a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:48 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

My wristwatch said the time was 12:01 AM, but he still wasn't here. I was seriously hoping this wasn't just a way for him to get out of his...previous predicament.
Just as I thought this, however, the man appeared, and sat down next to me, looking very nervous. He wore a dark suit, that very well suited “clubbing”.
He wasn't an older man, in fact, he looked to be a mere 4 or 5 years older than I—around 25.
He sat down, ordered a drink, and began to talk.
“You are recording this all?” he asked me.
“Yes,” I replied, eager to get the story underway.
“Very good.” He took a long draught of fresh air, and then began to tell his legacy.

“My name is Mitch Random, I am 18 years old, and I was raised in New York City. I've lived here all of my life, albeit not in the best living conditions. My mother was a severe alcoholic, and was also jobless, while my father had died on an overdose of illegal drugs when I was 3 and a half. My mother had 9 kids with him—I was the youngest. Of those 9 kids, I am the only survivor. All of my brothers and sisters have died long ago, three in a fire that they made while they were too drunk, and the other 5 of various drug or alcohol abusing related deaths. I have always been clean, and have always tried to get the best grades in my education as possible. But that wasn't good enough. I was never born very bright. I believe that through hard work and hard study in school, you can do pretty good, but you can't excel—not like those really smart kids that go to college. They're born smart, or at least born into a smart family.
I didn't have anybody to help me. When I was 18, I graduated, and got a job in a factory.
For the next 6 months of my life, I worked incredibly hard, harder than I've ever worked in my entire life. I made a couple of friends on the job, and then a couple of enemies, as well. One of the enemies I had at work was dangerous—but I didn't know that at the time.
His name was Bill, and he was the foreman in the factory. They said he was an ex-convict, and had been to jail seven times—each time for a different rape and murder case. He had also gotten proclaimed innocent on 4 others, but there were rumors that he had bribed—or threatened—the jurors. Either way, he didn't like me—I guess it's because I kept on getting promoted—but soon enough, one day, I took his job from him. The boss talked to him in the office, and when he got out, and saw me working, in his spot, he decided it was time to go to jail again. He tore at me with every ounce in his body. I was badly wounded, and I tried to fight back. But it was no use. He had his hands around my throat soon enough, and slowly but surely, I was dying. I passed out for a couple of seconds—and then I came back to excruciating pain as my lungs began to burst. And then, all of a sudden, all I could see was—bright light.
Now, I know what you're thinking of—those old horror stories where they all say dramatically, “stay away from the light!” I couldn't exactly stay away—the ground was light, the sky was light—everything around me was bright white light! I began crying—crying and screaming—and all of a sudden, I felt as if I had just woken up out of a very deep sleep.

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:49 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

I felt around, and realized I was lying in a large field of corn. I was shocked and perplexed. Why was I here? Was this heaven?

All of a sudden, I heard sirens. I looked up, trying to get a good view of what crime was going on, trying to get a feel for my new surroundings. I saw five police officers, and dogs—bloody dogs—running up off the nearby street and into the field. All of a sudden, I looked an officer in the eye, and he spoke into his handheld radio and pointed right at me.

Then he began to chase me. Of course, I naturally began to ran. When five cops and large dogs come sprinting at you from all directions, it is only a natural reaction to run for your life.

They were too fast for me, however, and they tackled me to the ground, putting flimsy metal handcuffs on me. They laughed, and one of the men in the background said, “nice football tackle, Larry.”
I happened to be more curious about the word “football” than I was about where I was, and what I was doing. The entire ride back to the police station, I pondered on what football could mean, but my pondering was to no avail, as I arrived, and was thrown into a small, metal room for questioning.
It was there that I met the girl of my dreams—and boy, did she hate me! Her name was Rebeccah, and she was absolutely stunning. She talked with a slight midwestern accent, and she was tall, skinny, and had dark brown hair and dark brown eyes. Her eyes were so deep, I thought I could swim in them—that is, if I had known how to swim.

She sat down in front of me, and said, “Let's see here—caught in the act of theft, check. Caught in the act of trespassing, check. Caught in the act of erratic public behavior, check. And, to top it all off—we've never seen anyone like you.”

“What does football mean?” I replied. Not a great way to start one's relationship, but whatever, she accused me first.
“Stop playing games!” she snapped at me. “You ate an entire harvest worth of corn!! This town is ruined! That's the last corn farm left in town, and that farm right there is the only reason that we're still on the map. We rake in so much cash through that one little farm, and you just ate the whole goddarned thing! If you were really that hungry, why on Earth wouldn't you have just gone out to Stacie's and bought something to eat? You're not dressed like a homeless man.”

