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Season Two Snafu

By Cindy M. Amos

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Although season two had kicked off with all the charm of a leaky tire, maybe tonight would offer the Wind Splurge a breath of fresh air. Reynolds Newby examined the playing field and marveled how the foul lines looked arrow straight. Now winning at the midway mark of the season, their anemic zero-and-seven start faded like a haunted win-loss memory. A lone player strayed from the visiting team’s bullpen, glanced toward a vacant diamond, and then retraced his steps into the pitchers’ sanctuary.
When his cell phone pinged, Gage Landers appeared as the text’s sender. “Yeah, yeah. I know. You want to fix my fifty-fifty raffle problem, buddy.” That response echoed unheeded along the concrete concourse spanning the seating bowl. His slow steps paralleled the tick of an invisible metronome. Unstoppable, the Tulsa Thrillers had already clinched their spot in the post-season playoffs by toppling opponents around the Texas League. That left one spot to vie for by season’s end—and the Wind Splurge needed to make a compelling run for it to reach the league championship.
At the entrance to the front office, Gage shoved the door open from inside. “Happy Independence Day, Reynolds. Really cooking out there, isn’t it? Bet you don’t miss that Pegasus costume, considering this heat.” He popped a backhanded slap on his chest for good measure.
“July Fourth is a stew this year—a real patriotic concoction, for sure.”
“Well, since we’re taking on Wichita’s official fireworks show, you have to call it red, white, and boom!” Gage gestured toward the receptionist’s post at the front counter. “Hey, man. Please meet my cousin, Chastain. She brought in her video project for you to evaluate.”
A bare-legged woman stood stooped, her head and shoulders hidden under a black cloth that shrouded a laptop. Though Gage had pushed for the meeting and invited the close scrutiny, he needed no further encouragement. A pair of toned calf muscles flexed above the base of cork-wedged sandals. Mint green toenails ended the visual feast at carpet level.
Gage thumped at the shroud. “Chassey, come out a second. I want you to meet somebody.”
As she backed out, Reynolds beheld the unveiling in slow motion. Her summery peasant top hugged bare shoulders while a cascade of blond hair clung to the shroud in a static battle for possession. Once she straightened to her full height, she towered above him by two inches.
Gage shouldered between them. “Reynolds Newby, please meet my cousin Chastain Landers. Chassey is a rising senior at Wichita State with a specialized major in videographic marketing and communications.”
“Hi, Chastain. Thanks for coming in on a holiday.”
She captured her fly-away hair and twirled it onto her collarbone. “Oh, I certainly wouldn’t miss this game against the Amarillo Sod Pups—or the fireworks afterwards.”
Gage chuckled. “Yeah, and the home team needs to win so that show doesn’t come off like a consolation celebration.”
He regarded the cousins and found the family resemblance unmistakable. “How close are you two in age?”
“Four years,” Gage replied, exaggerating a wink. “I started grad school the same year she came in as a freshman. We shared a ride to campus that year—until she got too busy with clubs after classes.”
He glanced between them, enjoying the exchange. “Looks like she survived the schism—maybe even thrived.”
She brushed Gage back while kicking off her sandals. “Let me start my presentation. Originally targeted to fulfill a class assignment, I shot some footage during three home games back in June. Just by luck, I attended your first Tumba Vaca night and really picked up some colorful sequences of Latino culture all around Riverfront Stadium.”
Gage gestured at the laptop. “That’s our Copa de la Diversion program at full throttle. I can’t wait to see what you’ve come up with.”
She hesitated, her cheeks turning pink. “Unfortunately, the plate glass windows are casting too much sunlight on my monitor. That’s why I had to canopy the laptop—so only Reynolds gets first viewing. Sorry, Gage.”
Feeling privileged, he thumped his buddy’s chest in dismissal and headed for the solitary chair gracing the reception area. “We already have a highlight reel featuring the players, so I hope your montage presents a different slant.”
She held up the black cloth to allow him entrance. “As esteemed director of the Promo Team, Reynolds, you be the judge.”
With her sandals off, their gazes met in direct alignment. He held her blue-eyed stare for a mesmerizing moment, not missing the uptick of one shapely brow. When she motioned him under the canopy, he sat and focused on the screen. Once the shroud fell on his shoulders, the video sequence began.
An opening scene highlighted a ratty baseball mitt abandoned beside a gatepost. The camera angle widened to reveal a lone batter beside home plate of an aged field. By every measure, the boy appeared dwarfed by both setting and challenge—until his bat made contact with a baseball and sent it soaring. In rapid transition, the Wind Splurge’s right fielder squared around on a fastball and sent it arching beyond the fence into the stands. A jubilant kid chased down the home run and held the ball over his head, the epitome of fan satisfaction.
