A Trace of Revenge

by Lyle Howard

  “Well, the Jaguars haven’t had much to celebrate until they made it to the final round of the playoffs,” Toby added as he squeezed into his chair. “Damn! They could have spent some more money on these seats. These things are not for the derriere-challenged.” Toby complained.

  Benjamin’s finger trembled as he pointed to the outfield walls. “What do you think those companies paid for those advertisements?” He asked, focusing on the banner for a local bank.

  Toby squirmed in a failing attempt to get comfortable, which would be impossible until he shed seventy-five pounds. “I haven’t got a clue, but they have probably been up there for years, and this will be the first time they ever pay off. There must be twenty thousand people here today.”

  ***

  Next to the right-field foul pole, Matt Walker looked to his left at the seats above him as he was handed a bag of roasted peanuts from Simone. Most of the men sitting around them had removed their shirts, trying to get a tan. Their pale beer bellies pointed up to the cloudless sky. They were crazy, he thought. The weather was still too cool for that.

  Sitting in the last seat of the row, Matt was able to lean to his right and see over the railing. It was a sheer drop to the field below. Matt hadn’t realized how high up they were, and began to feel queasy. He hated heights. It wasn’t fearful enough to be considered a phobia, but it really bothered him. They were nearly one hundred feet up and probably four hundred feet from home plate. If he hadn’t brought his binoculars, he never would have been able to see the players.

  Simone’s family took turns borrowing the glasses from him, but he didn’t mind. Matt handed the glasses to her brother who was signing to him. Everyone in her family knew sign language. Simone was extremely fortunate to have such an understanding clan. Seeing their camaraderie made Matt feel even more estranged.

  Matt studied the fans sitting around them. No one seemed to notice that they were all signing. It quelled his regrets about his grandfather not being here. The old man would have been embarrassed when they all started to sign. It was better that he wasn’t here, Matt thought. He reached for Simone’s arm to read her watch. It was almost time for the new team to take the field.

  34

  The skyboxes had been completely renovated for today’s game. Rarely used for the minor league games, they were occasionally rented out to large groups for rock concerts or local events that the ballpark hosted. Peter Mason and his entourage of employees and invited guests mingled with each other in the suite above home plate. The Commissioner of Major League Baseball drank Mason’s expensive champagne while munching on bacon wrapped scallops and shaking hands with total strangers. He was a politician in every sense of the word as he pointed down to the fans and smiled. The Commissioner patted strangers on the back as though he’d known them for a lifetime and waved obliviously to the crowd who taunted and cheered him at the same time.

  The mood inside Mason’s suite was excited, but anxious at the same time. Everything was riding on today’s turnout, and the impression the new team would leave with the fans—and especially the sports journalists from around the country—would determine the team’s fate.

  Three suites away, the mood was less than ecstatic. Nick Coltello sat solemnly in the front row of the skybox and watched the crowd file in. Jaime Diaz acted as his ambassador at the back of the suite, greeting the friends Coltello had persuaded to attend. Not many cared if they were there or not; most were diehard Yankees fans and couldn’t have cared less about a team named after a half-woman half-fish. Nicky the Knife had asked them to be there, and that was an invitation one didn’t usually turn down.

  Nicky had a curvaceous blond sitting on his left and a stunning redhead on his right. He didn’t even know their names. It didn’t matter. All he cared about was how the day turned out, and so far, he had nothing to be hopeful for. He had considered every option for how he could ruin this game, but he drew the line at terrorism. With one sharpshooter on a rooftop he could have taken Mason out at his own premiere, but as flawed as they were, he did have scruples. The last thing he wanted was to have the Feds turning the city into a sideshow—not to mention the press that would never leave. Jimmy had convinced him that it was just too risky. Florida was becoming known as the “Gunshine State,” and it made him nervous. Today, he would just sit back and watch. If this thing turned out to be a success, he still had one more chance to put an end to Mason’s dream of building a new ballpark on the land his crew had been using as a cemetery for nearly twenty years.

