitt towards the mound, his body quivering as Roy entered the wind-up.

THWAP!

The ball was in his glove. He had just caught a pitch from Roy Colton. Greg resisted the urge to stuff the ball in his back pocket as a keepsake and instead reluctantly tossed it back, unable to exhale until it was safely nestled in Roy’s mitt. As the two men relentlessly repeated the cycle, Greg was able to catch brief bits of conversation floating in from the fans roosting above them. He didn’t pay them much mind until he heard a young boy ask his dad who that was catching for Roy.

“That’s Greg Sullivan.” his dad answered. “He used to be a really promising prospect.”

“Used to be?” the boy asked.

“Well, he got to Triple-A a few years back and seemed to hit a wall there. It’s really too bad. If he had turned out like people had predicted he would, we wouldn’t have needed to throw all that money at Reynolds.”

“I’m glad we did.” the child matter-of-factly countered. “Jake’s the best player on the team. They’re gonna lose without him.”

The man laughed and wrapped his arm around his son’s shoulders. “That’s no attitude to have. C’mon, let’s get something to eat and check out the fanwalk.”

Greg couldn’t help but look up at the pair as they left, wanting nothing more than to shout after them that he could be just as good as Reynolds if given the chance. But he wasn’t even able to make himself believe that. He silently looked after them for a moment until his concentration was abruptly broken by the air-splitting whistle of a perfectly straight fastball as it whizzed over his head. Before Greg could react, he heard the solid thud of the ball suddenly being stopped by the oversized rubber rectangle that hung from the fence behind him. Giggles and guffaws rang out from above as he spun to face Roy, his eyes hurt and accusatory.

“Keep your eye on the ball, kid.” Roy grinned. “’Cause this one’s gonna be a real fireball.”

His face flush with humiliation, Greg hurriedly settled back into his crouch, ignoring the fans’ lingering snickers and snorts. Who is he trying to kid?, Greg thought to himself. Guy can’t even hit ninety on the gun anymore. As Roy brought his arms over his head, his grin was replaced by an expression of cool intensity, intimidating and impassive at the same time. A split-second and an imperceptible flash of movement later, his arm jutted away from his body at a stiff angle, the hand curved and empty like the basket of a catapult.

THWAP!

Before he knew it, Greg was in possession of the baseball, which smoldered in his glove with such intensity that he feared it might burn through the leather. The pain came a second later, a jarring electric shock that seeped through the palm and sizzled all the way up to his elbow. Greg could only hope that his mask was sufficiently hiding his dumbfounded expression as he reeled from receiving the most blistering fastball he had seen Roy throw in years. A satisfied smile crept across the vet’s face as he stepped off of the mound and headed for the door, glove in hand.

“Okay, I’m good.” he said. “Let’s go join the others.”

Greg leapt to his feet and followed Roy onto the outfield, beaming as he strode in step with the wily old fox. Greg remained by his side for as long as he could, coaxing stories out of the reluctant warhorse and listening with silent, wide-eyed intent when Roy gave in and span yarns about opening days and World Series. Twilight began to descend on the stadium as game time approached, both teams withdrawing into their dugouts to allow the ground crew to set right every blade of grass and speck of dirt before the first pitch. Eventually, Roy left to man the mound, heading towards his position at a slow, even pace while the rest of the team raced out to their spots.

The first pitch Roy threw was a thing of beauty, an exhibition of fluid and effortless grace, lit by the explosion of countless scattered flashbulbs and backed by the cheers of a raucous, booming orchestra tens of thousands strong. At first, Greg was overjoyed to simply be witness to the spectacle playing out before him. But as the game wore on, his excitement gradually faded, draining away with each passing second he spent watching others live his dream. He tried to cheer himself up, to think about the thousands of ballplayers struggling in the minors who would give up baseball forever just to be where he was right then. Such thoughts didn’t comfort him much – he just kept staring out at home plate, simultaneously tempted and tortured by its proximity and its distance.

