Season Opener
I was finally struck by inspiration today. It's been a long time, and it might be a long time before I get any more. I know it's pathetic, but I ended up writing Mage fanfiction. I haven't done any revising, which is one of my biggest problems. I'd like to think I'll do a story or two with each of my main characters, linking together with some sort of impled story, but I'm quite sure that won't happen. I enjoyed writing it, maybe you'll enjoy reading it.
SEASON OPENER
“Babe, remind me why the fuck I’m in the middle of this field at two in the morning. We’ve been fuckin’ around this park for the past three days, and for what? This shit’s boring, you know I hate waitin’ around.”
The shirtless man lied prone on the ground, tossing a baseball into the air and catching it on the return. Rain pounded on his scarred flesh, where it followed the pattern of scars into small rivulets that dripped onto the grass below. The field more closely resembled a swamp after three days of nonstop rain. Another day of rain like this would break the monthly precipitation record in Midland. Towns like these appreciate the bad weather, as it gives the otherwise quiet citizens a shared topic of conversation.
“Just calm down. Hey, at least you’re not stuck out in the infield, right?” The woman laughed at her own comment, and then went back to dancing through the raindrops in her tank top and long skirt.
He stretched his neck toward his chest and looked into the infield. Past his toes, the stadium lights cast down onto the infield. Three days’ worth of mud and grit covered the pitcher and basemen, each sleeping at their respective positions. The catcher sat against the chain-link backstop, smoking a cigarette and strumming on an acoustic guitar. A tarp covered the umpire’s stool, and a steady stream of water tapped against home plate.
The lights gave the whole field an undeserved sense of importance. Stadium lights summon up memories of after-hours softball leagues, blue-collar workers playing late into the night before the midnight shift started up. Memories of tie games in the 10th inning, deciding which team would head to the division tournament. Instead, the lights showed a field full of what could be vagrants who decided to start a game without the other team. And here they waited for a team that would never come. No one in their right mind plays baseball in weather like this.
The blonde woman in right field suddenly stopped dancing. She blew the whistle that hung around her neck, and the familiar shrill of a coach’s whistle roused the sleeping and the inattentive.
“People! We’ve got just over an hour! Get your shit together, do what you need to do. It’s game time! The basemen and the pitcher gathered under the catcher’s shelter, where the catcher was lighting candles and incense burners that hung from the backstop.
He threw the ball into the air for what could have been the first time or the millionth time. All the days and nights of waiting were gone now, and he could feel the fire run through his body again, readying his mind and muscles for action. A hand grabbed the ball just as it reached its apex, and above him stood two young beauties. The blonde from right field lied down next to him, scattering wet hair across his chest and face.
“This is Gale from left field, you mind if she joins us?”
He looked up at her, noticing her unsure posture and flushed cheeks. Jet-black hair glistened in the stadium lights.
“Hell no, gimme a hit of that E though, if you got any left. Gale, you want any of this?”
She nodded as she sat, and began running her fingers through wet blonde hair. He held his mouth open and let the rain dissolve the tablet against his tongue. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the rain pounding against his entire existence, every pore of his body saturated by rain. Familiar lips brushed against his, and the three joined together into ritualistic bliss.
Seconds turned into minutes as the whole field hung at an uncertain place in time. Raindrops floated down to the ground below, as though waiting for approval before heading any further. The breeze halted, and everyone felt as though the game was about to start.
The catcher stared at the pitcher, anticipating a sign of some sort. He nodded as he received the pitcher’s signal, and lowered his mask. He caught glimpse of something in a particularly vacant spot to the southeast, from behind center field.
“That’s it! That’s it! Let’s get started!”
Organ music blasted from the speakers, the performer practicing scales and arpeggios to stretch out his damp and numb fingers. The basemen nervously began singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”, first in rounds, then joining together into a complex tune rich with harmony and vocal accompaniments. It was as though the song transformed from a simple ballpark anthem and into a hymn worthy for any high mass. And indeed, the song is a hymn of the stadium, and now the field finally had that sense of gravitas the lights had failed to imbue.
Soon enough, the organ caught up to the basemen, and they swayed in rhythm with the song. The women at left and right field stood waiting with hands raised in the air, as though caressing and holding the hesitant rain. The man at center field flipped his baseball cap backwards and pounded his hand into the baseball glove.
