Strike Force Red

by C T Glatte

  “Maybe,” he indicated the pile of paper threatening to spill from his wicker in-basket. “If I can get through correcting these first.”

  Jimmy nodded and waved. He put his hand on his fellow teammate’s shoulder, “This is gonna be a great win for us, Hank.”

  Hank Gugliani looked back at him and nodded. “Sure is.” He pointed at MaryAnn who walked with her arms crossed, holding her school books. Hank looked her up and down. She wore a pleated dress and a white shirt with puffy shoulders. He leaned back to his center fielder’s ear, “She’s so cute.”

  Jimmy nodded and his eyes went to her bare ankles, poking just above her curled white socks. “She’s square as square gets. You’d probably have to marry her to even get to first base.” She looked over her shoulder and gave the duo her darkest scowl. Jimmy put up his hands defensively. She turned away and he whispered into Hank’s ear, “She’s a prude. Put her out of your mind. This game’s too important to let a girl interfere with.”

  They squeezed through the door and entered the main hallway. The noise level increased as a thousand conversations filled the hall. The clang of lockers opening and closing added to the din. Jimmy raised his voice. “Let’s ditch our books and get to the locker room quick. I wanna get some swings in before the game.”

  Hank nodded and veered away, “I’ll see you there.”

  It was a perfect day for baseball. The late May weather of Oregon could be problematic, but today was showing early signs of Summer. The leaves were thick and so green you could almost see photosynthesis happening. The evening sun put off a steady warmth, unleashing the smell of wood, grass and pollen. Both sets of stands were full. The visiting team’s side couldn’t handle as many folks, so many fans stood or sat in chairs they brought from home. The third baseline stands were filled with the home-team fans.

  Early in the season, the stands were mostly empty. Only parents of the ballplayers showed up. The rest of the town thought the young team too inexperienced to have much of a year. ‘A growth year,’ they muttered in the various barber shops scattered around town. The Cougars had come off a championship run the season before, getting to the semi-final round before being offed by the Cranston Bulldogs in a 5 to 6 heartbreaker. The Bulldogs had gone onto win the championship, and the papers thought they’d do it again this year.

  Many of the boys from the cougar squad had been seniors. None of them were in the stands today to watch this young ball team deal with the same Bulldogs in this year’s surprise playoff run. Last year’s players were all in their first year of mandatory military service. The same place Jimmy and Hank would be at this time next year.

  As the only seniors on the team, Jimmy and Hank led their young team of mostly sophomores to victory after victory. They scraped together wins with hard work and perseverance. Now was their chance to surpass last year’s performance and get to the finals and win the state championship.

  It was the ninth inning and it wasn’t going well for the Cougars. They were down 1 to 3 and down to their last out. They’d gone through two pitchers already. The Bulldogs were a hard hitting team, with more homers than any other team in the division. They’d already jacked two out of the park, one a two run dinger, the other a solo shot in the sixth.

  Jimmy wiped the sweat dripping from beneath his ball-cap. There were two batters before he’d get another chance. It was the top of the lineup now, but there were two outs. He hoped he’d get his chance with every part of his being.

  He’d had a decent day, batting twice and reaching base each time, once with a single hit to right field and once on a walk. He was also responsible for their only run showing on the old wooden scoreboard.

  He scraped dirt from the dugout floor and rubbed his hands together, watching the grit fall to the ground in a stream of dust. He clutched the wooden bat his father had bought him for a dollar at the beginning of the season. His teammates milled about with their heads down, some getting ready to bat, others sitting, staring at the ground.

  Jimmy slapped the bat against the wooden dugout wall. All eyes shot up at the sudden sound. “Listen fellas, this ain’t over, so stop sulking. We’re just a couple of good at-bats away from taking this game from these cocksuckers.” The team focused on their center fielder, their senior leader. They smiled at his derogatory term. “This is our inning.” He pointed to the mound, filled with the tall lanky form of Stuart Henshaw. He’d pitched the entire game and didn’t show any signs of fatigue. His fastball was wicked. He could paint the corners and surprise you with an off speed pitch, making you look silly. Jimmy was only one of two players having gotten a hit. The other was the catcher, Hank Gugliani. Jimmy continued, “That big son-of-a-bitch out there’s getting tired. We can hit his shit, I know it.” He paced the dugout looking each player in the eye. “This is it. Watch his release. Pick up the spin on the ball and drive it. If we can get a bat on the ball and put it in play, they’ll blow it. They’re relying on their pitcher to strike us out. They’ve got shitty defense.” He glanced toward the two coaches who pretended not to hear the cussing. “We need to hit the ball, that’s it.”