Time crept by at an agonizing pace until the game mercifully drew to a close, ending with the anticlimactic strikeout of the Geoducks’ shortstop. As soon as he saw the batter’s useless, confused whiff at the third strike, Greg rose off the bench and made a beeline for the locker room. Not bothering to shower, Greg changed into street clothes, gathered his belongings and took off for the exit, leaving the locker room just as the team was beginning to trickle in.

He stepped out into the crisp, cool night, leaving the stadium via a tucked away exit, far from the fast-moving rivers of people flooding into the empty streets and sidewalks. The sky above was clear and blank, the stars completely overpowered by the harsh blaring light of the ballpark and the surrounding skyscrapers. Greg stared up at that soot-colored canvas for a long second before he lowered his eyes and silently headed for his hotel.

*

Greg floated through the next few days like a ghost, invisible and soundless, parked there on the end of the bench where eyes would pass over him for the briefest of moments before moving on as though they saw nothing. He never spoke, not even with Roy. He was sure that the lefty had simply taken pity on the rookie, and although he appreciated the gesture, Greg had no need of his sympathy. He had almost convinced himself that no one would notice if he didn’t show up the next day when the coach came up to after the game, stopping him just as he was about to leave.

“Sullivan, we’ve got an afternoon game tomorrow and Mike’s gonna need a day off.” McKenzie muttered as he looked over a clipboard. “Are you gonna be ready to go?”

Greg stared at him, sure that his mouth was hanging open but temporarily indifferent to the matter.

“Sure thing, coach.” he finally answered, the words moving past his lips before he had even realized he had
said them.

“’Atta boy.” the coach gave him a slap on the shoulder before disappearing into his office. As Greg watched him go, his shock transformed into a strange mixture of overwhelming joy and paralyzing fear. I’m actually going to be out there, he thought. Playing with some of the world’s best at the highest level of competition there is.

Dear God I’m so screwed.

That night Greg’s sleep was fitful and uneasy. He
would be close to drifting off when the image of a ninety-five mile per hour fastball rocketing towards him would flash in his mind, a violent and abrupt reminder of what awaited him the next day. He was a walking bundle of nerves when he arrived at the stadium in the morning, anxious and high-strung. As Greg entered the locker room, he could feel eyes upon him, quick glances and sideways stares accompanied by low, murmured conversations. There was no doubt in Greg’s mind that they were talking about him in a less than complimentary manner and probably making side bets on how many strikeouts he’d rack up on the day.

Jeez, Greg thought as he reached his locker, I think I liked it better when they were ignoring me.

Eager to get out of that environment, Greg quickly dressed and headed for the field, completely alone on the diamond as he began the seemingly endless trek to the bullpen. The fans hanging over the edge of the wall perked up a bit when they saw him enter, some of them groaning in disappointment when it became clear that it wasn’t anyone important. While he waited for the starter to join him, Greg practiced his blocking and sliding, terrified of being unable to stop a fastball in the dirt that a superior catcher would intercept with ease.

The pitcher showed up after a few minutes and Greg’s anxiety immediately ramped up as soon as he realized who the young man was. His name was Rafael Marino, a Cuban defector with a fully loaded shotgun for an arm who just happened to be picked up by the Geoducks mere months after arriving in America. Rafael could bring heat on the big league level, but it came at the cost of having next to no control over it. After a brief, terse conversation, the two men assumed their natural positions, Greg settling into his crouch as he chided himself for not upping his health insurance policy when he had the chance.

Marino’s first pitch was a fastball that hit the dirt a good five feet in front of him, skipping off of the dirt like a hurled stone off a pond, hitting Greg square between the eyes and knocking him flat on his ass as a round of laughter descended from above. Greg got back up and signaled to Marino that he was fine, inwardly wishing that the Cuban’s boat had sprung a leak before reaching Miami. Thankfully, the session normalized somewhat after that, Greg’s main concern turning to how fast he could get his hands on ice once Marino was warmed up.

The hours before the game slipped by, sneaking past Greg unnoticed until he heard the booming and highly ceremonial announcing of the starting lineups. He allowed himself to smile just a little at the response his name got – not deafening by any means, but it was definitely a cheer. A minute later, he found himself trotting out onto the diamond with the rest of the starting squad, unable to even hear his own panicky thoughts over the joyful ovation that rose out of the stands when thirty thousand people saw their team take the field. Once the warm-up pitches were thrown and the tradition of taking the ball around the horn had been completed, the umpire summoned the batter into the box and called for the start of play.

