The mountain peaks were turning red as dawn approached. Rocky Jones let his attention drift as the first batter of the 28
th
inning stepped into the box, gazing at the ribbon high above the stadium. "We've been playing all fucking night," he said to himself, then focused on the action, thumping his glove as the pitch came in.
Rocky had gotten in midday before. It was a strange route from the middle of Alabama to the southern Rockies, taking 15 hours via planes and buses due to a severe weather system in the country's midsection, but he'd gotten a nap in the afternoon and felt somewhat human by the gametime at 7:00.
A crack of the bat, and Rocky sprinted to the left field corner. The frozen rope sailed past him and skipped once on the grass before gunshot meeting with the outfield wall sent it spinning back his direction. Rocky managed to corral it and get it back to the infield in time to hold the hitter to a double. He looked vaguely familiar, maybe he was in Rocky's Class A ball league last year. Four years in pro ball meant a lot of faces to remember. "Good thing I'm not a pitcher or catcher," Rocky said to himself, "cause my memory's shit for anybody I haven't hit."
The late May was starting to get hot in the Southern League cities, worse than the Texas league Rocky played in the year before. Rocky hated the heat and dust, but heat and heavy humidity were worse for a kid from northern Minnesota. The first two years of minor league baseball were a lark, like getting paid to play High School ball, but last year in High A ball the expectations were higher, and he barely fought his way to AA ball at the end of Spring Training.
The next batter managed to strike out trying to sacrifice, but the next two hitters walked, filling the bases. The pitching coach came out to talk to the pitcher; the bullpen was silent since he was the last pitcher on the roster who'd been used that night. Rocky had pitched in high school, but the one time he tried it in the pros was an embarrassment, so he figured he'd keep his mouth shut about it. Let somebody else volunteer to pitch if this goes on much longer. This game had been a long struggle with lots of runs, but his team managed to match every rally the visitors over 28 innings and so they were playing into the dawn's early light.
A left handed hitter strode to the batter's box: the stocky designated hitter with huge arms who had five hits and two walks so far that night. Rocky remembered him from the year before as his league's leader in home runs and RBIs. The coaches moved him several feet to his left and kept him at medium depth, moving the other outfielders back and the infield in. "What the hell is Mutt thinking?" he said aloud. Mutt DeMedici was infamous for strange strategies that kept his four Major League clubs solidly under .500 and his minor league clubs muddling through their seasons. Rocky bent over slightly and focused: a tall, lean man with sandy hair and blue eyes whose body became a coiled spring ready for the ball to come his way.
A ball outside, and Rocky looked up at the owners box. A faint light shone within. M. C. McMillian was a maverick owner, creative and appreciated by the community, one of the senior owners of the Pacific Coast League, but blocked several times from owning major league teams. No-one seemed to know what he looked like, his picture never made the papers or the Internet and no one knew what he did for a living; rumor said he inherited his fortune, which is increased through shrewd investment. The players loved him; his new teammates told him at length how the owner treated them like kings. The clubhouse and trainer's room showed it. Several veterans who'd been to the Show said they'd seen worse in their Big League careers.
A long drive into the seats just foul down the right field line and a pitch outside. It was just two days ago Rocky was hitting third for a winning team after working his way into the lineup and up the batting order. Mutt was frank with him when he arrived: "Kid, you're here for about ten days to fill in for a guy who's having a cup of coffee in the Show. When Tom gets back, you go back Alabama and see if you can keep your incredi-fucking nasty hitting streak alive. You'll be doing caddy work here: a couple of late innings in the outfield here and there and maybe a pinch hitting or pinch running appearance or two. If somehow you catch fire here, we'll reconsider, but for now you should just find a place to crash for a few days 'stead of renting an apartment. Coach Harnkess knows a couple of guys on the club needing a temporary roommate. Get your gear stowed and take a nap. We'll need you in uniform tonight, but don't count on getting in the game unless there's extra innings."
A foul straight back and another ball. Full count with one out, and the shortstop turned around to remind him. The red ribbon on the peaks grew and brightened. Rocky was first up in the bottom of the inning, but he'd been a pro long enough to know he couldn't think about that yet. He entered the game in the 11
th
inning as a pinch runner, but his speed was useless as the trail runner and he was stranded in his only scoring opportunity. The pitchers in AAA ball were throwing BBs, his feeble swings brought weak foul balls, and the futility bothered him between innings.
