Spring Training

[DrewV]

Spring Training


(Link to Article)


"There is occasions and causes why and wherefore in all things.”

--William Shakespeare, Henry V




March 4th

“What a godforsaken shithole.”

Lieutenant Michael “Chick” Jones inhaled and shot a salvo of spent sunflower seeds across the dugout, leaning back with his arms folded across his tattered Duluth jersey.  He was a big guy—maybe six-five, and was built like he wrangled oxen.  Infantry guy—with a thick neck and the sort of half-grinning confidence that was too annoying to be charming.

Chick looked longingly into the horizon.  “Spring training in the States,” he said quietly,  “another season.”

“It’s not so bad,” Ricky McCoy answered, watching the first traces of a dusty sunset with a hand on the fence.  Mickey grunted. “At least there’s a softball field.”  He stooped to lace up his cleats, chuckling to himself.  It was March—but indiscernible from any summer month in the scintillating heat of the sprawling base.  Beyond center field, a large, metal tower rose out of the sand, with one Soldier on a machine gun, the other smoking and watching the officers play.

Ricky liked the desert.  It was easy—like staring at a wall.  And as he stared, the entirety of the desert rolled itself before him, like a banner unfurling in the fading light.  Somewhere in the dream that was the desert, there was the crack of a bat.

“Ricky?”

He opened his eyes.

The diesel fumes hovered in the air, the idle thrumming of engines echoing off the clay walls from just outside.  A sporadic report of small arms, two—no—three hundred meters—near the bridge.  Half a dozen radio calls clamored in the small headquarters, and Ricky scrambled to trace an azimuth with a red pencil as half a dozen officers shouted and paced and smoked cigarettes to stay awake. Romeo. Golf. Zulu. One. Three. Niner. Seven.   A resonant boom in the near distance show the dust from the rafters, and the commotion of the headquarters turned to dreaded silence.  Chick pat his shoulder—launching dust toward the ceiling.  “Cheer up, pal.”  He spread that stupid grin.  “You look like a Yuma fan.”

Get down, Ricky.  A slide.  A slide into third base—never easy—with Chick calling from the dugout.  Get down, you stupid son of a bitch!  Ricky beat the tag—he always beat the tag.  He smirked at Chick as the Lieutenant Third Baseman frowned, muttering about the umpire’s union and kicking the dust.  The home dugout taunted him mercilessly.  “Better luck next time, Mitch.”

“Yeah, fuck off, McCoy.”

Get down.

The second boom was closer.  The Colonel yelled into the hand mike and threw it like a tomahawk into the wall.  No helicopters coming.  Chick looked at Ricky.  Their tan shirts were both stained, the camouflage nearly unrecognizable.  He could smell burning hair.

“Chick, get a god damn platoon to the bridge and link up with Brigade.”




He was seven, staring through a canopy of lilting birch trees to trace the sunlight along the springtime afternoon sky.  They whirled and bent under the rotating, leaves shimmering above the tall grass.  Ricky bent low, picked up a rock and tossed it up, heaving the branch of the bent birch tree with all his might.

Not safe.  Check the windows.  Weapon in the shoulder.  Heel-Toe.  Heel-Toe.  Head on a swivel.  Inhale, exhale.  Romeo. Golf. Zulu. One. Three. Niner. Seven.  On August 14th, 2017, Samuel Kettley drove in nine runs.  But—was it even 2017 yet?  Heel-toe.  A motorcycle rolls by with a family of four clinging onto a man who knows you won’t be here forever.  Joke’s on you, asshole—yes I will.

Ricky, get down.

“Lieutenant Michael “Chick” Jones leaves behind a loving wife and two-year-old girl.” 

Catholic funerals seemed fitting.  Order, tradition, liturgy, podiums.  Chick would’ve hated it.  He would have muttered something inappropriate in the pew and spread his arms out like he was watching a ballgame.  They buried him with a Warriors hat.

Please.  Wake up.  God, Jesus Christ, someone wake me up.

“Ricky.”

He woke up.

Tania frowned, eyeing him with a lifted brow.  She’d taken an earphone out and looked up from her tablet from across the aisle of the airplane.  Had she shaken his shoulder?

Ricky looked around—the hum of the engines, the faint dings of the overhead lights—light turbulence and and thin carpet.  His eyes met Tania’s, and he shrugged.

“BNN’s got us at eighty-five wins.”  Tania tapped her tablet with a smirk.

“What a bunch of morons.”  He folded his arms and adjusted uncomfortably in the chair—his palms cold and wet.  His lap was littered with notes and depth charts.

“Just in time for season tickets,” she chimed brightly, lifting a Skymall out of the seat pocket and turning the pages with a vacant expression.  Ricky didn’t notice her sidelong glances to him as he blinked, rubbing his eyes.  Eventually, he turned.

“What?”

“You ready for another season, Ricky?”

He sighed, turning to stare down at the unfolding desert below.  “Yeah,” he answered quietly—not really knowing what the question was—as he looked down upon the great expanse of nothing.  The magazine in front of him was folded open to financial ad—loan consolidation—and on the page was some guy with an anvil chained to his ankle.  Yesterday's heavy, the ad claimed; put it down.  Ricky checked his watch.  March 4th, 2030.  Another season.

[Borealis]

Great Job, Drew - The imagery... I feel for poor Ricky - clearly there are some demons we've still to learn about...

[DougO]

My only gripe is its length — I wanted to keep reading. Great stuff again, Drew. I particularly enjoyed the seamless transitions of the disconnected images in his dream.

[Borealis]

My only gripe is its length — I wanted to keep reading. Great stuff again, Drew. I particularly enjoyed the seamless transitions of the disconnected images in his dream.