In my novel “Billy Saddle,” the life of the title character - a fan banished from his hometown after a terrible instance of fan interference - seems to have come back to normal. He has revealed his true identity and has received a surprising amount of understanding from baseball fans who feel his punishment was much more severe than his crime. And now, it’s time to get back to his true love - playing the game.
The following game is an unexpected pleasure. No press, no townies, no freaky plays spelled with Capital Letters – just another night at Nygaard Field. The weather is a slate-gray overcast, but warm, keeping both players and watchers at a cozy temperature. Their opponents, a team called Bugaboo, is solidifying its hold on last place. They seem to be enjoying themselves regardless, spending most of their energy joking at their own suckage. It’s times like these that David feels hopeful for the future of mankind.
Another bit of civilization is blossoming in the stands, where Abbey and Elena are sharing their standby snacks – Abbey’s Rainier cherries, Elena’s carrots and ranch dip – and laughing. The sight is both pleasing and distracting. For one thing, he hasn’t told Elena about the pregnancy, and he feels it ticking like a bomb. Later on, he will use this as an excuse for his inexplicable faux pas.
Baseball has a strict hierarchy for the calling of fly balls. Any outfielder, for instance, may call off any infielder, for the simple reason that it’s easier to catch a ball while moving forward. The low man on the totem pole is the pitcher, who may be called off by anyone.
The batter lifts a high pop-up that seems to be on a precise path toward the pitcher’s mound. David calls it, and follows it back as it drifts over his shoulder. So intent is his focus that he fails to notice Oscar, who comes in from second and calls “Mine! Mine! Mine!” in a drill-sergeant bark. As soon as David pockets the ball, he rams into Oscar, and the two of them fall to the dirt. David manages to hang onto the ball, but the positive outcome is no consolation to Oscar, who jumps to his feet, righteously pissed off.
“What the hell are you doing?”
A gun goes off. From his position on the ground, David sees a man in a black hooded sweatshirt, stalking his way toward a fallen Billy. The man raises his arm, but before he can fire a figure in white streaks in from behind, goes into a slide and clips the man’s legs, sending him flying.
David is running, his breath chuffing, the grass flying beneath his feet. The man is flat on his back, gripping his right leg. Pablo has recovered the gun and stands five feet away, aiming it at the man’s head.
“How does it feel now? How does it feel to be on the other end? You think you got a right to take a man’s life? You think you got a right to play God? Well I’m God now.”
The man lets go of his leg and looks up with a strange calm.
“Go ahead.”
“Don’t!” David comes to a stop and holds up a hand. “Pablo, you don’t want to kill anybody. Billy’s hurt. We have to get him some help.”
Pablo takes two hard breaths and swallows.
“Okay. On your stomach. Hands behind your back.”
The man rolls over quietly. David takes the belt from his softball pants and ties it around the man’s hands. Oscar does the same with his feet.
“Hold him down,” says Pablo. “Don’t let him budge.”
Oscar puts a knee on the man’s back; he offers no resistance. Oscar would like very much to bash his head in, but he’s seen enough cop shows to know that this is not a good idea.
Twenty feet away, Derek kneels next to Billy, pressing his hands to Billy’s chest, which is covered in blood.
“Oh God, Dad, it’s everywhere!”
“Okay. Okay. Our best bet is to get him out of here.” He takes off his shirt and hands it to Derek. “Keep pressing, but gently, okay? And don’t move him.”
“Okay.”
David turns to find Abbey; her eyes are wide with fright. “Is he…?” She spies Derek’s hands, covered in blood, and hides her face in David’s chest. “Oh God, oh God.”
David holds her by the shoulders.
“Abbey! Need to focus now, okay?”
“Yes.”
“Did you call 911?”
“Yes. Elena. They’re on the way.”
“Good. Don’t worry. We’ll get him out of here.”
Somewhere up the peninsula, a siren winds its way up to pitch. It’s a sweet sound.
Michael J. Vaughn is the author of twelve published novels and right fielder for the Pro Signs softball club. See more excerpts from “Billy Saddle” at the Billy Saddle facebook page.