Full Count (standard:other, 11488 words)
Author: Donnie Holland	Added: Jan 05 2004	Views/Reads: 3788/3191	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
A professional athlete comes to terms with his declining skills and the demons from his abusive childhood but not before snapping from the weight of the pressure he puts on himself and the final confrontation with his coach.

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and more importantly, his spirit. Karl's entire life benefitted from 
the new found peace but it was his attitude which showed the most 
significant improvement. Especially in sports. His natural talent was 
often overshadowed as he simultaneously vented frustration and hatred 
as he tried to prove his worth to the world. Only his grandfather's 
unconditional love and support helped focus his aggression and keep 
things in perspective. Karl eventually learned it was better to love 
and trust himself more and than to be measured by what others thought. 
"We're born alone and we die alone. Between the two, sometimes you just 
gotta  believe in yourself and stand alone." His grandfather was never 
at a loss for words of encouragement and inspiration and Karl devoured 
them like a starved child. "Don't ever feel sorry for ya'self boy, feel 
sorry for those who don't believe." Karl first heard those words as a 
freshman when he failed to crack the staring lineup of his high school 
baseball team. They were words he never forgot and always tried to live 
by. When Karl finished high school he managed to earn a modest 
scholarship to a local university where he honed his skills and was 
ultimately discovered. His grandfather helped him through the ups and 
downs of minor ball but was never able to share Karl's joy when he made 
the majors. He passed away in Karl's arms on a clear January morning, 
the winter before Karl got his call. Karl felt the old man's life drain 
between his fingers like sand. He tried desperately to stop the flow 
but time and nature ignored him. As the last grains passed through 
life's hourglass, the old man's final words tattooed Karl's psyche 
forever. "Always make me proud son." As spring stumbled in, Karl often 
thought about giving up baseball, but thought about his grandfather 
even more. He couldn't let himself quit. When AAA season arrived he 
burned with a fire like never before. The pain which almost made him 
give up the dream, became the fuel for earning his call up in late 
June. At first, his big league struggles seemed to drag into eternity 
and with every at bat he felt the increasing pressure to justify what 
might be his only chance. But his grandfather's advice was never more 
than a memory away and after a couple of weeks he eventually scratched 
out a base hit here and there with an occasional walk sandwiched 
between. As Karl regained control in the battle with his talents he 
also began to win more of the battles waged in his mind. A delicate 
relationship that would need careful monitoring throughout his career. 
Not surprisingly, as his play improved, so did the cheers from fair 
weather fans who now offered excuses for their harsh judgement instead 
of advice. But the more Karl stood alone on the field, the less he 
heard. Feel sorry for those that don't believe. After a couple of 
years, Karl was living up to other people's expectations and, more 
importantly, his own. Each time he heard cheers for a hit or a great 
play, he resented the non-believers even more. He never forgot things 
fans, reporters and even some players had said when he struggled in the 
past and he loved making them fat on their own words. Karl was proud of 
his accomplishments through the years and could recite his numbers in 
his sleep: 268HR; 281AVG; 955RBI; 2 Gold Gloves and only a good season 
from 2000 hits. He wasn't hung up on stats but he felt he had earned 
some extra respect and wore them like a badge of honor. It had been 
twelve years since that skinny legged kid stepped up to the plate for 
the first time but the struggles had revisited and resentment burned in 
Karl more than ever. He'd had slumps over the years but never worried 
much about them. He always knew it would pass. He always believed. The 
explanation for Karl's increased anxiety was simple but unenlightening. 
Everything felt fine, except for his growing sense of powerlessness. 
Whenever he had troubles in the past he could always pin it on 
something. During other slumps he never felt right and was forever 
aware of it. In fact, he often predicted one before it started, the 
same way some predict the onset of a cold. When one began, he would go 
to his doctor (any mirror would do), tell him where it hurt, get a 
diagnosis and prescription, then work it through. Lately though, the 
doctor wasn't in and hadn't answered his messages. Karl was lost for 
explanations and couldn't find what needed fixing. He was as well 
conditioned as ever and his swing (which he was sick of watching) was 
the same as when he'd owned every pitcher in the league. He'd had his 
eyes checked by endless experts and wished for an answer each time till 
it hurt. Karl would have fainted in relief from such a simple solution. 
He would have gladly given up his bad habits, go to church regularly, 
give more to charities and even speak nicely of management as 
remittance for his cure. Much the same way a child promises he'll stop 
swearing, looking up teacher's dress, and finally tell his mom who 
really broke the vase, if God would let him have a puppy for his 
birthday. "Please God. Please. I promise." Like the pleading child, 
Karl eventually found out God doesn't take bribes. Balls crossed the 
plate faster, line drives dropped quicker, even catchers were throwing 
better. He started to honestly believe the culprit was the baseball 
itself. It would have explained everything. He began weighing balls, 
cut some of them open, and even counted their stitches in hope of 
finding some explanation outside himself. It didn't help. They weighed 
the same, looked the same and still had 108 stitches. Since the doctor 
hadn't been in, Karl would stare at himself in the mirror for hours, 
confronting every possibility except the most obvious and 
uncontrollable. "It's not me, damn it!" Karl would holler his defence 
of the inevitable as he stared deep into his own eyes. Unfortunately, 
his words weren't convincing the person who needed them most. Karl was 
no fool though. He knew he was getting older and his hairline was kind 
enough to remind daily. Just the same, some players in their fourties 
were still being productive. He just couldn't allow himself to believe 
he'd lost something to age. Uh-uh. He would think as he shook his head 
to scramble the unwanted thoughts, while he considered every 
explanation other than the one staring back at him in the mirror. Even 
his grandfather's word's had lost their power and grown distant and 
distorted, like an old record played on a cheap portable at the end of 
a long hallway. He wished he could see him and talk to him once more. 
Even for five minutes. If he could hear the encouraging words or feel 
the love even once more, he knew everything would be okay. Wish as hard 
as he might, it wasn't about to happen. He was standing alone. 

