The sun sprayed vibrant beams off Monty’s shades and he smiled, tapping the bat lightly against his cleats. He briefly surveyed his surroundings, knowing that this minor lapse in concentration was well worth the view. The crowd was monumental, swaying and weaving, a summer splashed collage, all sweat and vigor, humming with anticipation. He thought, full of peaceful resignation, that there was no other place in the world he’d rather be. He was a happily hopeless addict, forever in search of a satiating 2-0 fastball, and society appeased him, with the power and the glory, with the money and the fame, with the booze and the broads, all of it was his, all of it was now, and all of it could be gone in an instant.
Stepping back into the box, his safe place, Monty offered a cursory glance toward his eternal bane, the pitcher. Max Rutherford, a tall, uncoordinated lefthander, shot a stare of disdain. Monty felt a strange vibe of hatred pulsating between the mound and home plate, for reasons unbeknownst within his consciousness. He scanned his baseball memory bank, an infinite encyclopedia, and found nothing of relevant relation to Max. Max Rutherford… just another name. Came up in ’98 with Boston, a big time prospect, and flamed out, ruined his arm. Fought back with the Pirates and won 15 games, signed a decent contract with the Mets. Pitched his way out of New York and bounced around, with contenders and pretenders, more bad than good. Finally landed in that ugly Devil Ray uniform.
Ahead in the count, in control of the game, twirling a beauty.
Monty locked into his stylish batting stance, twirling the bat above his head, and waited.
Max clawed at the rosin bag, attempting to regain the grip that had evaporated from his fingertips. Dropping the chalky artifice onto the mound, he reflected on all he wasn’t.
Adjusting his cap, he climbed back on top of the mound, king of the hill, ruler of nothing. He noticed Monty McKnight, the opposing hitter, looking around the stadium, his attention amiss from the game. It infuriated Max.
Monty, contorting the event to fit his self-righteous presence, finally readied himself with that arrogant batting stance. It was a pall in the eyes of Max. Old man McKnight had made a career of overrating his value, and would presumably be gone sooner than he thought. Max could remember it like it was yesterday, back when Monty was a superstar, back when he was untouchable.
Was it all so long ago?
Max had been ordered by his pitching coach to unleash fastballs on Monty, his bat speed deteriorated by time. He was batting eighth in the lineup, a cruel joke, with retirement the punch line.
Max thought his pitching coach was a real prick, and reveled in proving him wrong, so he flung a breaking ball on the first pitch, which McKnight drilled foul into the upper deck. It was probably his best contact in months.
Ahead in the count 0-1, Max agreed with his catcher, Bishop, that a fastball was in order. Max nodded his head up and down, left and right, in mock conversation, before freezing his glove in the set position.
Monty gripped his wooden instrument, tightly, knowing a fastball was coming. He had been beat on fastballs all season, fouling them back, popping them up, often flat out missing, and was sick of it. The damn newspapers were calling him over the hill, past his prime, daggers deeming his future as a big leaguer completely and utterly futile.
They couldn’t take this from him. Not the media, not the pitchers, not his manager, not that kid breathing down his neck in AAA, nobody.
It was just a mechanical flaw, a little hitch he picked up on that pointless tour of Japan back in December. It was all so simple.
Dropping his hands.
He was dropping his hands.
That was it. That was all.
He had spent his time in the cages, he had put in the extra work, and now Monty was ready, ready for his reward, ready for all that had been taken away to be given back, all that was his.
He’s the centerfielder for the New York Yankees. Of course it’ll come back.
It always had before.
And today was the day. Against Max Rutherford and his puny 86 MPH fastball, his cement mixing Curveball. It didn’t matter that Max was a lefthander. Monty had always hit his brethren in the past. He owned them.
Shoulder in.
Hands high.
Bottom four.
No score.
One out.
It all comes back today.
Here comes the fastball.
Even after a fresh ball was tossed in his glove, blemish free, Max remained in a state of shock. Monty had been gifted a mistake, a two seam piece of junk tailing back over the plate, and he was late for his own party.
A harmless line drive into the third base stands resulted, careening off a railing and disappearing down the corridors of Gate C, two Afternoon drunks in pursuit.
Max had made consecutive deliveries equal only in awfulness. He could see his manager rocking back and forth uncomfortably in the dugout. The entire coaching staff had little trust in him, often ending his outings at the first sign of trouble. Max had been labeled gutless, a man unable to cope with pressure, after his tortuous tenure as a Met.
The booing, the defeat, the entire failed experience with the Mets, it rushed over him, a momentary wave of tumult.
As he stared in for his next sign, anticipating a waste curve in the dirt or a fastball high and outside, Max reentered that time and place.
When everything went wrong.
His dad taught him to throw just like Steve Carlton, taught him everything he knew. Max had destroyed his rotator cuff with Boston, and the depression, the drinking, the misery that buoyed his rehabilitation, decimated his marriage.
