LJ Idol, Topic 24: "He Gave It a Ride, Folks" [fiction]
It was funny, he thought to himself. He'd always assumed that when the day actually came, he'd be so jittery that it would be immediately obvious what was going on. But here he was, prepped and ready to go, armed with his nuclear box, his secret still locked safely behind his teeth...and he was so damned cool, Bruce Campbell Himself could have taken lessons from him. He held out a hand and marveled at its steadiness. Not a tremor to be seen.
"It's coming down to the wire here, folks. The Blue Sox are one out away from the end of their season here, and they're still three runs down. It looks hopeless for our Aqua Hose, but this crowd doesn't seem to want to go yet. They've stuck by our boys all year and they aren't giving up now. Listen to that crowd roar!"
He checked his watch. 7:30. Plenty of time yet before she arrived. Go for a stroll around the block? No, she might get here early and then wonder where he was. Not the best way to start the evening off. He settled for pacing back and forth, back and forth, his feet padding a restless rhythm into the thick shag pile.
"Two away now and Vickman is dancing impatiently off the bag at first. Not too far, though. He isn't going anywhere with two outs. Kirke seems to know that, too. He's not even bothering to check Vickman's lead. He stretches and delivers -- look out! It's a rocket shot up the middle. Duncan at second makes a gorgeous dive but he's wasting his time. Farley in center has it and fires to third, but Vickman's in with a nice hook slide. He's safe and Fitzgerald is at second with a stand-up double. Second and third now...but still two outs. Let's go, Sox!"
His thoughts raced round in his head, chasing each other like ferrets on crack. Could he get the words out? Would they mean what he thought they did? Would his intent be clear enough, would she realize the gravity of the situation? Was there any way he could make this easier?
Would he choke when it was his turn in the spotlight?
"They aren't taking any chances with big Moore. Even with two away that bat is murderous. They're giving him four wide ones and there he goes, lumbering down to first. So the bags are full of Soxers now and those three runs aren't looking quite so insurmountable as before...but brother, do those two outs loom big! Let's see who Miller calls as the pinch-hitter for Regina. It's -- yes, it really is Jimmy Ridgeway! Well, if that isn't one hell of a shock, I don't know what is!"
"Come on in! Let me take your coat. Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, whatever? No? Well, okay. Dinner's almost ready. Make yourself comfortable and I'll let you know when it's ready."
"This kid has shown incredible promise all year. He's defied everyone's expectations by refusing to listen to his press clippings. He hasn't broken into the lineup yet, but he's yanked the Sox's bacon out of the fire several times this year. Well, the bacon's burning now; let's see if he can pull it out one more time!"
"I'm glad you liked it. Anything else I can get you? Okay, then.
"Well, I wanted you to come over tonight because I wanted to talk to you. Don't give me that look, you had to know this was coming. I mean, I've dropped enough hints, after all."
Kirke was giving him that unhappy look that all power pitchers seem to give hitters that are potential threats, especially in the late innings. Jimmy settled himself in the box, awaiting the first pitch, bat held tightly in his big paws. Kirke stretched and fired; a white blur cut the corner for strike one.
"You've always asked me where I thought this was going. I kept telling you I didn't know where it was going because I'd never been here before. It sounds like a cheap reply, I know, but c'mon, put yourself in my place for a second. You know I still can't believe that a girl like you would ever have anything to do with me."
He shook his head, angry with himself. Low and away it might have been, but he could have gone with it and sent it into right for a clean single. He was pressing too hard again. The Sox were depending on him. He *had* to pull this one off. He waited, his eyes chips of blue ice, as Kirke stretched and delivered again. It swept around and down...but it was going wide. In an instant he checked his swing and held. But the umpire bawled, "Steeeee-rike two!"
"And you also know I was gun-shy. I haven't had many relationships and they all ended badly. But you're worth so much to me, and I know that I would hate myself forever if I let you get away from me. Yet...I couldn't bring myself to take that last step. So now you've got some idea of what's been rattling around in my head for the past couple weeks. That's why I've been so jittery. That's why I've been sick to my stomach so many times."
