Can You Hear the Rattlesnakes? An MVP 05 RTTS-Style Story

[shinderhizzle84]

George Monroe opened the door to his old, beat up Chevrolet, and slammed it shut again once he had gotten out of the truck, and taken out his dusty glove and old, wooden bat.


He locked the car with his keys, and walked towards the field, nodding at the familiar faces he saw at the practice field.


He walked into the dugout, slammed his mitt down on the bench beside him, and popped some sunflower seeds into his mouth, attempting to separate them with this tongue and teeth.


He had never been able to get the move down, though, and he ended up just chewing all of the seeds together and slowly spitting out a great, disgusting globule of chewed up, half-digested, mushy sunflower seeds.


“How's it going, kid?” His skipper, Coach Patterson, asked him, giving him a slight nod.


“Good, Skip,” George said, “Thanks for asking.” He shrugged his right shoulder slightly in a circular motion, and the older man sat down, and looked George straight in the eye.


“Now you look here, son,” Coach Patterson said somberly. “I don't want you to lie to me—I demand, as your coach, that you be as honest as you ever would be. I don't care if that means you pretend I'm your mother—but you better not lie to me.”


George only nodded, knowing what was coming.


“George,” the coach said, beginning a lecture, “I don't want you playing in today's game if that separated shoulder isn't one hundred percent. You got that? Your future is more important than anyone else's on the team, and I don't want you busting what could be a great baseball career because you think we need you.”


“Yes, mother,” George said gloomily, yet with a devilish grin. He looked up at his coach, and said, “Now can you get me a Coke from the fridge?”


Coach Patterson chuckled slightly, and patted his star high school stud on his right shoulder, gently.


George winced, and then tried to cover it up immediately, pretending that a mosquito had gotten into his eyes.


When he opened his eyes to see if the maneuver had been successful, he saw Coach Patterson with his great big old eyes, staring right into him. George couldn't help but look away sheepishly. It always felt as if the elderly gentleman was staring directly into his soul whenever he flashed that glance, and it had always made George very uncomfortable.


“Now listen here, kid.” Coach Patterson said, barely more than a raspy whisper. “I don't want you playing if you're in any pain at all. I want to make that absolutely clear. If....if you hurt yourself in tonight's championship game, I...I won't be able to blame anyone but myself.”


“Coach, my shoulder's fine!” George protested.


“Don't cut me that bull****, George!” His coach yelled, swinging his arm across his body as if to imitate a sweeping motion, as if he was moving the lies aside. “I know when you're happy, I know when you're upset, and God knows I can tell when you're in some goddamned pain. Hell, I've known you since the first day you ever picked up a baseball and a glove, and I was the one who's taught you everything you've ever known about this game. So don't spoil all my hard work, you stupid goddamned airhead.”


George gulped once more, before saying slowly, “But Coach, I'm fine.”


His coach growled venomously at him, obviously more concerned with George's well-being than the boy himself was.


“Listen, kid,” Coach Patterson said, rising up in a fury. “I don't want you playing out there tonight. I'm scratching your name off that roster right now, you got that?”


“No!” George yelled, rising up himself to maintain an even balance in the argument with his mentor. “Listen, Skip...why don't you just let me warm up in the pen, and I'll see how it feels, OK? I'll—I'll be as honest as you want me to, Coach. I just want to play. This is the last game I'll ever play with these guys—I grew up with this team. I've won with this team, I've lost with this team, and you better believe I'm gonna play with this team, at least this once more. They're my brothers, Coach—don't turn me away from my brothers.”


George let a single tear drop from his left eye. George had always been somewhat of a master at manipulation situations, and had always had a knack for selling a story so well, that people's emotions ran more freely than they would have liked them to.


“Alright, George,” Coach Patterson finally said grudgingly. “I'll let you play.”


George made a slight fist-pump once he had fully turned his back, and was halfway out of the dugout with his mitt tucked underneath his arm before Coach Patterson stopped him once more.


“Hey, George!” He called. “One last thing.”


“Yep, Skipper?” George said, chewing on a piece of bubble gum now.


“You should consider yourself damn lucky if I let you pitch for more than three innings, you got that?”


George laughed, and said, “Alright, old coot. Thanks for caring, I guess.”


Coach Patterson wore a face of mock rage, and reached over the dugout fence and grabbed George by the collar of his jersey.


“Come here!” He said, playfully whacking his pitching prodigy on the forehead. “I'll give you 'Old coot'.”


And as George proceeded to take a playful beating from his lifelong coach, he couldn't help but let the thought sink in.


This will be the last time I'll ever play for him.

