The ball snapped into the catcher’s glove. Once, twice, three times. Each time the catcher rolled it to her right side where the ball girl picked it up and tossed it into a bucket of balls.

Snap, two, three, four. More balls for the bucket.

The man throwing the balls from behind the batting practice screen was older than the young woman catching his pitches, much older than the young ball girl. In fact, the entire team jogging on the outfield track was at least 25 years younger than the pitcher. And the ball girl, well, she was the youngest on the field, daughter of the pitcher, just starting her baseball career in the Little League.

Snap, two, three.

“That’s enough,” the man on the mound announced. The catcher stood and smiled, then tossed the mitt to the ball girl who ran it back into the dugout. When she’d tucked it into its cubbyhole, she shouted out at the pitcher as he walked from the mound to home plate, “See you at home, dad!”

“Okay, honey,” he shouted back. “Tell your mom I’m on my way.”

When he reached the plate, he thanked the young woman who’d been catching.

“You’ve still got it, sir,” she said.

“Oh yeah,” he said with a smirk. “I could ring up a few K’s in this league, that’s for sure.”

“In the Bigs too,” the catcher said.

“Hardly.”

“Your curveball’s unhittable.”

“Curveballs are only unhittable because hitters aren’t sitting on them. Once they know your only pitch is a curveball, you’re done.”

The young catcher protested. “You’re just saying you need more than one pitch, but knuckleballers only have one pitch.”

The pitcher smiled. “Curveballs aren’t knuckleballs. Curves are predictable, knucklers aren’t. You know that,” he added, pointing at her. “It’s not easy catching a knuckleballer.”

She gave him a look. “You’re right, as usual. But you’re curveball … it’s special.”

He grabbed a ball out of the bucket and dug his fingernails into the cowhide. “Think I could learn to throw a knuckler?”

She laughed. “You could,” she said, “but …”

He grinned. “But by the time I did, I might be too old and feeble to climb the mound, is that what you’re thinking?”

Her grin betrayed her, though she said, “Of course not!”

He tossed the ball back in the bucket. “I’ve spent too many years teaching pitches to learn a new myself now. C’mon, let’s get out of here.”

But as they grabbed their gear from the dugout and headed for the gate to the parking lot, a figure appeared to block their way: a tall stranger, though bent a little, with a beard and a dirty baseball cap. He looked utterly out of place on a baseball field. He seemed to be guarding the gate to the parking lot. As they approached, he seemed to recognize them.

“Coach Peterson, I presume. And his young protege, Miss …?”

The young catcher snapped at him, “Ms. Jorge to you. And I’m nobody’s protege.”

“My apologies,” the stranger said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve spoken to a female ball player, I’m out of practice. In fact,” he continued looking around the college baseball field, “it’s been a long time since I’ve actually been inside a baseball stadium. It seems … so strange now.” He sounded wistful, even nostalgic.

“You seem to know us,” the pitcher said, “so who are you?”

“Sorry, I seem to have forgotten even more than I imagined. I’m the former General Manager of the Bulldozers.” He took the dirty orange baseball cap off his head and held it for the pitcher and catcher to see.

“Yuma!” the pitcher explained. “I thought that cap was familiar.”

“Your former team?” the catcher asked.

“The Bulldozers, yeah, but,” he turned toward the stranger, “they’re the Arroyos now, aren’t they?”

“A regrettable name change, yes,” the old man said. “But when you played for us—”

“Wait,” the pitcher said, “are you Swanfeld, the GM who, you know … ?”

“Cracked up? Went crazy? Fled to the mad house? Yup, that’s me. And you’re Javelin Peterson, one of the best damn pitchers in the history of the PEBAverse.”

“Well, there’s some that would take issue with that.”

“Let ‘em. They didn’t draft you, I did.”

“You?” Peterson said, incredulous. “You drafted me? I always wondered.”

“And I always meant to speak to you in person, to tell you how pleased we were you signed with us, but …”

“They locked you away.”

