2061.04 - The Pipes

[Lane]

Continued from The Water, resolving the cliffhanger from The Bones

The Pipes
May 16, 2061
The general manager solemnly approached the manifold on the left, eyes locking on a small metal sign hanging from chains on a horizontal pipe. The sign, of course, indicated that it was the supply line for the home team's bullpen. He reached out with his left hand, and it came to rest on the cold pipe. He took a deep breath, and closed his eyes.

Suddenly, it's 2056. It's a cold October evening and Jay Hodge is on the mound for the Surfers, and our general manager watches from his suite. Hodge was acquired in August, from the Phoenix Talons. For six regular season starts, he was the pitcher that the Surfers needed. But something changed in the playoffs. His velocity dipped in his first game, and he was hit hard. The Surfers failed to win any of the first three games of the series against Nashville. For the fourth game of the series, Hodge lobbied hard for another start, insisting that he was okay. The stadium display shows 89 mph for his first fastball of the game, and

With a jolt, his mind returned to the present, his hand recoiling from the pipe as if it were a red-hot cast iron pan on a stovetop. He turned toward the door, but something deep in the core of his being stops him. He knows that he must do this. His left hand returns to the pipe.

Now it's 2057, and the Surfers are, again, in the playoffs. Again, they have acquired a high-profile starting pitcher to help them advance deep into the playoffs. This time, he watches from his office. He's pacing in front of the window, drink in hand. Three-time Nebraska winner Carlos Flores is about to take the mound for his third start of the postseason. The first two did not go well. The tens of thousands of fans in the stadium are downtrodden with the team down three games to none, but still, there is hope in the air with a future hall of fame pitcher making the start. The general manager, however, knows what is coming.

He shivered, and withdrew his hand from the pipe. The warmth from the morning sun had not yet penetrated through the field into the tunnels. This journey is not one to embark on enveloped in the comforting blanket of the sun's radiation. This therapy, this torturous healing, must happen at the core of this aged stadium, a vessel that carries the successes and failures, the elation and dejection of elite athletes, dedicated fans, and curious travelers.

Despite the cold, a bead of sweat dripped down the side of his face, disappearing into his graying beard. His back started to ache, and his knees felt weak. It was almost over, but there was still more to go. This time, he reached out with both of his hands, and slowly grasped the cold pipe.

It's hot, and the sun is bright. He stands, leaned against the railing, in the front row of seats outside his suite. Eddie Armstrong is on the mound in front of him. Behind him, on a glass topped coffee table sits the sports section of The Independent newspaper. The first inning comes to an end, he turns on his heel to leave the suite. He grabs the paper, a headline proclaiming "Oops, They Did It Again," and hurls it at the nearest trash can. He opens the door, and is transported one floor up, and one year ahead. It's an overcast evening in 2059. The Mad Popes are here for the Geoghegan series, and Chris Thompson, consistently good for twenty-two regular season starts is handing the baseball to two-time Eagan Awardee reliever Scott Everard.

He blinks, and the display of the final score of the game, 18-3, moves from the jumbotron in right field onto the wall-to-wall glass of his office. Blinded by the light, he stumbles back onto his desk, his drink falling from his hand, shattering with a loud crash onto the floor.

He snapped back to the dimly lit plumbing room. His knees were on the cold concrete ground, his head was tiled back, and from his mouth came a deafening scream. A primal scream, emanating from every cell in his body, releasing years of angst, regret, shame, and anger. He unclenched his fists, and reached his hands up to the pipe again. Still on his knees, his head tilted down and he took a slow, deep breath in. The cold air hit his lungs, and was sharp, but the oxygen within it was rejuvenating. His lungs filled, he paused, and slowly released the air, released the anger, released the pain of failed trades, and postseason disappointments.

[RonCo]

The essence of Caleca is strong in this one. I'm on the edge of my seat for part five.

[Lane]

The essence of Caleca is strong in this one. I'm on the edge of my seat for part five.

thank you. this was my favorite part to write, and perhaps some of the best writing i've ever done. and, of course, the most fun.