Baseball Hero

This used to be his home, but now he was terrified to be here. From the safety of the dugout he looked out at the stands and saw the gathered crowd heaving and lurching like a restless blob. They were so close he could feel their hot breath on his face and their hands around his neck. The blob threatened to swallow him whole and digest him with burning acid in a deep dark place. It wasn't that long ago that this same gathered mass would have cheered his name and applauded his excellent play. This was his first game back, on a new team, after all what had happened.

The skipper snuck up on him and slapped him on the back and he nearly jumped out of his cleats.

"Don't let 'em get you down, Stanley."

The manager of his new team had welcomed him with open arms and never brought up the past, other than Stanley's play on the field.

"I always admired your hustle," he told Stanley the first day they met. Some of Stanley's new teammates weren't so welcoming. They treated him with respect, but he never felt like he was truly a part of the team. He didn't fight the issue, he was done fighting. He made his mistakes and he paid for them. He couldn't change anyone's mind about him. All he could do was play baseball, what he had done all his life.

"You're batting fourth," the skipper said to Stanley. As the visiting team Stanley's team would bat first and there was a chance that he would have to go at bat in the first inning. The crowd was already seething and ready to tear him down.

"Best to get it over with," he thought.

For the home team Murphy was on the mound. An old teammate. An old friend. A fastball that screamed at 95 miles per hour. Murphy had spoken his mind on Stanley and his words hurt.

"I'm disappointed. You know, you think you know a guy, and then...it's crazy," Murphy told the TV interviewer. Since those comments, the two fell out of touch and hadn't seen each other, until this day.

First batter up, Von Erich, shortstop. Murphy threw that fastball and Von Erich swung and missed. Another fastball and Von Erich popped it up high and the catcher caught the ball with ease.

Second batter, Archer, left fielder. First pitch and Archer guessed fastball but was too early for the changeup, followed by a low sinker and Archer whiffed at another one. A fastball up high and Archer struck out swinging.

"Murphy's throwing gas," Stanley said to himself.

Third batter up and after two quick pitches he had two strikes. Stanley was ready to take off his batting gloves and grab his fielding glove but just then there was a crack of the bat and the batter got on base.

"Now batting," said the announcer over the speakers, "number 19, Stanley Forsythe."

"Booooooooooooooooo," the crowd rumbled. The boos covered the field like thick fog in a dark swamp. Every step Stanley took felt like he was wading through muck.

Stanley stepped to the batter's box with his head down and an ironclad grip on his bat. He dug his cleats into the dirt, adjusted his helmet, touched home plate with the end of his bat, and looked down at Murphy. Across that span of 60 feet and 6 inches from plate to mound, Murphy’s face was rigid like stone and his eyes were two balls of flame. 

Murphy got into position, hitched his leg up and launched a 95 mile-per-hour screamer at Stanley's head. Stanley ducked just in time to avoid being hit. The crowd woahed and ooooed and Stanley could even hear a few people in the seats behind home plate laughing at how he avoided the pitch. Taking a deep gulp, Stanley got back into the batter’s box. He felt like he was sinking in quicksand. Murphy set, threw, and another fastball this time in the strike zone and Stanley’s bat was not fast enough. The count was 1-1 now, and a changeup got Stanley crossed up and he heard more laughter from the home plate seats. Two strikes.

“He’s gonna throw the sinker,” Stanley thought. “Or does he want me to think he’s gonna throw the sinker?”

Murphy set, wound, pitched. Sinker. Stanley swung and he knew it was a home run just from the sound it made. A loud boom that cut the jeering and booing for just a moment, before the ball landed in the stands and then they came back, louder than before. As he rounded second base, he looked to where the ball had landed in the stands and saw the ball being thrown back onto the field and the crowd erupted with cheering and applause. Stanley felt nothing, numb, not joy or sorrow. He just wanted to get this game over with. 

  As he touched home plate the cheers turned to boos and they followed him all the way to the dugout. The score was 2-0. There were eight more innings to go. 

In centerfield, all alone, Stanley stood under the hot sun with his former fans at his back.

“Got any more needles, Forsythe?” yelled one fan.

