The air in the Kuwana pub hung thick with cigar smoke and the sour scent of spilled beer. António Figueroa leaned back in his chair, the wood creaking under his weight, and swirled the amber liquid in his glass. Across the table, Chris Puddiworth, towering even while seated, tilted his head and raised an eyebrow, waiting for the next part of the story. The two old friends had slipped into the rhythm of their late-night conversations, trading war stories from their long and winding baseball careers.

António took a long sip, savoring the burn before setting the glass down with deliberate care. “You remember Skip, don’t you? Grier. From Neo Tokyo.”

Chris let out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Remember him? How could I not? The man was… I don’t even know what to call it. Larger than life? But….”

António’s lips curled into a wry smile. “Larger than life, sure. But more like a shadow creeping up behind you than sunlight on your face, si?”

Chris’s face darkened and he let out an uneasy shudder. “I always thought there was something off about him. I never met a ballplayer that was anything other than a ballplayer, but with him? The charm, the way he could talk circles around anyone… there was something else, wasn’t there? What’s the story? I could never get a read on the Yankee bastard.”

António glanced around the room, as if checking for unseen ears. The pub was nearly empty, save for a snoring patron slumped at the bar and the barkeep polishing glasses with half-hearted effort. Satisfied, António leaned in.

“They called him Skip, but no one ever said why, right? Like you’d ask, and they’d just shrug or change the subject. The rookies don’t dare ask two times. But here – here’s the thing, Chris.” Figueroa tapped his finger aggressively on the table. “People feared him, yo. And not in the way – like not like a guy who throws at your head or even chucks a bat at you. It was subtle. Quiet. He had this way of looking at you, all smiles and amigos, but you’d feel like he could see every secret you ever had. And worse, that he might use them sobre tu madre.”

Chris leaned forward, his massive hands cradling his pint. “Go on.”

António took another sip, his gaze distant. “Neo Tokyo was… well, you know what it’s like. Big lights, crazy fans, the pressure. But Skip? He thrived on it. He’d walk into a room and own it, chill as hell, and make everyone feel like they were his brother. But behind closed doors, you’d hear whispers. Players talking about strange meetings, late-night calls, packages with names on the labels to countries you never even hear of.”

Chris’s brows knit together. “Packages? Like…”

António nodded slowly. “Maybe guns, drugs? Maybe both. Ain’t nobody knows all the details, and I didn’t want to. But I heard enough to know that Skip was more than just a ballplayer. He had connections. Like the kind you don’t walk away from. The kind that make you look over your shoulder for the rest of your life.”

Chris let out a low whistle. “And you’re telling me this now? After all these years?”

António chuckled, though there was no humor in it. “What would it have changed? Besides, you played with him too. Didn’t you ever wonder why he always seemed to know things he shouldn’t? Why he could shut up any complaint with a look?”

Chris frowned, his mind racing. “There was that time in 2037. We were on a road trip in Okinawa, and some kid showed up near the park gate, frantic. Something about a shipment being delayed. Skip just smiled, said he’d take care of it. The kid ran off like he’d seen a ghost, and no one said a damned word about it. I didn’t think so much of it at the time, but now…”

António nodded. “Exactly. Like how did some of these people know him? But you never saw him get his hands dirty. That was the genius of it. To the outside world, he was just Jeffrey Grier, the on base machine, the speedster, the life of the party. But those of us who were close? We knew better. We could see more, yeah? ”

Chris leaned back, his chair groaning under his weight. “Do you think he’s still at it? He’s with New Orleans now, right?”

António shrugged. “Who knows? Maybe he cleaned up. Or maybe he’s just gotten better at hiding it. But one thing’s for sure. Skip always land on his feet. And he always come out ahead.”

The two men sat in silence for a moment, the weight of the conversation settling over them. Finally, Chris tilted his glass toward his old friend. “We survived though, mate. The leagues, the trades, the teams, Skip bloody Grier.”

António raised his own glass, the faintest hint of a smile playing on his lips. “To surviving.”
They clinked their glasses together, the sound ringing out in the quiet pub. And as the night wore on, more stories surfaced, weaving a colorful tapestry of a life spent chasing some variant of the same dream – and, when necessary, outrunning shadows.