I hadn't the first idea who Stacie was, and I didn't remember eating that much corn. All I could pay attention to was the now-constant rumbling in my stomach. I guess I must've eating a lot of corn.
I had to go the bathroom—badly. So I just came up with the first excuse I could find.
“When I was younger, I used to sleepwalk when I had a lot of tension in my life. I guess I didn't know it, but I have a lot of tension in my life.”
Rebeccah looked over her charts of information on the scene of my crime, and said,
“Well, it does look like you were caught lying down in the field with sleep in your eyes. And the two cops who drove you here claim you were yawning constantly. But this doesn't mean you're off the hook. We're going to have to keep you here the next couple of days to make sure nothing more happens with your...sleep walking. We're going to get a case going in about a week—don't try anything foolish, or else the officers here will open fire. They're all pretty upset that you've destroyed most of their food.”
All I did was smile as I watched her get up and head out the door. But just before she opened the door, I said, “Rebeccah—where are we?”
She turned around and looked at me as if I were pulling a trick on her. But then she replied, calmly and cooly, “Pilot Grove, Missouri.”
I almost loosed my bowels right then and there. But I had enough wills to ask, “and...what is the date today?”
“Uh, today's a Tuesday...that'd be March 4th, 2009.”
I reeled. I couldn't believe it.
“You're lying!” I questioned her.
She looked at me like I was crazy, and said, “I'm glad you're staying here for the night. You're so crazy it'd be foolish not to watch you like a hawk for the next few nights.”
An officer came in and led me back into my plain, white, boring cell, and I lay down on my plain, white, uncomfortable concrete bed, and went to sleep from sheer shock.

The next morning, I woke up when the sun began to shine in through my cell's caged window. At least I had one, I thought, half joking, half depressed.

That's when I realized that I was still in this—this world! I wasn't back in the hands of Bill, spending my last few moments dying by his hands as my lungs slowly started to fold from the lack of oxygen I was giving them. I cried with partial relief and partial sadness, because although I was glad I wasn't dying (for now), I was upset that I was in a land so unreachable from my own, and I knew nothing that these people did, and I knew no one, and for the first time in all of my life, I was truly, utterly, alone.

Alone.

In my cell.

Just me.

I cried.

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:50 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

The very next day was the worst day of my life. Three square meals a day, all spread out 6 hours, completely evenly. It just wasn't fair! I shouldn't have had to suffer like this for being almost-killed.

Luckily for me, Rebeccah already liked me (I have a way with the ladies), so she set up something they called a “television” in my cell so I wouldn't get too bored, or “lonely”, according to the way she described it to the chief.

As I was eating my last square, disgusting meal of the day, I began watching the local news. Something about a murder, a new driving law, all trash.

But then, I managed to see a way out of this hole.

The anchorwoman, a pretty blonde, said, “The local Springfield Cardinals are having open tryouts to the public of Missori. They are currently looking for a number of pitching prospects to fill the holes that have just been made by two of their pitchers, one who was convicted of murder, the other who broke the new driving law mentioned before. Any resident of Missouri may come to this open event to try out. Tryouts will take place tomorrow at noon, and will most likely last all day long. Any who wish to join the event need only to simply show up and fill out a simple registration form.”

I shut off the television, a plan slowly hatching in my head. There was a secret about me that nobody knew, not even my own friends and most of my family, that I could use to an advantage in this scenario. I went to bed that night, knowing I would need my rest, and because it was to be my final night in that dingy, horrible cell.

I woke up the next morning, croaking, whining, and screaming like a 3 year old. The guard immediately went out to get Rebeccah. She ran into the room, a look of small panic on her eyes, and when she came into the room and saw my state, she told the guard to get out and guard the door.

She opened my cell, and came over to me.

“What's wrong?” she asked.

I began to sob, again, like a three year old.

Dramatically controlling myself, I said, “It's just that, ever since I've been a little boy, I've always dreamed of being a...pitcher. And now the Springfield Cardinals are having open tryouts, and I can't be there, because I'm...here!” I begin to wail once more, and she had to shush me down as if I was some little kid. I inwardly grinned at my fantastic acting skills. Or maybe she was just stupid....

