The Prospect by Eliot Parker (e novels to read online txt) 📕

was enjoying every moment of this embarrassing moment. Nothing was more entertaining than watching Morton Mitchell stick his foot squarely in his mouth. He could demean anyone he wanted anywhere in Sheaville, but in Ruth’s Diner, you were expected to treat everyone with respect. Morton took a long look at Frank and he grinned sheepishly at the mayor. Morton placed his feet on the floor and sprang out of the counter stool. He knew what he said was wrong, but believed it to be fact. He was not about to apologize to some waitress or pharmacist in a diner. Instead, he walked confidently and quietly to the back of the diner and flung the door open in anger and disappeared around the corner.
Almost instantly, Shane, Chaz, Ryan, and Harry walked into the diner. They each greeted Frank and Joann cordially and then sat down at the counter.
“W..w…w..was that the mayor that just left?” Ryan asked with a slight squeek in his voice.
“Yes,” said Frank and Joann simultaneously.
Joann grabbed Frank’s plate, figuring he was not going to finish his pastramis sandwich. Frank spoke first. “So, how was practice, boys?”
“It was okay, just the usual,” replied Chaz. “This morning, we worked on ‘fundamentals’.” Chaz indicated the fictitious question marks with his index fingers.
Frank laughed as Harry walked away from the counter and went to the restroom. Shane gathered all of their bats and gloves and placed them in a booth next to the countertop and sat down where Morton Mitchell had been sitting earlier.
“Things went decent today, mamma,” Shane said. “I worked on my curveball a little and locating my fastball better.”
“Atta boy,” Joann said proudly as he patted her son on his back delicately, although she had no idea what a fastball was or the importance of throwing a curveball.
Even though Joann had no idea what Shane was talking about, she smiled and cocked her head and spoke affectionately. “I am glad to hear that honey.”
“Well, I am fuckin’ starved, can we eat?” groaned Chaz. Joann began looking for her notepad and pencil but for some reason, she paused.
Chaz figured the mood had been better in the diner prior to Morton Mitchell’s arrival. After all, eating a few times in the diner made anyone an expert in determining what kind of a day the whole town was having based on the conversation of a few of Sheaville’s residents. As he plopped himself into the far-left bar stool, he addressed everyone in the diner.
“Well, you can tell the mayor’s been here. This place is like an damn morgue. You should try living with him sometime. Now that is an experience.”


V
The Sheaville Loggers next opportunity to avenge the disastrous start to their season came during a four game visit by the Macon Braves. The Macon Braves are one of ABA’s most prestigious minor league franchises. In the late 1960s, players such as Jackie Robinson, Duke Snider, Ted Williams, and a hustling, hard-hitting slugger named Pete Rose all passed through the Macon Braves farm system. Everyone in Sheaville knew about Pete Rose since he was a superstar for the town’s beloved Major League Baseball team, the Cincinnati Reds.
Macon’s history of prosperity as a minor league team always draws the ire of other organizations, including the Loggers. In 1991, led by future Major League All-Star Chipper Jones, the Macon Braves won the division in their first year as a member of the Atlanta Braves minor league farm system. The M-Braves, led by a slew of young prospects, won the division in 1992 and they sported the Appalachian Baseball Association’s best regular season record.
Yet, as Walter Mann always reminded his players, all good things come to an end. Over the last two seasons, Macon finished 12 and 18 games under .500 respectively. The franchise fired several managers and position coaches during that time and replaced their minor league general manager twice. Many of Macon’s best prospects graduated to Major League Baseball early, often staying in the minor leagues for just a year or slightly longer. Consequently, the Braves talent pool suffered and the recently drafted prospects from college and high school were suffering the growing pains of being in minor league baseball for the first time.
Walter knew the importance of this game for his team and their psyche. This was Loggers could and should beat the Braves. A 3-3 record was a pleasant thought for the manager, even as everyone in Sheaville began to question the team’s heart and talent following a 0-3 start to the season.
As the players scurried out of the dark corridor from the locker room and sat on the bench just next to the entrance, Mann was busily completing his lineup card. He turned to address his team. Walter always enjoyed these brief moments before the start of any game. He watched as the players laced their cleats, drilled the interior of their leather gloves with the palms of their hands, adjusted their protective cups comfortably around their crotches, and talked secretively with one another. At the end of the bench, Shane Triplet was pacing nervously. Walter felt that his star pitcher might suffer from internal combustion if the game did not start soon.
“All right men,” Mann said, clearing his throat. “I want you to put those first three games outcher minds. Forget about Charleston, forget about what folks in town has been saying, what the press has been saying, everything.” He scanned the bench once again, realizing he had the entire team’s attention.
“Triplet, you start today. I want you to focus and play within yerself. None of them hero’s antics either. Biggie, I want you behind the plate to help him. Everyone that started game one is starten today. I want y’all to treat this as opening day. Now Macon’s down, but they ain’t out. I want you to play with the same passion as you played when them damn Alley Cats were here. Questions?”