n   n   n 

Karl glanced across the room through the stale air and light to see
Butch leaning against the door frame of his office with his practiced 
pose and expression. When their eyes accidentally met, Butch gave a 
"get your ass over here" gesture, much like Karl's father would and 
with the same meaning; stress was about to be relieved. Butch's 
mannerisms caught Karl off guard and visions of past unpleasantries 
flashed through Karl's mind. An icy wave raced across his body, 
knotting his chest and lungs like a December swim. Anxiety from 
childhood memories paralyzed his thoughts, making him reluctant to 
leave his safe position to go near the new face of an old pain. Karl 
tried to hide the look he knew must be in his eyes but he was out of 
practice. It was too late. Butch cracked a crooked grin of false pride 
as he briefly saw fear he assumed he was responsible for. Karl always 
hated one on one meetings, especially with Butch. Sometimes he saw a 
cold, familiar look in Butch's eyes whenever they spoke alone, making 
him both uneasy and uncomfortable. Until that moment, he'd never 
understood the emotions or their source and hadn't felt as vulnerable 
since he was a child. Until that moment, Karl also never felt such a 
primal urge to fight back. Earlier, Karl had been up to another 
superstitious remedy. The careful science of breaking in a new cap. He 
would always roll the peak between his hands until it developed the 
perfect curve. The good ones felt as comfortable as an old sweater and 
as much a part of him as an arm or leg. As he followed Butch into his 
office he removed the new masterpiece from his head and held it limply 
by his side. 

Lou Holloran was known to most of the baseball world as Butch but anyone
he'd managed knew him better as The Butcher. He'd earned the nickname 
by cutting up players in front of anyone willing to be an audience and 
never missed an opportunity to live up to his reputation. Butch was of 
the opinion, being humiliated in front of others (especially teammates) 
separated the men from the boys. The boys would break under pressure, 
while the men would break their backs trying to prove everyone wrong. 
Ever since Karl met their new manager in spring training he was 
regularly amazed how no one just stood up and nailed the bastard. Any 
man on the street would jump Butch like a Pitt Bull but when you give 
him a uniform and the title of manager, a strange metamorphosis takes 
place. He feels free to wipe his feet on anyone under his control and 
they become submissive doormats with "WELCOME" tattooed across their 
faces. If truth be known, Karl and Butch shared more in common than 
either would ever admit. Butch's mother mentally abused him as a child 
and his relationship with his father, or lack thereof, was even more 
painful. His contribution to Butch's life ended with the fifteen 
minutes it took to create him. His father abandoned them two months 
later but, unfortunately, Butch always knew who his father was. Hell, 
in a town of 6,700, everybody knew. His father refused to acknowledge 
him, even if the two passed on the street and his feelings of 
worthlessness almost outweighed his heartache. Regardless, Butch would 
still walk by his dad's run down shack every day, hoping maybe 
something would change. Nothing ever did. Until one night, after he'd 
sat for three hours in front of the stranger's home, he realized his 
life couldn't continue unless part of it ended. At 11:09 P.M., May 24, 
1948, he decided he'd had enough and began walking down Steeple St. 
toward the end of town and a chapter of his life. He was 13 and on his 
own. 

n  n  n 

Karl never had a major confrontation with Butch before but as he
hesitantly took his first step toward the office, he sensed Butch's 
patience quickly nearing an end and his own end quickly nearing it's 
beginning. Butch led the way into his office, turned and gave a gesture 
which Karl took as a command sit. He did so in the well worn corduroy 
armchair beside a plant in desperate need of water, with his back to 
the window viewing most of the locker room. The room was haphazardly 
decorated with old pictures, tarnished plaques and trophies, tacky 
furniture and a stained red carpet randomly decorated with clothing, 
equipment and paper. The piece de resistance however, was the large 
soup can kept on his desk to hold his daily accumulations of tobacco 
spit. It disgusted everyone but none dare complain. Karl noticed the 
office door was left open and felt the tension descend like an 
avalanche. As he held his cap tightly with both hands, he glanced down 
and realized it would never turn out the way he'd wanted. The story 
could be read on Butch's face long before he ever opened his mouth. His 
eyes were cold and glassy but the sneer was replaced with a hint of 
grin, informing Karl, one of them was anticipating their meeting with 
considerable pleasure. Butch tucked his hands in the front of his pants 
(a prerequisite for the job) and stood in the middle of the room. He 
had the unmistakable look of a schoolboy trying to hold back a giggle 
as he spoke. "How are  ya feelin' lately Karl? You look kind'a tired." 
Butch knew he did a poor job of acting sincere but he was more 
concerned with eliciting a response than an actual answer. Karl dropped 
his head, took a deep breath and closed his eyes in disbelief. He knew 
Butch didn't give a shit about him or anyone else and the patronization 
quickly heightened his anger. Karl believed those doing it wanted to 
communicate three things; they were smart, you weren't, and they 
planned to take advantage of it. He'd heard it his entire life; from 
parents, teachers, counsellors, unpleasant acquaintances and most 
recently Butch. Each one had an unquestionable sense of superiority and 
believed themselves to be the axis of the universe. Each one mimicked 
concern to serve a purpose and considered Karl just another face, 
another statistic. "Save your bullshit! What the fuck do you want?" 
Karl knew he should be a bit more careful. Talking to Butch was like 
crossing a minefield in snowshoes but if there was going to be a 
confrontation, Karl might as well get in the first shot. He decided to 
answer his own question. "Let me guess. I'm sitting out another game?" 
Butch was caught a bit off guard. He didn't expect such a game opponent 
but it was apparent Karl wanted to get things over with as soon as 
possible. Any surprise Butch felt, left as quickly as it had arrived 
and he was ready for any other. He sat down on the corner of his desk, 
deliberately folded his arms and decided to confirm Karl's prophecy. 
"That's one way of puttin' it." Butch hoped his condescending tone 
would bait Karl enough to stick his head a little further into the 
lion's mouth. He waited silently for his lure to do its work. The 
office remained quiet as Karl circled the hook. Everyday locker room 
echoes were the only sounds reaching him; someone bragging about a good 
lay during the day off, complaints about a road trip buffet, some 
whining about alimony, a few guys chuckling at Loony Toon reruns, and 
the customary wet towel fights where revenge was promised on a daily 
basis. The noises bled into each other like a child's abstract 
painting. What may be crude and offensive to many, was peaceful and 
reassuring to those in need. Karl felt like the same seven year old boy 
sent to his room with a bloody nose, for reasons, even as an adult, he 
never fully understood. Countless times he cried in the shadows behind 
his bedroom window as he listened to neighbourhood kids play and laugh 
the way every kid was meant to. He would keep his head buried in his 
arms for hours, lifting it only at the sounds of approaching footsteps. 