“Don't worry,” she said. “If it means that much to you, I'll drive you down there in the patrol car. You can bet that some of these officers are dying to get you out of their hair, anyways. See? It all works out!”

“It..it does?” I looked up at her with big, puppydog eyes. She ruffled my hair, and I smiled goofily. I couldn't believe how stupid she was, despite her good looks.

“Yes. It does.”

We left the police station in an hour, and drove for 3 and a half hours nonstop, passing farm after farm after farm, until finally, we saw a sign that would change my alternate life forever: WELCOME TO HAMMONDS FIELD.

We pulled into the parking lot, and I saw tons of other people, of all different sizes, ages, and skin colors, wearing funny looking uniforms with high socks, carrying around large wooden sticks, and large leather mittens over these sticks. I looked at myself: ripped, white t-shirt, dirty and torn baggy jeans, and white sneakers. No wooden stick. No mittens. No high socks. I was doomed!

Nevertheless, I knew that this was my one chance at freedom: nobody knew who I was, and I was so different from the rest of the world that the judge was sure to lock me in an insane asylum for good. I walked, and I felt, heard and saw people staring at me. Judging me. Laughing at me. Snickering, behind my back. My face reddened, but my legs did not falter. Onwards I went, through the crowds, until I was at the registration desk. I leaned over, put on my meanest tone, and said, “Hello. My name is Mitch Random. And I'm your new pitcher.”

The man at the desk was an older man, decked out completely in Springfield Cardinals attire. He had an aging face, and white grey hair. Nevertheless, he had an aura of command unlike any I had seen here so far.

“My name's Ron Warner, but everyone just calls me Pop. You think you've got what it takes, kid? Alright. Buster's on the mound right now, but you can watch him over in the other field, and see what you've got that he doesn't, or vice versa. And then you can go right after that.”

I nodded, and he led me over to the other field.

“One other thing, Pop.”

Pop looked up inquisitively.

“I don't have any equipment.”

“Ah, yes. Don't worry about that, Buster's using some used bats and gloves, too. He'll give his up to you right after he's done.”

I sagged with relief, and parked myself over to the nearest bench. Rebeccah was right behind me.

“Are you sure you know what you're doing?” she whispered nervously in my ear.

The hilarious truth was that I did not, in fact, know what I was doing. But I had to keep everyone fooled, so I nodded calmly.

“This guy looks pretty good,” she breathed, obviously in awe.

I watched the tall and skinny Buster over on the mound. He made a long, drawn out, windup, and threw the white ball about 45 feet, into another man's mitt, who was standing above a pentagonal white plate, that apparently was called “home”.

Another man, standing to the side of the catcher, was wearing a hard-plastic helmet, and holding one of those long wooden “bats”. He swung, and missed—badly. There was a fourth man, standing very far behind the man holding the bat, holding what looked like a gun. He read the back of the gun, and proclaimed, “97 Miles Per Hour! Jesus, kid. You're good!”

The kid just picked his nose, and said, “Aw, shucks, sir. You're too kind.”

“Now,” said the man reading the gun. “Let me see your curveball.”

“Duhh.....” Buster said. “I don't know how to!”

The man reading the gun came over and said, “grip the ball with your fingers across the widest parts of the seams—yes, like that! Now, when you throw it, make sure the palm of your hand is facing first-base.”

I watched with interest, as the older man holding the gun stepped back to his former position, held the gun at the ready, and Buster wound up once more, only the ball went very high up in the air, and slowly but surely, made it's way across the plate, landing right at waist level of the batter. The batter swung his bat through, and the ball soared all the way out to deep left field, and the batter's friends surrounding him all shouted out, “home run!” in ecstasy. The batter smiled.

The man holding the gun made a dissapointed sound, and said, “Only 37 Miles an hour, kid. You've got great stuff, kid. Come back next year, and work on that curveball a bit more.”

The great oaf walked off the field. I walked up to get the equipment from him, and he reluctantly gave it to me.

“What makes you think you're any better than me?” He asked. “I've got the fastest 4 seamer in all the state! I'm gunna watch you, and then I'm gunna laugh at you when that batter over there hits every one of your pitches.”

I walked up to the mound, with the glove on my left hand. The man holding the gun gave me the ball, and said, “Look, kid. You're the last man trying out today. We haven't found a single person to fill the hole up with. Management up top, over in the big leagues isn't giving us any new players yet. We need to have our roster filled out real soon, otherwise it may be too late. Give us a good show, and you might just be looking at some good pay for the year, doing what you love most.”

