The Prospect by Eliot Parker (epub ebook reader .txt) 📖

heard around Applebee’s Park Shane walked off the field into the dugout. Not knowing how to respond, he paused and listened. That was the best way to savor a job well done.

*******
The Sheaville Loggers were demonstrating good fundamental baseball skills throughout the afternoon against the Lexington Legends. Pat Sutton was 2-4 on the afternoon, with one of the team’s only runs batted in. Chaz Martinez had successfully executed a sacrifice bunt in the top of the fifth inning that allowed Biggie Rowan to advance to second base following a base hit. Ryan Head continued the inning with a double down the left field line which scored Rowan. However, Shane Triplet was unable to successfully reach base or earn a hit during his at bat, popping out and leaving Head stranded at second base. The Loggers did have the lead, 2-0.
Any problems Shane may have suffered hitting the baseball was easily forgotten due to another stellar pitching performance. Through 7 1/3 innings, Shane had surrendered only 4 hits, all singles, and struck out 11 batters. In between innings, Chaz kept reminding his friend that the ABA strikeout record for a season was in jeopardy, although Shane modestly disregarded his claims. The Loggers eighth inning appeared to be going smoothly for the visitors from Sheaville, West Virginia.
After retiring the first Legends batter of the inning, Shane once again faced Micah Lucas. On the day, Lucas was 0-3, striking out twice and nearly beating out a close relay throw to first base during the fifth inning. The formula Walter Mann decided upon using with Lucas was similar to the one used earlier in the game; fastballs with movement. This time, the Lexington Legend prepared for Shane and his arsenal of pitches.
Prior to Micah steeping into the batters box, Walter stared at his statistics sheet. Part of his responsibility as a manager in the Appalachian Baseball Association was to keep track of the performances of each of his players throughout the season. The sheets were mailed to Cincinnati Reds headquarters in Ohio so the organization could determine which players had progressed enough to be eligible for promotion to the next level of minor league baseball. Mann was always concerned with the performance of his pitching staff. He always felt that good baseball teams became great baseball teams with good pitching and sound defense. Today, the Sheaville Loggers were following that mantra. Yet Mann surveyed the stats sheet and noticed Shane was closing in on 100 pitches, which is often considered a breaking point for pitchers.
From the dugout, Mann’s pitcher looked sullen and surly. The pitcher’s gray uniform was blemished with sweat circles and nearly hiding the embroidered word Loggers sown to the material. The moisture running down his face was like a stream down a West Virginia mountainside. But Shane gave no indication to his manager between innings that he was tired or that he was experiencing any shoulder soreness. Always cautious, Walter lethargically wobbled to the mound to examine the situation personally.
With a simple twitch of the manager’s hand, Biggie Rowan, Chaz Martinez, and Harry Deitzler met Walter Mann at the mound. Shane was becoming too familiar with this conference. Fans in the stands began to stand and hoards of binoculars were focused on the mound as everyone tried to guess what was being said.
“How ya feeling lad,” Mann asked forthrightly. “By my numbers, use been out here an awfully long time today. I think someone else needs to close it out.”
Tired but determined, Shane would not admit to needing rest. “I am fine, skip. Let me make this guy 0-4.”
“I let Biggie be the judge of that.” He turned and was eye level to Biggie’s deep set eyes. “How’s he holding up?”
Harry tried to speak, or rather stutter in his case, but he could not utter a syllable in time. “He’s done,” Biggie answered plainly. “His tank is about on empty. There is no way that he can get this jack ass out throwing pure heat.”
Shane caught Biggie’s glare. For a moment, the two stared intently at each other. Suprisingly, Biggie shifted his focus to Harry and Chaz, challenging them to override his opinion with a vote of confidence for their friend. Instead, the two teammates looked away.
Walter extended his right hand, indicating to Shane that his day was just about over. With no qualms, he spiked the ball into the palm of his manager and brushed by Biggie Rowan. Biggie passed glances at the three men remaining on the mound, and placed his mask back over his face.
Dejected, Shane paced back to the dugout amidst a flurry of applause from the capacity crowd. Legend or Logger, many of the fans realized they had witnessed a stellar performance by a talented pitcher. Shane walked into the dugout, slammed his glove against the ground and flopped onto his lean, muscular frame onto the bench.
Chris Taylor, the Loggers closer this season, was brought in to finish the inning. He would be expected to also pitch the ninth and final inning. Chris throws a splitter and a wicked curveball that often times freezes hitters at the plate. An excellent athlete, he’s got a good move to first base and get the ball to the plate in a timely manner which keeps steal attempts to a minimum.
Despite his talent, Micah Lucas deposited a 1-1 pitch over the center-field wall for a homerun. The lead was cut to 2-1. After walking the next Lexington batter, Chaz, Ryan, and Harry were able to turn a double play which ended the inning. Lexington failed to reach base in the ninth inning, and the Sheaville Loggers hung on for the victory, 2-1.

X.