Okay, no problem, Greg thought. You’ve been doing this ever since you were big enough to wear the gear without falling over. This is no different, even if your pitcher is able to throw fast enough to permanently paralyze your hand and the batter’s going to rip your first miscalled pitch over the left field wall. With a trembling hand, Greg signaled for the fastball, to which Marino responded by immediately entering his wind-up. Here it comes, he thought. Don’t swing at it, don’t swing at it dontswingdontswingdontswing Oh God he’s swinging please miss –

WHIFFFF!

THWAP!

“STRIIIIKE!”

The gruff bellow of the umpire resonated in Greg’s ears, his throaty shout sounding to the catcher as beautiful as the delicate pluckings of a golden harp. An appreciative audience cheered and applauded the call as Greg threw the ball back, the smile on his face as wide as home plate. With burgeoning confidence, he called for the slider and waited for the pitch with anxious anticipation. The ball left Marino’s hand, took a sharp left as it approached the plate and –

CRACK!

As soon as the ball was in the air, Greg was on his feet, his mask in the dirt and his eyes furiously searching the azure heavens for a tiny speck of white. His breath was trapped painfully in his chest until he saw the lazy arc of the baseball as it floated out towards center field, a can of corn that the outfielder effortlessly snagged. Okay, Greg grinned. One down, twenty-six to go.

After retiring the first batter, Greg went on autopilot, calling and catching pitches and working with Marino to keep the hits to a couple of singles scattered over the first three innings. In between frames, he and Marino discussed what was working and what wasn’t, conversing pretty well for two guys who barely spoke each other’s languages. They were in the middle of such a conversation when Coach McKenzie interrupted them by barking at Greg to strip off his gear – he was up next.

Embarrassed, Greg grabbed his bat and trotted out onto the on-deck circle just as the current batter had the second strike called on him. Greg cursed his lack of observation as he hurriedly shimmied a weighted donut onto his bat, winding up for his first warm-up swing just as the batter was striking out. Gritting his teeth and swearing under his breath, Greg took a couple of quick, clumsy cuts before knocking the weight off and striding to the plate. He dug his cleats in to the batter’s box, and shot as intimidating a stare as he could muster in the direction of the pitcher, who couldn’t have been more than six feet high but was standing as tall as the Colossus at the moment.

Relax, Greg demanded of himself. Think about this logically. You’re a rookie fourth-string catcher, completely unused to major league pitching. What would you call? No way they’re gonna let some pissant kid get lucky with a first-pitch fastball. It’s gotta be offspeed. No question.

He squinted as the pitcher entered his wind-up, looking for some physical hint to confirm his suspicions. As he let go of the ball, Greg’s eyes widened, having caught for just an instant the tight spin of the laces as it came off the hand. He hesitated for just an instant, judging the break of the curveball before letting loose with a mighty swing, hoping beyond hope that he had guessed correctly.

CRRRAAACK!

As soon as he heard the sharp splinter of the wood, Greg’s bat was on the ground, his legs pumping fiercely as propelled himself down the line with as much speed as he could manage. As much as he tried to keep his eyes locked straight ahead, Greg allowed himself to glance up briefly to see where exactly he had hit the ball. He looked towards left field just in time to see it drop in the gap, trickling towards the warning track as the crowd roared its approval. Without even looking for the first base coach’s okay, Greg turned the corner and made for second, chugging along at an impressive pace for a backup catcher. He was halfway to the bag when the center fielder finally got a hold of the ball and launched it back into the infield, the missile of a throw temporarily reviving the panic in Greg’s mind. The ball’s gonna beat me to the bag, he realized. Can’t go back now gotta slide he’s got the ball slide…

“SAFE!”

Greg just laid there in the dirt for a second, his foot jammed into the unforgiving material of the bag, enjoying the cheers and just savoring the moment for all it was worth. Filled with energy, he jumped to his feet and brushed the dirt from his pants, leading off from the base and making no effort to hide the wide, childish grin on his face. I forgot just how fun this could be, he thought.

