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Chapter One
I think everybody gets caught up in superstitions,
But I don't put much stock in them--knock on
wood. --Minnesota Twins pitcher, Jim Deshaies
The sun shone brightly, with a better than average
breeze blowing out to right, making it a good day at
the plate for a left-handed hitter.
The stands were full for the Sunday afternoon home game, because it was July, and because the Phillies were actually still in the race after the All-Star break. Usually, they were pretty well out of it by late June. Hell, there had been years when they had been crossed off by the sports columnists before spring training was over.
If they won today, they would only be two games out of first.
Phillies catcher Tim "the Tiger" Trehan stood in the
on-deck circle, swinging his weighted bat, watching the reliever's windup, as the guy was newly traded from the American League, and this was the first time the Phillies had seen him pitch other than a single inning during spring training.
Good move to first, Tim decided as the pitcher stepped off and sidearmed the ball to the first baseman, making Dusty Johnson dive back to the bag. What the hell was Dusty thinking? With one out, a long fly ball would score a run. Nobody could make the hotshot, base-stealing rookie realize that making the second out at second was never a good deal for anyone.
Tim smiled as Dusty got up, not bothering to dust himself off, because what would be the point? Dusty attracted dirt like a magnet collected iron filings, and had been given the nickname Dusty only because Charles Shultz had already named one of his Peanuts characters Pigpen.
Tim's grin widened as his manager, Sam Kizer, his face beefsteak red, hung on the dugout railing and yelled to the first-base coach to by damn keep Dusty's ass glued on first or he'd--Sam shut up before he said the words Tim was pretty sure he'd heard before, because the manager had recently begun an anger management course, at the request of the team owners.
Tim's head went up as Rich Craig popped to shallow left, making the second out, and leaving Jeff Kolecki stuck at third, Dusty still hanging on first. The first-base coach had probably grabbed Dusty by the uniform belt, to keep him from trying to tag up and take second. The kid was fast, but nobody was that fast.
Two out, runners at the comers, and Tim was up. Bottom of the eighth, down six to five, and the Braves were sure to bring in their ace closer in the ninth, planning to shut the door on the Phillies' comeback that had begun in the sixth, when they had scored those five runs after Tim's lead-off double.
It was time. It was his time. It was what he'd been born to do, all he'd ever wanted to do.
Tapping his bat on the ground to knock the doughnut weight free, Tim then stepped to the plate, oblivious to the yells from the stands, the blowing horns, the waving
white towels, the word Charge! flashing on the screen next to the scoreboard.
"A real bitch having to strap on your gear in a hurry
after making the last out," Tony Rodriguez, the Atlanta Braves catcher, said, lifting his mask to grin at Tim.
"Nah, Tone," Tim said, smiling back at him, because the two men were friends. "The bitch is standing at the plate with your jock strap flapping, watching three runs come across after I land one in the right field bleachers."
"In your dreams, Trehan," Rodriguez said with a laugh, pulling down the mask once more as he folded himself into his crouch behind the plate.
Tim went into his usual ritual, born in Little League, and never varied. He put out the barrel of the bat, ready
to draw an imaginary line across the center of the plate.
Except he wasn't holding a bat.
He was holding a crutch. And his left leg was in a
metal brace from ankle to thigh.
"Time!" he called out, stepping out of the batter's box as he wiped at his eyes. He looked at his bat. It was
a bat again. No brace on his leg.
But his right arm was in a cast, just the way it had been last September.
What the hell?
He went back over to the on-deck circle, grabbed the pine tar rag, made a business out of rubbing down his bat before returning to the batter's box.
Okay, the bat was still a bat. And the cast was gone.
This was good. This was very good.
Tim took two quick half swings before cocking the bat over his left shoulder, another ritual, then looked to the pitcher's mound.
And there stood Jim Harris, leaning forward, his gaze locked on the catcher's, shaking off a pitch.
Thing was, Jim was wearing a wedding gown.
White one. With a big skirt and a veil and everything.
His mitt was gone, and he was holding a bouquet of
white roses.
"Time!" Tim called again, holding up his arm as he
stepped out once more.
"Hey," Rodriguez said, standing up. "You thinking
Jimbo's going to get too old to pitch, waiting on you?"
"Funny, Tony," Tim said, blinking. "I've got something in my eye." He looked out at the mound, and
there was Harris, in his uniform again. "I'm okay now."
"Play ball," the umpire said, pushing up at his chest
protector as he hunched behind Rodriguez.
Tim took two more quick half swings, cocked the bat,
then trained his gaze on Harris. He figured a curve ball,
high and tight, for the first pitch. And he was ready for
it.
What he wasn't ready for was the baby--a grinning,
giggling, arm-waving baby--that came winging through
the air, released by Harris, and heading straight for the
plate.
"No!" Tim yelled, jackknifing to a sitting position in
his bed, his eyes still closed, his arms stuck out in front
of him to catch the baby. "No!"
"Tim? Tim! Hey, Timmy-boy, wake up. Come on,
wake up now."
Tim opened his eyes as Dusty Johnson shook him by
the shoulder. He blinked in the light Dusty had turned
on between the two beds, looked at the rookie standing
there in his BVD's and Superman shirt, his bright red
hair standing on end like a rooster's.
Dropping his head into his hands, trying to control
his breathing, Tim said succinctly, "Shit."
"The dream again?" Dusty asked, heading for the
hotel room's small refrigerator and pulling out a bottle
of grape juice. "Man, and you' re supposed to be some
sorta calmin' influence on me? That's the third time
this week."
Tim stacked his pillows behind him and sat back.
"Put a sock in it, Dusty," he said, glancing at the clock.
It was five in the morning, and he was sharing a hotel
room in Pittsburgh with a guy who wore Superman T-shirts. And drank grape juice, for crying out loud.
Damn Sam and his psychology classes, which had
ended with the veterans rooming with the rookies on
the road. Rich Craig wouldn't even mention a bad
dream. Hell, he'd have slept, right through it, and had
done so for most of last season.
Or had he?
"Dusty, toss me a can of Coke, okay?" he said, quickly
popping the top when he caught it. "Rich ever talk to
you about…you know? My dreams?"
Dusty shook his head as he returned to his own bed,
sat down cross-legged, and chugged half his Yoohoo.
"Naw. Just said you get antsy once in a while, that's all.
He figured I could handle it."
"And can you? Handle it, that is?"
"Sure," Dusty said, finishing off his drink. "I'm used
to gettin' up early. Do the milkin', you know? You okay
now?"
Tim rubbed a hand across his forehead, realized that
his breathing had returned to normal. "Yeah, I am.
Thanks."
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