Puckmen Boys

[Ghosts]

“Fachinn ell!” John MacVurich pronounced as he kicked open the locker room door and tore his Namuko Puckmen jersey open. “Dobbers n’ nuggets, the lot of ‘em!”

Enrique Rodriguez
rarely understood his Scottish teammates, but after the Chandler Waxers completed their four-game sweep of the Puckmen to unceremoniously boot them from round one of the playoffs, there was little need for an interpreter. “Dobbers and nuggets,” he echoed, thumbing the well-worn leather of his father’s mitt. It was the only mitt he’d ever used since the day his father gifted it to him. The old infielder’s glove was short – too short for a pro – and too flexible with age for even any serious high schooler to choose it over a new glove. Enrique’d heard every teammate’s knock and joke and every coach’s dire warning, but he just kept on fielding and kept on progressing. Until today, that is, or so it seemed. Three hits in 14 at-bats was the pride of no lead-off hitter, and Esteban tasted dirt at the thought.

“Oy… m’ fault, lads,” Connor Leith, in a harsh Edinburgh accent barely tarnished by his time at Hosei, ‘”’at clipe Raines ‘ad me aff me heid.”

“It’s not your fault ole Harold went one for twelve in the series, Tapper,” Harold Stowe
wrapped one arm around Leith’s neck in a faux headlock before while playfully jabbing him in the ribs with the other. Leith tolerated the show of camaraderie from his English teammate a bit longer than he would have a month ago. It had been a rocky season, but he’d been named player of the game twice in his last four starts, and his 7 inning, 2 ER, 8K performance today was an admirable start and a worthy finale to what he hoped to be his last full season in the minors.

“Off me, ya cow! You’re doin’ m’ nut in,” Leith
smiled as he gave Stowe what most would consider more than a friendly shove-off. Stowe took the opportunity to stumble into Antony Batticelli and tackle him to the ground in a series of comically exaggerated prat falls resulting in Stowe mounted atop a supine and beleaguered Batticelli.

“Tell ‘em!” Stowe grasped Antony by the collar and shook his Italian teammate with exaggerated violence. Batticelli allowed the shenanigans to play out, flopping about under Stowe’s roughhousing before stiffening and grabbing him by the collar. “Tell them what?” he chuckled.

Stowe broke Batticelli’s
grip and spun as he stood, placing his co-captain in a loose headlock, “You tell these fine gentlemen about the show! Tell them,” Stowe now grabbed hold of Batticelli’s jaw so that he could articulate it as he ventriloquized the Naples native. “Say, ‘Mama mia the men are so muscley and tall and their mustaches have mustaches!’”

“Say, ‘Pasta Roni, their eyes could pierce the sky and their fastballs travel through time’” Stowe accidentally slipped his thumb into Batticelli’s mouth as he puppeteered the man. Batticelli, normally a patient and even stoic type, wretched at the intrusion and hurled Stowe over top of him, flipping him in the process. Stowe landed flatly and had the wind knocked out of him for a moment, giving Batticelli the chance to spit profusely in an attempt to clean out his immeasurable sullied mouth.

As the two recovered, Blaine Julien broke the silence, “Stowe has a point. You all might think this stings, but I’ve gotta tell you, nothing stings like thinking you’ve got everything figured out only to realize you barely know anything. Those guys at the next level are NEXT LEVEL. I swear it was like they actually preferred my 100mph fastball over another guy’s 92. We’ve got a lot of work to do if we want to compete in PEBA.”

“Hey, Headhunter, what do you say, brother?” Stowe had rolled up to his knees, pausing for a moment to stand all the way back up. “Is our Canadian friend right?”

Miguel Fernandez, who had spent much of the summer in Niihama making his debut, slowed his post-game rituals as he considered. Packing the contents of his locker, which after the season’s promotion and demotion remained relatively uncluttered, into a large canvas duffel, Miguel released the handle and now realized that much of the locker room was looking at him. It was kinda crazy, but a ton of these guys had real futures at the next level. Way more than for most AAA teams, which were usually 80% has-been’s and never-were’s. He picked the handle back up, started to pack again, and spoke, “I dunno, man. Yeah, they’re all really good, for sure, but I don’t think most of them were bigger or stronger or faster than any of us. They were just… smarter, I guess. When I first got up there, I was getting by, seeing the ball ok. But after a while, it was like they knew exactly what I couldn’t do well – everyone – and they just kept hammering me. I don’t think I saw a pitch I liked since my third week there.”

“So, you’re saying they scouted you, and sent around reports of what to throw you and where?” Stowe led.

“Probably. I’ve never seen so many heaters hit the corners. I was striking out every game before they sent me down. I hate corner fastballs,” Miguel was seeing then and there what his coaches had been telling him all along. If there was a weakness to be exploited, the pros would kill you with it until you fixed it or flunked out. “Watch your own tape, boys,” he concluded, zipping his duffel with obvious frustration.

“There you have it, gents. Quell you sad hearts, because if you don’t start preparing for the next challenge, you’ll never have a prayer at competing there,” Stowe announced, brushing the locker room dust bunnies from his uniform. His attention was too focused on a troublesome collection of fine debris clinging to his waistline to see MacVurich charging him from the other side. The room erupted in a cheer as MacVurich adopted a clean, midline form for his tackle, driving Stowe to the opposite corner of the locker room, where a large, plastic trash bin stood waiting to collect the Puckmen’s right fielder. Upon depositing Stowe into the bin, MacVurich chided, “Quit yer opinin’ ya daft cow, Lippy n’ Yuji n’ the boys are doin’ fine up and so will we. Fackin’ sassenach,” MacVurich tipped the can over, freeing Stowe, as well as the contents of the locker room trash receptacle, onto the floor.

[Sandgnats]

Dan good job!