  The others nodded and pulled themselves off the bench and clustered to the fence protecting them from foul balls. They encouraged the lead-off batter, Tom Haskins. “Let’s go, Tom. You got this. Rally time.” The catcher was on-deck, taking practice swings.

  The sophomore first baseman stepped to the plate. The noise from the dugout increased, encouraging their teammate. The first pitch zipped in and slapped into the thick leather of the catcher. Dust erupted from the mitt and the umpire called, “Striiike, one!”

  Tom stepped from the batter’s box and looked to the third base coach who faked him various signals. Jimmy leaned out from the dugout and caught Tom’s eye. He gave him a nod of confidence. Tom stepped back in and readied himself. During the wind-up, Tom squared to bunt and the third baseman scrambled forward to defend. Tom pulled back into normal stance and slapped at the fastball. He made contact and hit a blooper over the suddenly retreating third baseman. The shortstop hustled his way over, but the ball landed and Tom was safe at first.

  The home field stands erupted and Tom looked from the dugout and lifted his thumb and yelled, “let’s go. Keep it going Hank!”

  Hank rubbed dirt on his hands and stepped into the box. Henshaw looked over his shoulder at the speedster on first. He had a sizable lead. The Bulldog coach cupped his hands over his mouth and encouraged his senior pitcher. “Get the man at the plate. The runner means nothing.”

  The tall right hander nodded and stared at his catcher’s target. From the stretch, he fired a fastball that nicked the outside corner. “Striiike, one!” Hank stepped out and looked at the third base coach and nodded. Henshaw waited, then reared back to fire. Tom, took off for second and Hank swung at a low fastball, chopping the top of the ball and sending it careening high into the air. He took off for first base. He was faster than most catchers.

  Henshaw waited for the ball to come down, his inner calculations knowing it would be a close play. Finally, it hit his glove and he quickly threw to first, ignoring the Sophomore second baseman already halfway to third. Hank touched first base an instant before the throw and ran through. The first baseman, seeing the streaking baserunner almost to third, threw on a line. Tom slid into the bag kicking up a cloud of dust. The ball came an instant too late. Tom popped up and called for timeout as he brushed off his pants. The dugout and stands erupted. The winning run was coming to the plate.

  Jimmy took a deep breath and looked at Hank on first clapping and yelling encouragement. He glanced at his coach who flashed him signals, meaning nothing. He would hit away. He heard a small voice coming from the stands. A girl’s voice. He couldn’t help turning. Normally, he ignored the stands, purposefully blocking everything out except him and the pitcher. But the voice was different and he couldn’t help glancing. He saw MaryAnn Larkin leaning forward in the first row watching him intently.

  He stared, trying to remember if he�
��d ever seen her at a game before. He was sure he would’ve noticed. Was she a closet fan, or was it something else?

  The barking of the umpire interrupted his thoughts. “Today son. Batter up!” The stands laughed and he shook his head in embarrassment.

  He took another deep breath and blew it out. Gotta focus. This is it, this is what I’ve been waiting for my whole life. He put the image of MaryAnn’s ankles out of his mind and stepped into the batter’s box. He focused on Henshaw, who was rotating the baseball in his immense hand. The best pitcher against the best batter with the game on the line. Both boys were right where they wanted to be. One of them had to lose.

  Hank stepped off first base with a healthy lead, being sure to kick up dust, anything to disrupt Henshaw’s focus. Henshaw ignored him and glanced at Tom leading from third. The coach beyond him chewed gum, his mouth a blur of nervous tension. Henshaw nodded at his catcher’s signal and set. He reared back and fired a strike that Jimmy swung at and missed badly. The inside pitch crossed him up so badly he nearly fell over his own feet.

