Richard Torres

English 286-2

Final Draft (Project)

11-29-99

The following work is my final draft of my first real creative fiction prose. It was a story that I had in my mind for many years and finally put to paper under the guidance of Dr. Bogue. In this story I found my creative voice, though at times cheezy, it proved to be effective and even personally therapeutic. The story itself deals with the personal drama in the mind of a major league pitcher named A.J. Martinez, who is not only dealing with a potential perfect game but also with his turbulent marriage. These issues surround Martinez and eventually become focused as the reader watches him enter the final out of the most perfect moment in his life.

Perfect

The rays of summer linger in a moist breeze of fall that gently sweeps through a ballpark made from cement dreams of Grecian fondness. The ballpark of 35,000 is filled with the chant, "Perfect." It’s early in the break of the wildcard race and a crucial period in professional baseball. For the surfacing hero of this afternoon pastime, it is a moment to see life in a different focus. It is a moment when a harmonious pulse dictates the thought, which, in turn initiates a perfect action in a particular frame in time, or what athletes call the zone. A.J. Martinez is a hero who, though young, is infinitely defined by the heroes of a time long before him.

In the announcers booth high above home plate, the voices of hometown color commentator’s Ken Costa and Larry Lazzo invade the ballpark accompanying the excitement, which is felt by the chant echoing throughout the stands.

"Ladies and gentlemen welcome back to the game! I’m Ken Costa along with my partner Larry Lazzo. We are witnessing an amazing display of athletic excellence today by a young man named A.J. Martinez! Martinez has been perfect for eight and 2/3 innings of work so far, and will attempt to close this game out by retiring one more batter in the top half of the ninth, as New Mexico leads the game one to nothing! You have to ask yourself, what a pitcher must be thinking, when in a crucial situation like this, don’t you think so Larry?"

"You sure do Ken! In a situation like this I am almost certain that Martinez isn’t worried about anything else, but getting one more out! The one out that will capitalize this valiant effort which could very easily become part of baseball history!"

The home plate umpire throws Martinez a fresh white baseball. As Martinez catches the baseball, he is met with a roar of cheers from the fans, which rise to their feet and with out-stretched arms repeatedly bow down in praise of their ace pitcher.

"Indeed Larry by witnessing this historical effort, it can truly be said that Martinez has shown this sold-out home crowd what the definition of poise means, with an astonishing twelve strikeouts and a total of twenty-six batters retired," Ken shouts while trying to out duel the ear piercing cheers of the crowd.

"What is even more amazing then that Ken, is the fact that Martinez has only been in the league for a total of three weeks, since being called up from the Conquistador’s farm system," Larry adds.

A flood of boos fills the stands, as the stadium loudspeakers announce the third batter of the ninth inning. The announcer lowly mumbles the player’s name in a monotone growl, but with great decibel control to clearly pronounce the player’s name, so that the fans are certain of their directed hatred.

"Now, up for the visiting Dakota Twisters, first baseman Greg Belle!"

The crowd is instantly driven into a violent frenzy full of verbal attacks, as the fans spot the man who could instantly shatter their dreams. Belle is a monstrous opponent that would dwarf any man’s courage. He stands a grand six-feet ten inches. His body shaped in cone fashion with silver-colored plastic body armor covering every patch of flesh, broken up only by his black jersey. The true identity of the all-star slugger was further disguised with a beard that armed him above the neck. A piece of armor that seemed sewn attached to his jersey, which resembled a mask that robbers used wear in the old west. It was an ebony shadow that hid his face from the very fans that were responsible for his success in the game of baseball, no more than a year ago.

"If you remember, fans, Belle a former New Mexico Conquistador, was a major contributor in last season’s miracle division clinching club that was prematurely eliminated in the first round of the playoffs, at the hands of the Dakota Twisters!" Ken comments.

The crowd begins to chant, "traitor" as Belle walks to the batter’s box, where he stops mid-stride and tips his batter’s helmet to the crowd. The instigated fans in response begin shouting profanity and wave obscene jesters at the all-star slugger, who is working for the cycle on the afternoon.