“Come on motherfucker, let’s get started. I’m ready! I’m unstoppable! You ain’t gonna do shit! I’m the best around, everyone knows it!” Sweat mixed with the rain on his face, and soaked into the already wet baseball jersey. He continued to rant and rave against the darkness. This was the best feeling in the world for him. All his anger and arrogance rose forth and escaped his physical shell, exploding forth into the night. His emotions met a resistance, and now it became a test of wills, each attempting to assert its force onto the other.
The catcher screamed from home plate. “Come on man, you can do it. You’ve got it, just guide it down! I can see it slowing down, you’ve got it!” The fielders cheered him on, the basement continued singing, and the raindrops hung completely motionless in the air. Everything and everyone was holding together, waiting for this moment. This catch would mean the team at field won the entire championship, and would go down in the record books. It all came down to this. He grit his teeth and grunted as the rage and vitriol left his body. Small cuts formed on his arms, though blood did not yet rise from his wounds.
The right fielder saw how this would all end. Her man at center would catch the ball and win the championship. Their names would be marked in the record books as a testament to future generations of athletes and fans. Through teamwork, determination, and quite a bit of luck, even the most undeserving team could go on to the big prize. The left fielder saw how this would all end. She would see him jump above center field, and he would watch in horror as the ball slid from his glove, dropping with a thud to the wet grass. The team would disband, and their names would be reserved for drunken arguments in sports bars, and the garages and dens of men nationwide. They would serve as the immortal example of how to lose the most important championship ever played.
The catcher saw the ball simply explode into the air over the ballpark, launching out beyond the field and out to the edge of their vision towards the horizon. He dropped his mask and ran to center field. Everyone looked at each other, expecting some kind of conclusion. The fielders ran to the hero who lost the game, now lying facedown in the wet grass. Soon the basemen joined them, followed by the catcher, and they stood expectantly over him. Rain pounded down upon them, harder than it ever had in the past three days. Blood oozed from the cuts on his arm, and the world returned to its business, unsatisfied by the game’s ending.
He lifted his face out of the mud and rolled onto his back. He glanced around at the waiting faces above him, trying to form some explanation for what happened. He took his cap off and rubbed his sore head, trying to massage something from it. A rousing speech, a tearful apology, or even an unaffected, rational explanation: anything would do. He finally expressed his thoughts, simply and swiftly.
“Motherfucker”
SEASON OPENER
“Babe, remind me why the fuck I’m in the middle of this field at two in the morning. We’ve been fuckin’ around this park for the past three days, and for what? This shit’s boring, you know I hate waitin’ around.”
The shirtless man lied prone on the ground, tossing a baseball into the air and catching it on the return. Rain pounded on his scarred flesh, where it followed the pattern of scars into small rivulets that dripped onto the grass below. The field more closely resembled a swamp after three days of nonstop rain. Another day of rain like this would break the monthly precipitation record in Midland. Towns like these appreciate the bad weather, as it gives the otherwise quiet citizens a shared topic of conversation.
“Just calm down. Hey, at least you’re not stuck out in the infield, right?” The woman laughed at her own comment, and then went back to dancing through the raindrops in her tank top and long skirt.
He stretched his neck toward his chest and looked into the infield. Past his toes, the stadium lights cast down onto the infield. Three days’ worth of mud and grit covered the pitcher and basemen, each sleeping at their respective positions. The catcher sat against the chain-link backstop, smoking a cigarette and strumming on an acoustic guitar. A tarp covered the umpire’s stool, and a steady stream of water tapped against home plate.
The lights gave the whole field an undeserved sense of importance. Stadium lights summon up memories of after-hours softball leagues, blue-collar workers playing late into the night before the midnight shift started up. Memories of tie games in the 10th inning, deciding which team would head to the division tournament. Instead, the lights showed a field full of what could be vagrants who decided to start a game without the other team. And here they waited for a team that would never come. No one in their right mind plays baseball in weather like this.
The blonde woman in right field suddenly stopped dancing. She blew the whistle that hung around her neck, and the familiar shrill of a coach’s whistle roused the sleeping and the inattentive.
“People! We’ve got just over an hour! Get your shit together, do what you need to do. It’s game time! The basemen and the pitcher gathered under the catcher’s shelter, where the catcher was lighting candles and incense burners that hung from the backstop.
