School of Lilly

[Ghosts]

Bakersfield, CA - 8 September, 2030

“This must really chap your ass, big boy.” Pat Lilly sat on the dugout bench, casually slumped with his legs propped up on an overturned ball bucket. “Shoot, if I were on Team Bothwell, I’d be shakin’ the couch cushions loose, lookin’ fer extra change,” Lilly mused aloud to no one in particular. “Then again if I were on Team Bothwell, y’all wouldn’t be losing. Also, it would be called Team Lilly, on account of you suck, ‘Red Hook’,” Lilly said, turning a cockeyed glance over toward Alex Bothwell. The barb didn’t seem to cut too deeply, as Bothwell kept both eyes on Anastasio Silva as he rounded third and jogged toward home.

“And why would Otter giving us the lead bother me?” Bothwell finally replied, after a moment of pause to let the crowd’s cheer die down as Silva crossed the plate.

“Welllp,” Lilly shifted his considerable weight to loosen his pants’ grip on his pocket as he reached in and fished out a small, worn notepad. The pages had mostly taken on a series of curved shapes that matched the irregular patterns of folding Lilly employed as the cheap notebook’s wire binding bent and frayed to the point of dysfunction. The entire notebook easily fit into Lilly’s considerable grip and had taken the overall shape of Pat Lilly’s left pants pocket. “See by my math, and shit my math was never that great so maybe you got something different, but by my math, you got gifted this beautiful home run hitting shortstop, who’s hit… seven, I believe for Team Bothwell, and Team Ortega has STILL got your ass pinned to the mat. Hey, Ortega, what are your boys up by? 10? 15?” Lilly sat counting the smudged pencil hash marks tallying the team’s home run totals since his appointment as Bakersfield’s hitting coach on June 5th.

“I think 12 now, coach,” Ortega replied with a grin and joined the line of teammates welcoming Silva back to the dugout with a chorus of high-fives.

“Yup, that’d chap my ass.” Lilly said, still reviewing the marks in his notebook and adding a line for Silva. “I’m not sure if was stupidity or arrogance, but sure seems like your boy Aguilar was a shit pick. I mean you picked him ahead of, who, Ricks? Merlin the magical rain maker? And 20 Piece? Yeah, shit pick,” Lilly continued as he stood and raised a heavy leg onto his bucket-turned-footstool. “Hey, Jorge, how many home runs have you hit for Team Bothwell?” Lilly leaned forward and rested the weight of his upper body on his forearms, his body now pointed squarely at and over the 25-year-old Jorge Aguilar.

“No se, coach,” a visibly irritated Aguilar replied after an uncomfortable moment's hesitation.

“No se?! No fuckin’ se?! You don’t say, he don’t se. Shit, son, if I were supposed to be a power hitter and I’d only hit five fuckin’ home runs by September, I’m pretty damn well sure I’d remember each of them. My math might be shit, but ‘least I can count to fuckin’ five, hombre,” Lilly spat the words as they turned from a sort of aggressive joviality to something resembling venom. Aguilar sank deep into the bench and smoldered, refusing to meet Lilly’s gaze. Instead he watched Christian Webb’s lazy fly ball end the inning.

Stephen Hooper shot up and swiftly maneuvered his way between Lilly and Aguilar. “Jesus coach, chill. This was supposed to be a friendly bet, right? That’s what you called it, am I right?” Hooper said, patting Lilly on the shoulder and giving bench coach Chris Huffman a nod, letting him know he could return to whatever intense strategy discussion had occupied his and Kedsch’s attention so raptly.

“Yeah, yeah, calm down there Captain America. Just bustin’ the kid’s chops. There’s gotta be SOMETHING that will light a fire under his ass, amirite Jorge?” Lilly eyed up the young Bears third basemen and saw a man on the brink of either tears or murder, maybe both. Sensing he’d perhaps overstepped, Lilly gestured with is thumb for Ramon Guzman to unoccupy the seat adjacent to Aguilar and tapped Hooper on the hip, letting him know he’d ease up. He walked over to the bat rack, selected Aguilar’s bat, and sat next to him.

After a moment’s pause, he gripped the bat tightly as if he were about to take a few cuts with it, his hands torquing and counter-torquing several times. “You know these things are alive. At least they were. But they can sort of take up what you give them and give it right back to you when you’re up there," Lilly dipped his head toward home plate. "When I grip this bat, I can feel… frustration. That’s not so bad to put into. Maybe that gives you something extra next time someone’s dumb enough to leave one hanging in front of you.” Lilly paused to feel the incandescent heat of Aguilar’s rage burning as brightly as it had before he started his diatribe. He continued, “I’m betting right now if you were to take this bat, it would take up something more powerful. So, I’m just going to set this right here,” Lilly said as he rested the bat against the bench and Aguilar’s knee. “Maybe next time you earn a chance to bat you can put it to use.”

About two hours later, the Bears slim lead over the Akira had vanished and the game stood tied at three after the top of the 9th. The coaches convened to review options for the bottom of the 9th. “Figgy, then Carlson and Silva, then back up top to Webb,” Kedsch stated coolly. “Looks like they’re keeping Martinez in for the 9th, boss,” Huffman reported. “What do you guys think? Pinch McDonald in for Carlson?” Kedsch polled his staff. “Chief, I say we pinch Aguilar instead. I have a feeling the kid’s due,” Lilly offered. “Yeah? Ok let’s do it,” Kedsch concurred and made the announcement.

As Antonio Figueroa worked his way toward a five pitch strikeout, Aguilar stood in the on deck circle and twisted his hands over his bat repeatedly. Manager Wayne Kedsch looked him over and turned to Lilly, “He looks furious, the fuck did you say to him?” Lilly shrugged casually, but as soon as Kedsch turned his gaze away, he stood to get a better view of Aguilar’s at bat. Jorge Aguilar walked straight into the batter’s box, took his stance, and stared intensely at Akira pitcher Jorge Martinez without so much as a whiff of a practice swing. The 6'2", 240 pound righty Martinez took his sign, nodded, and delivered his first offering. Aguilar turned the tension in his stance loose in a burst of motion and connected with the pitch. The ball shot off the ash and leapt outward... directly into the Akira’s shortstop’s glove, who quickly retired Aguilar.

“Fuck. That didn’t work,” Lilly muttered to no one in particular. The Bears proceeded to lose 4-3 in 11 innings.

[Arroyos]

Delightful story, in spite of all the words highlighted in pink. Weird. But the photo of the old notebook was priceless!

[Ghosts]

Delightful story, in spite of all the words highlighted in pink. Weird. But the photo of the old notebook was priceless!

Haha Bob I'm not seeing any words highlighted in pink! Did you happen to have a tall, refreshing glass of Yuma water?