The Season, Part 1

Well, here goes nothing!

Please see my post below for an author’s note.

Please also note that all work is ©2007 Rebecca Glass and all international copyright laws apply. Please help protect intellectual property rights.

Constructive criticism is always appreciated; if you're here to troll, please pick another post. Thank you.


[Welcome to the 200_ season of the Hope City Spartans. Having lost in the first round of the playoffs last year, it's now been twenty years since they've won a championship. ]

WINTER

February

#8 Peter Towers, Manager

“Look, Pete—“

“I know.”

“—You’re a great asset to this team—“

“I know.”

“—And Hope City loves you, but—“

“I know.”

“—You’ve been managing the Spartans for a while now, but—"

“I know.”

“—The Spartans haven’t gone past the first round in the playoffs—“

“I know.”

“—And the thing is, some of the people are getting restless—“

“I know.”

“—And it’s a big question, of whether or not to renew your contract—“

“I know.”

“—So, basically, what it comes down to, is you have to produce, Pete—“

“I know.”

“—You have to get us a Championship if you want to be with the Spartans next year.”
“I know.”

“I’m sorry to do this to you, Pete, really, I am. You’ve been with this team since you started playing…God, how many years ago was that? You’re the face of this franchise, and you were a great player, but it’s been so long since this team has won a Championship, and, well, I do have to answer to the fans. I mean, they can’t fire me, but I’ve got to be able to fill the seats and fifty thousand seats is a lot to fill year after year.”

“Mr. Haus, it’s all right, I understand.”

“You do? That’s a terrible burden off my shoulders, Pete. You’ve always been a blessing to this team.”

“No I haven’t. We’d have won something, if that was the case.”

Charlie Haus, the jolly-faced, white-haired owner of the Spartans, has no response to that, so Pete gets up from the black leather chair in Charlie Haus’s office, and makes his way down the creaking stairs and towards the practice field in the Spartans' Spring Training complex.

Stepping into the Florida sun dulls Pete’s thoughts for a moment, but not for long. His body has changed a lot since his playing days—he’s no longer lanky, and even the term ‘athletically built’ is a bit of a lie. His hair has turned to a mopish brown, with streaks of grey beginning to crop in, and, if at all possible, his eyes have dulled a bit with age. However, his mind is just as anxious as ever.

The conversation he’s just had with Charlie Haus doesn’t come as a surprise, except that Mr. Haus had waited so long to have it. The call for the conversation—Pete, we need to talk. Come find me, okay? —had not come until yesterday, the first day of Spring Training, and Pete had expected it much sooner. All of the papers, anyway, ran pools at the end of the playoffs last year to see just when Pete Towers would lose his job managing the Spartans. It didn’t happen, and Pete nearly called Mr. Haus himself two days ago to make sure he still had his job, before his wife handed him his suitcase, packed and ready to go.

It is, at least, still early, Pete thinks, as he walks onto the field. So far only pitchers and catchers have reported. The papers are still busy dealing with the fallout from the end of the football season, too busy to pay baseball much heed for another week or so. Pete can, for the moment, just take in the sights and sounds of baseballs pounding catchers’ mitts, and imagine for himself just the type of October he’d like to have.

The moment won’t last long.


#18 Paul Green, pitcher, rookie.


Paul Green is an hour early, and clueless.

Standing at the entrance to the Spartans’ Spring Training complex in Florida, he looks around for someone to tell him where to go; his bag is heavy and he looks odd, just standing there in the parking lot. Short, stick-thin and baby-faced at age twenty-three, Paul can still pass for a high school student. The security guard walking up to him, Paul thinks, is probably going to tell him—

“Kid, you want autographs, you gotta wait till four, and then it’s cards and baseballs only, so you might want to put that bag back in your car.” Yep, it’s just as Paul expects.

“I’m early. I’m here to pitch.”

“Uh-huh.”

“My name’s Paul Green, I was drafted last spring.” The name seems to ring a slight bell for the security guard, who is probably triple the size of Paul.

“Paul Green? You sound familiar…”

“I was drafted out of State, just down the road from here, actually…we made it to the college championship last year.”

“Oh!” The security guard’s face lights up. “You’re the one that held the guys from Dakota hitless through seven, right?” Paul nods, trying not to think about how he lost that game, when Dakota had a two-run home run in the eighth. “Sorry about that! It’s just you—“

“—Look really young. I know. I haven’t even found a campus bar where I don’t get carded. Anyway, where am I supposed to go?”