  Jimmy had procured for them an exclusive pair of invitations on the maiden voyage of Mason’s new ship in a few nights from now, and a plan B was already in the works. One way or another, on land or at sea, he would put an end to Mason’s stupid pipe-dream once and for all and stop the construction of the new ballpark.

  The public address system crackled to life, playing the familiar theme to 2001: A Space Odyssey. As the music built up to its ultimate crescendo, the giant screen in left-center field burst to life, revealing the best-kept secret in the City of Jacksonville. Peter Mason stood up in his skybox waiting for the feedback from the crowd. What he anticipated and what he received were two entirely different reactions.

  In the press box, the unveiling was met with uncertainty and confusion.

  “What the hell is a Jengu?” One of the reporters asked aloud, as he stared at the new logo.

  “That name has got to go,” another writer announced.

  In the stands, nearly twenty-one thousand fans found themselves compelled to pull out their cell phones and Google the definition of Jengu. The answer the internet supplied was a water spirit from West African mythology. The new logo was a blue and aqua mermaid holding a trident. It was a name that Peter Mason had researched himself. He liked the idea of the alliteration that the Jacksonville Jaguars used, and believed the logo and mascot of a mermaid would initially look peaceful, but the trident she wielded would symbolize she wasn’t to be taken lightly.

  Mason turned and looked at Gerald Banks who remained sitting. The rest of his invited guests sipped nervously from their champagne flutes and averted their gazes, afraid that Mason might turn his anger toward them. “What don’t they get?” he asked, with his back to the field.

  “Maybe they were expecting a tie-in to the football team like they did in Chicago with the Bears and Cubs. What about a jackal?” Banks suggested, keeping the alliteration intact.

  “A jackal?” Mason barked. “A feral jungle animal?”

  Banks was feeling an odd sense of satisfaction in his brother-in-law’s distress. “I’m just saying…”

  Outside of the skybox, the ear-splitting screams of discontent were rising. Peter Mason turned and waved to the crowd shamelessly. What else could go wrong?

  ***

  In the locker room, the Jacksonville Jengu were making their final preparations for their debut. The team was made up of a blend of players from other Major League teams who were on the bubble with their own franchises and needed to make a good showing or risk being sent down to the minor leagues.

  Manager Jack Wolinski was rolling his trademark cigar in his fingers as he gave the team their pep talk. Pacing around the locker room like a squatty preacher, he reminded the players that even though this was only an exhibition game, it would be a hell of a lot better if they won. He made it clear that the hometown Jumbo Shrimp were playing with an experienced lineup and had a chip on their shoulders to prove that they could play on the same field as their higher-paid rivals. Wolinski warned every player that the future of professional baseball in the city of Jacksonville was at stake today, and it was up to each of them to show their worth. For some of the players, it would be their last opportunity to play in front of a crowd this large.

  Wolinski pinned the opening line up on a corkboard next to the locker room exit. He asked the players for a moment of silence before they went out for batting and fielding practice.
The room went quiet for almost a minute until Wolinski picked up the phone and called up to the press box. The Jengu were ready to take the field. All the players in the locker room crowded around the starting line up to see who got the nod. They all bumped and jostled for position to see the list. Everyone, except one man.

  He was the batting coach. He made sure the red velvet-lined case was standing upright inside his locker and gently closed the door shut, clicking the lock to secure the contents. He never looked up as the team let out a unified roar as they headed out onto the field for the first time ever. He was older, grayer, but still had the same rock-steady concentration and determination.

  Anthony Magnetti grabbed a canvas bag full of baseballs, rested his trusted bat Sweet Amy on his shoulder, and confidently followed the team onto the diamond.