His time on the basepaths didn’t last nearly as long as he would have liked, as the following batter struck out on three pitches immediately following his at bat. But Greg would return before long, lacing a single over the shortstop’s head in the sixth inning that drove home a run and earned him another ovation and a pat on the rear from the first base coach. His was the fourth run driven in for the Geoducks, which was good for a two run lead heading into the top of the ninth.

Marino had thrown eight solid innings before being yanked in favor of the closer, a barrel-chested vet with a live fastball and an unpredictable slider. So unpredictable, in fact, that even the closer didn’t seem to know where it was going. He walked the first two batters, allowing the go-ahead run to come to the plate before suddenly finding control over his arm and striking out the next two. Over the course of the strikeouts, Greg’s eye kept twitching in the direction of first base, distracted by the greedy leadoff of the runner that occupied it. He’s trying to make sure he scores on a double, Greg realized. Getting a little ahead of ourselves, aren’t we?

With the final out within grasp, the audience came to its feet, clapping and shouting their encouragement to see the team through to victory. As soon as the batter was ready to go, Greg called for an outside fastball and tried his best to keep his eyes from darting over to first, not wanting to give the baserunner any hint as to his intention. Drake nodded, entered his windup, and zipped the ball wide of home plate. The instant it was in his glove, Greg plucked the ball out and whipped it towards first, taking note to remember the incredibly satisfying look of fear that had suddenly struck the baserunner’s face. The first baseman caught the ball and swooped his glove downward, slapping it against the runner’s helmet as he dove back towards first.

Greg ripped his mask off and jumped to his feet, his eyes wide and his heart pounding as he waited for the umpire’s call. The man in blue paused for an agonizing second before he pumped his fist forward, drawing one final, deafening roar from the crowd as Greg shot his hands in the air, unable to contain his excitement. The post-game ceremonies were a blur, a dizzying parade of handshakes and congratulations that stretched all the way from the mound to his locker. He was still fielding kudos and friendly slaps to various parts of his body when he began to change out of his uniform. Greg was nearly finished when Coach McKenzie came up to him, his face looking as though it was trying to muster a smile but just couldn’t find the energy to do so.

“You looked good out there today, Sullivan.” he said.

Greg grinned sheepishly. “Thanks, coach.”

Coach McKenzie sighed, crossed his arms, and looked Greg up and down.

“Think you can do the same for me tomorrow?” he finally asked.

Greg’s grin widened to the point where it actually began to hurt his face.

“Sure thing, coach.”

“’Atta boy.”

*

The following days were among the happiest of Greg’s life. He played every day, performing with a crisp, effortless efficiency that belied his complete lack of experience at the major league level. Every curveball seemed set on a pedestal, every fastball moving as though it were propelled through molasses. Opposing baserunners tromped helplessly through mud, unable to do anything but shake their head and curse under their breath as they trotted away from an unsuccessful theft. Whatever strain the competition put on his body was washed away by a continuous stream of adrenaline that powered him through the agony of overworked muscles and the constant ache of tortured knees.

As much fun as he was having, Greg was worried that Mike would be upset over riding the bench while he played, and actually made an attempt to apologize for hogging the playing time. But all Mike did was snort, slap Greg on the shoulder, and make a delightfully thoughtless joke about how he should enjoy it since he sure as hell wouldn’t be getting another shot at the big time. At the time, Greg laughed it off, but that thought managed to latch itself onto a dark corner of his mind, eating away at him as his borrowed time ticked away.

When the fifteenth day arrived, the Geoducks were in Vancouver, finishing a hotly contested series with the Eagles. Greg arrived at the stadium the way he had the past two days - dodging barbs from the Eagles fans who crowded around the visitor’s entrance, held back by security guards and hastily constructed fences of bike racks and cement dividers. The environment inside the locker room was what Greg imagined it’d be like for a playoff game – palpable nervous energy channeled into playful brazen machismo, testosterone-heavy even for a locker room. Greg chuckled at the spectacle as he pulled on his jersey and released a long exhale to disperse some of his own bubbling anxiety.