"You hit it right on the head, Ken, but more importantly I think is the fact that Belle, after having an all-star season in New Mexico, deserted the club because of what, he called, a lack of respect by the coaching staff," Larry comments.

"Actually, according to my expert sources it was more like a lack of zeroes in the proposed renewal contract that management drafted for Belle in the off-season!" Ken interjects.

The crowd continues to harass Belle with the chant of "overrated", until in response he points his bat to the center field stands, where the bleacher bums hold up hand made signs that read "On the eighth day God sent us Martinez."

"Belle apparently signed a four-year deal with Dakota worth around forty-five million with the option to request for a trade in two years," Larry shouts. "A setting change that hasn’t effected Belle’s lifestyle much, as you can see on the cover of CSCN Magazine, where Belle is sitting on his new black all-terrain Hummer holding a pennant like a bat over his right shoulder that reads Hell’s Belle!"

"Either way, Larry, you know as well as I, that Belle is a dangerous hitter," Ken interrupts. "And, if you show him anything low and inside, you can call it a night in any ballpark!"

Martinez is on the mound sixty feet away from the greatest challenge in his career. He grinds his spikes into the front ground of the pitcher’s mound and wipes his forehead in harmony with every second grind he makes in the sand. The crowd once again rises to their feet and begins to chant "perfect" to support their hero in what they realize as the most pivotal moment of the game. Martinez looks into the crowd and tips his cap in appreciation, only to be cut short by a tremor that overcomes his right hand. The nerves begin to eat at Martinez, as he continues to wipe sweat from his forehead and grind the mound with his spikes, occasionally rubbing his hands over the baseball.

He’d never really noticed how warm it got before, when the sun begins to set and beams down on the pitcher’s mound. Apparently some genius decided to face the ballpark toward the west when obviously the sun would blind the pitcher in any afternoon game, Martinez thought. The mound began to feel as if it was centered by a spotlight that has turned on its high beam to blind and dehydrate Martinez, who continues to sweat profusely.

As Belle approaches the plate, catcher Bob Jimenez holds up a hand toward the home plate umpire and signals for a timeout, so that he may conference with his hurler.

"Timeout!" shouts the masked official.

Jimenez trots to the mound, greeting Martinez with a grin that seems to connect his ears.

"Pretty exciting game, hey A.J." Jimenez says while taking the baseball from Martinez’ glove and placing it into his. "How are you feeling?"

"Other then like a hot tamale, I’m fine," Martinez responds in a voice laboring to find oxygen to speak. "That sun is roasting my ass, man."

"I should get an assist in this game you know," Jimenez says.

"What are you talking about?" Martinez asks while rearranging his cap, which is soaked with sweat.

"Hell, A.J., along with your high heater, my stomach has given you an edge over these boys," Jimenez says, as he rubs his stomach underneath his chest protector. "You didn’t see Phillips Johnson jerk back last inning when you threw that slider inside?"

"I saw a weird look on his face, but I really didn’t think about it much," Martinez replied.

"Well, when the pitch was about 5 feet from the plate, my stomach let out a God awful groan that made him turn his head. The ump barely got out the words strike three."

"In that case Bob don’t worry about dinner, because when this is all over it’ll be my treat at Puerto Vista," Martinez responds.

"Bullshit A.J. when this is all over I’m buying dinner and all the rounds tonight just like when we were in Chicago," Bob says while he puts his mask back on his head.

Jimenez looks back over to home plate and sees the umpire refer to the time by pointing to his watch. Jimenez turns back to his friend, who now looks more focused on the game. "You feeling better now A.J.?"

"Yeah, I was getting kind of tense, but now I’m better," Martinez says while he wipes his blood shot eyes stung with sweat.

"Then let’s get back to business!" Jimenez snaps. "You know this guy, and you know what he can do, so take it nice and easy and remember keep your pitches away from the inside half! If you get nervous, just think about that night we had in Chicago and how we’re going to party down tonight once you get this last out! I know you can do it, so let’s hand this bastard some bench and go eat!"