[shinderhizzle84]

After George had warmed up in the pen for a bit, both he and Coach Patterson had determined that he was fit and ready to start the game for his Arizona High School Baseball team.


Both teams were called to lineup along the infield foul lines, with the home team (George's Tuscon-city school) and the away team, who was a team that hailed from Phoenix.


“Ladies and Gentlemen,” the PA Announcer said to the couple hundred people who had come out to show their support for their high school teams, “Welcome to the Arizona High School Baseball State Championships of 2008. Tonight's game will be between the Tuscon Braves and the Phoenix Tigers. Please remove any hats or caps, and stand at attention for the singing of the national anthem.”


All the ball players, including George, removed their caps and placed them near their chests while keeping their spare hand held limply at their sides. They couldn't hide their nervousness as much as they wanted to, and occasionally opposing team players could be found staring into each other's eyes, attempting to see which team really was more nervous.


George, however, smiled brightly, for there was nowhere else he'd rather be. He glanced in the stands, looking around for his parents.


However, the stadium was quite large, and it was difficult to see most people's faces, aside from those sitting in the few front rows behind the plate.


George glanced in that direction, only sub-consciously singing the words to the Star Spangled Banner under his breath.


He didn't see much, but a few things caught his eye.


Scouts.


He wouldn't have known what to look for regularly, as most scouts liked to hide their identities in fear that their appearances would make their desired player too nervous or edgy, and he would not impress them as well as they'd like. Or even the fact that the desired player may try and show off, or play extra hard ; the scouts want a ballplayer they can depend on to play hard in every game—not just games they know mean something.


But there were two men, obviously scouts, or so George was led to believe.


There, in the front center row directly behind the home plate, were two men, deeply engaged in conversation. One man was almost completely decked out in dark red, a red so deep it was nearly maroon.


Near the left chest of his shirt was a tiny, curly little “D” -- Diamondbacks.


Oh ****..George thought.


This was it, wasn't it?


George had dreamed all of his life, ever since the team had been created, of playing one day, under the bright lights at a gorgeous, MLB-sized stadium, wearing a D-Backs uniform. Ever since he could remember, his life aspiration was to pitch the D-Backs to their first World Series.


And when the D-Backs had won their first world series, George was not let down at all. Instead, he simply modified his life's goal, saying, “Don't worry. I'll win the D-Backs their second world series, and their third world series, as well as their fourth. I'll be the most famous Arizona Diamondback in franchise history.”


Many would laugh sarcastically, others would lead him on with what they thought would be false hopes, and little white lies to try and “be nice” to a small child.


Yet George had known, since he was a boy, that he would play for the Diamondbacks. Nothing would stop him.


He glanced down at his right shoulder, dusting some muck off with his free hand.


That's right.


Nothing would stop him.

[Rexis]

great start

[shinderhizzle84]

It was getting late into the night, yet George Monroe had pitched well more than the 3 innings Coach Patterson had originally alloted to him.


Who could deny the results? It was the top of the eighth, and the Phoenix Tigers were simply 4 outs away from losing the State Championships, 4-1.


George had only allowed a single hit throughout the entire game, and even then, the hit was on a fielding mistake by his shortstop. Not that he was angry with his shortstop. In fact, far from it. George Monroe tried his best to savor every last minute, every last drop of time, that he had left with his team, with his “brothers”.


The final out had been made, and George slowly trotted back to his team's dugout, a grin on his face, nodding appreciatively to his teammates every now and then.


He got back to the dugout and was welcomed warmly, with high-fives and hugs all over the place.


The Tuscon Braves knew they were going to win.


And nothing was going to go wrong.


Or so they thought.


The Braves went 3-and-out in the bottom of the eighth, and out came George Monroe and the rest of the Braves' defensive unit in an attempt to close out the game, and win the school's first baseball state championship in over 23 years.


“Hey Georgie,” Coach Patterson called him back over to the dugout before he had fully made his way to the mound.


“Yeah, Coach?” George said, spitting out some bubble gum and popping in a new, fresh piece.


“Do me a favor, and go easy on your arm this inning. I just want to make sure, OK? Something doesn't feel right...”


“Yeah, sure Coach,” George said, half-rolling his eyes in sarcasm. “Whatever.”


“I'm serious boy,” Patterson said, his voice getting deeper, now, with added stress.


“Ok, Ok!” George protested, and he turned back towards the mound and trotted out to take his warmup pitches.


He eyed his catcher venomously from 45 feet away, and chose his pitch from the many signs his old friend gave him.


He wind up, and fired with about half of his strength.


The pitch slowly sailed into the ballplayer's mitt, and his friend spit out some sunflower seeds before tossing the ball back to George, at what seemed was the equally slow pace.