If I was doing what I love most, I thought to myself, I would be thinking of ways to kill Bill for trying to kill me!

Nevertheless, I eyed the guy who was catching my pitches. He put his mit directly over the plate, but at the batter's knee level. I wound up, not knowing what the hell I was doing, and exerted all of my force from the back of my body, to the front, putting all of my body's power behind the pitch. I brought my arm down a little bit to the side of my head, kind of on a diagonal, and let it fly.

I blinked, and the catcher was holding onto it. The coach looked amazed. “Kid....I didn't know you could through a running fastball! That was 90 MPH on a running fastball!”

I grinned sheepishly, inwardly shocked that I had just done that.

“What else have you got?” the coach asked, almost begging.

I recalled what the coach had said about the curveball. I put my Index and Middle finger across the widest part of the seams, and did the same thing as before, not slowing down my arm motion at all. The pitch whirled across the plate, and the coach came out again.

“Great slider, kid! 82 miles an hour!”

I chuckled and said, “that may be, coach. But I was trying to throw a curveball!”

The coach laughed too, then, and said, “You must've had your fingers a bit off-center from the seams. That's the difference between a slider and a curveball. But do me a favor, kid. Stick with that slider—you've got plenty of nice break with it, and you had almost pinpoint accuracy! Do me a favor—show me a changeup!”

I looked at him quizically. He took my right hand in his, and explained to me how to throw a changeup, going through the finger grips and throwing motions with my hand and arm.

When I thought I had it nailed, he walked away. I took a deep breath, looked at my target hard, and wound up. I couldn't help it—I was nervous.

I let the change-up soar from my arm, and the ball, once more, landed perfectly in the catcher's mitt. The batter flailed at the ball once again, but severely missed.

The pitching coach clapped his lands and laughed loudly, in apparent delight.

“Kid!” he boomed. “You've got what it takes! Welcome to the team!”

I let loose a broad grin, and shook hands with him, thanking him. I turned around, walking cooly off the mound. When I passed Buster, I thrust the equipment into his hands.

“Here you go,” I said. “I won't be needing this crappy mitt anymore—I'm getting one officially from the Springfield Cardinals.”

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:51 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

I have to let you in on a little secret about why I was such an effective pitcher, even if it was my first time.

You see, when I was born, I was born with no arms. My mother drank a special beverage when I was pregnant that has a high rate of giving birth defects, and I came out with no arms. Kind of scary, I know. Either way, the doctor managed to make some arms for me, that were created entirely from synthetic materials. However, they had a flaw—or rather, a bonus—there were certain muscles and ligaments in my arms that were at least 10 times stronger than the average human being's arms. This is why I was able to pitch with such high success without any proper training.

Either way, I have something to show you. I have a journal, here, that I took, of all the interesting games that I played during my time in baseball, and of some occasional side stories. I jotted down things from my day, my favorite plays of the games, and just some general baseball statistics of mine. Either way, I think it's important for you all to know what happened when I was down there.

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:51 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

I spent the next couple of weeks becoming more associated with the team. I got new, shiny equipment, yes, but for some reason, baseball began to mean something much more than the simple means of an escape. Speaking of which, the Cardinals managed to get me a full pardon for my “crime”. It turns out that the judge was a huge Sprinfield Cardinals fan, and when they told him that I could help the team win, he immediately signed the pardon. But yes, the sport of baseball was no longer means of an escape—it soon turned out that, with enough practice, I was actually kind of liking it. Now, don't get me wrong, I knew to be sensible enough not to like it too much. I still could've been transported back to my time in a heartbeat. But still, I enjoyed waking up early in the morning, the fresh small of newly mowed lawn, and the dirt crunching against my cleats.

When I wasn't practicing pitching, hitting, and fielding, I spent a lot of time on what they called the “internet”, looking up rules and common slang for baseball. Also, I decided it would be worthwhile to look up pitching advice, such as good places to throw certain pitches.

Sooner or later, the month of March was over, and the season was about to begin. The whole team had gathered in the locker room on opening day to hear one of Pop's “famous” pre-game speeches.

“Now look here, guys,” Pop began. “You've all shown tremendous progress in the past couple of months. We should easily beat these guys. I want you all to go out there, and give it all you've got. It's our opening day, and we're lucky enough to have it at home. So, do me a favor, guys...win it for the fans.”