Jimenez with an arrogant smile hands Martinez the ball and runs back to home plate holding two fingers in the air toward the fielders signaling the out count. Martinez continues his pre-pitch routine warm-up and digs a deeper divot into the mound, while searching past thoughts for some piece of mind that will help him shake the nervousness he continually feels in his hands.

Martinez begins mumbling a piece of advice his father gave him when he was five years old. "If it gets tough out there, either get nasty or go home." Easy for him to say, he thought, as he dwelled on his father’s baseball career which, consisted of being a minor league utility player that bounced from one team to another, never making it to the show. Which explained why he was never really there for him or his wife, especially in those first years of A.J.’s pitching career. His father was only around long enough to give him baseball memorabilia, worthless cliches about how to handle life and to take phone calls from women he was having affairs with from city to city. Martinez snaps out of his thoughts and tries to calm down and focus on Belle, who has 35 homeruns on the season and is batting .312 going into the end of the season. This situation is kind of ironic he thinks, as he remembers being traded to New Mexico when the Dakota Twisters realized they needed to make room in their salary cap for Belle’s multi-million dollar contract.

Martinez’ thoughts are once again broken as the home plate umpire barks for the game to resume by shouting "playball!"

He leans forward on his left knee and squints his eyes in an attempt to block the sun, as he examines the signal that Jimenez flashes rapidly between his legs. He wipes his eyes and tries to remember what 2-3-1-right-1 means. Slider high and outside, maybe, Martinez thinks.

"Here comes Martinez’ first pitch!" Larry shouts. "Outside corner strike one! A picture perfect slider high on the outside corner!"

The crowd erupts into cheers and begins chanting "perfect" as they start to bow down in praise once more.

Martinez shakes his head in disbelief, wondering why Belle had laid off of a pitch that would make any hitter in the league salivate with homerun hunger. The feeling fades though, as he begins grinding into the pitcher’s mound again hoping that he can stay ahead on the count against a hitter that doesn’t repeat mistakes often. Ahead on the count, kind of like he was with the women in Chicago. "Chicago, God that night was one of those half good, half bad times," he mumbles to himself.

The Conquistadors lost 2-1 that night off a homerun Martinez gave up in the seventh inning. Jimenez helped him handle the sting of his first loss with jokes and numerous rounds of whiskey. He even set him up with some blonde girl that was sitting at the end of the bar in the hotel. Her name was Carrie, or at least that’s what the note said when his wife found it with Carrie’s phone number written on it inside his bag. He didn’t even know about it until Erin threw the note at him earlier in the day, screaming about how he was becoming his father.

Martinez shakes off a sign that he can hardly see. Jimenez flashes the same sign again trying to get Martinez’ focus back on the game. Martinez shakes him off again, leaving Jimenez no other choice, then to flash the go ahead sign. Jimenez flips his catchers mitt open and prepares for the unknown, hoping the pitch will be out of Belle’s reach.

"Martinez is playing it safe Ken," Larry comments, as he watches Martinez lean forward on his knee preparing for his windup. "He is taking his time and keeping Belle off balance! It is a show of great poise, considering the pressures of pitching in such a tense situation!"

Martinez initiates his delivery and leans back, balancing on his right leg, finally barreling forward, releasing a lightening thrust of a pitch heading straight for Belle’s chest. The ball breaks just under Belle’s jerked back arms, as the umpire calls ball one.

"Wow, that pitch almost got away from Martinez! A bit odd to throw some chin music right there?" Ken questions.

"Kind of risky on Martinez’ part, try really risky on Martinez’" Larry shouts. "If Belle hadn’t lifted his arms, the perfect game would have ended with a hit batter and an automatic walk! Martinez must be feeling the effects of throwing over 105 pitches!"