The weather in Sheaville continued to deteriorate for a Saturday afternoon in late May. The sun was mixed with small, blurry gray clouds all afternoon, but now the clouds had squished together to create a combustible thunderstorm. The lightening ricocheted throughout the town, bouncing off the old, decaying saw mill outside of town and bouncing off of the buildings in town. At Ruth’s Diner, customers were breezing in and out rapidly, each one doing their best to dodge the large rain droplets that littered Maple Street.
Frank Miller was slurping up the remnants of a cup of coffee, when he signaled for Jack to fill it up. Most of the time, Jack was steadfast in keeping the customers’ beverage glasses full, but it was increasingly difficult to refill cups and cook baked steak and mashed potatoes for table three at the same time.
“I’m afraid Joann won’t be back in here for another couple of days, Frank,” said Jack, sounding like a psychological expert. “I just do not think that she is ready yet.”
“Can you take care of things here just fine? I just want her to get better, that’s all.”
Jack continued. “But you know something, Frank, what if she doesn’t get better?” Frank slid his black sun visor over his head and placed it on the countertop. He rubbed his hands through his thick white hair and looked disoriented in having to answer that question.
Jack, wearing his usual white stained apron took his forearm and wiped the sweat from his eyebrows. He anticipated Frank’s response. Jack always considered Frank’s opinion to hold great merit because of the thoughtfulness and judiciousness he places on every statement.
Speaking softly, Frank leaned closely to Jack. “I think that she will get better. She has to get better. Shane needs her. Joann knows that.”
Jack, with a steady voice, disagreed. “But you know as well as I do that she hadn’t been the same since Roger died and when they moved back here, well, it seems like she hasn’t been the same since. Besides, who’s to say these episodes may or may not happen again?”
“Well, I hardly think we can be the judges of that,” Frank added. In hopes of distracting himself, Jack slowly scoped mashed potatoes on the slender white plate already plastered with a generous portion of steak smothered in dark beef gravy. He walked the plate over to table three and promptly returned to the counter, getting change from the register for a $20.00 dollar bill for another customer. Frank turned and scanned the diner, looking taking inventory of the cliental.
“So was Joann doing better today?” asked Frank gingerly as he observed Jack fondling dollar bills with his fat fingertips.
“She seemed tired,” Jack said with certainty. “I took the paper in and checked on her, like Shane asked me too. She was still wearing that nightgown but she was sitting in that living room reading the newspaper. Joann seemed all right, just like her normal self. But something was different, dag gummit. It seemed like she was hiding something, or afraid that I would find somethin’ out. I dunna know.”
“Well, she is going to act and say a lot of things until she gets over this spell that’s fer sure.” Frank noted. I just hope it’s a long time before she has another… for Shane’s sake anyway.” His voice tapered off as he aggressively took another swig of coffee.
“You may not get your wish.” The voice was the smooth and solemn voice of Phillip Rodney standing over Frank’s shoulder. “I just got a call from Mabel Hugart, Joann Triplet’s neighbor. Mabel says she heard screams from the house. Something is wrong gentlemen, something is indeed wrong.”

*****

Sheaville destroyed Lexington during their three game series at Applebee’s Park. The closest the Legends ever were to defeating the Loggers was in game one when closer Chris Taylor nearly blew the lead in the eighth inning. Since then, Sheaville pounded Lexington 7-1 and 8-0 respectively. During that stretch, the Loggers offense was dynamic, taking advantage of every pitching mistake by the Lexington staff. Chaz Martinez and Biggie Rowan tied with 6 RBI’s a piece during the last two games, which were more runs batted in than any other player on the team.
The ride from Lexington to Columbus would be much shorter than the trip from Sheaville to Lexington. Shane’s riding partner was Harry Deitzler, and traveling next to the first baseman was always peaceful because he always slept the entire way. Shane loved that aspect of Harry in general. As a teammate, he was always supportive and as a friend, he was worth his weight in gold.
As the solid white motorcoach with the gray, red stripped interior chugged up Interstate 75 towards Cincinnati, Shane reached for the yellow piece of paper Jack had given him a few days earlier. Wadded and faded, the slip was small and compact, and by the time Shane had unwoven it, it rested in the palm of his hand perfectly. Squinting in the darkness, he was able to make out the information written on the slip:

Roger Triplet:

Harlan Shea

Notice Received: 6/5/78

MM

Shane’s mind began to scramble, trying to assume and decipher what the note was for, what it meant, and why Jack Busby gave it to him. While he was reading, Harry’s head bumped into Shane’s left shoulder. Snoring and unfazed by the collision, Harry continued the nap. In return, Shane twitched his shoulder upward, sending Harry shifting lifelessly across the seat, causing his head and body to slouch into the aisle slightly.
Harry Detizler looked like he was 9 or 10 and could sleep like he was in a coma. He had brown, spiky hair, short and faded on the sides. He had a small but fit build with wide hips, a long face, thin and crisp eyebrows, narrow green eyes that jumped out and a small round button nose.
Instead of fretting over the note, Shane placed it back in the left pocket of his brown shorts and decided to go to the