His wet, wide open eyes focusing on the door handle, even before his 
head was upright. And with every bruised memory he would wish the knob 
wouldn't turn, the door would stay closed and his father was finished 
for the day. Sometimes he would pull his legs tight against his chest, 
squeeze them with his arms as hard as he could and hope to somehow make 
himself too small for his father to see, or, if he wished hard enough, 
maybe even disappear. For years, Karl wanted to grow up to be a 
magician so he could learn learn the secrets of his ultimate escape, 
his infinite freedom. When he got a little older and realized magic was 
simply a trick, an illusion like so many other things, he began to 
think more about a more mortal type of freedom. Death. During his tenth 
year he could usually be found alone in his room, sitting in deep 
undisturbed thought for hours, jumping from one idea to the next like a 
ricochet thats possible only in cartoons and one's own mind. He 
wondered what death meant, what it was like, how he would do it and if 
any one actually cared enough to miss him. It simply a matter of time 
before the bullit found a place to lodge. Karl likely would have gone 
through with it if not for his grandfather's love and concern, which 
was the only thing which seemed to outgrow his desperation. Luckily, 
Karl began to see another way out and the thoughts which once filled 
his days were tucked away in a dark, inaccessible corner of his mind. 
Inaccessible, until now. Lately, too many things tried to prime his 
memory and breathe life into the nostrils of a beast long thought 
extinct. The eleven year old boy he'd abandoned years ago, now wanted 
to get reacquainted, sit down by a new window and talk about old times. 
Karl could sense himself staring at the door again, praying it stayed 
closed. He wasn't sure if he still had the strength and felt a 
desperate urge to try his magic trick one last time. But he knew 
miracles had no time for an indifferent soul. 

n  n  n 

With his head down and elbows on his knees, Karl instinctively tightened
his grip and witnessed the twisted cloth grow less recognizable by the 
second. "Stop jerking me around!" Karl's impatience grew with each word 
and his frustration was about to break through. Butch wasn't quite 
ready to add to the one sided conversation. Karl's rantings evolved 
without him needing to expend much energy and it suited him fine. Butch 
saw such confrontations as a thing of beauty and he'd rather sit back 
and enjoy the ride. "Either fill me in on your fuckin' plans or play 
me. I'm sick of your goddamn mind games!" Karl stuck his head in the 
lion's mouth and dared him to bite. As luck would have it, the animal 
was both ready and hungry. Butch sprang from his perch and immediately 
hooked his thumbs onto his belt, unsure of what he might do with his 
hands. It wasn't Karl's mouthing off which bothered him, in fact, the 
power struggles reaffirmed his stature. What bothered him were the 
players listening to Karl's voice echoing through the clubhouse. One 
thing Butch never tolerated was someone showing him up in front of the 
others, whether it be real or imagined. Always aware of theatrics, 
Butch stepped toward the window installed to let others witness the 
fate of dissenters, and proceeded to halt any show of support before 
the cancer took root. It took him a few seconds to gather his thoughts. 
Thousands of words fought to to be the first one out. "You listen to 
me!" A few startled players twitched from the deafening blast. Butch's 
face glowed blood red and spittle flew from his lips. He could feel the 
adrenaline jump like water on a hot skillet and as usual he felt years 
drop off himself. "Whether you fuckin' realize it or not I'm the 
manager of this team. I get paid to win ball games and I don't have the 
time or the goddamn patience to be your mommy!" Butch had no idea of 
the true weight of his words.  "Any fuckin' mind games are all in your 
own head!" Butch bent forward so Karl could read his lips just in case 
he didn't hear every word. "You want to be filled in Karl?" A 
purposeful and effective caesura followed. "You stink! At the plate, on 
the field and in the clubhouse. And I'll be damned if I'm gonna' risk 
my ass for your rotted ego." Karl slammed his fist into the arm of the 
chair and punctuated it with an animal like growl as years of dust rose 
and hung between them. His frenzied eyes displayed the resurgance of an 
old, familiar hatred and helplessness but before he could offer his 
closing arguements, the defendant had more to say. "I need to play!" 
Karl began to sound more like he was begging. "Your just wasting my 
time letting me rot on the bench!" Using his mouth to defend his body 
was a battle Karl had lost before. He wanted to reach out and pull back 
the words before they were heard but it was  useless. He knew he'd said 
too much and the meaning behind Butch's raised eyebrow confirmed it. 
Karl's stomach knotted and swallowed itself, identical to a beaning 
he'd recieved three years ago. When the ball rose toward his head, he 
knew his reflexes needed to be lightning quick but instead of reacting, 
froze like a deer in headlights. His mind screamed commands but his 
body ignored. The approaching ball swelled until it swallowed his 
entire field of vision and brought him to his knees. It all took less 
than two seconds, but long enough to give him a concussion and a 
feeling he never wanted again. Afterward, everyone praised him for his 
bravery and courage. He kept the truth to himself. As for Butch, split 
second agility under pressure and in lights were his most valuable 
survival skills. "Maybe you'd rather watch the game at home?" Butch had 
calmed some but his message was still painfully clear. "The problem is, 
others think a salary earns you the right to stay with the team. If it 
were me," He made a didainful frown as he shook his head vigorously. "I 
wouldn't be so afraid to cut my losses." Their voices had quieted but 
the tension was as thick as ever. Butch's overweening expression and 
tone were identical to when he won enough back to back games to call a 
streak. If his team was hot, he grew bloated with arrogance and one 
might assume another loss was never possible. The same could be said 
for his hot tongue. "You ain't the only one who don't like the truth. I 
eat the shit every fuckin' day." Butch didn't want any power lost in 
the translation and used his hands to punctuate his soliloquy as his 
feet shifted. "Bottom line is, I gotta win ball games. And I can't 
afford the luxury of loyalty, compassion, pity or babying a .206 
hitter!" Butch accentuated his final word by jabbing his finger at Karl 
and instinctively moved closer to the doorway for both timely exit and 
effect. He never thought a good lecture should be wasted on one person 
and raised his voice accordingly. "The best way to deal with it Karl, 
is sit on the bench, stop your fuckin' whining and take it like a man!" 