We all shouted our agreement, and put our hands in. On “3”, we all shouted as loud as we could, “Cardinals!”. Now, I was absolutely perplexed. What exactly was the point of that stupid chant? Did they believe, that in their religion (whatever exactly the religion of this time period was), chanting like that would guard away the spirits or something? I was so curious, I felt the necessity to ask somebody. But, of course, I decided to wait until the next time I saw Rebeccah, because I didn't want to look like a fraud.

We all marched out to thunderous applause and loud, anthemic music. I felt a flood of emotions as I made my first steps onto a professional stadium, and ran all the way out...to the bullpen.

When I had first heard Pop's decision to keep me there, I was devastated. I knew how much better I was than these other Starting Pitchers, yet here he was, calmly and coolly telling me to sit out, not knowing when, if ever, I was going to be put in! Like I said, I was devastated.

The game progressed quite boringly. We had hit a leadoff homerun in the beginning of the game to make it 1-0, but in the top of the third, they had come right back, the batter hitting a 2 out double RBI triple to make it 2-1. From then on, no more scoring had commenced. That, is, until the top of the 8^th.

We were down by 1, until, with 1 out, and a runner on 2^nd, the little tiny phone in the bullpen started to ring ferociously.

The bullpen coach got up of his chair, albeit slowly, and answered the phone.

“Uh huh. Yep. Yea. Uh huh. WHAT!?” Everyone looked at him, eager to be the next one in.

“Alright, Skip, I'm sorry about that. I'll let him know, right away.”

The manager hung up the phone, turned his head 90 degrees to look at me. We stared each other in the eyes for a good 3 seconds, and then it hit me before he said it.

“Kid, start warming up. You're going in ASAP.”

I bounced out of my chair, stretching my stiff legs. I was somewhat ecstatic. I couldn't help myself. Like I said, I really liked baseball! All of the other relievers in the pen gave me a mixture of looks. Some were jealous, others seemed overjoyed to see me so enthusiastic. The majority looked down at their shoes, in obvious dismay.

After throwing a couple of pitches with the bullpen catches to loosen up, I took a step back, onto the mound, to get my full distance. This is where I began to throw with my full force. Pitch after pitch, I hurdled my body and my energy into my right arm, where the exertion I put into the ball blazed past my fellow relievers, straight into the catcher's mitt.

The phone rang again. I paused in my warm up to see what was going on in the game. Pop was walking out towards the mound. The home crowd roared. With 1 out, there was a man on 1^st, a man on 2^nd, and a man on 3^rd.

The ducks were all on the pond.

And I was going to be the next piece of bread for them to feed on.

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:52 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

The gates opened, unleashing the bull...me. I trotted over to the mound, fighting down the butterflies and nerves that had been the demise of so many other great pitchers over the years.

I got to the mound, and swallowed hard. I was so nervous that my very own saliva tasted like tar mixed with cardboard. I took the ball in my hands, and began to throw my warmups. Fastball....86 MPH, Slider, 80, changeup, 82. My velocity was not what it should be!

Shaking that thought off, I threw three more warmup pitchs before the umpire put his hands out above his head and said, “play ball!”

I swallowed nervously again, and got into my ready stance, eyeing down the batter.

I waited. And waited. And waited.

The catcher gave me a signal. Fastball, low and away? No problem.

I wound up, and once more, I exerted every ounce of muscle that I owned into my right arm, and forced the ball across the plate, right into the catcher's mitt. The ball landed with a silent THHUD, and the umpire turned to his right, stuck his index finger out, and said, “Steerriiike one!”

I smiled. I couldn't help but feel relieved.

I threw the next pitch, a low and away slider, that got the batter looking silly for strike 2.

I was oh so tempted to throw strike three right then and there, but I knew that I couldn't. I gave him a waste pitch, a low and away changeup that dropped out of the zone at the last second.

Now it was time. The catcher called for a low and inside fastball. I wound up, delivered, and throw. I accidentally blinked, but by the time that I opened my eyes, the batter had swung so hard that he had fallen flat on his behind, and was just sitting there, looking dismayed. The umpire turned to his right once more, and punched the air next to him, saying, “Strike 3, HE'S OUTTA HERE!”

The crowd was silent for just a moment. And then they began to roar. It was so loud! It was hard for me to imagine what playing at a stadium like Yankee Stadium must have felt like, having 56,000 people screaming at the top of their lungs.