He always thought of Nicole, back when waking in the morning only solidified his solidarity. He used to be able to spot her, her beautiful face, outshining the masses at Fenway, and he would point, snapping his thumb and index finger, shooting her a kiss.
What a hotshot.
He wanted back with her, so badly, but she no longer wanted him. There was a time in Pittsburgh, after his tenth win in a row, when he pulled over to the side of a road and wept, unable to find a payphone, unable to call her, unable to share his happiness.
So instead it burnt inside of him, a bitter pill.
He drank and he drank and he drank, until he couldn’t feel anything anymore. Any feeling ultimately added up to Nicole, up to his mistakes in Boston, and he wanted to turn numb, become a breathing void.
He could never explain Pittsburgh, how he found it again, but without Nicole, it didn’t feel like achievement at all. In a sense, only the failure felt real.
He signed with the Mets, increased his bankroll. He started over again with a new girl named Savannah, and she saved his life, opened his emotion again.
He could smile without fear. He could live again.
And than his dad fell ill. Didn’t make sense anymore, talking gibberish.
He didn’t recognize his own son anymore.
Savannah helped him through, a guiding light. His pitching fell apart, but Max didn’t care anymore. The drive, the desire, it was all gone. Every night he visited his father at New York Presbyterian, even after he got shelled, just so he could witness the vitality in his eyes, a trace of the past.
Highlights would flash, in the hospital’s room, on a T.V. mounted on the wall by the window, as Max Rutherford got ripped apart.
His dad would always watch. Never wanted to change the channel. Later, Max realized that he was probably looking, searching for something or someone…
" Who’s this bum? Getting hit all over the place? Who is he?"
John Rutherford would ask his son this question, over and over again.
"That’s me Dad. It’s me. It’s Max. Your son… Not David. Max."
He found the drive again, after the funeral, after discovering closure.
His love secure, the game could be everything again.
But the stuff was gone. Velocity became a forgotten ghost from the past.
Through it all, through four teams post New York, not a drink since Savannah.
They said Max Rutherford wasn’t tough enough to pitch in New York.
They never knew.
As the 0-2 fastball fluttered high and outside, Monty was still unable to remove himself from a vain malaise.
He was officially worried.
Worried that he was done. Worried that his time was up.
And who was Monty McKnight without Baseball anyway? He’d been through three divorces trying to figure it out.
They all follow the flame of fame, but once they stick around, once reality diminishes perception, they all leave, every last one of them.
And Monty was terrified of being alone. Completely petrified that there wouldn’t be a sensible mind left to offend with his arrogance, nary a soul to awe with his talent, to impress with his affluence. Nobody would be in sight, without his one true love.
Baseball.
How did he miss that pitch? That was his pitch.
His.
He nervously stepped out of the box, Max taking too long preparing his next delivery, his method to end this misery.
Monty tapped his spikes, adjusted his shades, once again observed Max.
If the past were irrelevant, Monty could seek but fail to find a discernable difference between he and Max.
They were both simply daring fate, trying to hang on.
Here is a man with a .239 batting average.
Here is a man with a 4.87 ERA.
Monty would live and die by the next pitch.
It was his expectation that Max would do the same.
Thinking happier thoughts, Max decided to disagree with the kid Bishop and throw a curve. Bishop put up a decent fight, long enough for Monty to step out, but finally relented, waggling two fingers.
Why not? Max had been locating the curve on a somewhat consistent basis, his fastball stunk, and the reverse of anything that brainless pitching coach said was invariably true.
It was Max’s game.
So he wound up, a curveball grip hidden behind his glove.
Monty readied for another fastball, preparing for one final embarrassment before he called up the GM and expressed what everybody else believed.
He would tell him it was done, over with.
He would ask for a Front Office job.
He would get it.
He would feel empty inside.
Final judgment spun from the fingertips of Max, and immediately Monty was surprised.
The seams rotated. The ball was elevated. Max bit his tongue on the follow through.
Curveball. Max threw a curveball.
Monty kept his hands back, until the last possible second, snapping the barrel at his intended target, the helplessly hanging sphere, now ticketed toward the Right Field Upper Deck.
Monty dropped the bat, effortlessly, as it now weighed nothing. He momentarily admired the shot.
He had done it before.
But this was salvation.
He rounded the bases, hiding his glee behind forced stoicism. He slapped an unnecessary high five with his third base coach.
He practically slammed his foot on home plate, full of defiance. The crowd exploded, a delirious cauldron of sound and fury, signifying everything.
Monty basked.
He needed the moment.
He needed Baseball.
It was only a matter of time.
He knew.
Max figured correctly, when it was all over, that McKnight’s home run was the game’s turning point. He had been cruising before it, and was crushed after it.
He wasn’t able to escape the inning.
His manager would trot out toward the mound, and he would ask for the ball. Max would hand it over. His exit would be barely acknowledged by the fans, their eyes busied by a Dancing Hot Dog on Diamond Vision.
As Max left his final big league game, he would search the seats, smiling upon the discovery of all that he was looking for.
And Savannah would smile back.