Forget this, George thought, frowning at what his coach had asked of him.


He geared up for warmup pitch number two, and wound up, and fired a fastball right into the middle of the imaginary zone. His catcher grinned, as if to say that's more like it, and George nodded emphatically as he raised his left arm, which bore his mitt, to catch the ball his catcher had tossed back at him.


He caught the ball easily, and transferred it to his empty right palm, before placing it in a death grip, and tucking his arm slightly behind his back.


All of a sudden, a huge bolt of pain surged up and through his entire upper arm, coursing all the way to his shoulder.


“****!” He yelled, falling to the ground and writing around on the mound in pure pain.


Coach Patterson and the rest of the team ran out of their respective positions in a hurry, and Coach Patterson was the first to reach his star ace.


“What happened, kid?” Patterson asked George, knelt over the tall, lithe boy. He tore the sleeve off of George's uniform and felt his hand around George's upper arm.


George's entire body seemed to be throbbing with pure pain, and he was unable to hold back the tears.


“Threw...too hard!” George finally blurted out through gritted teeth.


His Coach gave him a patronizing look, at first, but it was quickly gone, replaced by a look more suitable to a concerned parent. That one second of admonishment, however, was too much for George, and with a grunt, he lifted himself up as best as he could, and bent over to grab the ball with his injured arm, to prove to everyone he was fine.


However, he was once again plagued by the immense pain coarsing throughout his upper arm, and he fell to his knees, unable to withstand it.


“Please,” He grunted. “Help me!”


Coach Patterson was about three-fourths the size of his player, yet it seemed as if he had no trouble at all lugging up the eighteen year old and carrying him off the field like a baby.


He was lay down horizontally across the bench in the dugout, and simply lay there, like a rag-doll, unable to do a single thing, except moan and writhe in pure pain.


It was to his inner turmoil that he was forced to bear witness to his team's collapse.


The last thing he remembered before falling asleep, due to the painkillers, was the loud CRACK! Of a bat meeting a ball, and the roar of an away team crowd as the Phoenix Tigers' star hitter rounded the bases after hitting a 2-out grand slam.


The Braves never finished off what they started, and lost the game with a final score of 5-4.


The next day, before his doctor's appointment, George Monroe simply lay in his bed, unable to muster the willpower, or the energy, to face a new day, a new chapter in his life.


It's over... he thought miserably.


We could have won.


And it's all my fault.

[rdnk]

So, does this mean the NCAAF 10' BAP is dead?

[shinderhizzle84]

Quote: Originally Posted by rexis

great start

thanks bro, really apprecaite that. You've got a great dynasty going.

Yeah, I like doing dynasties, my Chisox dynasty has been loads of fun so far. They're very low maintenance, that is, unless you use HTML tables that you've made yourself, or photoshop--god, that's tough, haha lmfao.

But I've always been drawn to writing storylines and such. Whether it's a BAP, or an RTTS, or a Top Spin 2 career (which i Haven't done yet, haha lool) I enjoy creating characters and breathing life and soul into them. Some thing I'm good at it, too, haha.

[shinderhizzle84]

Quote: Originally Posted by rdnk

So, does this mean the NCAAF 10' BAP is dead?

nah, it's not "dead". I just won't be updating it as much. It's kind of hard for me to get into that career, at least, it has been so far, because although I enjoy football, I simply don't enjoy it as much as hockey, or even baseball.

[shinderhizzle84]

George's mother had finally managed to get her large son out of his bed, into the car, and headed towards the local hospital, where he was set to have a thorough examination of every single muscle in his arm.


They finally arrived at the place, and, after finding parking and being forced to wait in a tiny waiting room for what seemed like an eternity, they finally found themselves sitting in a tiny, all-white examination room, with George being robed in a hospital gown that was a good five or six inches too short for him.


The doctor came in, and looked over his charts once more before shaking both George's hand and that of his concerned mother's.


“How you folks doing, besides from one of ya being in pain?” He joked, laughing slightly.

Neither patient found the attempt at humor amusing, however, and the doctor soon shut up, slightly humiliated and put-off by the lack of positive reception to his joke.


“Doctor, we're really worried,” George's mother said, clutching George by the arm.


She tugged on him too hard, however, and he winced out loud, making it clear she was hurting his bad arm.


“Sorry...” she mumbled before letting go of her son and sitting primly in her own seat.


“Well, from what the both of you have described, it sounds like we're going to have to take an MRI. Would you please follow me?”


Both son and mother nodded their agreement, and trailed the middle-aged doctor out of the examination room, through a few deserted hospital hallways, and through a pair of light-wooden double doors, before they were greeted with an overly-large MRI machine and two doctors sitting inside a small, enclosed space behind some dry wall and a glass window. MRI Specialists.