“Just this way.” The security guard leads Paul around the building towards the players’ entrance, and then through to the Spartans’ clubhouse. “Here you are, the field is out the clubhouse door, to the left and through the tunnel.” The security guard departs, leaving Paul alone in the clubhouse.

At least, whatever happens now, Paul thinks, no one can accuse him of showing up late. As the lockers here don’t have names, Paul’s not sure which one to take. The locker room looks like a labyrinth, and it’s far too cramped for a professional team. His locker room at State was at least twice as spacious. Of course, at State, he didn’t have to try out for his spot on the team; he was recruited from high school. Here, it’s different. Here there are don’t-know-how-many trying to be one of twenty-five. So it’s excusable if the setting is a bit cramped, Paul thinks.

He’s thinking about which locker is the least likely to be the property of some other player, debating between the one closest to the showers and the one closest to the manager’s office, when he hears the door open again. He sets his bag down on the bench by the locker near the showers and makes his way to the front of the locker room, hoping to see someone that might be able to help him without laughing at him. Paul can’t tell if his hopes are met, though, as he soon finds himself staring in the face of his childhood idol, Graeme Johnson.

“Uh, hi?” Paul cringes as he says it. Why does he feel like he should be on his knees bowing to this man? Graeme Johnson’s the ace of the Spartans, to be sure, but he’s no Leonidas (though Paul thinks, with the amount of muscle Graeme has, it’d surely make any real Spartan jealous).

“…You the ball boy?” The tone isn’t harsh or bullying, rather, it’s inquisitive.

“Hah, no. Worse. The rookie.” The humor, which is only half-forced, cracks a smile on Graeme’s rough, bearded face.

“Ah, okay, I get it. You’re a rookie rookie, aren’t you?”

“A rookie rookie?”

“You’re early. Either you’ve got the best work ethic I’ve ever seen, or you’ve never done this before.”

“If only it was both…” Paul drifts off, thinking that it’s probably funnier to himself than to Graeme, but Graeme still laughs.

“For all I know, maybe it is. I’m Graeme.” Graeme pauses for a moment, and then adds, almost ashamed, “Johnson.” He extends his hand.

“Paul Green.” Paul takes Graeme’s hand, and then lets go quick, as if shaking the hand of the Queen of England. Graeme’s expression turns to one somewhere between abashment and insult.

“What…hey, you’re not scared of me, are you rookie?”

“Sorry…it’s just…I don’t really know how to say it,” Paul says, buying himself some time and then going at it as if there’s nothing to lose, “but growing up, well, umm, I had pictures of you on my wall.”

“Had?” Graeme laughs. “You tore them down?”

“No, they’re still there.”

“You’re a baby! Are you even legal?”

“Yea.”

“No way. No way I’m that old.”

“Umm…”

“I refuse to believe I’m twice your age!”

“You’re not. I’m twenty three, and you’re…well…not twice my age.” Paul knows better than to say forty.

“You’re twenty three? You’re a baby, rookie.”

“Yea, yea, I’m a baby. Should I go ask Mommy to put me down for a nap?” This draws a hearty laugh from Graeme, who slaps Paul on the back, a bit too hard to be a love tap.

“Rookie, I want to see what you got. Take the locker next to mine, it’s always empty. Go put some baseball clothes on and meet me on the field.”

“No nap for baby?” Paul chides.

“No, and better make sure no nap doesn’t make a cranky baby. I hate cranky babies, rookie.”

As Paul goes to grab his bag, way on the other side of the locker room, he can’t help but feel a tremendous sense of anxiety disappearing, if only to be replaced by disbelief. Graeme Johnson wants to see if he can pitch.

Welcome to the bigs, rookie.

Jumping into the Snake Pit, only, I'm not sure there are snakes in Syracuse

Okay lads, lasses, and all manner of trans, I will delight or repulse you all in a moment with installment one of The Season, baseball novel in progress, but first I need to you all to understand something.

I’ve been writing fiction, for fun and serious, for a while now. I’m used to sharing it with friends and in appropriate classes, and I can appreciate good constructive criticism without being discouraged.

However, sharing it with people that, for the most part, I’ve known two months or less, or complete strangers is a new step for me. I am asking you to please respect that.