A narration began regarding the participation accomplishments of League Forty-Two, a local nonprofit aimed at providing equipment and opportunity for underprivileged children of various ethnic backgrounds to have open access to the game of baseball. Two dark-skinned boys shared a high five after a run scored at home plate. When the camera panned toward the dugout, only one extra bat stood along the fence, a dented batting helmet capping its end. A sharp segue led to a scan of the Wind Splurge’s dugout where no expense had been spared for a full array of equipment. The disparity struck him as brutal. No question there’s a gap. Upon the narrator’s concluding challenge to level the playing field, mist stung his eyes.
Chastain appeared under the shroud, her expression questioning. “I think this footage captures the gist of why the fifty-fifty raffle means so much to our community. That path around the bases should be open to everyone. Baseball symbolizes the ultimate American dream—and League Forty-Two fans the flames of that dream.”
A faint hint of vanilla began to overwhelm his senses. Deprived of feminine attention for far too long, he opted to hold his private position and lowered his voice. “So many contrasts play out in this video. Run-down versus state-of-the-art. Worn out versus newly broken in. Empty bleachers versus a packed stadium.”
Her lips curled into a delicate smile. “And yet there’s baseball at the heart of both, weaving the two extremes together with that trademark red stitching. Tell me. Did you pick up on the subtle color motif in the feature?”
“Only by the third sequence, but the red, white, and blue elements play out like a true artist’s tribute.”
“To America’s favorite pastime.”
He shoved back in the chair to find Gage hunched over the front counter. “Here’s what I think. We have to add this video to the sequence playing on the big scoreboard—tonight.”
Gage shook his head. “Calvin’s gonna explode with that late request. You know his rule. All scoreboard submissions have to be entered a full day in advance.”
He shrugged. “Let Calvin get over it. We have a record high pre-sale on tickets tonight. More people equates to more potential donors. Our fifty-fifty raffle total is behind last year by a third, so we’ve got some ground to make up. That momentum can start tonight.”
Chastain handed him a flash drive as if to expedite the process. “If you want, I can leave Calvin my phone number—in case some difficulty pops up.”
Reactive, he took the flash drive and passed it to Gage. “No, give me your number instead. If Calvin has a problem with the video, I want to know about it first.”
Gage stepped toward the back of the office. “Plug your ears as our communications manager is about to blow a fuse.”
He beckoned Chastain toward the door. “Let’s get out of earshot. How about a behind-the-scenes tour? Ever wonder where the ice cream sandwiches are stored?”
She smiled and grabbed her sandals. “Reveal away, Mr. Promo. I have enough curiosity to keep three cats alive.”
He slapped his forehead and opened the door. “Please don’t mention cats. I have zero time for wayward critters.” They hadn’t taken two steps when a phantom drone swarmed the concourse. Techno-trespasser. Only certain company was desirable, not airborne albatrosses.
~
Chastain resisted the urge to blink, not wanting to miss one detail of her tour. From the third-floor press box, the bird’s-eye view of the field proved intoxicating. The bubbly enthusiasm of her tour guide added an unexpected allure. She took out her phone and snapped a picture of the impressive instrument panel that controlled the scoreboard.
“Look over here,” Reynolds insisted. “This station is where Ike runs the pitcher’s clock. He also operates the gun calibrating the speed of each pitch.” Mimicking the gun shape with his fingers, he aimed right at her. “Go ahead. Scorch the catcher with a fastball.”
She made her best wind-up maneuver and let the pretend ball fly. After planting both feet in front of him, she pushed at his finger to break the aim. “So how’d I do?”
“Clocking one hundred miles per hour. Wow, that’s downright lethal.”
Eric, the announcer, wandered closer wearing a pinched expression. “I’m shooing you two out of here, Reynolds. When I give the mic test in a few seconds, I don’t want you two youngbloods overheard cooing in the background. So scram.”
Reynolds magnified his displeasure with a theatrical frown. “Press box grumps don’t have the luxury of being hermits. See you at the seventh inning stretch for the beach ball toss.”
Eric’s scowl deepened. “Yeah, well. We’d better be winning by then. Our come-from-behind record sucks this season.”
Chastain tugged her tour guide toward the rear exit. “Get ahead and stay ahead. That’s a winning strategy. Nice to meet you, Eric.”
Reynolds clomped down the rear stairway like he was in a hurry. “Let’s go bring out those ice cream sandwiches.”
