The Promise, a general fiction story, was published in the Writing on Walls Paperback Anthology, which was sponsored by The Storyteller Magazine and Fossil Creek Publishing
The Promise
"Grandpa, I can’t see," said a small, dark haired boy wearing a large blue cap that covered the tops of his ears.
A silver haired man with a long face carefully set down a frosty beer and mustard-covered hot dog. He bent, slipped his hands under the boy’s armpits, and lifted until the boy’s feet rested on a long, narrow wooden bench.
"That better, Jay-Jay?" he asked.
The boy looked around and smiled. "Yeah, grandpa," he said, "I can see everything now."
Eyes wide, Jay leaned close and whispered, "Mom says I’m not supposed to stand on furniture."
The silver haired man laughed, "And, with my ticker," he said, "she keeps tellin’ me to eat right." He sipped the froth off his drink and raised a conspiratorial index finger to his lips, "But she ain’t here in the bleachers in Wrigley, is she? So, you stand on the bench and I’ll drink my beer, and it’ll be our little secret."
On the field, a red-capped man swung viciously and a white spheroid rocketed toward the stands. It crashed against the top of an ivy covered brick wall and ricocheted into the crowd. Grandpa jumped to his feet. The ball banged hard against his chest before he wrapped his hands around it. He gasped, rubbed his sternum, and realized forty thousand pairs of eyes watched him. Triumphantly, he held the ball aloft, and then handed it to Jay, whose lips turned upward. The crowd, which had risen when the spheroid cleared the wall, now chanted.
"Throw it back! Throw it back!"
Jay’s smile faded, his teeth left indentations in his lower lip, and his eyes locked on the ground. Grandpa bent close.
"It’s tradition here to throw back homers the other team hits. Tell you what, throw it back and I’ll make it up to you. We’ll go to games all summer and I’ll teach you everything I know about baseball."
Jay looked up, "Everything? Even how to play the outfield? Dad says you know more about baseball than anybody."
"For once, your dad’s right. Everything. I promise. Baseball’s nothin’ if kids don’t know the game."
Jay’s smile returned. He faced the field, cocked his arm as far back as he could, and heaved the ball. It arched over the wall and fell to earth between two blue clad outfielders.
The crowd roared its approval.
Grandpa wrapped his arms around Jay. As he did, he felt a twinge in his chest. He sucked in a breath. The twinge tightened, became a vise.
"Oh, God," he said. "Not now."
Six weeks later. . .
Sharply creased pants, gleaming black shoes and polished billy clubs stood on guard behind each turnstile.
A slim man with a thin face handed a small container to Jay and whispered, "Keep this in your jacket pocket until we get past the guards."
"Why, dad?" asked Jay.
"I couldn’t get permission - and they won’t check you."
Tickets in hand they inched toward the turnstile. The smell of hot dogs, popcorn and beer wafted from the park and tickled Jay’s nose.
"I’m hungry," he said.
"We’ve got to do this before the game starts," said dad. "Then we’ll get something to eat."
At the turnstile, a bored usher took their tickets. A guard eyed Jay and pointed a billy club at him.
"You," he said. "Over here."
Jay hunched his shoulders. Inside his pocket, he ran his fingers over the container.
"Something wrong, officer?" asked dad, stepping between the guard and Jay.
"You betcha," said the guard. "Young fan like this outta have a Ryne Sandberg pin." The guard produced a hall of fame pin and fastened it to Jay’s jacket above the pocket holding the secret container. Jay held his breath until the guard stepped away.
"There," said the guard. "Maybe some day you’ll play second base for the Cubs – just like Ryno."
"I wanna be an outfielder," said Jay.
"Even better," said the guard. "Now I gotta go keep an eye out for smugglers and terrorists. You’d be surprised what people try to sneak in."
"Thanks for the souvenir, officer," said dad. He took Jay’s hand and pulled him into the crowd. Behind a concession stand, he stopped and bent to one knee.
"Sorry," he said. "Shouldn’t have asked you to do that."
"It’s okay," answered Jay, "I like carrying grandpa."
Five minutes later, they stood at a waist high wall near the left field foul line.