I would be lying if I said I wasn’t nervous about doing this. I am. I started this blog on a dare and I figured if it didn’t work, it’d fizzle out like so many other internet ventures I’ve tried, no harm done. Fiction writing is so different, though.

Fiction writing is a huge part of who I am, and by sharing this, I feel like I’m baring a bit of my soul.

So, uh…please, if you want to criticize, by all means, go ahead, but keep the ‘you sucks’ and the ‘go take and English courses’ to yourself, kah-peesh?

Anyway, that said, here’s some background information that may or may not be of interest to you:

This story is an accident.

I came up with an idea—the saga of a manager, from his kid dreams to professional playing days, to the last year of his contract—while getting ready for bed one night in August.

The next day, I began to start writing, just as an exercise, to see what would come out, and then it hit me: why not write the story of an entire team? Rotate the viewpoints through the different players and coaches, and basically paint a portrait of a season.

That night, while eating Chinese food for dinner, I took a piece of computer paper and scribbled out a baseball diamond and began to come up with names for players. Many are random, but some have a certain significance. As random examples, Cory Daniels is named after two of my closest friends at Syracuse, while Leo Castiglione has the odd last name only because I was reading The Book of the Courtier by Baldesar Castiglione at the time.

It’s taken on a life for which I wasn’t really prepared, but every time I sit down to write a little bit, I find it hard to stop….which means either it’s really good or I’m in need of a much better way to spend my time. I’m counting on you lot to tell me which.

Extra Special (ALCS Game 2 Postgame Notes)

Sorry for this being so late; I wasn't feeling well last night and missed the end of the game and I've only just woken up.

Anyway.

Both offenses last night looked pretty balanced...but the pitching, however, did not. Neither Schilling nor Carmona could go long, and both bullpens were stretched.

That it was Eric Gagne that ended up blowing it for Boston is a cruel, hard fact for Boston fans, but not really a surprise. Gagne hasn't been trusted with a lead the entire second half; now, he's probably pitched himself out of ever reappearing in this season.

Part of you feels bad for him--it's not like he didn't try--part of your Yankee fan is going, 'oh sweet sweet schadenfreud'...

Anyway, this was the Cleveland offense that we are supposed to be seeing: not top-heavy but capable of doing damage 1-9.

This is going to be some series, and a heartbreaker for one of these two teams.

Profiles In Pinstripes, Week One: Derek Jeter

Allo again!

Before I get down to business here, I would like to mention something about ads. Hey! Stop looking at me like that, and listen for a second!

I put the poll up on the sidebar to see what readers thought. I've been considering google ads for the longterm, but for now I'm more interested in retaining readers (ie, making you lot enjoy coming here) than in making $.2 per ad, or whatever it is. So, for now, this blog shall remain ad-free.

Anyway.

On Saturdays, like today, throughout the winter I'm going to go post tidbits of those who will either be in a Yankee uniform in 2008 or those who work closely with the organization.

To inaugurate this segment, who better than the Captain, Derek Jeter?


You probably already know that Jeter, the Yankees' captain and shortstop, broke into the majors in 1995 and has played every year since with the Yankees.

You may remember him for such things as that back-up-spin-leap throw to first so well, and his constant status atop the league leaders for hits.

If you're over the age of ten, you'd better remember him for 'the flip' in Game Three of the 2001 ALDS. Don't remember? I'll refresh you:

Down two games to none in the 2001 ALDS (sound familiar?), the Yankees get on a plane and fly to Oakland. In game three, they nursed a 1-0 lead, when Jeremy Giambi attempted to score on an extra base hit by Terrance Long. He should have scored--Shane Spencer's throw from the right field line missed two cut off men--but Jeter somehow was right there, caught the ball, flipped to Posada...and the rest is history.

The play is not just notable for its absurdity--there is no reason at all for Jeter being where he was--but because it summed up Jeter in a nutshell: clutch. In the right place, at the right time, doing the right thing. This is what Jeter's built his career on, albeit trying to destroy it in the course of one LDS this year...

Anyway, some Jeterian trivia:

He's only ever hit one grand slam--against the Cubs, 18 June 2005

He's Bob Dylan's favorite baseball player.

He was once the subject of a 2005 "60 Minutes" segment.

He's got the same birthday as Abner Doubleday, considered by many to be the father of baseball.



Because we must: Always give Credit Where Credit is due

(citing Wikipedia and FunTrivia)


Ohio State is beating Kent State 42-0 in the third quarter. Ouch.


