Tugboat

[Ghosts]

Shin Seiki, Japan - May 3, 2032

“Tugboat” grasped the worn wood of the visitor's dugout bench as he slowly and deliberately rose to his feet. The loud pop in his knee was something he’d cared about hiding over the last several years in Aurora, but at this point, he considered it something of a badge of honor. The kids surrounding him were a group of talent the likes of which he hadn’t seen since he breezed through AAA in 2015. “Probably not a future Borealis in the lot of them,” he thought as he brushed off their still star-struck gazes. C’mon, man, it’s not their fault you’re here. A wave of embarrassment swelled momentarily, but Smith suppressed it with alacrity. Must be nervous about facing the Evas with that limp noodle of an arm you’re sporting these days.

Smith approached his manager, “Bingo” Suarez, a hell of a hitter a decade or two ago, but barely older than Smith. Suarez, who was putting the final touches on his lineup card for the day, made no effort to acknowledge his starter as he approached and reached a final position well within Suarez’s preferred personal space. After an uncomfortable moment, Suarez asked wearily, “Problem, TB?” His gaze remained fixed on his clipboard despite having finished his pre-game task.

“Let’s see it, skip,” Smith held his hand out expectantly, waiting for the rookie manager to hand over his lineup card. As the silence grew louder, Seishiro Kokura, the team’s locker room captain, slid silently down the bench, away from the pair of PEBA legends, and stealthily swept rookie Tyan-yu Tung away from the pair. Any other hand grenade would be Kokura’s pleasure to jump upon, but neither Suarez nor Smith were known for their diplomacy in the Ghosts locker room.

Smith’s impatience grew, but he didn’t come to start a fight. He wanted to know what kind of defensive support he’d get today. “I can look now or when you post it, but you’re going to hear the same either way.” Suarez sighed and flipped the card, handing it to calmly to Smith.

Smith ignored the shadow of a snarl on Suarez’s aging face, and reviewed the card with intensity. “You’ve gotta be joking. Why is Vargas at short? Why is Marquez at third?? He hasn’t played there all year! And where the hell is Figgy??”

All pretense of a quiet discussion now dispelled, Suarez looked intently at Smith. As he stared, his face seemed to Smith to phase between bemusement and amusement without moving a muscle. Suarez chuckled, “You really haven’t heard, have you?” The silence in the dugout now deafening, Smith asked genuinely, “Heard… what?”

The smile on Suarez’s face soured into a grimace. “We traded Figgy. And Black. Ed is probably about halfway across the planet right now, but HAPPILY, Figgy didn’t have that far to go. You can wave to him, I’m sure he’ll be taking batting practice any minute now.”

Smith’s face flushed. He looked over toward the Evas bench, scanning frantically for probably the only player on the Ghosts roster that had a prayer at striking fear into an Evas pitcher. He spotted the former Ghost, sitting alone at the end of the Evas bench. He appeared to be tapping his bat into the dugout ground and looked… nervous? Angry? Definitely out of place.” The realization that they’d traded their best player to their supposed ancient arch nemesis, the night before their series opener, spilled acid over Smith’s soul. It burned.

“Don’t worry, we got their baby-faced power hitter in return. Of course he’s batting a buck eighty-four, but hey, that’s what we’re after, right?” Suarez immediately regretted his words, and was thankful the area had cleared. Maybe no one heard. “Anyway, you get the pleasure of facing off against not just their regular lineup, but also our best player and, oh yeah, the 225 million dollar kid.” Suarez grabbed the lineup card and took a step past Smith. Pausing briefly, he turned his head and spoke earnestly, “Good luck, Randy. We need a pro out there tonight.”

Smith carried out the remainder of his pre-game rituals in a fog. As start time grew closer, Smith felt an anxiety come over him that he hadn’t felt since his last playoff appearance. Hell of a run, 2030. As memories of beating the Bears, Sandgnats, and Evas en route to a pennant washed over him, Smith felt silly for feeling nervous. No one cares if we lose. Smith turned his eyes toward the now-packed seating in Genesis Park. Hell they expect it. Smith smiled for a moment. He looked to his left and took notice of the heart of these errant Ghosts – Seishiro Kokura. The kid played hard... left it all on the field... every coaching cliché in the book fit in and around the persona of young Mr. Kokura handsomely. Unfortunately, he sucked - or at least his stats so far did. He’s the kind of hitter that Smith wouldn’t even pitch to – he’d just throw three strikes knowing the best his overmatched opponent could hope for was beating out an infield single on a weak chopper. But damned if he didn’t try hard.

“Know what would be hilarious?” Smith nudged Kokura as he spoke. The Ghosts “placeholder” center fielder, surprised that Smith had spoken to him, asked earnestly, “What would be hilarious, Mr. Tugboat?”

