A Measure of Success

[Ghosts]

Niihama, Japan – 31 January, 2031

Down 3-0 in the third, 1 down, Victor Torres to plate. Time to make something happen. Victor had trouble quelling the demons in his first at bat, and he ended up clipping Kino’s new forkball down to second. He almost beat it out, but it was a bad read on the pitch. He thought slider for sure, but it was the first he’d seen Kino’s new offering and it had some life. Victor’s thoughts came skipping about on loop, just as they had since he first stepped into the batter’s box in front of a crowd in nearly three years. He was aware of his jittering nerves, and his awareness only served to fuel deeper, darker demons. He didn’t remember stepping in. Crap, he’s set. Victor took the first pitch simply because he wasn’t ready. Kino’s two seamer was low, 0-1. He’s going to hit me with the slider this time, no way he repeats his pattern. Something in the windup, something fleeting, almost ethereal, gave him the tell. As Kino’s delivery progressed, so Torres responded. Foot planted. Core twisting. Victor’s eyes locked in, trained on motion, focused on nothing. The swing of a bat was something he’d spend the rest of his life trying to perfect. He’d fail every time. Some failures bore a satisfying drive – rocketing an offering into a yielding sky – but it was never perfect. A failure, but the kind of failure that fuels the next 100 attempts. This swing was one of those swings, and Torres sent an absolute screamer into the right center gap. He was at 3rd before he knew it, sliding in without the faintest clue of where the ball was. Turns out he was safe by a fair measure. As it usually did, his first instinct offered him success.

“Did you even see my signal?” Jimmy Sabato, acting third base coach, asked. Victor stared at him, a little dazed. “Yo, did you see my signal coming around second or were you just going three no matter what?” Sabato asked, incredulously.

“That was a triple the second it left the bat, son,” Torres winked.

“You’re an idiot, Torres,” Sabato offered flatly. Victor shrugged. A moment later, a lazy flyball to shallow right gave Torres another chance to demonstrate his speed, as he raced a laser of a throw home to score his squad’s first run of the game. Atta boy, me.

The innings rolled on and Vanessa’s angst over her gambit hardly receded. She weighed and re-weighed the risks: the probabilities of injury or loss of control, the pace and presentation, the race against time, and the experience of the players and her audience. She kept close tabs on all the variables, issuing calm and clear directives to her staff as a tempest of controlled chaos raged quietly behind stern eyes. By the time the 8th inning began – Torres’s squad was getting wrecked, but that hardly seemed to matter – Vanessa’s nerves were starting to calm just enough for her to notice. She decided to go make her presence known among the audiences as the game inched toward its end.

Her visit with the audience behind Victor’s dugout was first on her agenda. She wanted to get in and out before their team’s loss was completely assured, though a seven run deficit would be hard to overcome in two innings. She sought out and located the older gentlemen that represented this half of the audience. He was seated in the topmost row and furthest corner, isolated from the small crowd that filled the lower portions of the section. He smiled and stood as she approached.

“Ms. Chambers, my name is Takahashi Natsumi. My counterparts and I wish to thank you for warm hospitality and for this evening’s spectacular entertainment. We are most honored to have been your guests,” he said, bowing deeply.

Vanessa returned the bow with equal depth and pause. “I am honored to have you as a guest. I am also pleased that you and your compatriots haven’t let the score sour the experience, Mr. Natsumi,” Vanessa smiled.

“There are many ways to gamble on a baseball game, Ms. Chambers – not just via the final score. Almost as many have won money as they have lost it. Almost,” he said, with a winning grin.

“Very good, sir,” Vanessa matched his grin, bowed gently, and turned away, quite pleased with her plan’s success. Vanessa allowed herself the moment of success – slightly more so than she might have otherwise – because she was less enthusiastic about interacting with the little shark that served as Mr. Natsumi’s counterpart. As she walked the empty corridor of commerce behind home plate, she pulled her phone from stowage and dialed her head of security. “I’m going to visit to the 3rd base side audience. Keep an eye out for me, will ya, John?”

The little shark was a bit harder to find, perhaps because of her own anchoring bias. She’d expected he might take a similar position as that of Mr. Natsumi, but instead she found him raucously sloshing his drink about and slapping hands with the rest of his goonish associates. Dead center in the section’s front row. She approached but paused several rows up and in the aisle until there was a sufficient break in the action. As she waited, she regarded the action of the game. The players seemed to be immersed in the action. The game lacked the laziness of a spring training game, but was perhaps closer to that atmosphere than that of a playoff game. More like an early May game – players wanted to win. There was extra effort in base-running and defense, though it seemed like the message not to try anything crazy had landed, at least for now. Celestino Corsica reached back and hurled a splitter that seemed to slide more than fly. Inman chopped it toward short, and Torres retired him effortlessly for the eight’s final out. Too bad he can’t field that way consistently.

In the action’s break, Vanessa approached the little shark. As she did, she was aware that he’d caught her approach in his peripheral, but did not turn to acknowledge her. She ignored the discourtesy. “Good evening, sir. I trust you and your associates have enjoyed this evening’s entertainment,” Vanessa offered, bowing gently.