If anyone cut through Butch's hardened layers they would have revealed 
a sympathy which rusted and cracked years ago. He never practiced such 
sentiment in his life and saw it as a sign of his greatest hatred; 
weakness. In fact, most emotions were totally alien to him for he never 
recieved many heartfelt words as a child, especially the most 
important; I care, I understand, I'm sorry. The clubhouse had become 
quieter than a school library in August and Karl was keenly aware of 
the uncomfortable silence. Someone else would have sworn the place was 
long since empty but Karl knew better. He felt the weight of a million 
eyes as players readied for the afternoon game. Even though he could 
hear nothing but the irritating buzz of flourescent lights and his own 
heart pounding in his ears, he knew everyone was still talking. No 
noise needed to be made. No words needed to be spoken. They had no use 
for such inefficient and restrictive methods of communication. A look 
was more than enough. Butch figured he'd scored about as many direct 
hits as possible and turned to leave the room. Anything more would be 
aniclimactic and he rewarded himself by reaching into his back pocket 
and helping himself to a generous pinch of tobacco. As he placed it 
between his cheek and gums his mouth began salivating immediately and 
for a brief moment he forgot about the rest of the world. Karl stood 
slowly the chair with the mangled cap clenched in his right hand and 
sanity clenched in the left while his eyes hysterically scanned the 
office. His thoughts skipped like a flat rock across placid water as he 
looked at everything and nothing at the same time. He wasn't searching 
for anything, but merely felt an impending need to focus on some 
object. Anything. But his mind and mass betrayed him and his thoughts 
raced maniacally; his first hit, slanted press stories, his worst 
beating, life after baseball, his grandfather's healings, his status on 
the team, his bedroom window, life in the minors, his father's 
footsteps, his first baseball cap� Karl's final thought lit the fuse. 
He cocked his head and through the corner of his eye watched as the 
last of Butch exited the room. There was no way go he would let the 
confrontation end so peacefully and with such a convincing victor. Karl 
had enough of life through a window. His rage erupted with the power of 
a volcano and the speed and uncertainty of lightning. In the blink of 
an eye and one sweeping motion, Karl gabbed the end of Butch's desk and 
hurled it hard enough to crack both the plaster and the window pane. 
Papers, ornaments and pictures flew aimlessly, then crashed to the 
floor in an indifferent heap as they were sprayed by the contents of 
the soup can as it bounced off the wall. The entire scene seemed 
distant and disjointed and he felt more like a witness to the whole 
event rather than the offender. The large oak desk was far too light, 
the colors too artificial and the sounds too crisp. The entire scene 
threatened Karl with some kind of sensory overload as if he were just 
along for the ride on a bizarre and uncontrollable LSD trip. His mind 
was drowning in a sea of senses while he stared at the product of his 
momentary madness, when suddenly, something alerted him like gunfire to 
a wild animal and his breathing hitched as he tried to focus his 
thoughts. For a brief moment he was sure he'd heard voices of children 
enjoying their innocence. Voices which, he knew he'd heard before. 
Before the absurdity of his sonance was comprehended, a wave of 
memories and emotions hit him with the force of a comet and his tenuous 
relationship with his world strained near its limit as he fought back 
the terror which threatened to engulf him. Karl stared at Butch through 
the distorted glass, in anticipation of some self satisfaction from his 
tirade and hopefuly the last blow of the fight. Butch, however, had 
been refining his art of humiliation for years and knew better than to 
give Karl the pleasure of some response. He knew his best reaction was 
no reaction at all and flaunted the fact as he strode casually through 
the clubhouse. His victory walk brought him in front of Karl's locker 
where he immediately came to a halt. For an instant, Karl was certain 
Butch would turn around to look back at the disassembled office and see 
Karl standing proudly in the midst of his offence. He had no idea why 
he wished it to happen and wasn't sure what he'd do if it came true. It 
was nothing more than some childish game most adults pretend to 
outgrow. Made you look, you dirty crook. You stole your mother's 
pocketbook. But Butch didn't look. He was everything but a crook and 
his mother never had enough money in her pocketbook to make pilfering 
profitable. Instead, and for his own childish satisfaction, Butch 
removed his cap and ran his stubby fingers through his gray wavy crop, 
then turned his head in the direction of Karl's locker and hurled a 
stream of tobacco juice which slowly seeped into the carpet Karl had 
been sitting above minutes ago. With a self righteous grin (Karl only 
saw Butch's back but he knew it was there), Butch replaced his cotton 
crown haphazardly, readjusted his paunch to show he was in no great 
hurry, then swaggared toward the awaiting field. As he walked down the 
tunnel he left the artificial, dingy light of the clubhouse behind and 
stepped into the blinding midday sun which reached for him and 
gradually dissolved the blackness of his form until he'd disappeared in 
deity like fashion. Karl witnessed the performance with both amazement 
and hatred. Butch's mastery at tearing people down was learned but his 
timing and subtlties were more instinctual talents. The entire 
spectacle made Karl feel as though he was in the midst of a humbling 
religious experience and more hopeless, frustrated and impotent than 
ever. He was never able to accomplish the illusion Butch had managed 
and would never be able to fight someone who could. Karl's option, up 
to this point, had always been to endure and believe. Since his 
grandfather died, both became more difficult each day. Butch's exit and 
the ensuing deafening silence, snowballed to hit Karl with the 
intensity of a magnifying glass on a blistering summer's day. The pain 
of their converging rays were too intense for him and he stood frozen, 
physically and emotionally, as he played the part of the rare creature 
being dissected and examined by his world. His mind was on the verge of 
spinning out of control until something tangible and familiar grabbed 
him by the nape of his neck and held him in place. It was his old 
friend pain. When he looked down at his left hand, his knees weakened 
and everything went gray. At the end of his arm was the last talisman 
he'd hoped might break his slump. It's peak was grotesquely and 
permanently misshapen and it was damp with his emotions. In his 
desperate attempt to hold on to what was left of his career (among 
other things), his fingers burrowed hard enough into the fabric to make 
blood flow from the nail of his index finger and stain the team's logo 
a crimson red. It wasn't just the sight which weakened him. He'd seen 
plenty of his own blood many years ago. He was being reminded, in 
living color, of both his own mortality and how he quite possibly held 
his last cap. It reminded him of the time he was eight years old and 
stepped on a nail in the family's back yard. Karl limped frantically in 
the back door but his father was more concerned with the hole in the 
sneaker and blood being tracked across the kitchen floor. While his 
father raged about the mess and the whining, Karl quickly forgot about 
the pain in his foot and readied his arm in case his face needed 
protecting. He didn't recieve the comfort he sought and eventually 
pulled the nail out by himself. His father said it might turn a sissy 
into a man. Karl wasn't sure if it turned him into a man, but it 
certainly kept him from being a child. The rhythmic sound of blood 
dripping on an overturned roster sheet soon brought Karl back from his 
brief foray into forgotten memories. Assisted by his free hand, he 
pried the cap loose from his whitened knuckles and let it fall to the 
floor where it formed a ghoulish lump. Karl stepped back from it 
hesitantly until the wall got in his way, as if waiting for it to move 
or come to life like a scene from a B-rate horror film. But it didn't 
move. Nothing moved. If not for the remaining bodies in the clubhouse 
the stadium might have made a fitting tomb. Not everything would remain 
inanimate however. The rest of the team began silently gathering their 
tools, then shuffled down the tunnel with heads bowed. No one spoke (at 
least with words) or dare look in Karl's direction. Karl raised his 
eyes from the bloodied remains to watch them leave like a congregation 
exiting church after a powerful, personal and humbling funeral homily. 