  35

  It all happened in the blink of an eye, and the swing of a bat. Matt had just taken the binoculars back from Simone’s little brother when the crowd around him began to stir. He didn’t see it coming, but everyone around him suddenly stood up. The wind had shifted direction, and now the flags in center field were blowing directly toward him. He watched as if in slow motion, as the surrounding crowd began clawing the air with outstretched hands. In a fraction of a second, he saw it flying toward him. A ball was hit deep to right field, but the wind was hooking it foul. There were a group of outfielders taking their turn at catching the practice balls, and they all turned in unison to watch it leave the park.

  All the spectators along the railing were lunging out at it, trying to be the lucky one to take home a free souvenir. Matt, as if by reflex, reached out too.

  It was an instinctive motion; he knew he didn’t stand a chance with everyone else flailing and grabbing for the ball. Suddenly, there was a stinging sensation in the palm of his hand. He drew his arm in and held the baseball firmly in his hand. Simone tugged on his arm with excitement. He hadn’t even tried, but he’d caught it anyway. Matt felt Simone’s father patting him on the back as he wrapped his fingers around the ball to protect it. Matt didn’t mean to trace it, but it was out of his control. The twitching turned into a trembling, and then his eyes rolled back into his head. He lost all sight of the stadium as his eyes blinked shut. Simone immediately realized what was happening and she pushed back the fans that had crowded around to see the baseball or congratulate the teen on his barehanded catch.

  Matt slumped back into his chair, the wooden slats creaking under the sudden pressure. Simone wrapped her arm around him. She didn’t know how long it was going to last, but she wanted to be there when he snapped out of it.

  These experiences were growing more intense, but they were still unexpected and random in their occurrence. More of his senses were becoming involved as the smells of the ballpark were replaced with the natural odor of a countryside landscape that was entirely unfamiliar. Matt felt like an omnipresent spectator flying over a herd of cows grazing on a hillside, in an emerald green pasture. It was hotter here; he could almost feel the oppressive heat as the sun baked the earth. It was like being there without actually being there. He got the distinct impression that he was not only traveling over the terrain but also moving forward through time as the greenery gave way to a more somber scene and sensations.

  The cattle were being led to slaughter, and he could hear the tormented sounds as the animals were being gutted. Their hides were left hanging in the sun to dry. He wanted to avert his eyes, but the skins were everywhere. He watched as one particular hide, the hide that would eventually become the ball in his hand, was being cut and sewn. He was aware that most major league baseballs were assembled in Haiti, which explained the extreme temperature. He could feel the perspiration collecting on his forehead even though it was 65 degrees in the stadium. He watched as one particular woman toiled tirelessly, stitching the hide around the cork center by hand. She was only one of the hundreds of women working in a factory that would have probably been condemned in any other country. Beads of sweat rolled down the arms of the woman who was creating the ball he was holding. When she completed her masterpiece, the woman put the ball delicately into a cardboard box, sealed it, and everything went dark. It was pitch black for the next few moments, but Matt could smell the unmistakable scent of salty sea air. At the very far reaches of his mind, he thought he heard the crashing of waves against the hull of a ship. It led him to believe that ball was being transported by freighter. The next time he was able to see anything, the ball was being dumped into the darkness of a canvas sack with a few dozen others.

  Another few seconds passed, and Matt became aware of Simone wiping the moisture from his face. Instinctively, he felt like the trace was coming to an end.

  Like driving out of a tunnel, the sunlight was blinding as he now viewed the stadium from an entirely different perspective. He was down on the grass, looking out towards center field. He was on the ground beside the batting circle. He could see a player’s foot right next to him. The smell of the ballpark once again filled his nostrils. He was back, but not in the present. Not quite yet. It was batting practice, Matt thought. This should be pretty interesting, taking a ride on the back of a baseball as it rocketed through the air. He watched as the ball next to him got picked up and hit toward the shortstop. It was his turn next, and he wondered if he would feel any pain when the ball was hit.