“Ah, good, you’re here. We certainly are enjoying the entertainment, ARE WE NOT?” the little shark turned wildly toward his crowd and received a tired, drunken series of hollers in return. As his gaze wandered back toward the field, he wiped the endless drench of sweat from his brow onto his suit coat sleeve, which featured a streak of white where the evening’s salt residue had dried on the outskirts of the habit’s range. Vanessa returned her gaze to the little shark’s face, and proceeded, “Please ensure your associates clear the area with haste upon the conclusion of the game. Our staff will need to clear the facility and they’ve all had a long day.” Vanessa waited several seconds for a reply before deciding to turn away. As she did, the little shark exhaled loudly and announced to no one in particular, “NOW, I AM DISAPPOINTED.” Vanessa halted her exit, and returned her stance toward the man. “Here we are, all having a wonderful time, enjoying our well-paid for entertainment, helping you out personally, Ms. Chambers, and you come to pour your ice in our bath,” the man shook his head, fixed his eyes upon Vanessa, and gestured for her to walk with him the several feet toward the railing separating the stands and the field. She complied, after a short pause where she matched his gaze.

“You call tonight entertainment, but this is not entertaining for you, is it Vanessa?” The little shark continued without pause, “You see I think this was an act of desperation. I think this little stunt could get you into a whole heap of trouble if the big boys upstairs found out what you were doing, no?” At this point he offered a pause, punctuated with a smirk. Vanessa’s demeanor remained unchanged, save for the slightest hint of a raised eyebrow. They stared at each other for a moment, until Vanessa decided the timing was to her advantage to speak. “Mr. … well I don’t know your name. Let’s stick with “sir” for now. There are no “big boys” upstairs, sir. I am the voice of the Niihama-shi Ghosts. I don’t particularly care what game you think you’re about to play, but I am not interested. Please ensure your associates enjoy the rest of the game and exit promptly upon completion. If you could have them pick up their litter, that would be most gracious,” Vanessa concluded. She offered a faint bow and even fainter smile before turning toward the aisle stairs.
Abruptly, the little shark grabbed her arm and pulled her closer to him. “Ms. Vanessa Chambers, executive assistant, Apartment 6 of the Fontana Building, I think you misunderstand me. My name is Oshira Ayaka. Tonight was business for me. I did well, and so did you. I don’t walk away from good business. You will host a repeat of tonight’s performance in three days’ time. I will bring an even larger audience. You will collect the proceeds from tickets and I will collect the proceeds from their foolish wagers. This will be the last time that I am so patient.” His beady eyes glared viciously at Vanessa, matching the snarl he’d chosen to accent his demand.

Vanessa had been taken off balance by the man’s sudden grab, and endured the whiskey-baited verbal onslaught of the short-statured man with as much poise as she could muster while thusly off balance. As he concluded his tirade, however, Vanessa adjusted her footing and stood back into her full stature. At 5’10”, she was a giant among American woman and Japanese men. With her heels on, and this man’s shorter-than-average build, she towered over him as she stood. She re-created her personal space by pressing two fingers decidedly into the man’s chest and slowing pushing away. As she did, she saw her head of security rushing down the stairs. She raised her hand to stay him. As she raised her arm out of the man’s grip, she adjusted her jacket, and regarded him. “Mr. Ayaka, was it? We are not associates. We are nothing. You have absolutely zero control over the Niihama-shi Ghosts organization or its scheduling. Enjoy the view of the 9th, it’s the last time you will see Oikake Maze in person.” She decided against returning the man’s glare, and instead offered no change in demeanor whatsoever.

As she exited, Vanessa instructed her security detail to ensure Mr. Oshira Ayaka was watched until he was completely off the grounds, but to keep a distance if possible. She regarded him as dangerous and didn’t want her security team in harm’s way. A lifetime ban was included in the tail end of her instruction.

Down 9-2 in the top of the 9th, Victor was at peace with being able to lead off his squad’s likely final offensive effort. He drew an easy five pitch walk before taking second off defensive indifference. As he stood at second, he pulled his mind out of game mode for just a moment. He wanted to appreciate the crowds, concentrated as they might be, for just a moment. They all seemed a bit distracted, but what do you expect during a blowout. Victor took a lazy lead off, saw Hernandez take a lazier check, and started walking toward third. As he heard the third basemen call for the ball, he took off for third. Hernandez’s throw was in the dirt and skipped over Dominguez’s glove. Victor scrambled up and sprinted toward home. He could feel the crowds’ eyes upon him as he raced. He could feel the shadow of the throw home. He took the outside cut hoping to make the throw and tag a little harder. As he dove, he aimed to the right of the plate, hoping to negate a blind tag.

The players are always the ones who know for sure if they beat the tag or not. Yet, somehow, the universe constantly conspires to confuse the results of polls of players in plays at the plate. The runner knows he’s safe, and will hear no argument otherwise. The tagger, however, has incontrovertible proof that the runner is out, and he will never shirk his responsibility to shake that glove full of exhibit A at the umpire. This universal scenario almost played out as it normally does, except this time Victor was quite certain he was out. That’s why when Hiro Taguchi, acting umpire and longterm groundskeeper, called him safe, he was momentarily flustered. Victor had never been called safe errantly. He’d been called out unfairly, even unjustly, but had never received the karmic break that he was long overdue in the other direction. So, when he took his safe call and walked away with it, we can rest assured he wasn’t playing dishonorably. No, he was simply honoring karma’s sense of timing.