I’m Gonna Hit A Homer Off You And Walk Around the Bases

The Detroit Tigers practice under the watchful eyes of their owner, Mason Kingsley, their manager, Dugan Darnell, and former player Arden Stonehouse.

Having won three batting and home run titles and played on two World Series championship teams, Arden Stonehouse is a Tiger legend. Steel-eyed, granite-chinned, and frequently profane, Stonehouse is still in playing shape at seventy-five and has a keen baseball mind.

Fidgety in the presence of a legend, Mason brushes back his dark hair and clasps his hands so Stonehouse can’t see them shake. A successful semiconductor exporter, thirty-eight-year-old Mason dreamed of owning a team as a child, but is considered a novice by the other owners, so he looks to Stonehouse and Dugan Darnell for advice.

Bulky, with clenched features and hair cut close to conceal his baldness, Dugan Darnell has lived in Arden Stonehouse’s shadow since their playing days together and considers Stonehouse a know-it-all nuisance.

Stonehouse watches the center fielder chase down a fly ball hit to the deepest part of the stadium. He races to field the next ball, a short line drive, and makes the catch with ease. When the center fielder climbs the wall to make a third catch, Stonehouse lets loose a stream of invectives that makes Mason blush.

“##!@! Who is that?”

“That’s Jordan Beck, the rookie,” Dugan replies.

“We’re trading him tomorrow to the White Sox,” Mason adds.

“Are you $##! nuts? That kid’s better than *## Willie Mays!”

“We’re going to get Frank Lindblad for him,” Mason says.

“Lindblad? That @$@! junk-throwing old alky? He hasn’t had a decent season since Obama was a teenager.”

“He’s a lefty. You can never have enough left-handed pitchers,” Dugan says confidently.

“Did you !!$# hear what I said, Darnell? Lindblad’s done. He’ll need a walker to get to the pitcher’s mound.”

“We’re also getting Brant Allison.”

“Whoopty ##!!! do! The Sox are throwing him in the deal because he leads the league in D.U.I.s. The White Sox saw you two greenhorns coming. What’s Allison hitting?”

Mason squirms in his seat. “A little over .200.”

Stonehouse grunts. “I asked what he’s @@#!! hitting, not his weight. What’s Beck hitting?”

Mason’s response is practically a whisper: “…A hundred points higher…”

“That’s right,” Stonehouse snaps. “I surf the #!!@ internet. I know the rookie’s also third on the club in homers…”

“He’s only had sixty at-bats,” Mason says defensively.

“If he’s hit as many homers as your two stars, Garnish and Turnbull, in a third of the time, then that proves he should be playing every day. Isn’t this the same kid who set a national collegiate record by hitting .700 in his senior year? That’s seven hits every ten at-bats! What’s the $##@! advantage in having him sit on the bench?”

“He’s a rookie. He can wait his turn,” Mason offers.

“Truthfully, it’s about the money I’m paying these guys,” Mason admits. Trey Garnish and Mickey Turnball are making twenty million apiece. And they’re producing.”

Stonehouse zeros in on the hole in Mason’s argument. “I didn’t hear you mention your other outfielder.”

“Perk is making half of that.”

“And he’s hitting .185. Stevie Wonder could hit that. So, you should replace Perkins with Beck. You’re in third place in a five-team division, and you’re going to trade away a future All-Star. You two are %$#@! idiots.”

***

Trey Garnish puts his bat back in the bat rack. With a muscular build, intense brown eyes, a matinee smile, and a playboy’s horny personality, the six-foot-plus twenty-eight-year-old right fielder is as much a celebrity as a ball player. He’s hit 122 homers during his five-year career and has a robust .275 lifetime batting average, statistics that have garnered him the label of “Mr. Tiger,” despite his often caustic personality. He doesn’t like sharing the spotlight, as evidenced by his chilly relationship with the more talented but unassuming Mickey Turnball. Lately, Trey feels threatened by the presence of twenty-two-year-old rookie Jordan Beck, whose six-foot-six Bunyanesque physique, distinctive blonde hair, and warm smile have slowly been crowding him out of the sports pages.