“No no, that was my decision, I needed help and I committed myself. It was the right thing to do—well, at first, before things got a little crazy. But that’s another story and not one I’m inclined to tell right now. I came here to find you, Javelin.”

“Javelin?” the catcher asked, looking up at her coach.

“My nickname in the Bigs,” Peterson said.

“Why Javelin?” she asked. “You didn’t compete in track and field, did you?”

“Oh, you mean like toss a javelin?” he laughed. “Hell no. It was just a nickname I got stuck with.”

“Because his pitches stuck like a javelin,” the old man said. “Sharp!”

Peterson grinned.

“I came to offer you a job managing one of our minor league teams.”

“One of Yuma’s minor leagues?”

“Yes,” the old man said. “We want to start you out in the Surf & Snow A division and then promote you quickly.”

“The A division, huh? Where is that—I mean, what team?”

“Kivalina.”

“Kivalina?” Peterson mused, then turned to his catcher. “I remember that place, as far away from civilized life as you can imagine!”

“It’s a bit more civilized now than in your day. The entire village lives inside the stadium.”

“Inside the stadium! Why? How?”

“You ever visit the village when you played there?” the old man asked.

“I don’t think so. I mean, I was there a couple weeks, no more. You promoted me from A to AA to AAA so fast I had no idea where I was one week to the next.”

“We wanted you in the majors pronto, son. You proved us right at every stop. Those folks in Kivalina still remember you. You were six and oh for them that season.”

“That was a long time ago,” Peterson shook his head. “Is there anybody there who remembers that far back? I mean, when was that?”

“2015,” the old man said, “and yes, they remember. They have long memories. And the village is composed of the very young and the very old.”

“Ah,” Peterson said and explained to his young catcher, “anyone old enough to work gets out as fast as they can.” He turned back to his former GM. “I don’t want to spend much time in rural Alaska, so are you planning to promote me like you did in 2015?”

“One short season in Kivalina, then you’ll get bumped up to fill either the AAA or AA manager’s position. And if that goes well, our present manager will be retiring in two or three years, and our hope is that you will be ready to manage in the majors.”

“Alright!” the catcher said and pounded her glove.

Peterson turned to her. “You think it’s a good idea? Leave this comfy life teaching you kids to play ball to live in godforsaken Alaska and manage a team of raw rookies?”

“They any rawer than us?” 

Peterson chuckled, “No, I guess not. Some of you are pretty raw.”

“You’ll be in the majors again. Just a couple years.”

“Well, kiddo, never believe everything baseball executives tell you. Right … boss?” he added sarcastically as he looked at the old man.

“He’s right,” the old man said to the catcher, “but I’m not an executive any more. Retired. Just doing the new GM a favor. Which means …” The old man gave Peterson a look.

Peterson looked the stranger in the eyes, “I should believe you.” 

The old man nodded. 

“But you always were a slippery sort of boss, if I remember, so I’m gonna hang onto a bit of my skepticism and check with the wife and kids to see how they feel about a summer stuck in a baseball stadium in end-of-the-road Alaska.”

The old man smiled. “Except there ain’t no roads in or out of Kivalina. You remember.”

“Oh, shit, yeah!” Peterson sputtered, then turned to his catcher. “Excuse my French, but this village Kivalina sits on a spit of land smaller than this baseball field. They’re surrounded by water that freezes solid in the winter, so the only way in and out is by plane. And their runway! Got more potholes than our parking lot.”

“Wow,” the catcher said. And all three of them tried to imagine a place that remote or a runway that potted.

After a moment, the old man said, “If you’re interested, I’ll have Roberta—that’s the new GM—call you with all the details. She’ll offer you a decent salary and full travel and moving expenses, of course, but don’t be afraid to negotiate a better contract. She thinks she’s tough, but when she wants a player—or a manager—she’s willing to pay whatever they’re worth.”

“And she wants me to manage, you say?”

“Indeed she does.”

“Okay then. Give me a day to talk to the family and tell her to give me a call.”

The old man extended his hand. “I’m looking forward to seeing you wearing the Yuma orange again,” he said pointing to his ball cap.

“Mine damn well better be a clean one!”