He was glad they left without trying to offer inept condolences or 
hollow words of inspiration but was struck by a thought as they stared 
at their feet during the exodus. Are they bowing their heads in respect 
or fear? 

n  n  n 

Seconds metamorphosed into hours and Karl found himself in the same
place his day began; in front of his locker. He dared not take his 
proper place in the dugout. The tension and strangled silence would 
have surely driven everyone mad. Out of sight was the only way to keep 
out of mind. Like everyone who wallows in self pity, Karl had no idea 
how much time had passed but could tell from muffled cheers the game 
had started some time ago and reluctantly accepted they may be the last 
kind he ever hear again. The unconscionable sport which had blissfully 
liberated him from his hell, now, with bloated belly, declared him used 
and threw him back to the mercy of the flames. He was as unprepared for 
the real world as when he was as a child except now he couldn't even 
find any solace in his dreams. It had been almost five hours since the 
confrontation with Butch and while Karl's motionless features suggested 
deep contemplation, exactly the opposite was true. After some momentary 
concern with his bloodied hand (it was tender but better than it 
looked), his state wouldn't allow him to think about anything with much 
depth. His glazed mind drifted on an ocean of thoughts, held afloat by 
surface tension and ready to be sent to it's black bottom by the 
smallest ripple. Karl had spent most of the time picking through 
memories found in his locker. He sifted through the tools of his trade, 
holding each artifact like a glass infant as he stared blindly, 
remembering the past like the precious memories of a deceased, dear 
friend. Each memory could have held him indefinitely but intermittent 
cheers would interrupt his vacant thoughts, filling them with enough 
bitterness to let his runaway train change tracks. Eventually he came 
upon his most prized possession. His bat. It originated from something 
as beautiful and pristine as a tree but when properly shaped it became 
a sword of victory. It set him free from his adolescent fears, led him 
through the triumphs of university and to his ultimate battle ground, 
where sometimes he and he alone slew Tigers, Giants and even Angels. 
Whenever he held a bat in his hands it became an instant part of him 
and natural as any of his four limbs. As he reverently wrapped his 
hands around it the feeling was once again confirmed. Nothing ever felt 
better than a bat against his skin. Karl often joked about how a home 
run was better than sex. Everyone would laugh and make lewd estimates 
about Karl's sex life but he was dead serious. He loved to feel sweat 
dripping down the small of his back as he thrust the head of his bat 
through the air and a white blur exploded from it's end to land in the 
hungry, outstretched arms of adoring fans. When Karl made solid 
contact, he felt as fulfilled as he ever thought possible. Each hit was 
treasured, savored and gave him complete satisfaction. It wasn't cheers 
or statistics which Karl sought and he was addicted to something far 
more powerful than any possible narcotic. He was addicted to that brief 
millesecond, when nature yielded to him and he had total control. For 
Karl, it was a kind of psycological maturbation and the world's 
greatest high but it was also far too brief, which made him lust for it 
even more. Throughout the afternoon Karl had been impervious to time. 
But not sound. Cheers and announcements prevented him from staying in 
his deserted chasm indefinately and as he reverently held the labelled 
ash a more distinct sound prevented it once again. An echoed click of 
cleats told Karl someone was walking down the tunnel from the field; 
probably a pitcher getting an early shower. He preferred not to turn 
for it would surely spawn a look of pity and encourage matching 
locution. Karl just wanted to be left alone. He began to lose intrest 
as the footsteps blended into the background noises of his blurring 
world until he realized they had come to a halt behind him. Karl 
twinged in anticipation of inadequate sympathy; Don't let him get to 
you Karl. Don't worry man, everything'll be fine. If there's anything I 
can do, just let me know. It was no more than five seconds but was more 
than enough for Karl. He drew in a shallow breath to express his wishes 
for solitude when a disgusting, familiar sight landed to his left with 
a wet slap. Karl stared at the oozing stain and felt adrenaline 
immediately begin to percolate, tightening his mind and muscles into a 
frightening knot. He began to wonder how long before the silence would 
be broken. His wondering didn't last long. "I thought I'd find your 
sorry ass here."  Butch's tone declared he was quite pleased with the 
confirmation. Butch's arrogance was unrelenting. Karl felt his pride 
begin to sting again but wasn't about to take the bait once more and 
provide fuel for another grand exit. He held the bat up in front of his 
face and pressed his lips against its dormant force. If a stranger had 
been present, he would have remarked at how Karl's pose resembled a 
penitent sinner praying against his crucifix. Their comparisons would 
have been far more accurate than even Karl was aware of. Baseball 
resuscitated him and gave him something to hold on to. But would his 
savior hear his prayers anew. Karl knew better than to put his faith in 
the more ethereal gods who appeared to ignore him on countless 
occasions. As a child, he begged endlessly for divine intervention in 
his life and each plea went unanswered, if heard at all. It wasn't long 
before he began to see religion as nothing more than a time honored 
hoax and god as nothing more than a religious artifact. He had grown 
tired of relying on someone else to save him and it was then he began 
to seriously consider his easiest method of escape. In adulthood, Karl 
believed only in things and beings which were tangible. As his god lay 
against his face, it told him to take the matter into his own hands. 