When he turned around at the bottom to gaze up at her, the opportunity was too much to forfeit. She pulled out her phone and gave the railing a rub. “This would make a nice video sequence featuring the stadium’s hidden side. Indulge me if you will—and maybe catch me at the bottom.”
“No spontaneous narrative though—just my round-faced mug.”
She eased onto the rail and began to shoot. Slick metal, the rail made for a quick descent. Mere feet from the bottom, a gust of wind hit her broadside. At first, her hair covered the lens. Next, she felt a breach of equilibrium as the rail slid from her thighs to her knees. After that, the entire stadium went topsy-turvy.
Reynolds’ arms quickly wrapped her midsection. “Wow, Chastain. That was super dramatic. Hope you got that inverted dismount on film.”
“Watch your face—I’m flipping over.” With a heave, she rolled out of his arms. Her first step in recovery mode fell like more of a stagger.
He responded by pressing her shoulder against the concrete wall. “Steady now. I spy a videographer with vertigo. What will wander up next?” He stroked her chin as his teasing turned into something more masculine.
“Hey, are you willing to compensate me for any of my fifty-fifty promotional work?”
“Sure. How about some free vouchers to attend a few more home games? That way, you can shoot more footage whenever the mood strikes you.”
Unable to look away, she gave in to the magnetic moment. “I definitely appreciate your brand of wampum, Mr. Promo. It will be great to see you around.”
“I was thinking along those same lines myself. Now, let’s go retrieve some ice cream sandwiches, shall we?” He offered his elbow, but retracted it with a fake frown. “Only no more gymnastic stunts. I may not catch you next time.”
A cozy feeling permeated her chest, despite all the concrete surrounding them. “Agreed. I’ll keep my feet on the concourse—unless I’m jumping up to celebrate a home run.”
His stern expression shattered into a radiant smile. “In that case, by all means jump.”
This time when he offered his elbow, she snagged it and bumped shoulders with him. “You know, with my fifty-fifty video being aired tonight, it already feels like a victory to me.”
He strode around the curve of the rear hall for a distance before raising a finger. “But this is only the pregame battle we’ve won. Every day—before the next baseball game begins—the scoreboard gets reset to zero.”
“Neither side is favored, right?”
He nodded. “That the beauty of baseball. The magic starts all over again with every first pitch.”
She clutched his arm against her side. “Great perspective. I’m using that in my next montage. To build something victorious from zero has strong universal appeal. That should resonate with the League Forty-Two kids.”
“Go right ahead. I’d like to fill a section of the seating bowl with those junior players some night. Wouldn’t that be a sight?”
“Dream big, Reynolds. Those opportunities truly close the gap for the underprivileged. And thanks for my vouchers. I hope to be in attendance when those junior saints come marching in.” Definitely a feel-good moment. Overhead, the stadium sheltered her as he led toward the secret storage alcove.
~
The time lapse between the final out and fireworks grew broader by the minute. As head groundskeeper, Clint Ryder didn’t miss any opportunity to work on the infield and get a leg up on the next game. Opening the trap door hidden behind the pitcher’s mound, he coaxed the nozzle into compliance and dragged out enough hose to reach the vicinity of second base. From the stands, music kicked up a notch in volume, so he tried to drown it out with the hissing spray.
Motion over by the home team dugout distracted him for a mere second. A big blue blob made its way onto the field. The speakers rang out with news about a dance-off. Jewel, their effervescent emcee, released a throaty laugh into the microphone as the overstuffed Pegasus mascot grabbed its midsection and began to gyrate.
Though the bases had already been carted off to storage, he spotted the square fitting that anchored second base and worked the spray clockwise from the shortstop’s location toward first base. The typical toe drags from their Canadian second baseman were missing, as the rising star had attempted to stretch a base hit into a double, slid into a vicious tag, and jammed his hand into the base with excessive momentum. Substituted with a short recruit deemed player of the year in Minnesota, the slight-built replacement barely embossed the ground.
The Fourth of July had fallen on a Monday, and—true to form—this opening game had drained his energy. Pace yourself. He let up on the nozzle to reposition the hose and found the blue blob scooting next to him. After a series of emphatic pointing, reality dawned on him.
“Uh-oh,” Jewel breathed into the mic. “It looks like Breezy is challenging our groundskeeper Clint to a dance-off. Oh, yeah. We definitely want to see that action.”
The team mascot led with a series of knee gyrations, holding its arms up over its massive head. After a few jukes of its swollen girth, Breezy gestured back toward second base.
