The Prospect, Eliot Parker [free ebooks for android .TXT] 📗

the umpire called Tre safe at home, cutting the Loggers lead to 5-3.
Walter Mann, who was watching the play develop from the dugout charged out of the Loggers’ dugout, even though Shane tried to stop him from doing anymore damage to the once probable victory. Mann resembled a machine that had just been struck by lightening. His arms were waving wildly into the air and he was jumping up and down screaming at the home plate umpire. Biggie Rowan was trying to pull himself up from the ground when Tre slung him into the dirt.
The rest of the Loggers players flooded out of the dugout and onto the playing field. Everyone in Clark Field was on their feet, cheering and chiding Sheaville to do something. Walter Mann was kicking dirt and bellowing profanities at the umpire, using a unique assortment of hand gestures to explain why Tre Johnson was not safe. The umpire, with his mask placed under his armpit and his armed folded in disgust, was not interested in what the Loggers manager had to say.
Meanwhile, Biggie Rowan and Tre Thomas were wrestling with each other on top of home plate. Amidst clouds of brown dust, the obviously stronger Rowan was swinging madly at Thomas’s head, neck and shoulders. Tre had managed to reach around and sink his fingernails into Biggie’s neck, causing the 6’6 catcher to flinch backwards long enough to receive a punch on the end of the nose.
Shane looked around the field. The entire River Dogs team was inching closer to the field with each passing second, forcing the Loggers to unconsciously gravitate to the action. With Walter arguing and Biggie fighting, the situation had become a crisis.
The second base umpire, a stout, young looking fellow, apparently decided his colleague was helping fuel this fiasco and came to home plate. After demanding that Charleston stay behind the first base line, he sprinted to home plate.
Walter and the home plate umpire were now engaged in an absolute screaming session with each man trying to be louder and use more profanity than the other. The outfield umpire stepped in between them, wrapping his arms around Walter’s flabby stomach and trying to drive him away from home plate. Finally fed up with Walter’s antics, the home plate umpire threw the manager out of the game.
With both umpires preoccupied, the River Dogs ran for home plate. Shane and his teammates instinctively did the same and some Loggers players managed to stop anyone from getting towards the pitchers mound. Unsure how to respond, Charleston began swinging fists at anything that moved. Shane managed to duck under several battling bunches, and got to home plate first.
“Whoooooeee, a good old fashioned fight at the ballpark. I ain’t seen something like this since the was brought here all them years ago!” exclaimed Frank.
“Yes indeed.” Those were the only words Phil Rodney could say. Grabbing the binoculars and resting them against his forehead, the palms of his hands began to ache as the pressure exhibited on the plastic grew tighter by the second.
“This looks like a classic,” Frank added.
Everyone in the stands were chanting, gasping, and cheering for the fighting players. It did resemble a war battle, but not a sophisticated one. Instead, it resembled an early battle from the Revolutionary War at a time when the American colonists were learning how to stave off the British troops by any means available.
Shane saw Biggie and Tre wrestling again, this time with Biggie slamming Tre’s batting helmet into his ribs. The men were grunting and growling. “Stop it Jason!” ordered Shane. Neither man acknowledged Shane’s presence.
Tre reached backwards, just shy of the infield grass, scooped up a baseball and smashed into Jason “Biggie” Rowan’s jaw, creating a resounding crackling noise and Shane was sure that was Biggie’s jaw snapping in two.
For whatever reason, Shane did not care. He did not feel compassion for Biggie. In some twisted, morbid moment of thought, Shane actually hoped Tre would smash the baseball into Biggie again.
Shane’s feet froze while trying to gain some forward momentum. He peered forward and noticed Biggie’s face resembling a stomped piece of ground beef. With one right eye swollen shut, Biggie could make out his teammate. Biggie’s pupils were hollow and narrow, and for a second, Shane could tell the catcher was scared and waiting for help.
Shane did nothing, until he was clobbered from behind by a River Dogs player. Suddenly, Shane found himself spun backwards and flailing his fists towards the face and body of the attacker. Several sets of hands tugged at Shane’s jersey and arms in an attempt to stop him, and finally, after a few moments, Shane was slammed to the ground.
Shane next remember’s a sharp stink towards the back of his neck. Pivoting on one hand in a seated position, he lauched himself upright and then fell backwards again under a heavy stream of water. Shane could not see anything. Instead, he was trying to get the water away from his eyes and get away from it, wherever it was coming from.
Thanks in large part to Clark Field maintenance staff and their powerful water hoses, the fighting ceased. When the water hoses were shit off, both teams were wet, sore, bleeding, and exhausted. Not taking a chance by resuming the game and risking any more shenanigans, the umpires cancelled the remainder of the game, declared Sheaville the winner and ordered everyone to clear the field and the ballpark, fans included.
Phil and Frank were unhappy to leave, but they understood why it was necessary. Walter Mann, who watched the event unfold after he was ordered to the dugout, new suspensions would be coming for players on both teams.
The Loggers did their best to deal with the injuries themselves. Biggie Rowan did not have a broken jaw, but it was deeply bruised. For his troubles, the veteran catcher also earned a busted lip and two black eyes. Shane Triplet was fine. Even though he was provoked, he discovered that he swiftly knocked the River Dogs player down with one punch and then was flattened by a forceful blast of water. Ryan, Harry, and Chaz did not look injured or dirty at all.
Walter Mann said nothing as the players filed into the locker room it became a chatty, charged place of energy and raw emotion. Walter noticed players recreating what they did and saw with other teammates who may have been away from the center of the field while other players appeared relieved that the whole situation was over.
Walter sauntered through quietly amidst the commotion and came by certain players and whispered something into their ears. When he reached a seated Shane, he whispered very softly. “Check your locker Triplet, there is something in there.”
Perplexed, Shane quickly assumed the worst. The pitcher stood up, tepidly opened his locker, snatched the fuchsia colored slip of paper and then plopped down forcefully on the rickety bench, causing it to wobble.
Opening it gently, almost afraid it would crumble in his hand; Shane noticed the locker note was from the commissioner of the Appalachian Baseball Association. The text of the letter congratulated Shane for being selected as a representative for the ABA All-Star game.

