The Unnatural *Wattpad Featured Story*

Chapter 10

The deep, uncontrolled roar of our jubilant locker room scares the boy. I suppose he has never seen a room full of large, grown men cavort in ecstasy. When the noise subsides, I lay a hand on his shoulder and ask, "What's your name?"

He replies, "Bryce."

"Well, Bryce, you've made a whole lot of baseball players very happy. We're going to return the favor."

In exchange for the ball, we bury Bryce under a pile of souvenirs. Spaghetti Davis hands him a pair of beat-up spikes that he autographs on the white Nike swoosh. I give him my cap and game jersey. Loog scrawls his autograph on one of his old gloves and hands it to the shocked boy, while Jed takes a bat from the rack and the entire team signs it.

When the travel secretary arrives at Vic's locker with a card key for a room at the Adam's Mark, I wave him away and say, "He's staying with me."

I couldn't help but feel a twinge of reluctance about the chance that Vic might discover my stash but there's no way I'm refusing to open my home to my bro. We'd lived in a 10 by 12 cubicle at Tulane. We'd find some way to manage in a 1,600 square foot condo. At any rate, I had completed my ten-week novice cycle and now would remain off the juice for at least six weeks.

Vic and I are so tired after we get home from the game that we simply crash into our beds shortly after I open the door. I'd barely slept the night before, and Vic had flown across the country to join the Jesters. We need to sleep. Our Hardball 6 showdown can wait.

The rain continues to fall the next day. When we walk through the tunnel to the field for the second game in our series against the Indians, the passage is covered in water. The flood reminds me of the fifty-foot pools that would fill the sidewalks of Tulane University after it rained in New Orleans because water drains with agonizing slowness in a city built below sea-level.

The air reeks of promise as we slosh through the wet tunnel on our way to the field. Despite the previous day's downpour, The Court's artificial turf is still ready for action. As long as the rain doesn't fall in torrential sheets that obscure our vision, we'll be able to play.

Oh boy, do we play.

Our rebuilt offense hits better than before the trade. Cáreces shows why Baseball America rated him the no. 8 prospect in all of baseball. His range at short is nothing less than breathtaking. His speed is a weapon on the base paths. He's also the perfect no. 2 batter: a switch hitter who walks.

Replacing Loog with Vic stabilizes our rotation. Sloan looks poised to realize his potential as an ace in his two starts, while the bullpen no longer causes Jed to shudder with dread whenever he calls on them.

As the wins accumulate, the stands grow more crowded. Night after night fans, who'd never been to The Court, appear at the ballpark. TV ratings zoom to their highest level in fourteen years. Even so, the increased attendance brings no more than a trickle of young people to The Court. The "new" fans are people who had formed their allegiance during the team's heyday a generation ago and now see our success as an echo from the good times of their youth. I can see it by looking at the crowds.

We sweep the Indians. We humble Tampa Bay and tear up the Oakland A's. We win nine straight. Many pundits and fans attribute the new-found success to me. I hit .422 with 4 home runs over the 9 games, so I suppose I can't blame them.

Despite the lukewarm reaction from Kansas City, grass sprouts in wild profusion from the cement islands in the parking lots and on the embankment behind the left-field wall. The apple trees outside The Court's main entrance burst forth with new blossoms, while the avatar of Greg Bey, the franchise's lone Hall-of-Fame hero, beams a benevolent smile from his bronzed likeness outside Jester Stadium.