Julius Stevens (#34, B-L, T-L) stands on his hill, and he turns his head to his left, then to the right. He’s got the lowest ERA of anyone in the Pacific Coast League, and that’s not about to change right now. A pair of runners at first and third at the top of the second, one out on the scoreboard, and the popcorn vendor shouting about the snacks he’s trying his hardest to push. A horn blares, screaming its presence at an unblinking blue sky. There’s no wind over the ballpark today—which Stevens wishes would at least pick up to a small breeze, since the knuckleball dances better that way. It isn’t really worth throwing anyways, most days, but it would at least give him something to set up the fastball with.
The runner at first dives back to the base before Stevens even finishes turning his shoulder to make the pickoff throw. Stevens pulls the hat off his head, wiping his brow, and putting his glove up to get the throw back from Arthur Wallace (#13, B-S, T-L) at first. The two had been friends since Wallace had been called up to the San Marcos Shakes from AA back in March. Stevens had been around since about ’54 or so, and the manager Harry Hartson (#82) assigned the two to room together on a long road trip. Wallace thought he was going to get called up any day now, which gave Stevens quite the chuckle in the clubhouse.
“I don’t even need a locker here, guys,” he’d say, packing his street clothes into a bag, conveniently hidden in the back corner of the clubhouse, behind the laundry basket full of sweaty, used towels. “But I’ll be sure to reserve seats for you guys in October.”
“Seats for what? Your community theater performances?” the left fielder, Jimmy Fish (#5, B-R, T-R) would chide, holding up his glove like an opera mask.
“C’mon, Jim. His performance isn’t even up to that level.” Reliever Max Klein’d (#22, B-L, T-R) always know how to clear a room. It makes Stevens worry that he’s going to be called in to clear the bases now.
Stevens looks back down the barrel of the battery at his catcher for the day, Morris Poe (#76, B-R, T-R). He shakes off the sign for all the breaking pitches he knows: curveball, change, knuckle, and slider. What he’s looking for, the fastball low and away, is just not coming out of Poe. Figures. Backups never quite seem to know the gameplan as well as the regular starters do. But they eventually get it through their thick skulls.
Nodding at the fastball call, Stevens gears up to throw. It isn’t quite as easy as it used to be when he first started; his joints have started to firm up with arthritis, he has strained every muscle and broken every bone in his arm, and his ankle always seems to click when he pivots on it now. But Stevens still knows how to huck the ball across the plate. He has to, since almost all of his other pitches were basically the same batting practice slop at this point. A better pitcher would have worked on refining his craft, tried to build longevity for his final few years trying to make it all the way up to the show. Stevens is not that pitcher. At 34, he is on the older side of the fireballers, but he still insists on trying to wear out his arm as fast as possible, at least, according to Hartson. He likes it better that way. It keeps him feeling young, for a bit longer.
The ball seems to exit the strike zone much quicker than it entered it. Stevens looks up in awe as it flew across the sky, dangerously close to the right field foul pole. Luckily for him, it lands to the right of it.
Poe yells something back at Stevens, probably asking if he’s done trying to do Poe’s job for him, but Stevens doesn’t care. He catches the throw from Poe with his body turned toward the runner at first. The runner dances back and forth next to the bag, and Stevens simply puts his hand and glove on either hip, cocking his head disappointedly at Wallace, who is looking up at his fiancé in the nosebleeds, ignoring the runner taunting him and Stevens.
“Hey dickhead! You wanna play ball sometime today?”
Wallace snaps back into focus, and hustles the five feet separating him from the bag. Being a lefty, Wallace throws up his right hand, covered by the most worn out glove on the team. Hartson has wanted him to get a new one, but Wallace insists that the bruising on his fingers was worth the comfort of knowing that the glove would make the play. He isn’t going to chance it on a new one, even if he has to tape his fingers up before and after every game.
Stevens drops his right foot back to the rubber, looks back and forth at the runners, cocks his left leg up over his waist—higher than usual for him—and drops his foot to the first base side. Wallace is ready, and receives the throw that no one had signaled for.