XVIII

“The Shennangians at Sheaville”, as it was stated in the Charleston Gazette’s sports page on Tuesday morning, was the focus of much conversation and debate throughout town. Many of the townspeople were at the game, and they took great pride in providing friends, neighbors and co-workers with an eyewitness account of what happened from their perspective.
After the game, Walter Mann had little to say to his club. Exhausted and hoarse, he was really unable to speak anyway. However, he ensured his players that some suspensions were likely, including a hefty one for Biggie Rowan, since his lack of temperamental control coupled with Walter’s barrage of profanity towards the umpire started the bench-clearing brawl in the first place. The ABA commissioner’s office would ultimately decide which course of action to pursue against the Loggers and the River Dogs.
Adding to Sheaville’s rehashing of the fight included Several Loggers gingerly walking around town encompassed in bandages and slings, and Pat Sutton was even on crutches. Apparently, someone from the River Dogs successfully stomped on his right foot with his cleats, severely bruising the right-fielder’s foot. It was a good thing that Pat was not going to the All-Star game in Savannah, because he would have a few days to rest.
Olivia Mitchell borrowed her father’s car and drove Chaz Martinez into town later on Tuesday afternoon. Sheaville was now at the mercy of a furious but typical summer thunderstorm, bringing some relief to the oppressive July heat and humidity. Chaz was wearing a black rubber brace on his ankle. Although he was reluctant to tell anyone about his injury, including his best friend Shane, the pain was relatively intense. Chaz had never missed a game in his baseball career because of an injury. Olivia did not want him walking to town with the injury, so she decided to drive him.
Personally, Chaz was upset the brawl happened. He knew Olivia disapproved of what happened, since she barely spoke to Chaz the entire morning.
“Damn, the Dogs deserved what happened to them, bunch of fucking southern pricks.” Chaz looked to his left and saw Olivia’s eyes focused solely on the road in front of her.
“I hope Daddy can take me to the bank today,” Olivia responded, not inclined to discuss the fight with Chaz at all.
Olivia wanted her father to go with her to the Sheaville Bank and Trust building later in the day to help with her paycheck deposit. The checking account was in Olivia’s name, but she always felt comfortable having her dad tag along, primarily because Morton Mitchell knew every single employee at the bank. Olivia knows Sheaville’s town accounts are there. The mayor always happily accompanies his daughter because Morton relies on the bank employee’s votes during election seasons.
“How is the ankle today?” Olivia asked her housemate, finally addressing the issue. She turned and faced him, making sure to frequently look straight ahead so she did not hit another car. Traffic in Sheaville was unusually heavy for soggy Tuesday afternoon.
“It’s fine,” Chaz replied, groaning as he shifted his feet on the floorboard. Morton Mitchell always kept the Honda Civic in impeccable condition, and that included having clean floorboards. “In a few days, I will be as good as new. I am just glad it was my ankle and not my…”
“Sheesh,” cackled Olivia. “You’re always thinking about that.”
“Well, it is true. I am a hot package in town, you know.”
“Maybe with the older Sheaville ladies,” Olivia retorted. “I have not seen any women banging on our door in the last, oh, seven months or so.”
“You are not with us on road trips, though,” the shortstop inquisitively said, patting Olivia on the knee with his left hand.
When they pulled in to the angular parking space by the mayor’s office, Morton Mitchell’s desk light was illuminating the entire room. Olivia could see her father’s shadow through the window, and from early indications, he was scribbling something on a piece of paper. The boxes of file folders have been organized and placed into file cabinets, at her insistence. The changes made the office appear smaller though. Chaz got out of the car and limped behind Olivia, dragging his right leg slightly.
Changing the subject, Chaz intoned “I am real sorry I missed your dad’s tongue lashing about visiting Shane on Sunday,” Chaz whispered sarcastically. “I do not see what the big deal is. How did he find out you were even there?”
Both Olivia and Chaz stopped in front of the glass door leading to Morton’s office. The mayor gave