For Bill Patterson, going home meant the end of the life he’d always dreamt of. Almost completely alone in the train car—a couple and their two kids dozed a few rows back—Bill had a lot of time to think about the dream he’d left back in Buffalo. In many respects, though, Bill’s dream had ended two years ago on a sunny late summer day in the ugly, yet awe-inspiring confines of Tiger Stadium in Detroit.
He had sought the moment all his life: bottom of the ninth inning, two outs, bases loaded, and he was coming to the plate against the best relief pitcher of the hated New York Yankees. Bill had been toiling away for the Toledo Mud Hens—his third straight season in AAA ball—when the starting shortstop for the Tigers sprained his knee in late August, necessitating Bill’s call-up to the majors. While his defense remained at the same level of consistent excellence from the minors, Bill had been struggling at the plate against the veteran big league pitchers, going just one for seventeen since coming up from Toledo. His slump became so bad that the manager sat him out in favor of a utility infielder for a couple of games. But on that fateful day, against one of the Tigers’s oldest rivals, Bill found his name on the line-up card in the dugout.
The time off he’d been given did nothing to break his slump; if anything it increased it by making him nervous. He wanted so badly to make a good impression against the first-place Yankees, to show everyone he deserved to be in the major leagues. Instead, he allowed the go-ahead run to score in the fifth inning by letting a ground ball bounce off his glove and into left field. The next half-inning he tried to lay down a sacrifice bunt to get the runner on first into scoring position, but the ball didn’t roll far enough away from home plate, beginning a dreadful chain-reaction which led to an inning-ending double play. As he went back to the dugout to fetch his glove, he heard a loud chorus of boos from the stands and several profanity-laced suggestions about what he should do with himself. For the first time in his baseball career, he wanted to cry.
Before he climbed the stairs to trot back onto the field, the right fielder—who’d been around so long that Bill remembered having baseball cards of him as a kid—gave him a friendly pat on the rear. “Don’t let ‘em get to you. Just go out there and show ‘em what you can do.” Bill nodded, feeling a wave of serenity pass over him as he took his position. He could still hear the hecklers in the stands, but he tuned them out, focusing on the game.
The pep talk seemed to work for Bill. He made a great diving catch to end the sixth inning, then doubled in the seventh, driving the tired starting pitcher for New York from the game. While Bill stood near second base, waiting for the relief pitcher to waddle over from the bullpen, he heard the hecklers fall silent. Striding to the plate in the ninth inning, Bill knew he would get a hit to win the game. Not even the giant on the pitcher’s mound, his face cast in shadow by the bill of his cap, could deter Bill in this one moment, his destiny.
Bill tapped his cleats to shake out any loose dirt before he stepped into the batter’s box, assuming his batting stance. He waited patiently, his eyes narrowed with concentration, while the pitcher and catcher exchanged signs before agreeing on a pitch. Bill watched the pitcher go through his stretch, the ball flying from his hand. The white orb hung tantalizingly in the air, waiting for Bill’s bat to knock it into the left field seats. Putting all of his weight into the one crushing blow to win the game, Bill realized too late that the ball was changing directions, breaking down and away from him. His mighty swing went six inches over the top of the ball, the momentum nearly throwing Bill to the ground.
“Strike!” the umpire bellowed. Bill stepped out of the batter’s box, ignoring the frantic gestures of the third base coach, though he nodded to show he understood the signs. Settling back into the batter’s box, Bill took a deep breath and cursed himself for falling prey to the pitcher’s deception. He knew the next pitch would be a fastball, thrown inside to rattle him. As expected, the ball whizzed just past Bill’s white jersey, into the catcher’s mitt. The umpire was silent; ball one.
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The Carnival Papers
Short Story**A WATTPAD FEATURED COLLECTION** A young girl takes her first steps into the real world. A boy experiences the joy and pain of a first love. An old man relives the stories he's written. These are just some of the stories of The Carnival Papers, a v...
