Never Enough

[Ghosts]

Tokyo, Japan – August 5th, 2030

“Thank Christ for the 2020 Olympics,” Henry Carter thought to himself, as he stepped onto Joban line train. He’d noticed the station’s accommodation of English speakers just in time to avoid an argument with the ticket agent. For all her irritating objections, at least she spoke a few words of English. More than Henry could say for himself and Japanese. “Park close! Too late night!” she kept repeating insistently. Henry simply pointed at the park brochure again and again until, after several moments, he noticed the large wall maps adorning the ticketing office featured English names. He disengaged from the exasperated employee and after a few moments of study, returned to a different agent and bought the tickets he figured he needed.

The train was cleaner than he was used to – he’d grown up rarely using mass transit, but always hating the associated smells. No such issue here, but god damn the seats could be a little bigger. The train wasn’t too crowded this late at night, maybe 30% seat occupancy, Henry estimated. He could feel their eyes straining toward, drawn to, what, his pale skin? No, probably his stature. Not too many 6’5” Tokyoans. Tokyites? Japanese. Let them stare. Maybe it’s not the stature. Maybe they know who I am? “No one gives a shit about you, Carter,” he assured himself under his breath.

He rode along in silence for a few stops, allowing himself to stare unfocused, to pause the infinite juggernaut of self-critique, until he felt too antsy to allow himself even that. “Don’t check. You sucked and you put them behind,” Henry voiced the words fully in his mind. Even when being honest with himself, he still took the slow route. Some advanced form of self-indulgence, to slow your own disappointment to the speed of speech.

Strike. Ball. Strike for a hit. Every. Fucking. Time. You’re that afraid of a fuckin’ walk, “Cold Smoke”? 2-1 is unrecoverable? He recounted the 5th – you let Gassaway work you full, then he pushes one into left. He gets bunted over and then you groove that WEAK friggin’ change right in on Rodriguez. All the time in the world to square that up and send it deep. He chases a ball, you offer him batting practice. Can’t fall behind, right Carter?

Henry finds himself unlocking his phone and reflexively about to check the score before stopping himself and returning the device to his pocket. As he shifts his weight, the baseball in his left coat pocket rolls loose. The scuff on it is telling. Glass really smoked the fuck out of it, didn’t he? Strike. Ball. Line drive. How many times today? 6? Glass got his cardio in. Henry ran his thumb over the stitching and breathed. If he ever fell out of love with the feel of a baseball’s stitches in his grip, he may as well just wilt to nothing.

“I hope Sutrez isn’t pissed,” Henry lamented, changing the subject with himself. He tried not to make a habit of leaving the clubhouse early after leaving the mound. Ideally, he’d never have the chance. Henry hated giving the ball up to let someone else finish his game more than anything. More than the sound of his changeup reversing course? A 10’s a 10.

Sutrez must have seen him slide out, still gripping the ball that Chuck Glass sent screaming into left field to push the go-ahead run across the plate. He caught up with Henry, already in street clothes, a short way down the hall toward the players’ exit. It was only the 6th inning.

“Bad luck today, brother,” Sutrez offered lightly. “We still got this, just down one. You put us in a position to win, that’s all we need.” He meant what he was saying, and Henry appreciated the sentiment, but this wasn’t the time. “Five runs on eight hits. 21 hits in the last three starts. It’s not good enough,” Henry caught himself and disarmed the edge in his voice, “I’m pissed, but I’ll be fine. Just need some air.” Henry couldn’t tell if he was lying.

Sutrez looked him over and decided against pressing, “Sure thing.” The two exchanged measured glances before Sutrez eased the tension with a wide smile and friendly tag on the shoulder. Henry nodded and turned toward the exit. Sutrez stood in place for the moment, before shouting, “Let it go, brother,” and gestured for Henry to toss him the ball. Henry considered for a moment, looking down at the ball and turning it over. He wanted to let it all go. Just fucking relax. Shake it off. He wanted to take up residence in any one of the clichés that would allow him to actually put a bad performance behind him. He didn’t have to turn the ball far before seeing the mark Glass’s double left. “I intend to, Frank,” Henry offered as he pushed out the exit, gripping the ball tightly.

The train display dinged and glowed “Shinagawa Station”. Double checking his transfer, Henry stood up to exit the train. Again, he felt every pair of eyes in the cabin upon him. It’s definitely the height thing. Following the signage meticulously, Henry boarded his next train a few moments later and allowed himself to release, at least, the stress of checking the train’s progress every thirty seconds. This ride would take about an hour. As the seemingly unending lights of Tokyo slowly began to transition to a more Midwestern density, Henry fought the urge to check the score again. He tried to close his eyes, but the voice of disappointment boomed louder in the dark. Fuckin’ hell, Carter. You can at least see how they’re doing. Don’t be an asshole.

