Generations Restored: A Pitcher's Story

[Izulde]

The stairs moaned their exhausted complaint as he stepped on them, his trembling, wrinkled, white-haired hand grasping onto the pitted, rotting railing. The walls, never beautiful, even when newly painted white, cracked and spiderwebbed erratically, fine grey dust shaken loose from the line with his movements.

Up ahead was Jerry’s window. How many times had he slowly made his way back from meals to find his only friend here staring out at the small strip of light bouncing gleefully against the brick wall? “Don’t you see, Rick? It’s freedom! It’s the outside world! We’ll get back there someday, won’t we? Together, you and me, we’ll make it! You’ll play ball again and I’ll coach you!”

So many dreams, revisited again and again in front of the window on that little landing. At least twice a day, sometimes more if Jerry was possessed by his vision and hope that it’d happen. Less if he was put in isolation after the thin membrane burst and the horror of his life struck him in the face. Those times were bad, both for Jerry and everyone else on the ward. The wild screams, the flung furniture, the swarm of orderlies, buzzing as they fought to subdue him… Even now, decades removed from those nightmare days, Rick Viscomte’s eyes blurred with the memories.

“Grandpa, are you all right?” Gerald’s voice broke into the gloom, the teenager’s strong arm linking into his grandfather’s, worry visible on his face even in the faint light of the dying day that passed through the cracked window.

Rick said nothing as he turned away from that portal into the past and stared at his grandson’s arm. Muscular and powerful, but with slender and deft fingers, too. A golden arm. A pitcher’s arm. Once, he, too…

“Yes, Jerry, I’m fine. Let’s continue, shall we?”

Onward they went, going around the bend, leaving that oasis of light and plunging back into despairing darkness. Though it’d been so long ago, the old man’s breath still shortened, the slanted walls closing in on him. No, you’re not going back there again, not really. You’re here to show him where you came from, how far you’ve made it. It’s important. He must understand.

After they reached the top of the stairs, the highest floor in the crumbling building, they turned right. At the last door, Rick stopped, closed his eyes, and pushed it open.

“Go in, Jerry. I… I can’t…”

“It’s okay, Grandpa.”

Gerald stepped in, curiously looking around the room that once housed his grandfather. Here, the walls were painted a dark green, showing the same dejected disrepair as the rest of the facility. The place was barren of any furniture, for it had been abandoned years before. Beneath his shoes, the floor creaked, the wood warped from the long stretch of neglect.

“This… this is where you lived?”

Rick nodded, taking a deep breath and stepping inside before at last allowing his eyes to open again. Strange, it didn’t seem so bad as he remembered. Maybe it was because the ghosts that haunted him in those lonely nights had been banished. He had been one of the lucky ones. He had made it out of here, alive.

“Yes, Jerry. For three years. It was a horrible time in life that I don’t like to think about, but I felt it was important that I come back here and show you it while I still have time.”

Gerald swallowed and went to lean against the nearest wall, discomfort in his face as always appeared when his grandfather talked of his own mortality, “Oh, you’ve still got a lot of years left in you, Grandpa!”

Rick smiled slowly, with the wistful tolerance of one who has been through too much in their lifetime and understands more than any man has a right to.

“Maybe, Jerry, maybe. But yes.. I lived here for three years, from the time I was twelve till two weeks after my fifteenth birthday. You see, after my parents died, there were no living relatives who would take me in, so I was forced to live in an orphanage. Back in those days, the field of psychiatry wasn’t anywhere near as advanced as it is now, and the loss of both my parents and my home all at once was too much for a boy of my kind of mind.”

Gerald said nothing, only listened, absorbing it all in.

“I went insane, as we said in those days, and tried to kill the headmistress of the orphanage one April afternoon, near the anniversary of my parents’ death. They sent me here, and I lived a nightmare that still haunts me when I’m sleeping. But I survived and got out, thanks to my best friend here, a man named Jerry, who is where your nickname comes from, Gerald.”