“Balk!”
Hartson flies out of the dugout, frothing at the mouth like rabid dog. He yells every obscenity he knows at the umpire, who stoically ignores him, and signals for the play to continue. The players look around at each other, confused, as the runners advance, and Wallace dishes the ball back to Stevens. He pitches a third strike, sending the crowd into a minor fervor. The next batter, Jeremy Dubner (#52, B-R, T-R), enters his designated box. Dubner played with San Marcos last year, and Stevens would often room with him on the extended road trips. A smart aleck, Dubner spent a lot of his free time doodling, making wild cartoons out of the twisted faces and misshapen bodies you would find walking around with the club. They are quite the cast of freaks; at least that’s what Stevens thinks. Which, probably, is why he and Dubner got along in the first place.
Still trying to yell the umpire’s ear off, Hartson starts to run out of breath as Dubner gets set in the box. “Let it go, Harry,” Stevens yells down. “It’s really not worth it.”
“Yeah, coach,” Dubner chimes in, “It’s just one runner on base.”
Hartson keeps shouting that the umpire needs to just open one of his shit eyes, since he’s got two of them in his fucking head anyways. He finally gets tossed, and storms back to the dugout in a huff.
Dubner and Stevens laugh it off, and settle back into the usual routine.
“Going to try and strike me out now, Stevens?”
“I’m not going to try to strike you out. I’m going to strike you out. Period. End of story.”
“Good luck. I’ve been taking extra batting practice for this series.”
“Lotta good it’ll do ya.”
“For sure. For sure.”
Stevens gets the sign for a 12-6 curve, which makes him laugh. His curve now probably only goes from about ten to eight by now. Or is it two to four? Does it even really matter?
He shakes the sign off, which make Poe call time. The blue grants it, and Poe drops his mask to the ground, and starts marching up the bump to Stevens. Lot of good it’ll do him.
Wallace starts tapping his foot like he does when he wants the ball. Everyone knows that this isn’t going to be a short visit. Stevens catches a glimpse of him out of the corner of his eye, nodding toward first so that the umpire can see. The ump nods back, and Stevens tosses the ball to Wallace. He catches it with the glee of a puppy fetching one from the yard, throwing it back and forth with his fellow infielders, third baseman Bob Sands (#46, B-R, T-R), shortstop Edgar Diaz (#15, B-L, T-R), and second baseman Rick Griffin (#2, B-R, T-R). Stevens looks back to Poe, who is taking his sweet time marching to him. His breath is short, as though the short walk was enough to get his heart beating a bit. How someone so unathletic could have made it this far boggles Stevens’ mind.
“What the hell are you doing out here, Stevens?”
“I’m pitching.”
Poe isn’t satisfied.
“Seriously. Do you want to get shelled today?”
“No. I want to throw. So, get back behind the dish.”
“Then listen to what I call.”
Stevens spits saliva to the ground, as he shifts his chew from one cheek to the other. This fat kid doesn’t know what’s good for him.
“I’ll throw what I know how to throw.”
“Do you not know the other pitches?”
“I don’t know how to throw shit pitches, if that’s what you’re askin’.”
Poe rolls his shoulders and inhales. After looking for a moment like he’s going to sneeze, he pushes the air painfully through his nostrils. Furrowing his brow and shaking his head, he says,
“Fine. Fine.”
As Poe walks back—torturously slowly—to the catcher’s box, Dubner shouts back, “Can I be invited to the tea party next time, guys? Please?”
Stevens chuckles as he settles back into his motion. Time for the next pitch. Poe starts to cycle again, until Stevens finds the fastball that he wants. He nods, confirming Poe’s suspicion that he’s only going to throw one pitch for the rest of the afternoon. It’s a chilly, April morning, and despite the lack of wind, the sun hasn’t poked through the overcast, coastal sky.
Dubner hits the ball down the line. It rolls to first, spiking up on a pothole in the grass, and bouncing high over Wallace’s head. He takes a few steps back, and fields the ball on the hop. Stevens sprints to first, putting his glove up to his shoulder, awaiting Wallace’s throw.