“Rumor has it you’re on the trading block, kid,” Trey says to Jordan. “We’re tradin’ you for a senior citizen and a drunk. Don’t look so sad… Maybe you can be a star in Chicago. You can’t be one here. Not as long as I’m on the team.”

Tey gives Jordan a sly grin that says he has the upper hand, then heads back onto the field to film a commercial for his latest brand of sneakers.

“Arrogant son-of-a-gun, isn’t he?” Mickey Turnball says. The thirty-six-year-old left fielder has compiled an impressive 320 home runs and a lifetime .290 batting average and is respected throughout the league. Despite his accomplishments, he yearns for a championship ring before he retires.

“Don’t let him get under your skin, Jordan, or you’ll get grey in the temples like me. Trey is jealous because you hit more homers in one game than he’s hit this week.”

***

Trey displays a perfect smile for the camera.

“That’s great. We got it in one take,” the director says.

Trey gives the shapely director a confident wink. “With my name on ‘em, Tessa, these kicks are gonna fly off the shelves.”

“I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” Tessa Durazo asks.

“I was thinkin’ the same thing, Tessa. Dinner after the game.”

“Not that kind of favor. I was hoping you could introduce me to Jordan Beck. He’s going to be the next big thing, and we’d like to sign him before another advertising firm does. Could you give him my card?”

Trey can feel his smile cracking. “Why sure. It’d be a pleasure…”

***

Having finished filming, Trey returns to the dugout, thrusting the card into Jordan’s hand.

“Give her a call. Maybe they’ve got an office in Chicago.”

Mickey bursts with pride. “See, Jordan? People are starting to take notice. You’re taking off.”

“Playin’ for the White Sox’ll ground him,” Trey comments. “Hey, old man, who’s pitchin’ for the Royals today?”

“Cannonball Hamilton,” Mickey replies.

Trey greedily rubs his hands together, flashing a smile. “Nice. I own that fat fireballer. You can watch me hit a couple of dingers off him from your spot on the bench, Beck. Think I’ll get a massage before the game.”

The pair watches Trey strut off.

“Hard to believe he was once a nice guy,” Mickey comments. “He’d play ball with the kids. Now he only plays with the latest supermodels. He’d comp tickets for friends and family. Now he goes to expensive restaurants expecting to be comped. Do me a favor, Jordan. When you become a star, don’t act like Trey Garnish.”

***

Trey enters the trainer’s room, the scent of liniment hitting his nostrils. Two players are sitting in the jacuzzi, casually talking about the upcoming game.

“Out. I need to talk to Bobby,” Trey orders.

The players frown but comply, trailing water as they leave.

Bobby Boyle winces, knowing what Trey is going to ask. Small in stature with wizened features, Bobby has come to regret the responsibility of being Trey’s confidant.

Trey’s rushed tone speaks of desperation. “Did you talk to Dr. Solomon?”

“Yes. But it’s hard for him to make a diagnosis based on your description. It could be a heart valve. On the other hand, it could be an infection or an enlarged muscle. He wants to do exploratory surgery.”

“What? Crack me open like a walnut? No dice.”

“Whatever it is, Trey, you should handle it now before it gets out of hand. Go on the disabled list for a few weeks. It’s only July. There’s plenty of time to recover and still win the MVP award and earn your bonuses. Imagine the Tigers are struggling, and you come back and lead them to the postseason.”

“I’m in a fight to stay the face of the Tigers.”

“You could be in a fight for your life.”

“I feel fine.”

“Don’t let those be your last words.”

***

Standing on the top step of the dugout, Trey glares at Cannonball Hamilton.

“I’m gonna diffuse you, Cannonball!”

The pot-bellied, jug-eared veteran pitcher acknowledges Trey’s comment with a devilish smirk that says he isn’t.

As Trey approaches home plate, he says loud enough for everyone to hear, “What kinda nickname is Cannonball? They should call you butterball!”

Cannonball throws an inside fastball. Trey jerks his head back to get out of the way of the pitch, but it continues to speed toward him at a hundred miles an hour.

The impact of the ball breaking Trey’s helmet is so loud that Cannonball, thinking it had hit Trey’s bat and was in play, fields the ball on a bounce and throws it to the first baseman.