ALCS Game Two postgame notes after tonight's game. Till then, I shall make no comments as to which team has a better offense.

Rock(ies) and Roll (NLCS Game Two Postgame notes)

Well, if I'm going to stay up to three AM watching a baseball game, I should thank Colorado and Arizona to make it a good one!

An old-fashioned pitcher's duel is the best way to describe the game, and, well, the Rockies seem utterly immune to losing. Even when their 'pen blows a one run lead in the ninth, on the road, the Rockies shrug it off like no big deal and win in eleven.

If Arizona has any hope of beating Colorado now, they'll have to do it on the road and at Coors field...which will be anything but an easy task.

Seriously. 19-1 in the last 20 games? It's almost as if we should be asking 'why are we playing the NLCS this year?', but, of course, if we did, Arizona would just go and win four straight.


Arizona's not up against a wall yet, but in the world of baseball metaphors, they're certainly on the warning track.

Arizona pitched well last night, but Colorado pitched better, and the deeper into the series that we go, the bigger the fact looms that Colorado's got the deeper pitching staff.

I think, right now, the D-backs have got to be hoping that there's some sort of rain or snow out. Right now, it seems like their only chance to win a game...



Back later with more. Going to go eat something first.

Beatdown in Beantown (ALCS Game 1 Postgame Notes)

So, apparently, I was wrong about the whole Cleveland-has-a-better-offense thing...well, at least for tonight.


To be fair, Josh Beckett was on his game tonight, and CC Sabathia...wasn't. Boston took advantage of every mistake Sabathia made, and when he was knocked out in the fifth, it wasn't pretty. At least, not for those of us rooting against Boston!

My Red Sox fan friend thoroughly enjoyed the beat down...that is, until the game got out of hand, in which he did then tell me that he was bored.

Bored.

Yea, I know.


Anyway, given Sabathia's performance in game one of the ALDS, you have to wonder if Sabathia's just having a bad postseason this year, or if he's simply not a big game pitcher, in which case Cleveland's got to think about his place as their number one. If Carmona pitches well tomorrow, there are some rotation questions that they might need to address--and fast.

Beckett pitched a great game; Cleveland's offense was never really given much of a chance, as is what happens with good pitching. Still, they did manage to load the bases against Eric Gagne, which shows that they aren't dead in the water...though, if a team can't load the bases against Gagne circa Second Half 2007, you might want to check for a pulse.


Game Two should be a more interesting affair...and one I think Cleveland has a much better chance of winning.



NLCS game 2 has a late start, so I'll post some notes tomorrow, as I'm taking the rest of the day to be vaguely productive.

The Lesser of Two Evils? (ALCS preview)

This is one of those series where you'd rather not be a Yankee fan. You don't want Boston to win, plain and simple, but do don't really want Cleveland to be the ones to beat Boston...

Anyway.

If Boston wants to win this series, they're going to have to find a way to beat CC Sabathia or Fausto Carmona. Am I the only one that thinks of 'Faustian tragedy' when I see that guy's name?

Right then. If Cleveland wants to win, they need to beat Beckett or Schilling in Fenway.

If the series just came down to that, I'd give Cleveland the edge in a heartbeat, but the problem is, it's not a best-of-three series.

Boston's got the scarier guys in the lineup, but Cleveland's offense is much more balanced. Grady Sizemore and Asdrubel Cabrera have some serious; Travis Hafner can hit it out in a snap.

[EDIT}: According to some I've been talking to, such as Brent of the MVN network, I've got this wrong, and Boston has the more balanced line up. I've been going on my general impression--Boston's line up seems top-heavy to me, while Cleveland does not--but I've been wrong before.

We'll see what happens here.

Bullpen-wise, Boston's got the better closer, but Cleveland can get by on set up men alone.


So, players to watch: CC Sabathia, Fausto Carmona, Rafaels (2), Travis Hafner, Grady Sizemore, David Ortiz, Manny Ramirez, Josh Beckett, Hideki Okajima, Daisuke Matsuzaka, and, hate it or not, Curt Schilling.

As for the prediction...

This is going to be a good series. Boston's probably going to win at least one at Fenway and lose at least one at the Jake, so that's six games right there.

On the whole, I think Cleveland's got the edge, unless Schilling and Dice-K have some serious game. It's not just the pitching though; Cleveland's offense is better balanced, and they are still the more underrated team.

Cleveland in seven.


(Watch it be Boston in four...)