Jimenez throws Martinez the baseball, while motioning downward with his glove to tell him to settle down. He sees the sign and snatches the baseball from the air, nodding his head in disgust. He goes to the back of the mound and grabs the talcum powder bag to dry his hands, but the anger inside of him prevents him from grabbing it firmly, causing the bag to slip from his grasp. The Chicago situation begins to possess him, as the stadium fades from his sun blinded sight. He pulls his cap off and rubs his arm sleeve across his forehead to soak up some of the sweat dripping into his eyes. His mind wonders back to earlier in the day when Erin told him about the baby and how she was proud to be his wife. It was a perfect moment, he thought, knowing your going to be a father. When suddenly their happiness turned sour. Erin found out about the affair in Chicago and in devastated rage she claimed that she didn’t feel she could trust him anymore. She even threatened him with the idea of getting a divorce and guaranteed that she wouldn’t ever go see him play again. He tried to make things right, but his numerous apologies were rejected with a barrage of screams.

The sun’s setting rays shine brilliantly, illuminating the mound fully, gleaming sweat off of Martinez’ exposed forearms and face. He leans forward and pulls the rim of his cap down, allowing him to see a blurred shadow of the signal Jimenez flashes, 4-2-right-1-1. It’s a cut fastball, Martinez thinks, as he enters his wide up to deliver some inside heat.

Belle swings at the pitch sending an ear-piercing crack throughout the stadium. A vacuum of silence takes the air out of the stands for a moment, finally breaking into a gasp of cheers as the baseball floats into foul territory.

"Foulball! Belle just missed that pitch," Ken proclaims, while leaning forward to watch the fans fight for the foulball. "A few seconds earlier and this game would have been all tied up!"

"Your right Ken, that pitch was about belt high on the outside half of the plate," Larry adds. "Lucky for us Belle shanked that one foul over the visitor’s dugout!"

Martinez stares into the clouds and gives a quick reference to God by pointing into the sky. The tremors now consume his entire body, causing him to bend over on his left knee, with his head sagging down toward the sand on the pitcher’s mound.

"I hope Martinez can finish this game off," Larry says. "It would be a shame to see such a game slip away from this young hurler!"

Martinez tries to gather himself and glares toward home plate trying to see what Jimenez signals. He flashes 3-2-1-right-2. High heat over the outside half of the plate, Martinez thinks to himself. The sun suddenly shifts and dives half way below the home plate stands, splitting its rays down the foul lines. Martinez looks around and shakes his head to clear the images of spotted colors from his blurred sight, when he sees her in the stands surrounded by a heavenly glow. There in the second row behind the home team dugout immersed in a flood of the sun’s setting rays, he sees the reason for his success and recent pain. He sees his wife standing, holding her hands to her heart and glaring into his eyes, watching his every movement. A weight is lifted from his mind, as he reads his wife’s lips that say, "I know you can do it."

Martinez reaches up and tips his cap in her direction without a single tremor. He then turns back toward home plate and with a smile stares into Belle’s eyes that are as lifeless as sharks’ eyes when it attacks its prey. Martinez glances at the sign that Bob flashes for the second time, but this time he nods his head in acceptance. He then lifts himself up in his stance and begins his delivery by pulling his body back, balancing on his right leg and thrusting forward hurling a fastball that blurs into a white streak, which nicks the top of Belle’s bat. The ball floats high into the air and seems to hover over the pitcher’s mound for an eternity, as Martinez centers under the ball he thinks of future visions of his unborn child. He sees a child waiting aimlessly in front of a picture window, searching for his father. He then sees himself walking to the door of the home, being attacked with love by the child that calls him dad. The ball falls into Martinez’ glove and wakes him from his meditative state.

"You’re out!" the umpire shouts.

"My God, he has done it fans!" Ken shouts. "Martinez is perfect!"

The crowd erupts, as the players rush the mound to congratulate their hurler. Martinez looks into his glove in disbelief and falls to the ground on both knees with tears of joy streaming down his face. His teammates gather him up, with Jimenez leading the pack, as they lift him upon their shoulders to carry him off the field and into the clubhouse. Martinez looks back over to his wife, but can’t see her because of the sun’s setting rays that are now beaming down the third base line of the field. He puts his cap in front of his eyes and gathers a glimpse of her eyes giving him a warm sensation once again, but this time one of mere perfection.