The crack is heard throughout Comerica Park. The hush of 40,000 people that follows casts an eerie pall over the stadium.

Trey crumbles downward like a condemned building, bleeding profusely on home plate.

A crowd of players and coaches rushes to Trey’s side.

Bobby Boyle turns him over. Everyone lets out a collective gasp.

Trey’s face is already swelling up like an inflating blimp. Blood is pouring from his nose. The ball has broken his cheekbone, dislocated his jaw, and slashed open the skin below his left eye.

Bobby bends down, whispering, “Don’t worry, Trey. Everything’s going to be all right.”

“…Liar…”

Cannonball remains on the pitcher’s mound, kicking at the dirt and looking everywhere else but at Trey.

A stretcher is brought out, and Trey is carried into the dressing room.

Mason is already there. When he sees Trey’s ravaged features, he mutters, “Oh, my God! Somebody get a priest!”

***

Turning to Jordan, Dugan says, “The trade’s off. You can unpack after the game. You’re taking Trey’s place in the lineup.”

Jordan sprints to first base. Rory Tabler, the Royals’ first baseman, greets him. “Congrats. Looks like you’re gonna be a full-time player.”

“Shame it has to happen this way.”

“Trey had it comin’. You couldn’t fit his ego in a stadium.”

When play resumes, Mickey rakes Cannonball Hamilton’s next pitch into right field for a single. Jordan races from first to third. When the second baseman juggles the relay, he sprints home.

“A star is born,” Dugan says to his players.

***

When Trey wakes up in the hospital, the first face he recognizes with his good eye belongs to Cannonball Hamilton.

“…Just ‘cause I called you fat…”

“You know I didn’t do it on purpose. Sure, I was fuming, but you’ve always given me a hard time. And you’ve always stood too close to the plate.”

“I’m comin’ back, Cannonball, and I’m gonna hit a homer off’a you. And when I do, I’m gonna walk around the bases.”

***

Following Trey’s injury, the Tigers, led by Jordan’s prodigious home runs, go on a fourteen-game winning streak and finish in first place. Jordan goes on to have a historic season, winning the Triple Crown and MVP awards and leading the Tigers to victory over the Cincinnati Reds in the World Series.

Mickey Turnball announces his retirement after the World Series. Photos accompanying the news feature a jubilant Mickey kissing the World Series trophy.

Cannonball Hamilton announces his retirement, too. The articles never fail to mention Cannonball’s biggest regret: “I guess people will always blame me for ruining Trey Garnish’s career.”

Trey responds to the news of Cannonball’s retirement with, “That spiteful elephant could have killed me.”

He retreats to his home in San Diego, petrified that his career may be over.

***

A few months after the injury, Trey goes for a follow-up eye exam.

“Read what you can see out of your left eye,” the doctor says.

“E,” Tony replies.

***

During the winter, Trey remains in his home alone, stripped of his girlfriends and groupies, staring at the trophy the Tigers gave him for contributing to their championship run.

Shortly after Christmas, his doorbell rings.

Cannonball is standing in the doorway, holding a bat, a glove, and a ball.

“Happy holidays, you big jerk. Don’t just stand there with your jaw on the floor. Get your glove.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

“After the things you said about me? You’re darn tootin’ I do.”

***

Trey and Cannonball play pepper in his backyard every day. The first time, Trey whiffs on almost all of Cannonball’s pitches. He’s so disgusted with himself that he breaks the bat.

“Hey! Jordan Beck gave me that bat.”

“That figures,” Trey grumbles. “He’s having the career I should be having.”

“Who says your career is over?”

Cannonball stays for two weeks. Trey begins to hit weak grounders, soft fly balls, and a lot of foul tips. Cannonball’s family finally demands that he return home, so he hires two high school baseball players to practice with Trey.

A month before spring training, Trey goes to see the eye doctor again, confident that his vision has improved enough for him to make a comeback.

His doctor breaks the news: “You have a hole in your retina. You’re legally blind in your left eye. It’s not safe for you to play baseball anymore.”

***

Trey returns to his reclusive habits, entertaining the idea of writing an autobiography entitled “Almost.”

