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

the connection between Morton Mitchell and Roger Triplet to another acute attack of abdominal pain combined with being intimate with the daughter of Sheaville’s mayor, Shane was actually looking forward to getting back to what he loved most-baseball.
Prior to arriving at the airport, Shane had asked the cab driver from C&H Taxi Company to take Shane to Charleston Area Medical Center in downtown Charleston. Biggie Rowan had been in the hospital since the brawl with the South Carolina RiverDogs. No word had been received from the commissioner’s office concerning suspensions that undoubtedly would be given out as soon as the league office had a chance to review the incident. Yet Jason “Biggie” Rowan was at one time thought to be a candidate to make the Appalachian Baseball Association All-Star team, and now, there were no guarantees that he would even make it through the rest of the regular season.
Sheaville was in second place in the South Division of the ABA, only four games behind the Hickory Crawdads at the season’s midpoint. Conversely, the Charleston Alley Cats had opened a commanding ten game lead over the Delmarva Shorebirds in the North Division, which was essentially expected by almost everyone. Before leaving for the game, Shane felt a certain responsibility to visit his teammate-a person responsible for helping him achieve excellence. Shane had every intention of starting over and hopefully putting the past behind him.
After being dropped off at the south entrance to CAMC, Shane sprinted past patients being escorted inside the hospital by staff and others with looks of sadness on their faces.
Inside, the hospital smelled like fresh plastic and chemical disinfectant. After wandering through several narrow, curvy hallways, Shane stumbled upon the information station and located Biggie Rowan’s room. As Shane traversed down another hallway, he noticed three people African-Americans, one woman and two men, sitting outside of his room on cushioned seats in a small waiting area. Neither of the three bothered to acknowledge Shane regarding his sudden appearance or intentions.
Biggie Rowan was lying upright in the hospital bed. Next to him was a brown tray on wheels that was filled with several cups and straws. His face, although slightly healed following the fight, still was a mangled mess of bruises and swollen flesh. The catcher noticed Shane approaching and launched a cup filled with tea at his teammate, coating his dark short-sleeved tee shirt with water and sending the cup ricocheting around the room.
“Get out!” shouted the catcher through clenched teeth. As Shane’s eyes focused on Biggie, it was apparent that his jaws were wired shut.
“I…I, just came to say hello,” responded Shane, anxious to say anything that would keep another object from being hurled in his direction.
“You have every right to be mad at me,” he continued. “I know I should have helped you when Tre was smashing you with that baseball, but I just got caught up in the moment.”
Biggie’s eyes narrowed and his pearly white teeth shined through the metal apparatus holding his jaws in place. “Damn you. You were just hoping that it would happen. Now look at you, pretty boy. You are going to the All-Star game. You are going to represent the Loggers. Three freakin’ years I have been here and I have never gone. NEVER! And you, well, you come to town and then all of the sudden we are going to win the league. Shane Triplet, the kid that is going to finally put us ahead of Charleston in the standings. Well, you know something. You ain’t shit without me. I do not care what Coach Mann says about your talent.”
“That is what I came to talk to you about, Biggie. I realize that the reason I am being sent to this game is because of you. I owe you a lot. And for that, I am grateful.”
Shane felt his voice quivering and rejected the impulse to go over and finish the job that Tre Thomas started.
“I was hoping that we would put everything behind us. I mean, I do not know if you have heard, but we are only four games behind Hickory. We have a chance to win this thing. And if we do, I need you… the whole team is going to need you. Biggie, you are the veteran. Besides, if we do not win another game the rest of the season, I want you to get better. Fast.”
The sudden sound of feet sliding against the tile floor behind him startled Shane, causing him to look over his shoulder. He was greeted by one tall, lean man and another stout, chubby fellow accompanied by a young nurse in a green sweat suit outfit.
“You paged us, Mr. Rowan?” asked the taller man in a light blue uniform.
Pointing at Shane, Biggie responded, “Yes, get this maggot out of here. I need some rest!”
Shane could feel the roots of his hair tingle with frustration as his blue eyes filled with moisture at the spectacle Biggie was making.
“Come with us sir,” offered the nurse, outstretching his right hand. “If Mr. Rowan needs his rest, you will have to leave.”
Recluctantly, Shane obliged the request. “Just remember Biggie, misery breeds contempt.”
Suddenly, another extended hand touched Shane’s right elbow.
“Sir, can I get you something to drink?” asked the flight attendant. The plane had left the airport and was already in route to Pittsburgh. Shane had fallen asleep, dreaming about Biggie and what had transpired earlier in the day.
Shane declined her offer and opened up his bag and took out a yellow legal pad that had been placed inside.
On the front page was a message: Good luck Shane! Love, Olivia.
Shane smiled and stuffed the bag under his seat.