I was overjoyed, and ecstatic. I couldn't help but give a little fist pump, as a congratulatory celebration for myself. I smiled, and taking the ball back from the catcher, proceeded to work my way through the next batter.

The next batter flied out to shallow left field, ending the inning, and getting us out of the jam, completely unscathed.

I watched the bottom of the 8^th proceed from the dugout. Our first two batters went down swinging on 3 pitches each. Those lousy, good for nothing bums! I had had such a great last inning, and I wasn't about to let these horrible batters ruin my first day.

But finally, something good happened. Our leadoff hitter came up to the plate, in the bottom of the 8^th, with 2 outs, and nobody on base. The very first pitch he had, he crushed with a large CRACK. A high fly ball, deep to left field! We all stood up, slowly watching the progress of the ball, until it soared clear of the left field fence, for a game-tying solo home run!!

We all jumped up and down, screaming like little children, some hugging, others cooly high-fiving. The crowd was just as ecstatic as we were, if not more, and they let us know it, chanting and roaring as the batter slowly trotted the bases with a bright smile on his face.

That would be it, however, for the 8^th inning.

The top of the 9^th came, and I was still on the mound. I now had the chance to get the win for this game.

Yet as I warmed up, I wasn't thinking about the win, and I wasn't thinking about the next batter to come—their cleanup man—Instead, I was just thinking about how happy Rebeccah would be when she found out how well I had done today. That is, if I ever spoke to her again.

The large, beast-like cleanup hitter came up to the plate, as the umpire once again yelled, “play ball!”

He took a couple of practice swings, and then we began the ever-intimate duel that was “the staredown”.

We must've stared at each other for a good five minutes, but in the end, I had won, because the batter called time out, stepping out the batter's box, taking a few more practice cuts, breathing deeply. I walked nonchalantly around the mound, kicking the occasional speck of dirt, lifting up the sandbag, tossing it a couple times.

When I turned once more to face the batter, he had a look of determination in his eyes that was unlike any I had ever seen in my entire life.

Now it was my turn to be nervous.

Fighting down the nerves as best as I could, I saw the catcher signal for a low and away changeup. I nodded my head in agreement, and began my wind up once again.

The changeup blew past the batter, and he took it, for an easy strike.

Except it was called a ball.

“Oh come on, Ump, you've got to be kidding me!” I yelled.

“Argue with me again, and you're going to be kicked out of the game, kid,” he replied back in a defensive tone.

I muttered to myself something about the call being a particular animal's feces, but took the ball back from the catcher, who came out to meet me halfway, and said, “don't worry about it, Mitch. Just give me a nice and easy fastball, give me a strike, your fielders will back you up, OK?”

I nodded, still frustrated with the umpire.

When the catcher had run back to behind the plate, he signalled for a fastball.

I took one or two seconds to answer, and then shook my head vigorously, disagreeing.

The catcher, once more, got up, and ran over to me, a look of shock and frustration on his unmasked face.

“What the hell, Mitch?” he said. “I thought we agreed on a fastball?”

I shook my head once more. “Slider,” I said. One simple word. Slider.

The catcher looked at me in obvious doubt, as if I was crazy, and said, “Well, alright. But you better know what you're doing, I'm not about to lose this game, especially not with such a dramatic comeback.”

I flashed him a smile, and said, “Trust me.”

The catcher donned his mask once more, and ran out to behind home plate.

He signaled for the Slider, and I nodded my head.

The big brute of a hitter had no idea what had hit him.

He swung blindly, way too early, well before the pitch had even broke, obviously expecting a fastball.

I grinned like a madman, and proceeded to throw the third and fourth pitches of the at-bat, striking him out.

The crowd was wild, and the butterflies that had been flying around in my stomach were now well perched on my organs, enjoying the game and my stellar performance.

The next batter came up, and he swung at the first pitch, a low inside changeup, and weakly grounded out to the second baseman for out number 2.

Then came the third batter of the top of the ninth.

He came up to bat with fear in his eyes, and nervousness in his hands. I easily got him to swing at three pitches that were all well out of the strike zone for a three pitch strikeout.

I came off the field coolly and collected, but I was dying with happiness on the inside.

The bottom of the ninth came, and our first batter chases a fastball well out of the zone, and easily grounded out to the 1^st baseman, who stepped on his own bag for the quick and easy out.

Then came our number 3 batter. They say that in a lineup, a team's best batter should be the number three guy.

