Achilles in the Trench

[DrewV]

ACHILLES IN THE TRENCH


Written by D. Visscher

Link to the Word Press Article

Asheville, NC
2034 Planetary Extreme Baseball League Winter Meetings
December 23rd, 2034

Ricky McCoy paused with his hand on the silver handle of the limousine, with the neon glow of the Asheville Hotel casting circles of electric holiday light on the windows. His gaze drifted thoughtfully from the lights to his old, golden wristwatch, appearing from under his sleeve as he reached for the door. Something struck the aging General Manager as he paused, studying the worn and scratched surface of the unmoving mechanism with a soft expression and a slow exhale.

“Ricky?”

His reverie dispersed, and he turned suddenly to his wife, who had lowered her Ipad and tilted her head, removing her seatbelt and scooting over in the seat. She took his other hand. “Penny for your thoughts? ”

He offered Tania a gentle smile, taking her hand in his and offering a measured breath.

“Achilles came to Troy-land,” he quoted sardonically, motioning his head to the towering Asheville building, as General Managers and staffers were already flooding into the main doors to attend the 2034 PEBA Winter Meetings. Tania smirked.

“Don’t oversell yourself, buddy. ”

He tipped the driver with some indiscriminate wad of bills and pulled himself out of the limo, helping Tania out behind him. The cameras flashed and snapped like an Ionian gale, and he ignored the trail of reporters who rushed out phrases like “drama among the ownership” and “concerns among the fans. ”

He hated all of it. Among the reporters who lured like hydra behind their microphones, and the predatory grins of the ownership and management who danced around the hotel entrance like priests anointing a primordial hunt. He felt his heart sink behind his tie and a rush of cold water pulsed along his veins.

It wasn’t right without Vic.

In seasons past, which seemed like twenty centuries ago, buried under the sand, Ricky would search the hotel for that reassuring Claymores expression. He would fire a few quick notes for reassurance—or to make fun of Drew Streets—and always there was an answer; an encouraging, sarcastic message from that lovable old Indianan GM who never took himself too seriously and knew how to win. This new world seemed disjointed—upheaved, and beneath it all was this immense sense of loss that the world, the lights, the reporters, had not all faded into the earth with him. The game went on.

“Was it so hard, Achilles,

So very hard to die?

Thou knewest and I know not—

So much the happier I.”

They walked along the extravagant carpet into the ballroom, where the reporters mingled haplessly for a few unanswered soundbites.

The Duluth management team was already assembled—in physical space, anyway—at a green-covered table with silver placards, one of which read R. McCoy. It was clear they hated one another—almost as much as they hated Ricky—as they had labored for three years to re-direct Ricky’s mistakes as a young GM under the much-loved Scott Hortness, only to see their leader depart and be replaced by the ghost of their departed adversary. He pushed that away, offering a polite exchange of greetings and declined a bottle of wine from a passing waiter. He could see all the disappointment in their eyes—another Winter Meetings. Another year in third place. Another year of caution and meticulous, infinite waiting.

“Ricky, ” Felix Collazo—the only remaining employee hired by Ricky in 2029—ducked his head, arms folded on the table, and gave Ricky a concerned look. “Are you going to tell us exactly what the hell you’ve been up to for three months? ”

The table reached a cold stillness, with Tania seated calmly beside her husband, hands folded on the table around a glass of Pinot. The reserved distaste of the staff was palpable as they drew their collective gaze to their General Manager, who inhaled and calmly poured himself a glass of water from a sparkling pitcher.

Manager Danny Grimes, new to the organization and dressed like he was on his way to an intramural practice, showed a wide grimace and tucked both large hands into the pockets of his Warriors jacket.

“We are going to win ballgames, Felix.” Ricky reached again for his broken wristwatch, as the blaring speakers of the ballroom began to chime out The Tokens, with Commissioner Harry Castle taking the center podium. The Duluth Warriors staff exchanged dubious glances from behind their glasses and averted their attention to the opening remarks. Tania gave Ricky a small, barely noticeable smirk, right at the edges of her mischievous eyes. Winning ballgames. No–that wasn’t it. There was something more about being a Warrior.

He caught himself searching the ballroom for the Scottish Claymores table, only to see a blend of faces unfamiliar to him. He exhaled.

Ricky was far away when Vic Caleca died. He hadn’t spoken much of it–hadn’t processed, hadn’t grieved. What a silly thing–he hardly knew him, yet he found himself poring over old newspaper articles, text messages, notes on their favorite poets, and the idiosyncrasies of this beloved baseball league. Vic often shared his dream of being a sports writer. Two new General Managers–one infinitely more wise and gifted than the other, with a grace and skill with words, humor and encouragement that transcended the weight of competition and fear of failure. Above the litany of this gentle man’s qualities, there was a final knell of guilt for being what Ricky could not be for him, in the end: he was there.

Ricky barely heard Harry Castle speaking. His mind wandered to old baseball field, to Vic, to the roar of a Saturday crowd at Doyle Buhl stadium and the tension that rose like a trireme as a hard-hit ball drifted toward the Center Field Wall. The ball drifted forever—beyond the cameras, beyond the spreadsheets, beyond the finite fading of another disappointing scoreboard. All of life and war was captured in that moment, with a ball just off the bat, where anything was still possible; hope rose from the bleachers with every kid with a Warriors jersey and a dream. Ricky wanted to stand there in Center Field, watching that ball head for Lake Superior, and tell Vic how sorry he was. Tell him how much he meant; how great of a man, a writer, and father he was.

But the game went on. Ricky pondered if winning, in the end, really mattered at all.

He hadn’t repaired the watch. Somehow, beneath the surface, Ricky felt that if he never made it work again, the world could stop moving. As if something broken could defy the merciless march of time.

As Castle spoke, Ricky removed his wristwatch, revealing a swatch of untanned flesh along his wrist. As his staff puzzled, looking from the podium to their recalcitrant General Manager, Ricky leaned forward under the chandelier studied the faded conclusion to his favorite poem. It was etched forever, like broken time, unseen on this final gift from a dear friend.

He put the watch back on and smiled calmly at his feuding team of beleaguered Warriors, the final verse echoing like the Muses in his mind:

“Stand in the trench, Achilles,

Flame-capped, and shout for me.”

Dedicated to Victor Caleca, GM of the Scottish Claymores; a loving family man, brilliant writer, and dear friend.

[Borealis]

I love Ricky's tender thoughts of Vic - brilliant Drew!!