Here, Rick paused for a breath and looked at the door while Gerald leaned forward, transfixed. He’d always assumed that his nickname came from his given name. Now it appeared there was a story behind it.

“He was in his early 50s at the time and apparently was quite the baseball coach in his day, before he had a nervous breakdown for reasons I never fully understood and was committed here. From almost the first day, he took me under his wing and befriended me, encouraged me to get better and encouraged my love of baseball. That window we just passed? He used to look out it after meals and we would stand there and talk of the future. Said we’d go out in the world again together and he’d be my coach, and that I’d be a baseball star someday.”
Rick paused and chuckled briefly, “Obviously that never happened. But it was his faith in me that enabled me to make it. Without him, I no doubt would have died, still an inmate in this place or some other.”

Gerald stood silently, absorbing all the information before speaking again.

“Whatever happened to Jerry, Grandpa?”

“He died in his sleep about a year after I was released, two months after I was adopted by a foster family. I’d gone to visit him a few days before and told him about my adoption and how I was doing well in school now and even made the junior varsity baseball team. The nurses told me afterwards that the night before he died, he said he was ready for God to take him, because in saving me, he’d fulfilled his purpose in life.”

Tears touched Rick’s eyes as he spoke those last words, and Gerald found them in his, too. They impulsively stepped towards one another and embraced in the middle of the unhappy room, the silent crying splashing down on each other’s shoulders. In that moment, they were even closer they had ever been.

After a short bit, Gerald pulled back, swallowing back a few more tears.

“Grandpa, is Viscomte your real name or your adopted one?”

Rick wiped his eyes and smiled through sobstained vision.

“Adopted. My real family name was Weisstraum.”

“Then from now on, I’ll be known as Jerry Weisstraum!”

This time, Rick was unable to hold back the tears for even an instant, grandfather and grandson hugging again.

This was the greatest gift the old man would ever receive. His last demon was banished and his family name was restored, all in the course of an afternoon.

[Izulde]

"I don't understand this Weisstraum business. And why the hell can't he use Gerald? It's the name we gave him, after all. My father's getting batty in his old age and it's affecting our son."

Thomas Viscomte scowled as he took a swallow of coffee, swearing immediately after, for his tongue was burned. Mondays were his least favourite day of the week and this Monday was particularly obnoxious.

"Now, dear, Gerald's been close to his grandfather for a long time now and I think it's a sweet gesture on his part. Besides, *I* changed my last name when I married you, and you never complained about that *that*."

Linda Viscomte smiled pleasantly as she cleared the table of breakfast, adding before her annoyed husband could reply, "Anyway, we can still call him Gerald. He doesn't have any problem with that."

"I just don't get it. Gerald is a perfectly good name and Viscomte sounds better than Weisstraum. You don't see me changing my last name just because my father was adopted, do you? Grandpa and Grandma Viscomte are the sweetest people I know and this isn't fair to them", countered Thomas as he sipped his coffee more slowly, his tongue still faintly scalded.

"They don't have any problems with it either, Thomas. In fact, Grandma V said it was the most noble thing she'd ever heard anyone do for someone else." Linda pointed out as she began running water in the sink for the doing of dishes.

Thomas scowled again and grabbed his hat and coat, putting them with far more bluster and noise than necessary. The entire family was ganging on him, it seemed. Why did Gerald have to go and make such a foolhardy decision? Linda's agreeing to pay that lawyer for the legalities of the name change still rankled him. Wasn't he the man of the house, the one who earned the money? Damned wives, always interfering in a man's affairs. This should have stayed between him and his son, that old coot he had to call his father and all the rest of them be damned.

"I'm going to work. I'd like steak for dinner, if you would please. If I'm going to be late, I'll call you. The Govern deal is supposed to get done today and we're still wrangling over the last few final details."

The ash-blonde woman nodded placidly, grabbing a rag to begin scrubbing the newly soapy dishes, "All right dear. It's fine if you're late. Gerald has an interview with a man he might make his agent and I imagine it'll run late, since your father is with him. You know how he likes to question people, especially when it comes to Gerald's future."