Well, this guy had been placed perfectly by Pop, because on the 1^st pitch of the at-bat, my teammate crushed the ball high and deep the other way to right field, all the way back over the fence for a HOME RUN!!

The place went crazy as a small display of fireworks were set off just past the wall in centerfield, and loud heavy rock music played, as the batter jumped, skipped, and hooted all the way around the bases. We all came out to home plate to meet him, and he jumped into the red and white mosh pit, celebrating with us.

When that was done, I managed to catch a glimpse of the pitcher who gave up the homerun, crouched down in the dirty mount, with a look of stricken sorrow on his face. A twinge of pity rushed up inside me, but somebody clapped me on the back, returning me to my euphoria.

It was a reporter! And he wanted to talk to me!

I looked up at the scoreboard, and saw, on the screen, a large closeup of me, looking up like an imbecile, and a much shorter reporter, wearing a brown toupee and a black suit, holding a microphone.

“And we're hear now live with the player of the game, or should I say pitcher, Mitch Random. Mitch, tell me, how did it feel to get the big win in your first appearance in professional baseball?”

“It felt great,” I replied like a pro. “We all played real well throughout the game, and I think we're all hoping that we gave the fans a good reason to go home happy.”

The crowd roared to show their approval of the statement.

“Now, Mitch, I want you to walk us through a couple of plays,” he said. I looked on the scoreboard and saw the replay of what had happened with their clean-up hitter.

I said, “Yeah, well, obviously, I was upset with that first call, but you know, not getting every call is part of being in professional baseball, so I should feel blessed that it got called a ball.” Everyone laughed, and I continued, “then my catcher and I had a talk, and initially we had agreed on a fastball, but I don't know what it was, but somehow I knew he was expecting it. So when I said 'no' to my fastball, we had another talk, and then we agreed on a slider. I don't know how I knew it, like I said, but it ended up working, and then I was able to establish my changeup and finish him off with a fastball for the strikeout.”

The crowd cheered me once again, and the reporter said, “Thanks for your time, Mitchell. Best of luck to you in the rest of the season.”

“Thanks,” I replied as I made my way off the field towards the dugout.

Behind me I heard the reporter yell, “That was Mitch Random, ladies and gentlemen, of the Springfield Cardinals, the mvp of today's home opening game.”

The crowd roared, and I took off my hat, and tipped it upwards towards the bleachers.

I thought I'd remember that day for the rest of my life.

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:53 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

WARNING: THE NEXT CHAPTER HAS MINOR ADULT CONTENT. 11 YEAR OLDS, BEWARE!!!

The month of april flew by like lightning, as I continued my moderate success throughout the month. On April 30^th, I got my second win of the season, coming into the game with a 1 run lead in the bottom of the 7^th, blowing the save, and then winning it through the 10^th inning. My final statistics were pretty good, but I knew that I could've done much better. Through six games played, I had an ERA of 0, which made me excited, but my strikeouts number was a little lower than I initially anticipated, at a dismal 8. I had 2 blown saves, and had allowed 9 hits in 10.2 innings. I also walked 1 batter, which gave me a WHIP of 0.94. Overall, I had a great month of April, but I knew that the only way I would get to the bigs and start getting the real money was to do even better.

My teammates and I partied at the local tavern on the last day of April to celebrate our winning ways. We were 3.5 games ahead in our division, and had one of the best winning percentages in the AA minor leagues.

Either way, I woke up the next morning with a big surprise—and I don't remember how the hell it got there.

Rebeccah, in my apartment, wearing my practice jersey....cooking breakfast. I looked at the alarm clock next to me. 12:01 PM. OK, not breakfast....lunch.

I was shocked. Was I really that charming, even when I was completely wasted?

She didn't notice that I was up yet, so I turned my back to her, and tried to remember the events of last night, pondering what the hell had happened. I thought and I thought, but I couldn't remember.

The apartment soon smelled of the best smell in the world—bacon. That's when I decided that I had pondered enough, and got up to eat.

I sat up, and half-yelled in the best shocked voice I could, “What the hell!?”

She turned around, smiled, and said, “Oh, hey! I'm guessing you want your jersey back.”

She turned around and unbuttoned the jersey, throwing it back at me. It landed right in my face, and when I swiped it off my head, I realized just what exactly had been under my jersey this entire time—nothing.

“Why are you here?” I asked, not at all kindly.

“I'm guessing you don't remember,” she laughed, not returning the menacing tone she had received. She came over to the bed, and began kissing me tenderly. When she was done, she said, “You're pretty charming when you're drunk, you know.”