Shane was still standing up near the concrete steps, which lead to the field. His arm was resting on the top of the dugout. Easier said than done he thought to himself. He leaned forward and faced the rest of the bench, full of players wearing white uniforms complete with determined facial expressions. Sitting in the middle of the row was Chaz Martinez, who caught Shane’s look and nodded his head. Shane’s friend was such a good defensive shortstop, Shane knew he could get away with a few bad pitches as long as Chaz was guarding the field behind his right shoulder.
With no questions, the team jogged up the dugout steps past Shane. Shane eventually climbed the steps and walked to the pitchers mound to warm up. He glanced around the ballpark and saw that once again, another capacity crowd filled Clark Field to watch the Sheaville Loggers take on the Macon Braves. The fans quickly rose to their feet and roared and applauded as the players came onto the field. Since Sheaville was the home team, Macon batted first, which Shane preferred, because he liked being able to set the tone for his team early in the ballgame.
The sun was bearing down on the ballpark, soaking the field in a magnificent orange glow that made Shane’s skin warm instantly. Some fluffy white clouds surrounded the sky and a stiff breeze was swirling throughout the ballpark. Shane could notice several people sitting behind home plate wearing wind-breaker jackets. For an afternoon game in mid April, the temperature was cooler than usual.
Shane stood on the mound and scoured the field. He could hear the sound of crackling leather to his right, and he noticed Harry Deitzler was throwing a ball to Chaz Martinez and Ryan Head, trying to loosen their arm muscles and prepare for the upcoming speed of the game. Shane bent down and gripped the baseball tightly that lay at his feet. When he faced home plate, he noticed Walter talking to 228-pound Biggie Rowan.
Shane could only imagine what the two were discussing. The pitcher imagined the conversation probably centered on him and how to keep the game close so another set of mistakes did not plunge the team to 0-4. Mann and Biggie seemed oblivious to Shane watching them.
Shane noticed Mann talking quickly, sticking his finger into the center of Biggie Rowan’s chest protector. Biggie did not speak much, just nodded his head in agreement.
“Listen here, Jase,” Walter demanded. “I want you to call a gooden today. Get Triplet to use his off-speed stuff so we can save his arm for the late ones.” Biggie concluded his manager meant “innings” when he said “late ones.”
“Sure thing, skip,” Biggie replied, almost speaking as if he had spoken the phrase so many times before.
“Now, I want you to check wit me and go out there if he ain’t got his head in it, got me?” Walter asked rhetorically. “Help ‘em and me manage the game.”
Biggie nodded his head forward.
As the home plate umpire took his position behind the plate, Walter walked off the field and gave a long look at Shane. Shane, watching his manager intently, almost guided him to the dugout with his own eyes. Walter’s face was expressionless and his cheeks were full of blood. Shane knew his manager wanted to win this game bad, and for that matter, so did Shane.
Harry hollered at Shane from first base. “Nice and easy Shane.”
Shane did not turn and face his teammate, preferring to watch home plate and get ready to throw the first pitch. His heart began to race and his toes wiggled vigorously in his cleats. Show them watch you’ve got is the only thought Shane could conjure at this point.
Carlton Rogers, the second baseman for the Macon Braves strutted into the left portion of the batter’s box and eagerly tapped the end of his bat against the plate. He was one of Macon’s best hitters from last season, but so far this year, he was hitting just under .230 with 0 runs batted in. Dust began to rise from the batter’s box causing Biggie to rub his nose incessantly. The home plate umpire pointed at Shane, indicating it was time for the game to start.
The public address announcer mentioned Rogers name and position, but Shane could not recognize the muffled words, nor did he want to. He needed to focus soley on Biggie’s glove and his hand signals, and forget who was hitting or what their name might be.
The first sign of the game was made. Biggie rested his index and pinkie fingers against his left thigh. Shane knew exactly what that signal meant-curveball on the inside corner of the plate. Seldom did Shane ever start a ball game pitching curveballs. Instead, he used his fastball to set up the curveball. Against Charleston, his first five pitches were fastballs. However, Shane took the sign, planted his left foot into the pitching mound rubber, swiveled the ball amongst his fingers inside the glove and brought the glove level with his face.
Behind him, Ryan, Chaz, and Harry all exchanged glances with one another and looked towards home plate. By the time they looked forward, Shane had unleashed the first pitch of the game.
The curveball sliced through the crisp April air, buckled Rogers’s knees and landed just where Biggie had instructed, on the inside corner of the plate.
“STRIKE,” yelled the umpire. The crowd clapped and cheered almost in unison.
Rogers looked at the umpire and then looked at Shane in amazement. Shane decided the scouting report complied by Macon must have mentioned that he loved to open things up with his fastball. Shane now understood why Biggie wanted a curveball pitch to start the game.
Biggie threw the ball back to the mound and Charlton drug his cleats