“Nervous, kid?” Greg looked up to see Roy enter the room, his normally tired eyes uncharacteristically sharp and calculating.

“No more than anyone else here, I think.” Greg smiled. “How ‘bout you? Starting pitcher’s gotta be feeling the pressure right about now.”

Roy pursed his lips and shook his head. “Nah. I’ve been through enough of these to know that the sun’s gonna rise tomorrow no matter what happens. Still, doesn’t mean we can’t give ‘em a show tonight, right?”

“That’s right.”

“See you in the pen.”

Warm-up was unusually tense, little to no
conversation occurring between players as though the nerves that they had been laughing off in the locker room had finally grabbed hold as game time approached. For their part, Greg and Roy were silent in the bullpen, all their concentration seemingly focused on preparing for the task set before them. But Greg couldn’t help but be distracted by what Mike had said a few days earlier, about how this very well could be his last game in the majors.

Greg tried to put the notion out of his mind as he and Roy left the bullpen, reminding himself that so long as he was a Geoduck, his only thought should be how to help the team towards victory. The teammate and individual parts of his brain debated fiercely as the game began and only grew louder through the first couple of innings, continuing as he absent-mindedly watched his team at bat and even as he guided Roy through the Eagles’ batting order. It wasn’t until he stepped up to the plate and entered the box for his first at bat that he was snapped out of his trance.

“So, you’re the dope they got to play for Reynolds, huh?” came a muffled voice from behind.

He glanced back to see the catcher’s eyes boring into him, cold and unsettling even through the maze of dark plastic that made up his mask. Greg snorted and returned his attention to the pitcher, not about to let some smarmy backstop distract him from the task at hand.

“I’d say you’re not half the player he is,” the catcher piped up again, “But I think that might be too generous.”

Greg’s eyes twitched for the briefest of moments, just enough time to allow a sizzling fastball to zip by him unseen. The umpire belted out a call of strike as Greg glared at the catcher, who simply tossed the ball back with a maddening smirk on his face. Working quickly, the pitcher immediately entered his windup and delivered his second offering, a breaking pitch that dove at Greg’s knees like a vengeful linebacker. Frozen by the severity of the curveball, Greg could do nothing but stand there helplessly as it nipped the lower inside corner of the zone for the second strike.

Concentrate, Greg commanded himself. What’s coming next? He set me up to look off-speed with the last pitch, so it’s gotta be fastball. Gotta be. Greg watched the pitcher intently as he entered his windup and fired the third pitch, tightening his grip around the bat as the ball came out of the hurler’s hand.

WHIFF!

THWAP!

“YER OUT!”

Changeup. Greg stood stunned in the follow-through position for a painful moment, humiliated at being so thoroughly and efficiently outsmarted. He saw the catcher wink at him out of the corner of his eye, a final embarrassing detail that ate away at Greg as he shuffled back towards the bench. His next two at-bats were just as unproductive, resulting in another strikeout and a weak pop-up. The fact that the rest of the team seemed to be having very little success was of little consolation, but Greg could at least take solace in the fact that Roy was pitching just as well.

Frames turned rapidly and neither team managed to put a run on the board. The tension became unbearable as the game entered the later innings, the play of both teams becoming stiff and overbearing, every player out there terrified of making the one crucial mistake that would give the opposition the lead. The top of the ninth came around and the first two Portland batters failed to get on base, flailing awkwardly at the offerings of the Eagles’ starter, his pitchers still as devastating as when the game started. Greg sighed and stepped into the on-deck circle, knowing just how slim the chances were of his team scoring this inning. Up now was the light-hitting shortstop, and even if he managed to get on, it would be up to Greg to continue the rally, a daunting task considering that he hadn’t even been able to make decent contact with a single pitch that evening. In fact –

CRRRRRAAACK!

Greg’s despair was interrupted by the resonating snap of the bat as it tore into a misplaced fastball, immediately launching the spheroid deep into the right field corner. He pumped his fist in the air and shouted surely unheard words of encouragement at the batter as he rounded first and trotted into second, reaching the base just as the cutoff man was getting hold of the ball. Greg’s excitement at seeing the timely double was quickly squelched by the realization that it was up to him to bring that baserunner home. The pressure wasn’t resolved any by the members of his bench, who tried their best to spur Greg on by clapping energetically and barking clichéd statements of support his way.