Kirke was smirking. The crowd's shrieking had reached a fever pitch. Sixty thousand throats were all opened, a wave of noise breaking over him in smashing breakers. But he didn't even hear it. He didn't see Moore at first giving him the thumbs-up, didn't see the Sox dugout thumping bats on the roof, didn't notice anything except Kirke on the mound. Kirke didn't think he was fast enough to catch up. Kirke was going to pour this one in there. He could feel it.
Kirke stretched...waited...and threw.
"And now you know why I asked you to come over tonight."
He reached into his pocket, knowing with calm certainty how this would turn out. Grasped what was there and drew it forth. Caressed the velvet and opened the box. The emerald sparkled in the dim light.
"My dearest one, I love you more than I could ever have believed. Will you marry me?"
The ball sailed in, looking as big as a dirigible. Letter-high and inside, rocketing towards him with all the fury Kirke's whiplike arm could muster. Right in his wheelhouse. Tailor-made to perfection for the treatment he gave it.
He pivoted, stepped. His arms lashed out. His wrists snapped like a steel spring. The echoing crack of the bat as it met the ball head-on was a thunderous blast that filled the world.
Her mascara ran in rivulets as tears overspilled. But -- oh thank the heavens! -- she was smiling.
"Yes. Yes, I will. I will!"
The ball took off like it had been launched from a cannon. It streaked on a rising line over the upflung glove of Rourke at third. Jimmy took off at a fast trot, eyes glued to the ball, watching it, drinking in the sight as it lifted itself on magic wings, upward, ever upward, still streaking, still a blur in the night air. He watched with his heart fluttering like a trapped bird; he watched with his mind spinning; he watched as Thompson in left field gave up the hopeless chase, as the ball disappeared into a screaming mob of Blue Sox fans in the upper deck. He trotted round the bags, washed in sound and fury, barely registering as he touched each base, enveloped in a mob of Blue Sox at home plate as he crossed with the winning run.
He smiled, and took her hand. "I love you," he said, the storming ovation of sixty thousand ringing loud in his ears.
[This has been my entry for Week 24 of LJ Idol, for which the topic was "in your wheelhouse". I hope you enjoyed it. Please check out the other participants' entries and show them some love as well.]
"It's coming down to the wire here, folks. The Blue Sox are one out away from the end of their season here, and they're still three runs down. It looks hopeless for our Aqua Hose, but this crowd doesn't seem to want to go yet. They've stuck by our boys all year and they aren't giving up now. Listen to that crowd roar!"
He checked his watch. 7:30. Plenty of time yet before she arrived. Go for a stroll around the block? No, she might get here early and then wonder where he was. Not the best way to start the evening off. He settled for pacing back and forth, back and forth, his feet padding a restless rhythm into the thick shag pile.
"Two away now and Vickman is dancing impatiently off the bag at first. Not too far, though. He isn't going anywhere with two outs. Kirke seems to know that, too. He's not even bothering to check Vickman's lead. He stretches and delivers -- look out! It's a rocket shot up the middle. Duncan at second makes a gorgeous dive but he's wasting his time. Farley in center has it and fires to third, but Vickman's in with a nice hook slide. He's safe and Fitzgerald is at second with a stand-up double. Second and third now...but still two outs. Let's go, Sox!"
His thoughts raced round in his head, chasing each other like ferrets on crack. Could he get the words out? Would they mean what he thought they did? Would his intent be clear enough, would she realize the gravity of the situation? Was there any way he could make this easier?
Would he choke when it was his turn in the spotlight?
"They aren't taking any chances with big Moore. Even with two away that bat is murderous. They're giving him four wide ones and there he goes, lumbering down to first. So the bags are full of Soxers now and those three runs aren't looking quite so insurmountable as before...but brother, do those two outs loom big! Let's see who Miller calls as the pinch-hitter for Regina. It's -- yes, it really is Jimmy Ridgeway! Well, if that isn't one hell of a shock, I don't know what is!"