Stanley ignored him like he ignored all the rest. Their jeers and insults he had heard all year long during his suspension. The television pundits called him a disgrace, fans recorded themselves burning their Forsythe jerseys, even people walking down the street who recognized him would point and whisper to one another. He wore his shame like a glove, made just for him. 

A high fly ball came off the home team’s batter and it sailed towards the outfield. All the jeering couldn’t take away Stanley’s speed. He tracked the ball’s trajectory and caught the ball for a loud out. The booing swelled again, this time especially, as the batter was the new fan favorite, Stanley’s replacement. With the final out of the 3th inning, Stanley’s team was still up 2-0. 

“Now batting,” said the announcer, “number 19-”

“Booooooooooooooooooooooooooo,” the crowd drowned him out.

Stanley dug into the box and looked down at Murphy. 

“What’ll it be this time, Murphy,” Stanley said out loud.

“That was a nice play out there, Stan,” said Thomson, the catcher. A good guy who promised to stay in touch after everything happened, but he had only texted Stanley once since then.

“Thanks,” said Stanley.

A fastball from Murphy and Stanley swung and missed.

“How’s the family,” asked Thomson.

“They’re good. Kids are doing well in school.”

“That’s great, Stan.”

Another fastball and Stanley was down on two strikes. The crowd of 50,000 people were on their feet, stomping and clapping and wanted to see a strikeout. 

“No hard feelings, bud,” said Thomson.

“Thanks.”

Another fastball, strike three, Stanley went down. The crowd erupted in cheer as Stanley trudged back to the dugout. He kept his head down so he wouldn’t have to look at them. Sitting on the bench, staring at his cleats, the skipper came up to him.

“That fastball’s too much for you, Stanley. He wants you to chase it. Let him throw it outside, get him to throw your pitch. You know that sinker better than anyone.”

“OK, skip.” Stanley picked his eyes off the ground just for a moment and looked at his manager, before setting them back on the ground. 

“Hey, you got us a homer in the first inning, cheer up. We’re still winning this thing.”

“OK, skip.”

The 7th inning now, and the home team had taken the lead, 3-2. A runner on second base, and Stanley was up to bat, Murphy still on the mound. Murphy stood like a statue, staring down at home plate. He set, wound, and fired another fastball up high, and Stanley took it for ball one. Another fastball up high and Stanley held his bat, the count moved to two balls and no strikes. There was a buzz in the stands, as the crowd held onto their caps and arm rests, fearing another home run, like so many he had hit here before, to the sound of cheers and adulation. Those days were long gone.

Murphy set, wound, pitched. The ball was registered at 95 mph, even late into the game, but to Murphy, it was in slow motion. The ball was drawn towards him and he was stuck in the quicksand. He turned his body and absorbed the full impact of the pitch on his back. The fireball brought him to his knees. There was a loud groan from the audience but not out of empathy, but that their team was in danger of losing the lead.

Stanley got up and trotted to first base. He gave a cold look to Murphy, but Murphy didn’t even look at him. Stanley’s old manager, the man who had asked the office for Stanley to be traded, came to the mound and talked to Murphy, along with the catcher Thomson. Murphy agreed to give up the ball and go to the bench, turning his back on Stanley and never looking over his shoulder. Stanley didn’t want to think that his former friend would have put the outcome of the game in peril to make a petty point, but Murphy always wore his heart on his sleeve.  

Runners were on first and second, Stanley representing the leading run. A new pitcher on the mound, someone Stanley was unfamiliar with, a new addition to the team since he left. Watching from first base he saw the new pitcher throw breaking balls that choked up the next batter, quickly down on a 1-2 count. The pitcher was a lefty, so before every pitch he threw, he stared down Stanley, whose feet were popping like firecrackers, ready to take off as soon as the batter made contact. Murphy had fireballs for eyes, but this new pitcher was the opposite, as cold as glacial ice. Another breaking ball and the inning was over, Stanley’s team still down 3-2.