"Here?" asked Jay.
"Here," said dad. "When I say."
Dad looked around the park. Batting practice was over, the players were in their dugouts, and the field was empty. He stepped in front of Jay, concealing him.
"Now," said dad.
Jay retrieved the container from his pocket. It was a small dark urn. He removed a stopper and tilted the container over the wall. A fine silt poured out. The breeze gusted, caught the silt and swirled into left field. For a moment, the ashes glinted and danced in afternoon sunlight, then they floated to the earth and disappeared.
Jay raised a tiny hand and waved.
"Goodbye, grandpa," he said. "I’ll miss you forever."Twenty Years Later
Jay placed his foot on the top step of the dugout and tied his shoe. A hand clamped his shoulder and a round, red face pushed close to his.
"No errors today, Jenkins. GM says you’re on the bubble. We like your bat, but the Cubbies need an outfielder who can run ‘em down. Moved ya from center to left to take a little pressure off. "
Jay nodded. Getting to the majors had been tough, but staying was worse. Focus, he told himself. The talent’s there. He scooped up his mitt and trotted to the outfield. The grass in left was brown and dry. Hadn’t rained for weeks. He found the spot the previous outfielder had worn into the grass, took his stance and dug his spikes into the dirt. He glanced at the stands. Full house today. Loud and looking for a win.
First batter, first pitch, a sharp fly to left. They always find ya, he thought. He pushed hard toward the foul line and watched the ball curve into the stands. He trotted back to his position and kicked at the dry earth. Dust swirled around his feet and rose past his face. He fanned at it with his mitt.
"Your footwork’s off," said a gravelly voice.
Jay scowled and glanced into the stands. C’mon he thought. Quit riding me. It’s only the first inning, for God’s sake. He kicked at the dirt, raised a dust cloud.
The voice again. "Don’t look into the stands. Focus on the batter."
Jay’s eyes traveled to his feet. The voice hadn’t come from the stands, it had come from…
At the plate, the batter swung. A level, picture perfect swing. The ball zipped over the shortstop’s outstretched glove and headed toward the left field alley.
"Toward center," the voice shouted.
Jay stutter-stepped, then chased the ball into the alley. It hopped against the bricks and the center fielder retrieved it. He rifled it to the cut-off man.
"That was yours," the center fielder said.
Jay nodded his head. "Guess I’m still getting used to the new position," he said.
"Don’t take too long, there’s rumors."
"Hey Rodney," said Jay. "You and the guys plant a microphone in left."
Rodney rolled his eyes. "You’re one crazy rookie," he said.
Jay returned to his position. This time, he stood on the grass, a little behind and a little to the left of the dirt spot. No balls came his way the rest of the game. No voices either.
#
After the game, Jay took extra fielding practice. He changed to street clothes and played cards in the clubhouse until the sounds of city traffic, the "L" and Clark Street nightlife replaced the cry of vendors and the buzz of the departed crowd. One by one, the players and the coaches left, until only Jay and the equipment manager remained. C’mon, go home already, he thought, as he sat near his locker and pretended to oil his glove. It seemed an eternity before the equipment manager collected the last of the dirty laundry and disappeared down a tunnel leading outside the park.
Finally, thought Jay.
He opened his locker, tossed his glove inside and retrieved an implement pilfered earlier from a groundskeeper’s tool bag. The sun’s last rays sank beneath the horizon as he tiptoed onto the field. The shadows deepened and the park faded from green to gray. His eyes adjusted and he scanned the empty stands, the scoreboard, the ivy. Wow, he thought, ever since I was little I wanted to play here. He slipped a hand into a pocket and fingered the Ryne Sandberg pin he carried for good luck. He took a deep breath, smelled the dry grass. Now I’m walking where Stan Hack, Billy Williams and Sammy Sosa walked. Can’t think of anyplace I’d rather be.
"Which is why," he said aloud, "I’m digging up that mic. Ain’t letting some practical joke get me."
Groundskeeper’s garden spade in hand, he knelt in front of the bare spot in left field and jabbed it into the dry earth. Thousands of black granules puffed into the night sky, coating his arms and face – and the gravelly voice spoke again.