The door had been abruptly opened to Karl's momentary peace much like 
it was years ago, except now he swore he wasn't going to try to 
disappear. The background noise resumed. "It's finally starting to sink 
in, ain't it Karl? Sometimes life sucks. It ain't got nothin' personal 
against you, shit just happens." Butch figured the worst of the war was 
over and decided the moment was right to slip into a more virtuous mode 
by expanding on his philosophies. He rubbed his chin as he continued 
and for the first time began speaking to Karl, not at him. "You know 
Karl, I like to think of life as a stray dog." Butch's audience was 
unresposive and but would have to do for the moment. "Usually, he don't 
even notice you. But show the bastard you're afraid of him and he'll 
bite your ass off." Karl didn't hear Butch's soap box change gears and 
wouldn't have cared anyway. He closed his eyes slowly as his breathing 
deepened, and lowered his head slightly, allowing the bat to caress his 
forehead. Karl didn't hear any of Butch's words, just the person behind 
them. "The longer you sit with your head in the sand, the more that big 
dog is gonna come lookin' for you." Butch thought his genius insight 
might get Karl out of his cloud but he remained motionless and 
combustible. As much as Butch liked the sound of his own voice, he 
became a bit unsettled by Karl's peculiar mood and the scar on his lip 
supported his intuitions. Years ago, when he managed in AAA, Butch 
visited the local bars of road teams on a regular basis. He did it 
mostly to pass time between games but, not surprisingly, also enjoyed 
arguing with the opposition's supporters. Back then, AAA club's were 
often the only pro franchise around for hundreds of miles and their 
disciples were as protective as a Doberman, whether they attended the 
games or not. During one particular disagreement, his mouth made a 
statement his mind quickly regretted and his fists had trouble backing. 
When Butch began losing an arguement he often got personal and  
remembered making a particular comment about the oral aptitude of 
someone's mother. The offended party stared at the glass he held on the 
table and the tension multiplied as the room quieted in anticipation of 
an appropriate reaction. Solutions raced through Butch's mind but it 
was too late. The wick was lit. Before his body had a chance to defend 
itself, part of the glass was hanging in the flesh under his nose and 
his back was on the floor with three hundred pounds of red neck to keep 
him in place. Vivid memories of long ago and the eery stillness of the 
clubhouse coupled to chill Butch's blood. Danger was taking shape in 
the air around him and his senses became heightened immediately like 
animals smelling danger in the wind across an open plain. This type of 
apprehension was unfamiliar to Butch, which made it all the more acute. 
As he unconciously wiped tobacco from his scarred lip, years of 
experience told him it was best to keep the encounter brief and at 
worst, call it a draw. "Listen Karl, we'd all like to join you feel 
sorry for yourself but were too damn busy!" Butch adjusted his belt and 
spewed a black stream in the general direction of a garbage can eight 
feet away and briefly berated himself when he he'd missed the target. 
Being the master he was, no one usually noticed when he had a break in 
thought. "Shit Karl! Everyone's gotta suck it up in a pennant race. 
Everyone!" Butch was as close as he would ever come to verbalizing his 
own frustrations. It was just as well. He wouldn't admit to any, even 
to himself. "Sometimes that ain't even enough for lady luck and you 
gotta sleep with the old whore just to break even. I'm still trying to 
pull up her dress so I can have a crack at the big prize." Butch 
paused, then snickered at his unintentional humor just before he 
accidentally swallowed tobacco juice. He coughed, cleared his throat 
along with his sinuses and successfully zeroed in on his target. The 
uneasiness of moments ago was eased considerably by his wit and he 
relaxed a bit as control over the situation seemed to return. Hand in 
hand with his control came its habitual companion; aggression. Karl 
didn't hear anything Butch said and it wouldn't have mattered but the 
words still burned through the back of his skull, and burrowed deep 
into his mind. He let the bat fall gently to his shoulder and his 
breathing calmed as the mirrors to his soul cracked open. Butch 
mistakingly interpreted Karl's movement as a relaxed posture. He 
decided he'd already wasted too much time and turned it up a notch, 
hoping to instill some kind of valor in an otherwise atrophied manhood 
and fulfill the need which returned him to the clubhouse. "Look, I just 
want to win this fuckin' game and I've used everyone but you and the 
damn bat boy to do it!"  Butch's voice returned to a firm and 
condescending tone Karl had learned to hate over 20 years ago. Butch 
spit a final time but with much less expertise than before. A drop of 
the cancerous saliva landed unnoticed on the toe of his shoe and his 
scar glistened a sickly brown. "I'm sucking it up by askin' you to get 
out there and pinch hit. And if you want to be remembered as a man, 
you'll get your ass out there when I need it!"  Butch stressed his last 
words with a purposeful nudge to Karl's shoulder and turned on his 
heels toward the tunnel, certain his final actions would make Karl turn 
and follow. If he was wrong, at least his words were the last ones 
said. "Remember Karl," Butch said in an evangelist tone as he took his 
first step. He heard movement behind him and figured Karl was about to 
give in. He was dead wrong. "always go out like a m..." Like a spring 
loaded thunderbolt, Karl swung his legs over the bench and sent the 
head of the bat singing through the air with every ounce of hate he'd 
ever felt. Butch's skull received the full force of the blow and 
collapsed under its power as a muffled crack echoed throughout the 
clubhouse. Karl's eyes opened wide as if slapped in the face by a 
stranger and witnessed brown spittle spray across the room, as Butch 
tumbled to a twitching heap on the floor. Within seconds, the remaining 
black, offensive tar seeped from his mouth and joined the deep red hue 
which had raced it to the carpet. Karl shuffled numbly toward his 
transgression and as he leaned over the inanimate carcass a self 
satisfied, sinister grin crawled across his face. His deranged repose 
would have remained indefinitely, if not for the luring of a near 
forgotten soul. A roar from the field rolled into the clubhouse and 
drew Karl's eyes up to meet it at it's entrance. Brilliant light 
continued to pour down the tunnel into the clubhouse and its golden, 
forgiving arms had an instant calming effect. Karl briefly forgot both 
time and place and was mystically drawn toward its warmth, 
unconditional love and offer of redemption on the other side. But it 
was more than the effect of untainted beauty which pulled him forward; 
it was being assisted by a familiar voice begging Karl to join them. 
"Karl, get out here!..." Believe in ya'self. An icy chill raced down 
his back and pushed him forward. They don't believe. "Hurry up Karl!" 