The top of the 9th inning now and the Snowman, as they called him, was still on the mound. The first batter struck out, as did the second but the third earned a walk. He was patient with those breaking balls and Stanley studied his at-bat. If he could have the same patience, maybe he could get another good one and knock it out of the park like he did off Murphy. After four pitches that seemed to defy physics, Stanley had earned a 2-2 count. The Snowman checked the runner at first, and threw the pitch. Again, it was slow motion. The ball started high, but Stanley’s gut told him it would go low. He watched the ball descend like a great sunset and swung his bat. A loud crack and the ball shot out towards left field. The crowd held its breath as the left fielder chased the ball, but he slowed his steps as he, the 50,000 fans, and Stanley himself saw the ball go foul. 

Stanley picked up his bat, dug his cleats in the dirt once more, and didn’t have a clue what would happen next. No slow motion this time, the Snowman launched a fastball inside that made Stanley flinch but he didn’t swing. 

The umpire called, “Ball three!”

Full count, game on the line, potentially the final pitch coming. Stanley had been here before. He had won games and lost games in many scenarios just like this over the years. When he won the game, the fans cheered him. When he lost, he knew the fans would forgive him. But now, he knew they would never forgive him. The animosity was thick in the air, as thick as it had been in the first inning, as thick as it had been since he left the team in disgrace. This was his first game back, playing on the opposing team, with the game in his hands. He was scared. This was not where he wanted to be. He called for time just at the last moment, the umpire allowing him a moment to collect himself but the boos came back, the loudest they had been all night, so Stanley was unable shake off the jitters. 

Stanley took a good long look around the stadium. How much different it looked, now that he was on the other team. Not a home, only a place of penitence. He stepped back into the box, dug his cleats in the dirt, touched home plate with the end of his bat, and took a look towards the outfield. The Snowman wound, set, pitched. Stanley blinked. The bat never left his shoulder. 

“STRIKE THREE,” screamed and signaled the umpire. Stanley stood frozen in the batter’s box as the crowd erupted around him in thunderous cheers and applause.

“No hard feelings, Stan,” said the catcher, as he ran past him and joined his teammate on the mound for celebration.

 Stanley walked back to the dugout, bat in hand, and looked around the celebrating fans, yelling, jumping, dancing. Were they doing that because their team won or because he lost? He knew it was both. 

In the dugout he locked eyes with the skipper.

“Sorry, skip.”

“That’s ok, Stan. We played well today. It’s just one game.”

But it wasn’t just one game. Stanley was damaged goods, with a reputation that would follow him for the rest of his career and beyond. He felt that he would forever be frozen in that batter’s box, unable to swing, watching fastballs and breaking balls sail by him to the music of jeers and curses. 

Leaving the stadium, heading to the team bus, Stanley was heckled by fans who stuck around the parking lot, waiting for him. 

“Nice game, Forsythe!”

“Couldn’t hit it twice, could ya, Forsythe?”

He wanted to ignore them, and pretended that he did, but their words cut deep. Just two years ago those people would have been wearing his jersey, cheering him up after a tough loss.

“Stanley Forsythe! Stanley Forsythe!” A young voice called.

Stanley turned and saw a young boy and a man with him.

“Stanley! Will you sign my ball?”

The kid stuck out a clean baseball and a pen. Stanley held the ball for a quiet moment, allowing a little smile to come onto his face.

“Sure.” He took the pen and signed the ball and gave it back to the kid.

“Wooooow,” said the kid, holding the ball as if it was the most precious thing he owned. “You’re my favorite player, ever!”

“Ha, well, I’m glad to hear that.”

“You did great out there!”

“Thank you. You play baseball?”

“Yeah. Centerfield, just like you!”

“He talks about you all the time,” said the dad. 

“Good things, I hope,” said Stanley.

“Oh yeah. You are his favorite player.”

“One day I’m gonna play just like you!”

Stanley thought for a moment, then said, “If you play good and honest ball, then one day you’ll be even better than me.”

“Do you want my hat,” asked the kid, taking off his little league hat that was much too small for Stanley to wear.

“Only if you sign it first.”

In messy block letters, the kid signed his name on the bill and Stanley thanked him for it. Stanley kept that hat in his locker for every game for the rest of the season.