On Whispered Wings

Tyler Biggs gently moved his left foot back and forth, smoothing the red clay in the batter’s box with the finesse of an artist delivering strokes to a canvas for the first time. It was the top of the first inning, and the twenty-year-old was the ninth batter to come to the plate for his team, the Greenwood Suns. The previous eight hitters had reached base, and the Suns were blowing out their Southern States League opponents, the Sparta Skyhawks, 5-0. It was an oppressively humid July night in northern Georgia, with only 100 fans in a stadium that held 4,000. It was a common occurrence. The Skyhawks were wallowing in last place in a low A minor league, and unless it was Dolly Parton Night or Thirsty Thursday, the stands were pretty much empty. Sparta starting pitcher, Danvers Escobar stood on the mound, trying to figure a way out of the jam. He was stressed, his powder blue Skyhawks uniform heavy with perspiration. He bent over in the stretch, his glove hand resting on his left knee, his right hand grasping the baseball behind his waist, and his feet shoulder-width apart. Sweat dripped from the bill of his cap while he fought fatigue and doubt, trying to focus on what pitch his catcher, Steve Keeney, was calling. Escobar was already resigned that he was headed for the showers within the next few pitches. The bases were loaded with Suns, and his only hope lay in his experience and the aggressiveness of the young hitter at the plate. He took a deep breath, trying to clear his mind and focus on the task at hand. “Just get someone out, geez,” he muttered to himself. He shook his head, attempting to fend off the thought that he was 32 years old, circling the drain of professional baseball, and facing boys more than ten years younger than him. He couldn’t tell what hurt more at that moment-his right arm or his pride. He glanced over and saw his manager, Pat Doyle standing on the top step of the Skyhawks dugout, arms crossed, poised to give him “the hook,” a polite baseball term for being yanked from the game. Skyhawks’ reliever, Mark Mendez, was warmed up in the bullpen, ready to go. Biggs stepped out of the box, took off his black helmet, and drew the gold sweatband on his left forearm across his brow. A pinch of Copenhagen tobacco, illegal in the minors, was tucked deep in his lower lip. He replaced the helmet and anchored his back foot in the small divot left by a parade of hitters who preceded him at the plate so far that night. He balanced himself, shot a stream of tobacco juice into the dirt in front of home plate, then fixed his gaze on Escobar. Biggs smirked as he recalled how he’d blasted Escobar’s best fastball 400 feet into the deep green forest of elm trees over the right field fence at Greenwood Memorial Stadium just last week. The scouting report showed Biggs had trouble with a fastball up and in. Keeney squatted, put the fingers of his right hand between his legs, then flashed a sequence of signs hoping to confuse the Suns’ runner on second and keep him from relaying to Biggs what pitch was coming. Keeney’s fourth signal indicated he wanted Escobar to throw a high fastball. Escobar nodded, looked at the Suns' runner on third, came set, and went into his windup. He’d been playing baseball for over 25 years and knew the moment he released the ball; Biggs would punish it. The only questions to be answered as it traveled to the plate were how hard he would hit it and how far it would go. Escobar finished the pitch and left his head down, not wanting to witness what was about to happen. Biggs’s eyes flickered when he saw Escobar’s pitch headed in his direction. He’d read the report on the veteran pitcher and was salivating for what was coming his way—a fastball, low and inside. CRACK! Biggs’s solid contact echoed through the empty stadium, and the ball rocketed high and deep toward the right field fence. He’d hit it so hard that the Skyhawks' right fielder, John Whelehan, didn’t move as it screamed over his head. Whelehan glanced over his right shoulder just in time to see the ball carom off the scoreboard, dotting the “I” in “Nellie’s Mufflers.” A grand slam. Escobar looked up and saw Biggs jumping a foot off the ground as he rounded first base yelling, “Let’s go!” to his team in the first base dugout. The score was now 9-0 with no one out. Escobar examined the fingers on his right hand, wondering why his old friends had betrayed him by serving up such a delicious morsel. He turned and stared at a brown spot in the grass between the mound and first base as Doyle was making the slow trek to the mound to take him out of the game. Escobar glanced over and saw Biggs touch home plate, then tap his helmet up against those of the three Suns he’d just driven in. They bounded into the dugout and started high-fiving their teammates. Keeney timed his arrival at the mound with Doyle's to avoid the awkward silence that always comes with a pitcher being raked. Both of them avoided eye contact with Escobar. Doyle mumbled, “Tough night,” then patted Escobar on the back as Keeney looked off into center field. Escobar slowly walked off towards the dugout and noticed the stadium was so quiet he could hear his spikes crunching in the dirt as he crossed the third baseline. The PA announcer sparked up an ear-splitting rendition of Centerfield by John Fogerty while Mendez jogged through the bullpen gate.