| From: | Strago strago@***.com |
|---|---|
| Subject: | Seattlers: Part II (Over the Left Field Wall) |
| Date: | Mon, 14 Feb 2000 02:03:44 -0500 |
Mike Nordstott stood on the pitching mound wearing the uniform of the
Seattle Seadogs. He looked at the hitter at the plate, Jason Black of
the New York Yankees.
The multitudinous home runs he’d hit were daunting but Black hadn’t
hit any off of an ork pitcher. They threw the ball to hard and fast.
But trolls were larger than orks so he’d never hit one off of me. In a
few minutes I’ll be back in the dugout and then I can get a drink of
water.
He threw the first pitch and it went straight down the middle of the
plate. Strike one. Black didn’t even swing.
He couldn’t see it. Now the next pitch, no, not the slider, another
fastball. Throw it hard there down the middle strike two! OK, one
more, now the slowball, he’ll never suspect it. OK, not down the
middle, upper corner, yes!
The ball hung in the air for a moment and then Jason Black connected
with it. It flew long, long long and then it drifted foul. Mike
Nordstott cracked his knuckles and caught the ball from his catcher.
He held it in his gigantic hand. The ball seemed tiny by comparison,
almost like a Ping-Pong ball in the hand of a human. He balanced it
between his index and middle fingers and looked at the plate. His eyes
closed for a second.
Please God don’t let this get hit. He threw. Strike three!
The Seadogs went back into the dugout. Mike was up, so he walked up to
the batting helmets and balanced one between the two horns on his
head. He grabbed a bat, it was also small, but he’d used it ever since
he started playing baseball and was used to it. He walked to the plate
and looked at the puny dwarf pitcher for the Yankees.
The first pitch was thrown, low, ball one. So he looked in the dugout
at his manager. He made a golf swing. Watch the low pitches inside was
the cue. The dwarf pulled back, and his arm moved forward, the ball
flying through the air. Mike swung, connected, the ball streaked back
and was caught by the leaping right fielder. OUT!
* * *
The sweating Mike watched yet another batter get a hit against him. In
the top of the ninth, with runners on first and third, the score all
tied up at three, the situation seemed pretty grim for him. The next
batter sauntered up to the plate. Jason Black, who’d gone oh for four
so far in the game. He’d have a chance to win the game and get his
first hit at the same time. Mike looked around, took in his teammates,
and then focused on his catcher.
The signal came in, and he threw the pitch. Black swung mightily but
it went just under his bat for strike one. The manager called time out
and walked to the mound.
-Hey, Mike, you’re slowing down out here. Time for you to hit the
showers.
-No thanks, I’m pitching a complete game. This is my last season and I
want it to last.
-Suit yourself but if you screw this game up I’m going to bench you
and ship you down to the minors. You ain’t been doing to good this
year. You’re too old. The manager walked back to the dugout and sat
down.
Mike let out a deep breath. Truth was he hurt all over. He was old,
too old for a baseball player, and now all he wanted to do was crawl
into the dugout and hit the showers. But stubbornness and pride kept
him in there.
-PLAY BALL, the umpire said.
Black stepped back to the plate.
Mike reared back and threw with all his strength. The ball flew
through the air and the catcher barely caught it going over his head.
He saw the runner on first trying to steal second and threw the ball
to second.
Got him! Now we’re tied with two outs and a runner on third. This is
better. This is much better. Time to get Black out.
Mike figured the slider would be best. He hadn’t thrown one all day so
it should surprise the batter. Mike took a deep breath. He threw the
pitch. CRAAAACKK!
The ball shot off the bat of Jason Black and went back, back, back,
over the left field wall for a home run. Mike’s eyes shut.
NO!
--
--Strago
In Italy for thirty years under the Borgias they had warfare, terror,
murder, bloodshed - they produced Michelangelo, Leonardo da Vinci and
the Renaissance. In Switzerland they had brotherly
love, five hundred years of democracy and peace, and what did they
produce? The cuckoo clock!
-Orson Welles
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