A muttered curse was the only answer Linda received as Thomas slammed the door hard and stalked down the steps, the Midwestern winter's late winter snowfall slowly melting under the harshly bright, glistening sun. That was another thing. This fool's notion Gerald had of skipping college to go play ball in some bush town for a few years. Sure the boy had an arm, but what if he got hurt? Or what if he just wasn't good enough? Then what was he going to do with the rest of his life?

Take over the old man's business answered a smug voice in his head. How he hated that voice! It was always so superior and the damned thing was, its observations were far more accurate than Thomas cared to admit. He could have been the one to take over Rick's business when the old man passed on, but to hell with that. So he wasn't making as much as he should for a man of his experience and talent.

At least he wasn't just Rick Viscomte's son. Not like he would be if he worked for his father.

[Izulde]

"Give me the rundown on this Weisstraum kid."

"He's got the fastest arm we've seen in a long time on a starter. We're talking triple digits consistently. His stuff's real developed for a kid coming out of high school and he may even be able to start at AA. I see a lot of a young, raw Randy Johnson in him. The state strikeout totals he set during his four years in high school may never be broken. He's consistent and has always pitched big in important games."

From his desk, Oswald Griswold tapped his fingers as he listened to his top assistant's report. Jackson Shakur was the type of man he employed in his hiring philosophy. Ex-CIA and damn good at snooping details out. Government officials always made the best men to recruit after they got out. They knew how to work the system and usually still maintained contacts on the inside.

"And the negatives?"

"Doesn't have the greatest control on the planet. In fact, it's barely above average. Plus, there's the whole thing about his fastball going so quickly it loses a lot of movement. He gives up way more gopher balls than he should and there's always the concern about him blowing his arm out like those power pitchers sometimes do."

"Character?"

"Kid's real close to his grandfather, which is why he changed his name from Gerald Viscomte to Jerry Weisstraum apparently. Weisstraum was Granpappy's name before being adopted by the Viscomtes. Where the Jerry part came from, we weren't able to find out. His father's evidently a talented businessman, but is drastically underemployed by Higgins Electronics, the grandfather's rival. We picked up that there's a lot of tension between grandfather and father, but the mother's supportive of the kid and serves as mediator in the family."

"Agent?"

"The grandfather's lawyer. Extremely sharp guy, but not one to play hardball if it'll hurt Jerry."

Oswald nodded and rubbed the bridge of his nose as he swung around in his chair, "All right, Jackson. Now break down the scenarios for me."

Jackson held up the fingers of his hand as he enumerated the situations, a smile on his lips. This was always his favourite part of the reports, for they required creativity and full depth of knowledge on his part.

"One, he turns out to be everything as advertised. He becomes part of our rebuilding plan and most likely ends up as #2 pitcher on the staff, as I don't think he has the control or the mechanics on his pitches to be a legit ace. That being said, he'd be the best #2 pitcher in the league.

Two, he blows out his arm, is never the same again, and ends up as a mediocre middle reliever.

Three, after his grandfather dies, which he should in the next ten to fifteen years according to his doctor if the family history of heart attacks plays according to statistics, his support system falls apart. His dad is going to hate his success. He hates it now from what we've ascertained, and as the kid succeeds, that hatred is only going to get worse. This'll lead to a mental breakdown on his part and he'll end up out of baseball altogether.

Four, he turns out better than we expect and he rewrites all kinds of records on his way to the Hall of Fame."

That was the way Jackson always operated. Give them the two most likely scenarios first and follow it up with the extreme worst and the extreme best outcomes, but always finish with the best. It was a nice finishing touch from his standpoint.

Oswald sat silently a while and finally nodded again, pinching his nose, "All right, Jackson. You've convinced me. We'll take him. The draft this year is extremely poor for pitchers anyway, and the chance to get a powerhouse strikeout artist like this is too much to give up."

And so Jerry Weisstraum was selected in the first round of the 1999 draft, the #5 overall selection by the Cincinnati Reds.