"Bout time you came for a talk," said the voice.
"Don’t you guys ever give up?" asked Jay. Raising his arm high about his head, he thrust the spade into the dirt – stabbing it again and again and again.
"If I can’t find that mic," he shouted, "I’ll fix it so it don’t work!"
A dust cloud filled the air.
"Take it easy, " said the voice. "No ones playin’ tricks. It’s just me."
Jay stopped and rubbed his forearm, "You’re not getting away with this – Rodney."
"Not Rodney," answered the voice. "Grandpa."
"Grandpa who?" yelled Jay.
"Not Grandpa who," said the voice. "Grandpa Jenkins."
Jay shoved his face close to the dirt, "Not funny," he said through clenched teeth. "Way too personal."
"Of course it’s personal, Jay-Jay," said the voice. "That’s why I’m here. You got a temper, you know – your mom wouldn’t like that. She still yell at you for standin’ on furniture?"
Jay’s eyes widened, "Grandpa?" he whispered. "What’s going on?"
"I made a promise - long time ago – remember?"
Eyes closed, Jay slowly nodded his head.
"I can help you," said Grandpa. "I’m part of the dirt, the field, the park now - and I know things – lots of things. And what I don’t know, I sense. Like that service door in the outfield. They forgot to lock it today. Big gust of wind’s about to blow it open."
A metallic creak reverberated throughout the park. The service door moved slowly forward on its hinges, then clanged shut.
"How’d you do that?" asked Jay.
"Didn’t," said Grandpa. "I’m just in tune with everything in the park. Now, have a seat so we can catch up – and so I can explain how I can help."
His face numb, Jay sank to the ground and listened.
"Let’s talk about footwork," said Grandpa, "and readin’ the winds. And anticipation – that’s where I can really help…"
The Next Game
From a perch high in the stands, the radio announcer’s voice crackled over the airwaves.
"Top of the ninth, two outs, two on. Cubbies by one. Cardinal runners take their lead. Outfield straight away, comin’ home on a single. Fans on their feet, rattlin’ Wrigley - hope they don’t shake anything loose. Pitcher looks in for the sign…"
In left field, Jay purposely kicked at the dirt. The dust swirled – and a hoarse voice tickled his ear.
"Your way," said grandpa. "An Aaron – Williams moment."
Eyes on the batter, Jay responded, "What?"
"Years ago, Hammerin’ Hank hit one out of the park. Sweet Billy backed to the wall, stayed with it. Gust of wind blew it back. Gonna happen again. Next pitch, run to the curve in the left field wall."
"You sure?"
"Trust me – Go!"
Jay broke toward the wall. The batter swung. The ball folded around his bat and launched high and deep into the sun-lit sky. Jay raced to the wall. The voice of the crowd pounded his ear drums. The wind stiffened and the ball dived downward. Jay thrust his mitt above his head and jumped into the ivy. Arms, ribs and head collided with brick, then brown grasped white and reflexes squeezed leather. Jay staggered. As one, the crowd hushed and leaned forward expectantly. Jay held the ball aloft – and the glass on Waveland Avenue rattled.Last Day of September
Jay looped the white tipped pen against the blue wool brim. He bent to one knee and placed the autographed cap on a small blond boy with glasses. The cap sagged over the boy’s ears.
"You’ll grow into it," said Jay. Smile lines creased his face. "I was even smaller when I was your age."
"Sign my scorecard too, Mr. Jenkins," the boy asked. "Please?"
"Sure son. What’s your name?"
"Bobby Dunne. I’m your biggest fan."
"I know," said Jay. "I see you every home stand. Maybe someday you’ll play here."
Jay handed the scorecard back. Bobby clutched it to his chest and scooted back to his seat in the shadow of the left field light pole. Jay shook his hand to stop the cramping and reached to sign another autograph. As he did, someone tapped his shoulder.
"Sorry to interrupt the ego trip, rookie," said Rodney. "Skip wants to see ya."
Jay waved to his fans and jogged off the field. What’s this about, he thought. Skip usually doesn’t hold meetings right before games.