He threw the ball into the air for what could have been the first time or the millionth time. All the days and nights of waiting were gone now, and he could feel the fire run through his body again, readying his mind and muscles for action. A hand grabbed the ball just as it reached its apex, and above him stood two young beauties. The blonde from right field lied down next to him, scattering wet hair across his chest and face.
“This is Gale from left field, you mind if she joins us?”
He looked up at her, noticing her unsure posture and flushed cheeks. Jet-black hair glistened in the stadium lights.
“Hell no, gimme a hit of that E though, if you got any left. Gale, you want any of this?”
She nodded as she sat, and began running her fingers through wet blonde hair. He held his mouth open and let the rain dissolve the tablet against his tongue. He closed his eyes and enjoyed the feeling of the rain pounding against his entire existence, every pore of his body saturated by rain. Familiar lips brushed against his, and the three joined together into ritualistic bliss.
Seconds turned into minutes as the whole field hung at an uncertain place in time. Raindrops floated down to the ground below, as though waiting for approval before heading any further. The breeze halted, and everyone felt as though the game was about to start.
The catcher stared at the pitcher, anticipating a sign of some sort. He nodded as he received the pitcher’s signal, and lowered his mask. He caught glimpse of something in a particularly vacant spot to the southeast, from behind center field.
“That’s it! That’s it! Let’s get started!”
Organ music blasted from the speakers, the performer practicing scales and arpeggios to stretch out his damp and numb fingers. The basemen nervously began singing “Take Me Out to the Ballgame”, first in rounds, then joining together into a complex tune rich with harmony and vocal accompaniments. It was as though the song transformed from a simple ballpark anthem and into a hymn worthy for any high mass. And indeed, the song is a hymn of the stadium, and now the field finally had that sense of gravitas the lights had failed to imbue.
Soon enough, the organ caught up to the basemen, and they swayed in rhythm with the song. The women at left and right field stood waiting with hands raised in the air, as though caressing and holding the hesitant rain. The man at center field flipped his baseball cap backwards and pounded his hand into the baseball glove.
“Come on motherfucker, let’s get started. I’m ready! I’m unstoppable! You ain’t gonna do shit! I’m the best around, everyone knows it!” Sweat mixed with the rain on his face, and soaked into the already wet baseball jersey. He continued to rant and rave against the darkness. This was the best feeling in the world for him. All his anger and arrogance rose forth and escaped his physical shell, exploding forth into the night. His emotions met a resistance, and now it became a test of wills, each attempting to assert its force onto the other.
The catcher screamed from home plate. “Come on man, you can do it. You’ve got it, just guide it down! I can see it slowing down, you’ve got it!” The fielders cheered him on, the basement continued singing, and the raindrops hung completely motionless in the air. Everything and everyone was holding together, waiting for this moment. This catch would mean the team at field won the entire championship, and would go down in the record books. It all came down to this. He grit his teeth and grunted as the rage and vitriol left his body. Small cuts formed on his arms, though blood did not yet rise from his wounds.
The right fielder saw how this would all end. Her man at center would catch the ball and win the championship. Their names would be marked in the record books as a testament to future generations of athletes and fans. Through teamwork, determination, and quite a bit of luck, even the most undeserving team could go on to the big prize. The left fielder saw how this would all end. She would see him jump above center field, and he would watch in horror as the ball slid from his glove, dropping with a thud to the wet grass. The team would disband, and their names would be reserved for drunken arguments in sports bars, and the garages and dens of men nationwide. They would serve as the immortal example of how to lose the most important championship ever played.
The catcher saw the ball simply explode into the air over the ballpark, launching out beyond the field and out to the edge of their vision towards the horizon. He dropped his mask and ran to center field. Everyone looked at each other, expecting some kind of conclusion. The fielders ran to the hero who lost the game, now lying facedown in the wet grass. Soon the basemen joined them, followed by the catcher, and they stood expectantly over him. Rain pounded down upon them, harder than it ever had in the past three days. Blood oozed from the cuts on his arm, and the world returned to its business, unsatisfied by the game’s ending.
He lifted his face out of the mud and rolled onto his back. He glanced around at the waiting faces above him, trying to form some explanation for what happened. He took his cap off and rubbed his sore head, trying to massage something from it. A rousing speech, a tearful apology, or even an unaffected, rational explanation: anything would do. He finally expressed his thoughts, simply and swiftly.
“Motherfucker”