Now an unwitting element in tonight’s entertainment roster, Clint read the handwriting on the wall. No escape this time. He tossed the hose aside and tried to recall some of his college moves. The act started with a boisterous drumming of his chest. His legs caught the rhythm next. When he strutted along the base path like a rooster, Jewel’s laughter turned to applause. Once enough foolishness had transpired, he gestured back at the Pegasus.
“Great job, Clint,” Jewel said. “Now get down and dirty with it, Breezy. We’re rooting for you.”
Showing some cloaked athleticism, the mascot dropped to its knees and began pumping out one-armed pushups to the crowd’s immediate delight. With a shift of its padded waist, the Pegasus switched arms and leveraged through five more pushups. Exhausted, it plopped muzzle-down onto the infield grass in a hilarious face-plant.
Jewel’s giggle rippled through the amplification. “Wow, Breezy. You sure left it all on the field tonight. Okay, Clint. What’s left in your tank? Bet it’s been a long night for you already. But the Wind Splurge won, and some unforgettable fireworks are coming up next, so take it away to close this final round. Here we go!”
Cringing under the pressure of her hyped intro, he did what any worthy groundskeeper would do—hit the dirt. He paused in pushup position as a rally clap rippled around the seating bowl. Locked in the crosshairs, he now had to pay the penalty. The need to squirm hit out of nowhere. Suddenly, he conjured up his favorite high school caper and began to buck on his belly in his best worm imitation. The crowd flanking the field went wild.
Jewel cued the mic. “A little birdie just told me that it’s time for the fireworks folks. Hang tight in your seats for Wichita’s greatest fireworks ever!”
Off the hook, he stood and dug a clump of clay from his belt buckle. If he hurried, he could retract the hose and close the hatch door before being halted by total blackout. In a jog, he grabbed the nozzle and headed for the pitcher’s mound. The day’s peak had eased off from one hundred degrees—but not by much. Sweat soaked the hair under his cap.
“Excuse me, Clint,” a woman said from behind.
Shocked to encounter a female at field level, he turned to find the only woman sanctioned for access, the team’s athletic trainer. Under the stadium lights, her skin appeared translucent which highlighted a delicate spackling of freckles along her high cheekbones. He toed the door closed and met her worried gaze with direct attention. “Hey, Tanya. What gives?”
“That angry tag out at second will have bitter ramifications, I’m afraid. Jules Edmonds will be on Injured Reserve a long while with a wrist injury. Tricky joint, those wrists. Too many moving parts.”
He splayed his clay-stained palms. “I’m not the sports medic—you are.”
“Jules is sick about losing his good-luck coin. He knows it popped out on that slide into second. He loses it, gets tagged out, and then injured. Call that a rotten sequence of bad luck.”
“I don’t believe in luck.”
“Just oblige me a quick search. I promised Jules we would.”
He cocked his head to one side. “Okay, a quick search and rescue—for Julesy-boy. What color’s the coin?”
“Brass or gold. He wasn’t sure. Let’s split up.”
“Good thinking. You head toward first. I’ll migrate toward third. Drag your feet, as it likely would be covered up by now.”
A flicker of relief transformed her face. “Thanks, Clint. You’re the expert.”
He toed the ground. “Yeah, the dirt expert.” What a lowly kingdom to claim. Every day, his domain took the same shape—a diamond. Now the clay hid a golden coin. Once again, he was beholden to the earth spanning three bases and home plate. A grating sound down by the river prompted him to scan faster. Once Brent extinguished the stadium lights, their hunt ended.
The feathered hush of a climbing projectile announced the start of the fireworks show. He turned to warn the kneeling trainer when the sky exploded with color in a deafening boom. Within a split second, the stadium lights went black. A final image burned onto his retinas—the trainer falling over sideways while clutching her chest.
Panicked, he counted his stride to measure out twenty feet and then dropped to a crawl on his knees. “Tanya? Where are you? Is everything okay?” After two groping sweeps, his hand brushed a loose braid. He drew her up against his chest, alarmed at her stillness. Another firework blast lit the night.
Fearful she might have been struck by something, he rubbed a hand down her arms to locate the injury. When massive tremors quaked from her core, he tightened his grip. Internal battle looming. He knew the rectification, thanks to a veteran buddy.
Drawing her torso against his, they sat entwined in the clay base path while patriotic bursts of color marked the night. Despite the constant barrage of noise, a measure of calmness overtook him. Thinking to dampen the acoustics, he laid a cheek over her ear and settled in for the duration. Her hair smelled like a field of flowers. Better than dirt. He matched his inhalations with the stricken trainer’s breathing and rode out the sky battle in tandem.

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