  He recovered and stepped out and rubbed dirt on his hands. He slapped them together creating a mini dust cloud. He thought he heard MaryAnn’s voice, but didn’t dare look her way again.

  Henshaw fired again, this time a ball off the outside edge that barely missed. The visiting team’s stands erupted in moans. Jimmy stayed in the box, never taking his eyes from the pitcher. Henshaw glared at him before stepping to the mound. He spit a long stream that struck the dust and rolled down the mound.

  Jimmy watched as the ball released and knew it was an off-speed changeup. He watched it floating toward him. He could see the laces spinning, as if he was seeing it in slow motion. He waited a fraction, then unwound and drilled the ball down the left field line. The solid sound of wood hitting leather was like a gunshot. The ball arced out from home-plate. There was no doubt it was heading to the next county. The stands went quiet as everyone stood and watched the magnificent shot. There was a moan as it passed the foul ball marker on the wrong side and left the park. “Foul ball,” the third base umpire yelled.

  Tom, who was halfway to home plate stopped and clapped his hands. “Straighten it out.” He trotted back to third shaking his head at the barely missed walk-off homerun. Hank trotted from second having taken off with the crack of the bat. He pointed at Jimmy who nodded back. Jimmy took a deep breath and went through his routine again while going over the situation. Two outs, two strikes. Perfect. He heard his coaches encouraging him, heard his teammates calling and hooting and he thought he could hear the much softer voice of MaryAnn.

  He stepped into the batter’s box. Time seemed to standstill. The next few moments would stick with him for the rest of his life, one way or another. Henshaw shook two signals off. Jimmy watched Henshaw’s right hand as he shifted the ball. See the spin, see the ball.

  Suddenly, there was a screeching blast that broke the late evening spell of the ballgame. Everyone jumped and looked around wondering what the hell they was happening. Jimmy watched Henshaw look around and step off the rubber. Jimmy cursed at his breaking concentration and stepped from the batter’s box.

  Someone in the stands yelled, “It’s the emergency horn.” Jimmy knew about the horn placed in the middle of town to alert the townsfolk in case of some kind of emergency, but he’d never heard it go off, not even in testing. He didn’t even realize it worked. He cursed, wondering how long the incessant blasting would last. The umpire yelled, “Timeout!” He waved his hands over his head so no one would take advantage of the chaos, but he was the only one paying attention to the game. Everyone was wondering what it meant.

  The blaring suddenly stopped, and the ensuing silence made Jimmy’s ears ache. A voice came over the loudspeaker. It was scratchy and loud and at first no one could understand what was being said. It sounded like gravel being dumped onto a metal slab. Finally the feedback faded and they could hear the urgent message. “Return home immediately and standby for radio updates.” It was repeated over and over and the stands quickly emptied. The only remaining people were ballplayer’s parents signaling for their sons to hurry.

  Jimmy looked to Henshaw who was still holding the baseball in his hand. Their eyes met and Henshaw softened and shrugged. He put the ball on the mound and walked back to the dugout. Jimmy put his bat on his shoulder and watched him go. When he got to the edge of the dugout, Henshaw looked back and shook his head. Jimmy could see his frustration, it was the same thing he was feeling. “Come on Jimmy,” he heard his father calling over the din of the emergency message. “We gotta go.”

  Jimmy nodded and took another glance at the mostly empty stands. MaryAnn wasn’t there and he hoped she’d be safe from whatever emergency was upon them. He trotted back to the dugout, which was mostly empty now and grabbed his glove and hat. He glanced at the ball field and shook his head. “Dammit,” he muttered.

  Three

  Jimmy and his mother and father huddled around the radio that filled a corner of the living room. He could feel the tension growing with each new word uttered. His mother had her fist in her mouth and he could see the glimmer of tears forming like diamonds sparkling. Every time she sniffed or sobbed, his father shushed her. She finally refused to listen to another word and hustled off to the kitchen, rubbing her hands on her apron.