“Lie down,” the doctor instructed to George, who willingly obeyed, lying with his head closest to the open monster that was the MRI machine.


“OK, George,” said a crisp, cool woman's voice from over him. He noticed a small speaker built into the MRI machine, placed directly over his head.


“Can you hear me?”


“Uh, Yes,” George said, unsure where to talk.


“Don't worry, George, you're doing great,” the voice said to him encouragingly.


“But I haven't done anything yet,” He mumbled.


The voice laughed, then, and said, “My, are you always this sharp?”


George grumbled an inaudible reply, and the voice lay silent for just a moment.


“OK,” The voice said, now the deeper, more masculine voice he recognized as belonging to his doctor. “Now, you'll see a diagram above your head light up and change colors. When it shows a green man with some squiggly lines that look like they're coming from the region near his mouth, you can breathe, but only nice and slow, OK?”


“OK,” George muttered.


“Good. But when you see an orange diagram that looks like it's the same thing, but with a large circle with a cross placed over it, you may not breath, at all.”


George frowned and scratched his head.


“It's OK,” the cool female voice said, now having obviously taken over her original position. “The most you'll be holding your breath will only be for about seven to ten seconds, so it shouldn't be too bad.”


George only nodded while he muttered a soft affirmative.


“Good. Oh, and also, once you're inside the machine, please try and refrain from any movements whatsoever. Twitching your nose will be about the largest movement you can make, OK?”


“Yeah, sure,” George said. “Can we just get on with this?”


“Okedoke,” the cool voice said once more.


All of a sudden, George felt himself being moved, as if he was luggage on a conveyor belt, inside the gaping jaw of the machine, head-first.


He heard a loud clicking noise, and saw the green light appear.


He took his last breaths as slowly and deeply as he could, savoring each and every one of them, before the countdown in green ended, and the orange light went on.


BA-SHOOMP, BA-SHOOMP, BA-SHOOMP.


The machine was incredibly noisy, and George himself had been slightly gripped with fear. Was the machine broken?


All of a sudden, the green light went on once more, and he let out a breath of relief, as the loud noise had seemingly ceased to exist when the green light came on.


However, that thought was too short-lived, as the orange light came on once again.


BA-SHOOMP, BA-SHOOMP, BA-SHOOMP.


The noise seemed even louder this time, yet George still did his best to maintain his cool, and try and keep himself as collected as possible.


Finally, both the orange light and the clunking died out together, and he was slowly pulled back out of the MRI Machine, and realized that he was once again out in the open air.


“Thanks a bunch for being a trooper, George,” the female voice said once more. “You can get up now, and we'll have the results for you in about twenty minutes. Please leave your gown here, and put on your regular dayclothes.”


George went behind an impromptu curtain and pulled the gown over his head, and then took his time putting on each item of clothing, treating his right arm gingerly.


Finally, him and his mother were waiting in the designated room, too nervous to talk to one another.


After another eternity, a familiar face—that of his doctor's—came into the room, looking over the test results one last time before looking into the faces of his patients.


This time, however, his aspect was not one of humor and joy, but of nervousness, anxiety, and distraught.


“What's wrong, Doctor?” His mother asked worriedly, having seen the look on the man's face. She rose up out of her chair, and placed her hand directly over her mouth.


“Well, George,” the doctor began. “I need to ask you a question, first. Are you really dedicated to getting a pro career in baseball?”


“YES!” George nearly yelled.


“Are you sure?”

“YES!”


“Well, son, you're going to need a ****load of rehabilitation. You've got a torn labrum. But it's not like any other tear I've ever seen. It's bad, kid—it's real bad. Whatever you did that day may just ruin your career in the end.”


George put his heads in his hands, unable to look at the world around him, which had changed to him in such a drastic fashion.



“You're going to have to work with me every day, every minute of the next year, if you even want to have a slight fraction of the MLB career you were destined to have.”


“Sure thing, Doc,” George said solemnly. “I'll do whatever it takes.”


“That's good to hear, kid,” The doctor said, smiling sadly. “The first thing I'm going to recommend is to get that upper arm in a splint. The next thing, and George, I want your WORD on this, you got me?”


George nodded.


“You've got to PROMISE me that you won't even do so much as TOUCH anything sports related for at least a year. I don't care if there are scouts that want you to run practices, or drills, or whatever. If you want to be able to get past the opening sprints without writhing on the ground in pain, you better swear to this, or else.”


George took a moment to summon up the courage to look up directly into the eyes of his doctor.


“Yes, Doc. I promise.”