However, the first baseman instead decides to try to beat the runner and the pitcher to the bag himself. The three men crash together, falling over and dropping the ball. Dubner snaps back first, seeing another defender coming to grab the ball and tag him out, and dives to first base.
Stevens wakes back up in the clubhouse, with a bag of ice tied to his head, and a transistor radio at his feet.
“Well, Fran, I don’t know about you, but I sure hope that Julius Stevens, today’s starting pitcher, can make it back alright for the next game.
“Yeah, Mark. It would be a real shame for him to miss out on what looks to be a good season coming up for the Shakes.
“It sure would. We’re going to have to take a commercial break, now. At the end of four, it’s Shakes 1, Bees 5.”
Stevens clicks off the radio. This isn’t his game anymore, so there’s no use worrying about what his teammates are gonna do. They can take care of themselves. He digs around in his locker for a clean towel, the one he brings back and forth from his apartment during homestands, and places it folded on the bench by the showers.
Looking in the mirror, Stevens unwraps the ice bag from around his forehead. The bump is pretty good, but he’ll be fine. It looks like he crashed skulls with Dubner out there. It’s probably going to hurt like a motherfucker when he gets under the hot water.
It does.
Stevens cleans up, and wraps the towel around his waist. He grabs his razor from the locker, since now is a good as time as any to clean up his shave. If the boys win tonight, they’ll want to go out, and Stevens wants to look his best. It’s been a few years since he and Marsha split, and it’s probably for the best. She wanted kids, and from what Stevens has heard, she finally got them.
The cold razor blade almost immediately draws blood from Steven’s cheek. The blood slithers down his face, but he chooses not to wipe it, instead focusing on finishing his cheeks, chin, and neck before those animals get back inside the clubhouse. Their hooting and hollering are not conducive to having a blade to your neck. Stevens splashes the hot water on the cut, watching it close up and stop bleeding. He looks at his mustache intently in the mirror, and spots three gray hairs, which he immediately plucks.
Stevens gets dressed and exits the clubhouse. He decides that if he isn’t going to play in the game anymore today, he might as well try sneaking upstairs like a casual fan. It’s minor league ball, so it isn’t likely that anyone out here is going to recognize him, especially with his sunglasses on and no hat. Well, anyone except for Dubner.
“So, you’re trying to sneak out too?”
Stevens turns around, and finds himself face to face with his ex-teammate.
“I thought it might be fun to play hooky and catch the ballgame today. You?”
Dubner laughs, responding, “Thought I might try to see some friends while I’m in town. I hear Marsha’s doing pretty well.”
“One day, I’ll have to really lay into you with that mouth of yours.”
“You’ll never catch me. Hell, you can’t even throw one that could catch me.”
“The fastball was working fine today.”
“If you call that batting practice slop a fastball.”
Stevens windmills his right arm forward.
“That’s right, kid. Stretch it out, else, you might get sore.”
“Funny.”
“I know,” Dubner says. “That’s why I said it…Anyways, I gotta go. See ya ‘round, bud.”
“See you.”
With that, Dubner leaves the facility. Stevens moseys over to left field—the deep seats never sell out on a day like today—and finds a suitable spot near the back. He looks out to the scoreboard in right field. The boards tell him that the current score is Bees 6, Shakes 3, in the bottom of the ninth, two outs.
Wallace steps up to the plate. Stevens expects the curveball, since Wallace can’t really hit it all that well. Wallace looks fastball, taking a huge cut and missing. The next pitch is a changeup that scratches the dirt. 1-1. Fireball, up and in, almost takes off Wallace’s head. He doesn’t really need to be hit there again today. Hitter’s count, Wallace needs another fastball. Stevens sees the slider coming, though. You can just tell by how he’s standing on the mound.
Wallace grounds out up the middle. 6-3.
∞
Benjamin Shahon is a student in Emerson College’s MFA Program in Fiction, and has graduated with dual BA’s in Creative Writing and Philosophy from ASU. He currently lives in Boston.
Follow Benjamin on Twitter: @beansbaker5