  When the newscast finally ended, Jimmy and his father, Rex held each other’s gaze for a long moment. His father reached out to turn off the static-filled radio. “Son, I don’t know what to tell you.”

  “Do you think they’ll let me finish the school year? I mean we’ve only got a month.”

  Rex leaned back in his deep burgundy leather chair and packed his pipe from a pouch of sweet tobacco sitting on the small table beside him. “You heard as much as I did. ‘Mandatory service,’ for everyone from seventeen to forty. Effective immediately. That’s what I heard.”

  Jimmy looked at the floor. “Me too.” He shook his head, “Wow, this changes everything.”

  Rex lit the tobacco and puffed on the pipe until the top of the bowl glowed red. He swiped his hand to put out the flame and placed the blackened match on the pile of other discarded matches spilling from the silver smoking tray. The rest of the house was immaculate, but Rex insisted his wife leave his smoking area untouched.

  He blew out a long stream of blue tinged smoke. “Not really. Just moves things up for you. You’d be in the service no matter what.” He looked over his shoulder at the kitchen door, then back to his son. “Your mother left before they gave the age specifics. I don’t know what they’ll want from an old guy like me, but looks like I’ll be going too.”

  Jimmy’s eyes widened. “You’re under forty?” He shook his head when his father glared. “I mean, of course I know you’re thirty-eight.” His eyes darted around the house. “What’ll mom do?”

  Rex leaned back and puffed, then pulled the pipe out and shook his head. “She’ll do what’s necessary.” He pointed the pipe at Jimmy. “As you and I will. Those sons-of-bitches attacked the wrong country.”

  “Do you think it was the aliens?” His father looked at him like he was stupid. “I mean the actual aliens.”

  His father’s mouth turned down as he considered, then shook his head. “I doubt it. Seems like they let their Nazi minions do their dirty work. Or in this case the damned commies.”

  Jimmy stood and went to the glowing globe on the other side of the couch. He kneeled in front of it and spun it until he found North America. He put his finger on Oregon, and found Portland then moved south until he had an approximation of his small coastal town. It was too small to be listed, but Cranston, home of the Bulldogs, was listed in tiny black letters. He moved his finger up to Alaska. Comparatively, it didn’t seem like a long distance. He took a deep breath and blew it out. “Think they’ll send us up there? To Alaska?”

  Rex shook his head. “I doubt they’ll send me. Most likely use us older guys for logistics since we’re more experienced.” He patted his stomach, wh
ich was still relatively flat, “and fat. But you young bucks? Probably.”

  Jimmy shook his head, “I can’t believe it.”

  His father nodded and looked hard at him. “Look son. This country of ours is worth fighting for. All our freedoms? All the good people you see every day? Your mother? It’s worth protecting.”

  Jimmy nodded. “I know. I know it is, it’s just hard to believe. I mean it’s happened so fast. They weren’t even here ten years ago, and now they’re at our doorstep.”

  Rex took a deep puff and let the smoke seep out his nose. It enveloped his face and traveled up past his eyes and sifted through his thinning hair. It used to give Jimmy endless joy to watch his father smoke, but now it just looked sinister. Rex leaned forward, pushing his face through the dissipating smoke cloud. “This was coming with or without the aliens. The Nazi party for chrissakes? This would’ve happened one way or another. The scalps only moved up the timeline.”

  Jimmy pictured the aliens. When their ship first showed up over Europe and they suddenly appeared on the surface, photographers captured the scene in black and white. They were humanoid standing on two legs, but their arms were different. The most striking difference being, they had one set coming out from their shoulders and another set from their hips. The arms connected by a thin layer of bat-like skin, essentially forming wings. Each ‘hand’ had three long digits, which seemed to be able to pick things up without grasping, as if they were sticky, like a frog’s tongue.

  Of course, the pictures showed some of this, but the reporters painted a more descriptive picture through words. Their heads were slanted back, as if they’d been formed in a wind tunnel, and their eyes were black orbs with see-through lids that collapsed from all sides like an aperture on a camera. The tops of their heads were flat and deep red, arcing all the way to the pointed back tip, as if they’d been scalped.