Cream and Sugar - Part Two

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.