Henry deftly slipped the phone into his hand and noted the time. Must be close to wrapping up the 9th by now. When he’d left, the score was 5-4, Neo Tokyo. He knew that Chris was able to get them out of the 6th. As he loaded the app, a familiar sense of dread surged. Runs have been at a premium all year. They’d already gotten you four, that has to be enough for you. Why should they trust you in the playoffs if you can’t deliver now? 6-6, end of the 9th. God damn, extra innings. Barry tied the game, bless his big, dumb, New York heart. Fuck – I should be there. Why are you such a moody asshole, Carter? The sting of being traded – alongside Mendoza no less, demoted, and left off the playoff roster last season must really be weighing on you, Carter. Nah, it’s probably just getting shelled repeatedly.

As the train rolled along, Henry felt the edge dull considerably. Not having given up the last run went a long way in taking some of the weight off his shoulders. Henry re-checked the score every few minutes. Kedsch was really dragging this one out. Medina got a few. Lawson a few more. “Storm Shadow” – love that nickname – was probably up next if this stayed close. Still 6-6, top of the 11th. Come on guys.
Outside, the lights had faded to something more like suburban Indiana. The nascent darkness over Tokyo Bay was broken brashly by occasional shore lights of one source or another, but between these objections, the glistening black of the water struck out endlessly. The harsh lighting of the cabin and noise of the rail should have drowned the sight in a sea of banging and fluorescence, but Henry’s focus did some drowning of its own and washed away the ambient assault. The infinite crashing of chaos into silent chaos mesmerized Henry, holding his contented gaze, until his phone flashed a notification: “Christian Webb, 3R HR, Bakersfield 9 – Neo Tokyo 6, Top 11”.

Henry felt the causticity of his exhalations carry away the gloom. Rain began to streak across his window, and Henry smiled a bit. Sutrez will cover for me. The train’s display dinged and dispensed the name of the next stop, which Henry didn’t yet recognize. The rain picked up a bit and Henry checked and re-checked the game’s progress. The Akira were up. That fuck Glass was due up, to be specific. Lian pitching. Just let it rip, Storm Shadow. No fear.

Single. God damnit, that dude is on tonight. Gassaway up. No fear, Hsin-ta. You got this. It took several minutes of constant refreshing to see a rain delay was in effect. It must be worse at the stadium, Carter mused, peering up toward the Tokyo Bay sky.

Some time later, Carter exited the train and turned his focus toward studying street signs. After a brief walk, with eyes on constant alert for police patrols, Carter arrived. Kanagawa Kenritsu Jogashima Park.

Even closed, sections of it remain well lit, but toward the shore the rain slicked rocks had little light to reflect. Avoiding the lights and shrugging coldly into his light jacket, Henry approached the rocky shore and stared deeply into the darkness of the boundless Pacific. It’s no Indian Island, but it’ll do. Pulling the game ball from his pocket and studying the feel of the wet leather, Henry felt a shiver overcome him.

Let it go, Carter. Planting his feet on the slick, sharp rocks, Henry hurled the ball with intent violence. Between the darkness and the crashing of the waves, he has no idea where it lands. All great and precious things are lonely, Henry mused.



Note: This is very much an homage to Drew’s exemplary piece on Henry Carter’s backstory and a simple attempt to carry that story a bit farther – not to supplant or steal it.

[Borealis]

Nice piece, Dan! As it finished, I could tell it was a continuation of Drew’s original piece on Carter!! Bravo!

[Lions]

Great story.

My only quibble is the use of the default baseball card template... those are terrible! Sorry... pet peeve.

Anyone looking for baseball card options, look here.

[Borealis]

Anyone looking for baseball card options, look here.

That's an awesome resource Frank!

[Arroyos]

Great story.

My only quibble is the use of the default baseball card template... those are terrible! Sorry... pet peeve.

I agree with Frank: great story. I especially appreciated the descriptions of the train. As a regular Amtrak commuter for years, I found the differences quite striking.

But I have a different (tiny) quibble than Frank's: "causticity of his exhalations"? How far did you have to dig to come up with that one, Dan?

[Ghosts]

But I have a different (tiny) quibble than Frank's: "causticity of his exhalations"? How far did you have to dig to come up with that one, Dan?

I can get carried away with the vocabulary, true. I suppose "causticity" didn't strike me as too demanding, but maybe that's because it's a bit of a science term.

[Ghosts]

Great story.

My only quibble is the use of the default baseball card template... those are terrible! Sorry... pet peeve.

Anyone looking for baseball card options, look here.

Took your advice and got the 1993 Leaf set to work. I'll experiment with others. Thanks, Frank! Oh, and thanks for the kind words, Mike!

[Lions]

Took your advice and got the 1993 Leaf set to work. I'll experiment with others. Thanks, Frank! Oh, and thanks for the kind words, Mike!

Love it!