“Look who’s back.” the Eagles catcher remarked as Greg entered the box. “Guess I don’t have to worry about you guys taking the lead after all.”

Ignore him, Greg ordered himself. Nothing’ll shut him up quicker than you driving in that run. The first offering was an overwhelming fastball that nicked the inside corner, almost unfair in its speed and location. The next pitch was nearly identical to the first, leaving Greg frustrated and disheartened as the umpire called for the strike.

“Hope you enjoyed your time up here with real ballplayers.” the catcher chipped away. “Too bad the last thing you’re gonna do is let your team down.”

That thought scared Greg more than anything else. The Geoducks had given him his chance at the big time, and here was about to repay them by failing miserably in an incredibly crucial situation. No way in hell am I going out like that, Greg resolved. He kept repeating that declaration over and over in his mind as the pitcher wound up once more and delivered what would be the knockout blow. Greg grit his teeth and clenched his knuckles as the ball closed in on him like a comet, an indistinguishable white blur that he blindly slapped at.

A somewhat hollow sound rang off of his bat as it made contact, definitely not the resounding crack Greg had been looking for. His eyes shot upwards to see the ball floating out to shallow left field, and then down to see three Eagles scrambling in its direction. Holy crap, that might fall, Greg realized as he took off for first. To his left, he could see the runner sprinting around third, having taken off on contact and determined on score on any hit. Fall, Greg inwardly screamed, c’mon you lousy son of a bitch, fall fall fallfallfallfallfall…

“FAIR BALL!”

Greg could clearly hear the cheers that rang out from
his bench as it exploded in celebration, their jubilation standing out in stark contrast to the silent shock of the Vancouver crowd. As he stood on first base, Greg knew that he had just gotten unbelievably lucky. But that didn’t stop him from looking the catcher’s direction and waggling his eyebrows at him.

Unfortunately, the rally died right afterwards with a harmless grounder to second, meaning that the Geoducks would be going into the bottom of the ninth with an incredibly fragile one run lead. As Greg trotted out onto the field, he couldn’t help but wonder how much Roy had left in the tank. As much as Greg would have liked to see Roy finish the game out, there was no getting past the fact that he’d be pushing his aged body to the very limit by going for it.

But Roy didn’t seem aware of that fact, as he dispatched the first two batters with ease and brought himself to the precipice of a complete game shutout. Even though his team was only an out away from a tremendous victory, Greg was still gripped with anxiety – probably because the batter lumbering to the plate was the Eagles’ hard-hitting first baseman, an imposing slugger who had taken Roy to the warning track on two separate occasions. As though a game-tying home run was inevitable, the crowd began to cheer and applaud wildly for their prospective savior, their roar only growing more intense as Roy just barely missed the strike zone on three different pitches.

Roy came back with a fastball right down the pipe and a changeup that barely caught the outside corner, boos pouring in from every part of the audience as the umpire called it a strike. Roy paused for a moment after getting the ball back, taking his hat off and wiping his saturated brow with the sleeve of his jersey. Seeing that his pitcher needed a minute, Greg called for time and jogged out to the mound as the crowd voiced their extreme displeasure with the obvious stalling tactic. Greg put his hands on his hips and watched Roy for a second, looking on as his hero’s chest heaved and he started blankly into the stands.

“I’m not out here to give you advice.” Greg finally said. “You’ve been doing this for God knows how long and I wouldn’t dream of telling you what to do.”

Roy put his head down but didn’t say anything. Greg thought for a minute before a small smile came over his face.

“Think you got one of those fireballs left in ya?”

The old-timer looked up at Greg, his eyes surprised and wide. With a tired grin, Roy nodded and pounded the ball into his glove, sending Greg back to the plate more at ease than he’d felt all day. Once back into position, Greg settled into the crouch, ignoring the suspicious glance from the batter as he called for the pitch. Fastball. Inside corner. Roy blinked, pulled himself into his stance, and held it for a moment. His movements deliberate and meaningful, Roy pulled his arms back over his head and brought his knee up to his body before hurling his entire body towards the mound, putting everything he had into the pitch. The batter pulled his bat back, raised his knee and –

THWAP!