******
Walter Mann meandered around home plate at Clark Field eagerly checking his wristwatch. He desperately wanted to go home, to Ruth’s Diner, or anywhere else where the radio signal from Charleston would be coming in clearly. Usually, that meant Ruth’s Diner. Since the restaurant was located in the valley between the mountains and the decrepit sawmill, the signal traveled down the interstate and into the small radio in the diner, free from commonplace radio static. The skipper knew the diner would be crowded, so he had hoped the meeting would begin and end promptly.
The manager had received a letter from ABA Commissioner Tim Morrison about a meeting concerning the incident between the Loggers and the Charleston RiverDogs. To make sure the information was correct, Walter pulled the crumpled piece of paper from his right pants pocket and reread a highlighted passage of text again.

Two o’clock p.m. Clark Field. Be prepared to offer a full account and explanation for the events that took place that day.

In the distance, almost emerging from the first base bullpen, Walter noticed two elongated shadows widening under the soupy mid-summer sky. As they approached, the manager placed his hands in his pockets and was rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. Throughout his entire career as a player and manager, Walter Mann had never received a visit by a commissioner of any baseball league.
The two men, both wearing identical dark suits with white starch shirts and dark solid ties walked in stride and stopped in front of Walter. The one man resembled a wimp; the kind of person that any school bully would love to harass. He was short and wiry, and Walter could not help but compare this person to a bowling ball.
In contrast, the other gentlemen was broad shouldered and handsome, with thinning silver hair and a dark mustache. Sewn into the fabric of the jacket breast pocket was the initials “T.M.” The commissioner spoke first.
“Walter Mann, I am Tim Morrison, commissioner of the Appalachian Baseball Association. This is my press secretary Joel Myers.”
The wiry man did not speak, but instead nodded his head.
The commissioner continued. “Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Mann You have a, uh, nice park here. It’s a little old-fashioned, but traditional nonetheless.”
“Uh, same to ya,” replied Walter, as he continued rocking back and forth with more vigor.
Joel began scribbling on a small notepad. With him, he carried a large briefcase, comparable in size to what a lawyer presenting a case before the United States Supreme Court would tote. The commissioner displayed a very somber manner, and Walter could not help but wonder the severity of the penalties that were surely going to be imposed.
“Mr. Mann, I assume you know why are here. We have investigated the incident that took place between your team and the Charleston team some days ago. Before we continue, we would like to hear your side of the issue.”
“Well, there ain’t much that I can add sir. I mean, you all know all about it. It was just a thing that happens sometimes when you have young men playing this game and the action gets a little hot.”
Tim Morrison’s eyes shifted towards his press secretary and then back onto the manager. “Mr. Mann, from what understand, you were instrumental in promoting this altercation by arguing with one of our umpires during a close play at home plate. Is that correct?”
“Sir, I don’t think I’m sure what use getting at,” responded the manager. “My boy was safe…he was safe I tell ya. I could see from that dugout platform right over there.” Walter made a slight gesture in that direction, but the commissioner and Joel Myers glared at the manager. “I just did what any manager would do. I was protecting my player.”
“I see,” muttered the commissioner wryly. “Mr. Mann, as you know, the incident forced several players to seek medical attention and the game had to be called. Now, you know that is lost revenue for our association.”
“With all do respect, I do not know much about money. I don’t make much and neither does anyone else around here. I just figure them accountant boys in your office take care of most of that.” Walter could feel his tongue swell in his mouth and his thick, southern drawl slur some of easily understandable words.
Tim stepped forward, now merely inches away from Walter’s nose. The skipper could feel warm air rushing out of the commissioner’s nose and mouth.
“Based on what we know, I have spoken with officials from the River Dogs and officials with your major league affiliate, the Cincinnati Reds. Together, we have decided to issue several suspensions.”
Walter responded by digging his foot into the hard, dusty infield and staring intently into the ground.
“Your pitcher, Shane Triplet will be suspended as well as your catcher Jason Rowan. You sir, will not be suspended, but will be asked to pay a $2,000 fine for your actions. I certainly hope this is a lesson to you and your team Mr. Mann. The association will not tolerate any type of embarrassing behavior, do you understand?”
“Perfectly, sir, yep.”
“Good,” piped in Joel. “Come commissioner, we need to be going.”
Both men turned counterclockwise simultaneously and began walking towards the bullpen. As they left, they could hear Walter’s faint voice in the distance.
“Hey, how many games my boys got to miss?”
“The remainder of the season,” bellowed Joel Myers.

XXIII

The Appalachian Baseball Association All-Star Game at Grayson Stadium in Savannah, Georgia is one of the most anticipated events of the year. In anticipation of a large crowd, the Savannah Sand Gnats, the team that normally plays at Grayson Stadium, created a Thirsty Thursday event with dollar drinks throughout the entire game. The fans who flocked to the game were treated to a terrific game involving the best players from each team in the ABA.
Shane Triplet was named the starting pitcher for the game and fans roared with applause