The energy behind most of the words was lost in the static of over 
forty thousand people like a phone call from another world, and yet, 
some would be no clearer if the person who spoke stood right in front 
of him. Karl knew who belonged to the voice and his preternatural 
realization hardly fizzed him. It was as if he'd been wishing it for so 
long only the suddenness surprised him, not the possibility. His 
grandfather had saved him in the past and was about to rescue him once 
more. "Wait for me granddad, I'm coming Karl's voice cracked like the 
same scared, lost eleven year old boy and he fought back tears at the 
thought of having both needs fulfilled. Karl reached out to the words 
as the light swallowed him but was unable to keep his eyes open. The 
change from artificial light to an all encompassing illumination, left 
him squinting and pawing like a child desperately searching for the 
switch in a dark, seldom entered cellar. Suddenly, something grabbed 
his arm and his heart filled with rapture. But his joy was quickly 
tainted with hesitation and replaced by confusion as his dream cruelly 
contorted into a nightmare. Karl was yanked unexpectedly to the other 
side as his whimperings were muffled by a blast from a direction and 
source he hadn't expected. "It's about fucking time!" The batting coach 
bellowed in his ear as he jerked him half way across the dugout. Since 
Karl was too disoriented to even speak any attempt of a verbal self 
defence was out of the question. He expected to experience some kind of 
rebirth or resurrection and met what couldn't have seemed any more 
foreign. He wasn't sure where he was or what was happening but 
remembered who he was looking for. As his eyes darted nervously among 
the surrounding faces, his heart sank deeper with each passing second  
while he searched for the answer to his silent question. Where's 
granddad? Before he could verbalize his thoughts, a helmet was thrust 
into his stomach, momentarily knocking the air out of his lungs and his 
previous thoughts to the back of his mind. "Get out there and do it 
man! Your fate is our destiny!" Karl couldn't have repeated three words 
of what coach Keller said but in the midst of the brief exchange home 
plate was pointed out to puctuate the conversation and he walked 
mindlessly out to meet it. Karl's eyes were as responsive as cheap 
glass in a tacky wax museum figure and his mind even less than that. 
Nevertheless, his rituals were so ingrained, he mechanically donned the 
helmet and proceded onward. He had no grasp of the situation however. 
All clear thought had left him. If directed toward the edge of a cliff, 
he would have stepped over its edge just as eagerly. Karl always 
believed, in order successful at the plate, one had to be a master at 
repetition and focused enough to make about every third at bat unique 
through inexplicable concentration regardless of the situation, 
pressures or personal concerns. He'd travelled the route thousands of 
times and years of repetition were all that lead Karl to the plate. 

Doggson saw what had transpired in the duggout and looked  more than a
bit relieved as he approached Karl and the safe, unheroic spot waiting 
for him on the bench. A thankful but arrogant grin spread across his 
face as he freely offered his egocentric analysis. "Shit Karl, I don't 
get paid enough to throw the damn ball." In the past, Karl ignored 
Doggson even on good days and made no exception to the rule. They'd had 
more than their share of words in the past and Karl was mediocre at 
hiding his dislike. He thought management paid far too much ($9.8 
million over two years) for someone with no guts and an average left 
arm. Besides, Karl resented the fact Doggson's first priority wasn't 
his team but rather the sweet tooth he had in his nose. Doggson slowed 
down near the on deck circle and let Karl be the first to hear the 
punchline to his worn out joke. "Damn near had to renegotiate!" His 
conceited chuckle went unheard and failed to elicit a response. 
Oblivious to his surroundings, Karl inadvertently bumped Doggson's 
shoulder as they passed, quickly evaporating the pompous smile and 
prompting Doggson to mutter his favorite word as he glared over his 
shoulder. "Fuckinasshole." 

From a distance and with a calmer mind, Keller began to suspect
something was bothering Karl. He became more convinced by each unsteady 
step as Karl passed the on deck circle and drifted closer to the plate. 
Karl was the Fundamentalist Christian of practice swings and Keller was 
always amazed to watch him before an at bat. Swing after swing, the 
rehearsals were unrelenting; determination and frustration walking hand 
in hand. Most players needed only a few swings to visualize a hit but 
Karl never found it so easy to please himself, even in his own mind. 
Sometimes Keller would even catch Karl getting angry, as if losing a 
battle with an imaginary pitcher or more likely, just losing the battle 
with himself. Keller's quick realization was heightened by the response 
of at least half the people in the stadium. The auditory background 
crawled through the air like music to a suspenseful late night movie. 
Much of their excitement, in anticipation of a game winning hit, had 
been diffused into a hushed, uneasy chatter. While most weren't aware 
of Karl's idiosyncrasies, they were keenly attuned to his odd demeanor, 
air of indifference and apparent lack of veneration for the task at 
hand. The sound reminded Keller of stagnant, uncomfortable 
conversations usually reserved for wakes and very formal affairs, 
albeit the two had many more similarities. Keller immediately assumed 
Butch might have said something to piss Karl off. In fact, he knew it 
was a very strong possibility. He turned to verify his suspicions with 
a one sided account from the horse's mouth, when he discovered Butch 
still hadn't returned from the clubhouse. Keller leaned against the 
duggout wall with his right arm and  cocked his head as cynacisims and 
scenarios began to flow. When his thoughts began to coagulate he let 
out a shallow anxious wheeze, dropped his head in exasperation and 
mumbled a question he already had at least ten realistic answers for. 
"Shit, what's your mouth gotten you into now?" 

Regardless of his curiosity, Keller knew his ass should remain firmly
planted. The press was sure to notice Butch's abscence during a pivotal 
game's most crucial point and when the vultures regurgitated, Keller 
didn't want his actions questioned in the morning's paper as well. He 
needed someone unscathed by pressures of the pen who could serve as a 
sacrificial catharthis in case Butch needed to vent some anger. After a 
brief scan of the bench he signalled a September call-up. The kid 
looked too young to shave and too easy to scare and as the wide eyed 
rookie approached, Keller was about to give the universal headshake for 
nevermind  but realized there was no use in trying to save him from 
both the ugly side of baseball and Butch's disposition. While Keller 
relayed concerns to his surrogate spy, Karl had reached his final 
destination by sheer habit and instinct. Even though he was devoid of 
any clear thought, something deep within innately raised 32oz. of ash 
to meet his eyes. When it did, the tenuous rubber band called sanity 
almost snapped loud enough for everyone in the stadium to hear. It was 
quite conceivable Karl could have raised his hands to find nothing in 
them but air and the sight wouldn't have concerned him in the least. He 
wasn't even aware he held a bat until his hands were hoisted to eye 
level but when his eyes met it, Karl was sure his mind would implode 
from the weight of his sudden reality. The sight of blood and hair 
caught in a splinter, made his world swim before him like the 
helicopter rides his grandfather sometimes gave him as a child. He was 
about to let go of both the bat and the proverbial ledge, when again he 
heard a voice he thought would deliver him from his world just moments 
before. Y'all alone now boy. The gravelly old voice eminated from every 
direction and every inch of Karl froze, except his eyes. Do what ya 
gotta do. "I can't." Karl's eyes grew wetter as each whispered word 
went unheard to the thousands present, save one. He raised his eyes 
toward the sky and begged forgiveness for his shortcomings from the 
only being who could grant him true absolution. "I can't do it 
granddad." The catcher and ump noticed Karl's murmurings and naturally 
assumed he was talking to himself. It may have been odd, but certainly 
not uncommon. Besides, both their agenda were markedly different from 
Karl's; one thought of victory, home, and a fine meal, while the other 
just thought of the latter. And they were both intent on seeing them 
through as quickly as possible. Stop that right now ya hear!   The 
volume of the old man's voice increased like any father who has grown 
tired of his child's whining. Years ago, whenever his grandfather 
raised his voice to get a point across, Karl knew to heed his words. He 
never feared the man but his firm, loving words earned more respect 
from Karl than any beating his father ever gave. When Karl heard the 
familiar tone, habit and instinct took over once again, informing him 
to be quiet and listen. Feelin' sorry for yaself only tells  em they 
was right. Convince  em they was wrong!  Karl knew the words were meant 
to ignite some kind of pride but he no longer had the fuel to burn. How 
can a man feel pride when he has no one to look up to. What would once 
inspire Karl, were now powerless; like a scratchy old 45 trying to 
compete with the memories of your first teen-age concert. Words can 
rekindle memories, but it's memories which give the words wings to 
soar. Karl's life with his grandfather was a million years ago, in 
another universe. The old man's words carried but a faint pulse and 
remained earth bound with Karl. You can do it Karl! Make  em believe. 