Shrugging off the awkward handling of a nickname, “If we won.” Smith didn’t see the nervous smile claw its way onto Kokura’s face. Continuing to stare forward, Smith nodded to himself quietly, paused a moment, and stood once more. Oh hey, no ‘pop’ this time. “Rally the troops, Seishiro! Let’s play some goddamn baseball!”

Smith had an expert ear when it came to diagnosing trouble based off the sound of a ball striking a bat. Nothing about the sound of Felix Rodriguez’s grounder set off any alarms, but the fact that it whizzed by him just out of reach told Smith that trouble had again reared its head. That’s the thing about these damn Evas. They put one runner on and they’re a threat to score multiple runs. Having spent the last decade in Aurora, that wasn’t the brand of offense he’d come to rely upon for support. Campos, having to dive away from second to snare it, threw across his body after a fairly awkward recovery. Safe at first. Damnit. Normally Smith would move on, mechanically, adjusting strategy and technique immediately to account for the runner, but something was off. He looked back at his second basemen, and he was still on his knees. He didn’t appear injured, just… beaten.

Morale had not been an issue the Tugboat had been concerned with in a long time. Maybe here and there as Aurora started to have to contend with having the division title wrested from their grip, but nothing like this. Neither was this something Smith ever had to deal with. Aurora always had plenty of leadership without needing to rely on him. Smith looked on and saw Kokura start to jog in. Randy startled himself by shouting before he’d even realized he was doing so. “TWO OUT! Get ‘em wherever you can!” He waved Kokura back to the appropriate distance, walking slightly toward Campos as he did. The young second basemen had already snapped to his feet.

“Campos!” Smith shouted. The Ghosts newest second basemen froze as the PEBA legend addressed him. “Wanna know how we win today? With effort like that.”

As he turned back toward the mound, Smith recalled the conversation he had with the Ghosts GM back in January.

“This year is going to hurt. It will hurt our pride as an organization.”

Smith briefly toward first before homing in on Carlos Marino as he took his stance. Smith trained his fingers along the seam of the ball hidden deep in his mitt. The texture was as familiar as the skin of his own hand, and Smith stood, set and clutched, staring through his catcher just a moment longer than typical as he appreciated the perfection of that seam. His aging body felt entirely different than it ever had before as he reared back and exploded into his delivery, but to any of his countless fans’ observations, he was the same old Tugboat. Marino took a monster cut and popped the offering straight back into the upper deck behind him.

“But it can only hurt your personal pride if you give up.”


As Smith raised his hand to receive a fresh ball, he glanced over at the radar gun.


“I know the arm isn’t there anymore.”


You’re telling me, boss. Smith shrugged off the reading, set, and delivered a curveball low and away. Not going to chase? Fine. Smith sent another four seamer up and in. Marino easily turned on it, but again popped the offering backward. Rapping his bat against home plate, Smith smiled a bit inside. Bet you’d like another crack at that meatball.


“You’re going to get crushed every now and again.”

Not if I can help it, boss. Smith fired another curveball low and away. Again, Marino refused the bait. Sitting fastball. I can deal with that. Let’s give you what you want.


“The reason I want you here, though, is that I think you can handle it. When the rest of the team sees the legendary “Tugboat” get taken to deep center and shrug it off, they’ll learn to do the same.”


Smith fired his changeup right down the middle. Marino froze, certain a curveball was coming, as the pitch sailed over his knees. He tossed his bat in disgust before the umpire had a chance to make his call. Smith gave an uncharacteristic fist pump and shouted toward his new second basemen, who returned the salute enthusiastically. As he sauntered off the mound, Smith checked the radar again – 81. Smith chuckled and jogged toward the bench.

[DrewV]

I like your portrayal of Suarez in these articles. And I really enjoy getting into Tugboat's mind. Very well done, Dan.

[Arroyos]

Great to hear about the old Tugboat again. His has been a glorious career. Probably the worst trade Yuma ever made, trading him to San Antonio for relief pitcher Larry Taylor, a brilliant relief pitcher who helped Yuma make it to its only championship series, but still, Taylor was no Tugboat. Yuma recognized his talent early, drafting him with the #1 pick in the 2014 draft, and bringing him up quickly through the minor leagues until he burst onto the major stage in 2017 with a 2.69 ERA. What a pitcher!

Yuma will honor Tugboat's inevitable retirement with a quiet party and an offer to rejoin his first club as a pitching coach.

Yuma salutes you, Tugboat.

[Borealis]

Yuma will honor Tugboat's inevitable retirement with a quiet party and an offer to rejoin his first club as a pitching coach.

Word is he already has an offer on the table...

[Ghosts]

Yuma will honor Tugboat's inevitable retirement with a quiet party and an offer to rejoin his first club as a pitching coach.

Word is he already has an offer on the table...

He may have a third team interested as well. One that has never spurned him

[Borealis]

Yuma will honor Tugboat's inevitable retirement with a quiet party and an offer to rejoin his first club as a pitching coach.

Word is he already has an offer on the table...

He may have a third team interested as well. One that has never spurned him