  The next vision he saw would be etched into his mind forever. In a sensation that was new to him: everything became tinted in a red hue, as though an alarm was going off. He half expected to hear an audible alarm, but there was none. The color was pulsing as the hitter began juggling the ball to perfect his timing. As if some power greater than his was imposing its influence, his perspective changed once again, now focusing in on the batter’s face. It was a face he could never forget. It was older and more weathered, the mustache a bit greyer, but it was still him! He would always remember the face of the man that killed his father and mother! The ball was tossed up one last time as the bat met cowhide and the ball sailed errantly into Matt’s hand.

  Matt jumped out of his seat screaming, with the baseball clenched in a death grip. Simone was trying to calm him down, but he was no longer aware she even existed. He started spinning and gesturing wildly in his seat, not knowing where to go, or what to do first. Matt wanted to get help, to tell someone, but everyone around him backed away as though he was having a seizure. Nearby onlookers brushed his hands away as he grabbed for help. Simone hung onto him as Matt lashed out at anyone who came near him. He felt helpless; he had to do something himself. Now that he had found the man who murdered his parents, he could never let him get away!

  Peter Mason looked out over the crowd and was happy to see that everyone seemed to be focused on the players and no longer obsessing over the team name. That would have to be dealt with during the post-game press conference. He wasn’t sure how, but he had nine innings to figure it out.

  It was turning into a perfect day for baseball. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a disturbance in the right-field bleachers but paid little attention to it. He was sure the staff would take care of it. He picked up the telephone and was told that security had already dispatched someone to handle the trouble. The game hadn’t even started, and someone was probably drunk already. Strike two.

  Matt could see the private security guards coming down the aisle for him. They were wearing bright yellow shirts and stood out like sunflowers in the crowd. He pushed Simone out of the way and grabbed the program lying on his seat. If he couldn’t get to the killer, at least he could find out his identity from the roster. Simone’s father tried to grab Matt as he wrestled past him. With strength that came from out of nowhere, Matt pushed him over the back of his seat.

  It was like running an obstacle course. Everyone was reaching out to stop him, but Matt’s physical strength was now coming from an untapped source. He punched, and squirmed, and at one point crawled on his hands and knees to get away from the guards who were
trying to restrain him.

  He was beginning to draw more attention than anything that was happening on the diamond. It was a wave that moved through the stands as all heads turned to the right field bleachers. The crowd cheered Matt on with each narrow escape he made from the guards. They booed the security people every time the guards closed in on him. Running down the last aisle along the fence, Matt finally came to the railing. He was cornered. It was thirty feet to the stands below; he would never survive the jump. More guards had been called, and they were surrounding him. He looked down at the fans looking up at him. He could tell they were yelling at him to jump. A few cleared out from under him, just in case he went through with it.

  Matt had his back to the railing, and with nowhere to run, the guards were moving in cautiously. They were yelling at him to calm down. It was times like this that he found it fortunate not to be able to hear. He could have absolute concentration, without any distractions. He moved up a few steps and looked over the railing to his right. He was almost back in his original seat. He looked over the Simone who was crying hysterically in her father’s arms. One of the guards saw him look away, and dove for him.

  In that same split second, Matt spun over the railing with baseball in hand and wrapped his arms around the foul pole like it was a long-lost friend. The crowd went crazy applauding the young escape artist. Another guard reached over the railing, missing Matt by mere inches as the teen corkscrewed down the pole. Pulling out his walkie-talkie, the guard called for additional help.

  The crowd cheered Matt on as he ran along the home team’s bullpen. Pitchers who had been busy warming up were now raising their gloves in the air to root him on. Four more guards came out of a nearby tunnel to join the pursuit.

  The fans had been enjoying the spectacle until Matt ran out on the field. Now, the intruder was an interruption, and the tide of emotion began to turn against him. The cheering quickly turned to booing, but Matt couldn’t tell the difference, nor did he care. He had his sights set on the man now sitting in the Jengu’s dugout, and nothing was going to stop him.