“YER OUT!”

It was over. They had won. His mind reeling, Greg glanced up at the batter, realizing that the towering man hadn’t even swung. The look on his face was one of abject surprise and fascination, the same expression Greg realized he must have been wearing when Roy first threw him the fireball two weeks ago. All at once, the emotion within Greg rose and burst from the seams, causing him to jump to his feet and run out to the mound, where Roy waited with that same satisfied smile on his face. Unable to help himself, Greg hugged Roy and slapped him on the back, laughing merrily as he did so. The rest of the team came out to congratulate the old-timer and each other on a job well done, celebrating the hard fought victory in the very heart of enemy territory.

*

“You wanted to see me, coach?” Greg asked as he poked his head through the open door. Coach McKenzie was on the phone, motioning for Greg to come in as he wrapped up the conversation. Greg hurriedly sat down in front of the desk and tried to look as casual as possible. The game had only ended a few minutes ago but the elation of victory had already been replaced by anxious anticipation over what the coach had to say.

“That was the general manager.” he announced as he hung up the phone and sat back in his chair.

Oh my God this is it, Greg silently cried. They’ve decided to promote me to the majors. Greg raised his eyebrows slightly but fought to contain any other sort of response as the coach continued.

“He wanted me to tell you that you did a fantastic job, and that we’re going to miss you up here.” he said. “I’m sure they miss you in Riverton.”

Greg sat shock still, going over what he had just heard again and again in his mind. That can’t be right, he thought. I was fantastic! What more do they want from me? Greg cranked his mouth open to say something, anything, but all that would come out was small choking sounds. Coach McKenzie watched him for a second before sighing, pulling himself heavily out of his chair, and stepping around in front of Greg.

“C’mon, kid.” he said as he say on the edge of the desk. “You know what the score is, better than anyone. You got hot. That’s all there is to it.”

Greg closed his mouth and listened silently, his eyes wide and searching. He knew that what the coach was saying was true, but his mind refused to calm down, screaming at Greg to jump out of his seat, grab McKenzie by the collar and shake some sense into him.

“Nothing you coulda done out there would have convinced them that you were anything more than a kid that got lucky.” the coach frowned. “You got a cup of coffee, nothing more.”

Greg slumped back into his chair and dropped his head. Idiot, he scolded himself. What was I thinking, believing that a couple weeks of good play was enough to unseat a real major leaguer. He was about to get up and leave when the coach interrupted his self-loathing.

“But y’know,” he leaned forward with a small smile on his face, “You had about the sweetest cup I’ve ever seen. I bet some other GM in need of a catcher just about pissed himself watching you play.”

Despite himself, Greg laughed. He looked up and met eyes with the coach, a long silence passing between them that the old man finally broke by offering Greg his hand. He smiled and happily shook it, grateful for the coach’s kindness and tact.

“See you around, kid.”

“See ya, coach.”

With that, Greg rose and left, walking back to his locker in silence. He grinned as he got changed, thinking about what the coach had said, allowing just a tiny bit of himself to believe he’d be back up here before long. After getting into his street clothes, Greg hung his uniform in the cubby, examining it briefly before turning to go. He had almost left the room when he heard the sound of clapping, as though someone were being applauded.

Greg turned and saw Roy standing in front of his locker, clapping his hands and smiling broadly. One by one, the rest of the team joined him, some whistling and shouting well wishes Greg’s way as they did so.

He stood with his face blank for a few seconds, not quite sure how to respond to such a touching gesture. Fighting back tears, he smiled and gave his teammates a small bow, the applause continuing as he turned on his heel and strode out of the room. As Greg walked alone down that narrow hallway, the events of the last few days played in his mind, running over and over again as though he were watching his favorite movie on a loop. Even if I never sniff the majors again, he thought, I’m still fulfilling a dream.

He was a ballplayer. Life was good.

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