When he tells his ex-manager of his intentions, Dugan cryptically replies, “Your whole story hasn’t been told yet.”

A few days later, Mason shows up at his door.

“What’s up? You’re not the type who makes social calls.”

“I’m here to talk business. I want you to join our broadcasting team.”

“I’m not gonna be some namby-pamby yes man who praises Jordan Beck and the rest of the team when they screw up. I’m gonna tell it like it is.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way. Just don’t curse like Arden Stonehouse does.”

***

Trey takes to broadcasting as if he were born to it. The Tigers, led by Jordan’s 73 home runs, are in a dogfight with the plucky California Angels. The teams face off at Comerica Stadium, tied for first place on the final day of the season.

“Everyone is on the edge of their seats,” Trey announces to the television audience, his voice electric with anticipation. “It all comes down to this moment… Bottom of the ninth… The Angels lead 5-4, but the Tigers have the bases loaded, so they can’t intentionally walk the next hitter… Coming to the plate is Jordan Beck, who has knocked in half of the Tigers’ runs with two doubles… It’s strength against strength, with Angel’s closer Eloy Jimenez, a perfect 34-for-34 in saves, facing MVP candidate Jordan Beck, who is one swing away from breaking Barry Bonds’ record for home runs in a season…”

Trey breathes heavily, dismissing the tightness in his chest as nerves.

“…The first pitch from Jimenez… A fastball that Jordan calmly takes for strike one. Not to worry, folks, Jordan always takes the first pitch. Jimenez winds and deals. The second pitch bounces in the dirt for ball one… Jimenez has yet to unveil his best pitch, his slider… If I’m Jordan Beck, I’m betting he’ll throw it now… The pitch… Swung on and hit deep to left… IT’S GONE! THE TIGERS WIN THE PENNANT! AND JORDAN BECK HAS SET A NEW HOME RUN RECORD!”

Trey clutches his chest. Hyperventilating, he collapses.

By the time he reaches the hospital, Trey suffers a second heart attack, leaving him in a coma for two months. He misses the Tigers' second straight World Series win.

***

Jordan and Cannonball squint when the camera’s light turns on.

“This is Tessa Durazo. You’re used to me selling merchandise, but today I’m here to talk about something different, something wonderful. Jordan Beck, the Detroit Tigers’ star center fielder, and Cannonball Hamilton, a former All-Star major league pitcher, have joined forces to establish the BVHF, the Baseball Veterans Health Fund. What is the BVHF, Cannonball?”

“We formed this fund to help retired players who’ve been struck down by physical or financial hardship. Sometimes a baseball pension isn’t enough. Medical bills, mortgages, and unexpected tragedies can deplete a player’s savings, so we established the BVHF to help cover those costs.”

“Is there any player in particular that you had in mind when you established the fund?”

Cannonball goes mute.

Tessa presses the issue. “Former Tigers player and announcer Trey Garnish suffered a debilitating stroke last year. I hear he’s been in a nearby nursing home since then. I know you both had a contentious relationship with Trey. Does he have the BVHF to thank for taking care of him?”

“One of our rules is that we don’t reveal the names of the players we help,” Jordan replies. “You know Trey as well as we do, Tessa. He wouldn’t want anyone to know about this, no matter who paid for it. He’d get out of that bed and smack all of us for spreading gossip about him.”

***

The Tigers clinch another pennant on their way to a third consecutive World Series title. During the seventh-inning stretch of the first game of the World Series, Trey’s presence is announced to the appreciative roar of the crowd.

Leaning on his walker, he’s led onto the field by Jordan, Mickey, and Dugan.

The announcer’s voice carries through the stadium. “We have a surprise guest, a recently retired opponent, and an old friend of Tony’s. Evelyn ‘Cannonball’ Hamilton!”

The crowd gives Cannonball Hamilton a standing ovation as he pops out of the dugout.

His mouth twisted from the effects of his stroke, Trey manages to slur, “You never told me your first name was Evelyn.”

“It’s pronounced Eve-lynn, not Eva-lynn. It means ‘desired,’ and don’t you forget it.”

Cannonball is handed a microphone.

“Tony, you said you were going to make a comeback, hit a home run off me, and walk around the bases. How about we take that walk together?”