The door to Skip’s office was partially open. Jay pushed in. Lineup cards, food containers and stacks of old newspapers covered the floor. Skip sat behind a chipped wooden desk and puffed on a big cigar. His round red face was buried in the day’s Tribune. Without looking up, he waved Jay to the only available seat, a creaky wooden relic.
"Know what I’m reading?" he asked, eyes still focused on the paper.
Jay shook his head.
"Reading about you," he answered. "Here’s one headline – Jenkins Carries Big Stick – and Bigger Glove. Here’s another, Hot Fielding Rookie Leads Cubs toward Pennant. And another, Kids and Jay – Biggest Draw Since Sosa."
Skip pushed the papers aside and leveled his eyes on Jay. "Know what the most important thing about baseball is?" he asked.
"Kids," said Jay without hesitating. "Without them there’s no game, no future."
Skip puffed his cigar and blew smoke toward the ceiling. "That’s what I thought you’d say. Been watching you. You know all their names, sign autographs for hours. That’s great – up to a point. And the point is this - baseball’s about two things - winning and money."
Jay’s lips were a straight line. Skip continued.
"Win today, we go to the playoffs. More games, more money. Pulled you away so those kids don’t distract you. No more autographs. Today, of all days, I want your mind on what’s really important."
#
The radio announcer’s voice rose to a fever pitch.
"Wrigley is rockin’ folks. Don’t know if the old place can stand it. One more out, and Jenkins and company go to the playoffs."
The reliever threw down the rosin bag, toed the rubber and peered at the catcher for his signal.
In left field, Jay kicked the dirt. The dust swirled.
"Somethin’s weird Jay," said the grizzled voice. "I can feel it."
"Strike one," the umpire bellowed. The noise rose ten decibels.
"Jay," yelled grandpa. "The stompin’, the vibration, it’s too much for the old park. Look at the stands!"
Jay’s eyes scanned the left field stands. That’s odd, he thought, the shadows are swaying.
"On the roof," yelled grandpa.
"Strike two," the umpire screamed. Every rivet in the stadium shook. Every eye focused on the batter.
Jay looked up. On the roof, the left field light standard swayed forward, then bent noiselessly at a crazy angle.
"It’s gonna fall," screamed grandpa.
Oh my god, thought Jay, the kids. Without hesitating, he dropped his glove and bolted toward the stands.
The pitcher wound up and fired the ball. A sky-high pop-up. The ball floated lazily into left field.
Jay leaped over the half wall and pointing up, he rushed to Bobby’s row. The fans in the left field stands turned their eyes skyward. Pushing and shoving, the rows beneath the dangling light standard emptied. With a thunderous crack, the lights fell. In left field, the ball dropped unnoticed and untouched. In the stands, Bobby stood transfixed as the lights plummeted, their shadow engulfing the ground below. Jay found him, lifted him in his arms and, with every ounce of his strength, threw him. The lights shattered the seats. Darkness descended.Six Weeks Later
"Grandpa, I can’t see," said Jay.
"You have to sense now," said a gravelly voice. "You’re part of the earth, the field, the park."
"I’m scared, Grandpa."
"Don’t be – you’re where you were destined to be. Here, let me help… that better?"
"Yeah, much better. It’s green. There’s bricks and ivy. And I smell – popcorn?"
"Wrigley’s been waitin’ for you Jay. I was always just a caretaker. But you - you’re the spirit of the park – the guardian. There was an official ceremony - a hero’s ceremony. Thousands of kids. An honor guard scattered your ashes."
"You’re gonna stay aren’t you, Grandpa? You’re gonna help me."
"I promise – but when you’re ready, I need to leave. Your grandma’s been waitin’ a long time for me. I sure miss her. Oh, one more thing Jay-Jay…"
"Grandpa?"
"There’s a rumor – a blond haired kid named Bobby Dunne is gonna be patrolin’ the outfield in a few years. He’s gonna be good, but he’ll need your help. And if the two of you work it just right…"
"Yeah, grandpa?"
"A World Series, – I promise."