"Come on in! Let me take your coat. Do you want anything to drink? Water, wine, whatever? No? Well, okay. Dinner's almost ready. Make yourself comfortable and I'll let you know when it's ready."
"This kid has shown incredible promise all year. He's defied everyone's expectations by refusing to listen to his press clippings. He hasn't broken into the lineup yet, but he's yanked the Sox's bacon out of the fire several times this year. Well, the bacon's burning now; let's see if he can pull it out one more time!"
"I'm glad you liked it. Anything else I can get you? Okay, then.
"Well, I wanted you to come over tonight because I wanted to talk to you. Don't give me that look, you had to know this was coming. I mean, I've dropped enough hints, after all."
Kirke was giving him that unhappy look that all power pitchers seem to give hitters that are potential threats, especially in the late innings. Jimmy settled himself in the box, awaiting the first pitch, bat held tightly in his big paws. Kirke stretched and fired; a white blur cut the corner for strike one.
"You've always asked me where I thought this was going. I kept telling you I didn't know where it was going because I'd never been here before. It sounds like a cheap reply, I know, but c'mon, put yourself in my place for a second. You know I still can't believe that a girl like you would ever have anything to do with me."
He shook his head, angry with himself. Low and away it might have been, but he could have gone with it and sent it into right for a clean single. He was pressing too hard again. The Sox were depending on him. He *had* to pull this one off. He waited, his eyes chips of blue ice, as Kirke stretched and delivered again. It swept around and down...but it was going wide. In an instant he checked his swing and held. But the umpire bawled, "Steeeee-rike two!"
"And you also know I was gun-shy. I haven't had many relationships and they all ended badly. But you're worth so much to me, and I know that I would hate myself forever if I let you get away from me. Yet...I couldn't bring myself to take that last step. So now you've got some idea of what's been rattling around in my head for the past couple weeks. That's why I've been so jittery. That's why I've been sick to my stomach so many times."
Kirke was smirking. The crowd's shrieking had reached a fever pitch. Sixty thousand throats were all opened, a wave of noise breaking over him in smashing breakers. But he didn't even hear it. He didn't see Moore at first giving him the thumbs-up, didn't see the Sox dugout thumping bats on the roof, didn't notice anything except Kirke on the mound. Kirke didn't think he was fast enough to catch up. Kirke was going to pour this one in there. He could feel it.
Kirke stretched...waited...and threw.
"And now you know why I asked you to come over tonight."
He reached into his pocket, knowing with calm certainty how this would turn out. Grasped what was there and drew it forth. Caressed the velvet and opened the box. The emerald sparkled in the dim light.
"My dearest one, I love you more than I could ever have believed. Will you marry me?"
The ball sailed in, looking as big as a dirigible. Letter-high and inside, rocketing towards him with all the fury Kirke's whiplike arm could muster. Right in his wheelhouse. Tailor-made to perfection for the treatment he gave it.
He pivoted, stepped. His arms lashed out. His wrists snapped like a steel spring. The echoing crack of the bat as it met the ball head-on was a thunderous blast that filled the world.
Her mascara ran in rivulets as tears overspilled. But -- oh thank the heavens! -- she was smiling.
"Yes. Yes, I will. I will!"
The ball took off like it had been launched from a cannon. It streaked on a rising line over the upflung glove of Rourke at third. Jimmy took off at a fast trot, eyes glued to the ball, watching it, drinking in the sight as it lifted itself on magic wings, upward, ever upward, still streaking, still a blur in the night air. He watched with his heart fluttering like a trapped bird; he watched with his mind spinning; he watched as Thompson in left field gave up the hopeless chase, as the ball disappeared into a screaming mob of Blue Sox fans in the upper deck. He trotted round the bags, washed in sound and fury, barely registering as he touched each base, enveloped in a mob of Blue Sox at home plate as he crossed with the winning run.
He smiled, and took her hand. "I love you," he said, the storming ovation of sixty thousand ringing loud in his ears.
[This has been my entry for Week 24 of LJ Idol, for which the topic was "in your wheelhouse". I hope you enjoyed it. Please check out the other participants' entries and show them some love as well.]