As the crowd's nervous excitement increased, the spiritless words faded 
like a weak signal fighting static on an old radio; gradually 
distorting and dissipating as they fought for his attention. Make  em 
believe son, make me pr... Karl never heard those final words. 
Surrounded by millions of others in the air, they were smothered like a 
flame under glass and their final embers turned to ash. Karl could 
barely stand the shame of his own ineptness and felt relieved his 
grandfather wasn't there to watch him fail. He'd been living alone for 
so many years, he thought it fitting his career die in similar fashion. 
Everything around him moved in slow motion as he dug in apathetically 
beside home. The wood in his hands was the only thing keeping him 
afloat in a sea of insanity and he looked forward to the moment the 
waves weakened his grip and pulled him under. The cruel irony of Karl's 
life was how he grew to be loved by millions and yet felt forever 
friendless. Most of his life was spent either fighting to keep his 
career alive or more importantly, himself. Other than the years with 
his grandfather, he never had a chance to belong anywhere or to anyone; 
the coldness of being alone was something he learned to live with and 
learned to hate. As the umpire bellowed for the game to continue, he 
felt its icy, intimate fingers caress his soul. Since play had resumed, 
those directly in front of and behind Karl began debating what to throw 
and as he stared vacantly at the pitcher, a more corporeal voice spoke 
his name. "Karl." The voice was firm but soft as a kiss and it cut 
through his mental fog with the speed of a guillotine. Karl's eyes 
searched for its source. "Karl." The quiet, convincing voice called 
once more. It eliminated all other background noise and induced Karl to 
look in the direction of first base. Two thirds of the distance to the 
bag and as plain as day, Karl's grandfather stood the same as he would 
have looked about twelve years ago: a kind, wrinkled, old face; stubby, 
grey hair surrounding a smooth, brown scalp; and the usual flannel 
shirt, modestly hiding a reasonable paunch. Karl wouldn't let himself 
question either his vision or his own mind and was about to test it's 
tangibility with endless hugs. But before his mind could get the 
message to his legs, his grandfather raised a palm as big as a dinner 
plate. A message Karl instantly remembered. "Stay there Karl. You've 
gotta job to finish." His words were calm but the message was still 
clear. Karl was about to protest his own abilities again until the old 
man held it at bay also. "I don't wanna hear it." The rhythmic monotone 
voice soothed Karl like rain on a roof top and more than any loving 
mother ever could. He briefly closed his eyes as he regretted his 
previous thoughts, then jerked them open, afraid his messiah was merely 
a mirage. But the apparition remained. Other than his arm and lips, the 
old man stood motionless and was visible to no one but Karl. His face 
had all the tranquility of a religious painting and the sun shone above 
his head, garnering him with a well deserved aureole as he got to the 
reason for his manifestation. "I just want you to know I'm still proud 
of you." A single tear rolled down Karl's cheek and the warmth of 
dormant love radiated through his body. Karl's lungs filled with 
charged air and his life with renewed reason as he turned his head 
toward the mound. The pitcher was in the process of checking runners, 
when his grandfather spoke the words which meant everything to a man 
who had no one left to please. "Remember Karl," He looked back at his 
grandfather who had magically covered half the distance between them. 
Karl was riveted as  they stood no more than twenty feet apart. "I'll 
always love you." It was everything Karl wanted to hear and everything 
he needed to hear; instantly equipping him with the fire of eternal 
love. Then with a subtle wave of his hand, the old man redirected him 
toward the mound and his unfinished task. What transpired between them 
took just seconds and few people noticed. Those who did, interpreted 
Karl's conduct as nothing more than verification of some last minute 
signs. They were correct, but it was ignorance which assisted their 
accuracy. Karl did as instructed and turned to face the pitcher already 
in his wind up. Tears blurred his vision but he was determined to let 
nothing get by. The first pitch to Karl was a curve which luckily hung 
out over the plate. He swung with every ounce of love he ever had for 
the old man and most could tell where the ball was headed by the sound 
alone. Immediately upon contact and off balance, Karl dropped the bat 
and stumbled in the one direction he intended to take regardless of the 
outcome at the plate. The crowd roared instantly. The decibels 
increased with each foot the ball travelled toward the right field 
seats, as if their collective voices could somehow keep it both aloft 
and fair. Their volume multiplied until the pandemonium was almost 
painful and then peaked as the ball shot over the fence like a rocket. 
As thousands screamed in rapture, the screaming voice of a naive 
nineteen year old echoed from a cavern deep beneath the seats. Years 
later, after baseball got tired of waiting for his talents to mature, a 
thirty two year old A&P manager would wake up in a cold sweat on a 
humid July evening. Butch's bloodied corpse was still fresh in his 
mind. Amid the euphoria while players poured on the field, Karl stopped 
on his way to first and frantically scanned the right side of the 
diamond as his tears of joy took on a new meaning. In the ensuing 
months and endless stories, thousands assumed Karl had stopped on his 
way to first because he'd lost sight of the ball. The real truth and 
pain were never known. 


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