Another loud foul down the right field line and another foul straight back. If this guy connected in fair territory, the game would be over this inning.
Rocky thought about his girl back in Minnesota, Connie Larsen, spending the summer with her family in Albert Lea. Blond, blue eyed, and a Scandinavian body that made him erect just thinking of it. Phone calls were a lousy way to maintain a relationship, and lately she was rather distant when he managed to get hold of her. Her father gave him rotten looks every time he appeared at their door. He'd refused several offers to go hunting with the old man in the cold and snow, worrying since he frequently referred to Dick Cheney. . .
A huge swing and the ball sailed like a wounded quail down the left field line toward no man's land just behind third base. Rocky reacted instantly, gauging the flight of the ball as he sprinted across the turf. It seemed futile at first, he was sure it would fall in, scoring at least two runs. He willed himself faster and tried to kick in another gear.
The quail hung in the deep blue sky, not wanting to touch down. The altitude was affecting it; Rocky never played at altitude before. Hope arose in his chest, but the ball had to come down sometime soon. The third baseman and shortstop were racing out, but with the infield drawn in they were farther away from the ball than Rocky and had bad angles to reach it.
The quail slowly dipped toward the earth. Rocky reached out his gloved left hand, straining as far as he could. Distantly, he heard the few remaining fans roaring, diehard baseball fans willing to sit up all night just to say they'd been there as a badge of honor. His feet were barely touching the ground, the wind singing in his ears, his arm stretching farther and farther as he tried to catch up with the ball.
The quail was coming to earth. Rocky didn't think; he left his feet to lunge at the falling projectile. Years and years of practice took over, guiding his actions, preparing for impact.
The ball settled in his glove just before his arm hit the ground, and by a miracle stayed there. His body skidded across the green turf for an eternity.
Rocky rolled to pop to his feet, looking down the third base line ahead of him: the runner had tagged and was heading home. His arm reached back and sent a cannon shot home.
At first, the throw seemed to be offline to the right, but it tailed back to land in the catcher's glove at waist level on one hop. One second later the runner arrived, but the squat Sumo guarding the plate hung onto the ball through the collision and the inning ended with an unlikely double play.
Rocky trotted into the dugout, accepting his teammates gratitude, and switched gears to take his at bat. "Hey, you probably made SportsCenter," Coach Harkness enthused, and Manager DeMedici gave a rare smirk.
"You're up, Rocky," the old man said, his face returning to its usual wrinkled mask. "Get on base."
The sky was growing more and more normal crystalline blue as daylight approached, the red on the mountaintops gave way to yellow and the horizon sported a red streak. A few stars valiantly competed against the growing light, but only the brightest were succeeding. No breeze, and the birds were just starting to call the sun over the horizon.
"Hey, is this the longest game ever?" Rocky asked as he took his place in the batter's box.
The opposing catcher remained silent, but the umpire said: "No kid. Longest game was Rochester at Pawtucket, 33 innings. But they played it over 2 days. C'mon, let's go. Play ball."
The pitcher looked in for a sign, nodded and prepared to deliver. Rocky crouched in the right handed batter's box, focused on his adversary, trying to forget the previous two at bats against this guy were three pitch strikeouts.
The windup and the pitch sent a ball with a dot inward. A breaking pitch that wasn't breaking, a batter's dream. Rocky almost gasped as it grew from a BB to a beach ball, and struggled to hold his composure waiting for the hanging curve to reach him.
Instinct took over again. Rocky didn't think; his hands drew back slightly, then propelled his bat through the strike zone, sending the orb deep to left center field with a rifle sharp crack. He didn't think it would make the seats, so he sprinted to first as fast as he could, turning to see its flight when he rounded the bag as his heart pounded.
The speed was unnecessary: the second base umpire was making a circle with his hand, ending the game with a home run call. Rocky slowed to a trot and floated around the bases as the other team trudged off the field, meeting his new teammates at home plate to dance in group celebration.
The celebration was muted. A long night's work had taken a lot out of everyone, and there was another game that night, in twelve hours. There was backslapping and glee in the shower room, but all were ready to go home. After Rocky changed, Mutt DeMedici approached him with a smile on his face.