I laughed, and said, “well I've been known to be very sly. You better be careful, I enjoy stealing the wallets and purses of women that I sleep with overnight.”

She smiled and said, “I made us breakfast.”

We got up, and I looked in the mirror, tossing my messy hair to and fro to look a little neater. It didn't work.

She served the breakfast onto the cheap paper plates that I had stacked in my kitchen drawers, and that's when I realized just how hungry I really was. I shoveled the bacon and eggs down my throat, even though I had a lady present.

She laughed, and, when I was done, asked, “Are you hungry?”

I rolled my eyes at her, and this time we both laughed. I was still awestruck that Rebeccah and I were...well....here.

“Why are you here?” I asked, making sure to be more polite this time.

She gave me a quizzical look, and said, “Well, last night I was at the party, and we ended up coming back here.”

“That's not what I meant,” I replied. “What I meant was, why are you here in Springfield, and not 3 and a half hours away in the middle of the country?”

She looked down at the ground, and all of a sudden she began to sob. I managed to grab a hold of her before she broke something, and hushed her down to a soft, mellow whisper.

“It was awful!” She said. “I had just come home from the station after I had just gotten an armed robber to crack. I was so happy, it was the first big case I had actually completely...” she stared harder at me for emphasis, “solved. When I got home, my house was gone! In flames. My poor dog, dead. My neighbor's yard was completely burnt to a crisp, and I had nowhere to go! The sheriff wouldn't let me stay at the station, and there's no safe hotel in the area.”

She began to wail loudly again, and I calmed her down as best I could.

“There, There,” I said consolingly. “Tell you what. You can stay with me for a little while, at least until you find another place to live.”

At this, her wet face brightly lit up, and she hugged me like a little child, and thanked me over and over again, until I thought the next time I heard the word “thank you” I would vomit.

“Thanks again,” she said. OK, fine. That was an exception.

“Don't worry about it,” I replied, as if it didn't matter.

That's when I realized the only girl I knew in this time period was drop-dead gorgeous, and was sitting in my small studio apartment, completely unclothed.

I grabbed her hand, and she smiled, and kissed me.

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:53 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

The next month couldn't have gone any better for me. First, I get “the girl”. Then, three weeks later at practice, Pop asks if he can have a word with me in his office.

I stepped into the office, anxiously anticipating his next words.

“Take a seat,” he said.

I did, and then said, “What did you want to see me about, Pop?” He was going to give me less appearances because of my recent poor practice outings, I knew it. I just knew it.

Pop leaned back in his chair and said, “Kid, you've been looking real good out there these past couple of practices.”

Something inside of me died from the irony. “Thank you, skip,” I said humbly.

Pop leaned back over his desk, folded his hands, and said, “listen, Kid. You might not have known it now, but the way you've been performing these past two months, you're one of the Cardinal's top pitching prospects system-wide. The management from the MLB wants me to put you in as a starter.” Something else died inside of me, but this time, it was reincarnated into something better and stronger.

“But before I put you into the rotation, I want to know your opinion, kid.”

“M-my opinion?” I managed to stammer back across the desk.

“What are you, deaf? Yeah, kid, your opinion. What do you think of that decision?”

I had to take a second to think things over. God, I could've used a twix bar right there. I knew that if I seemed too eager and too confident in myself, I wouldn't get anywhere, appearing quite egotistical. Yet at the same time, if I didn't show initiative now, I might never end up anywhere close to the Bigs.

“I think,” I said slowly, “that because of Bobby's recent elbow tightness in his pitching arm, a bad case of circumstances forced me into this scenario. I think it may be too early for me to become a full starter. Nevertheless, I have to be one, and I will do my very best, game in and game out, no matter who we're playing, where we're playing, when we're playing, or what the weather's like. I can give my utmost dedication to training harder than ever before to get more stamina, and work on my pitching mechanics to help me get out of tough pressure situations.”

I breathed heavily after that, as if I had just emerged from the bottom of an ocean.

Pop nodded in approval, and put switched my name on the roster.

For the next three days I trained harder than I ever had in my entire life. I even ate healthy, which, if you asked Rebeccah, was a rarity. All of it was for naught.

When I got home from practice, I conveniently had a message on my phone from Pop.

I hit the play button, and heard his wisened voice over the speaker. “Hey, kid. It's Pop. Listen. I know you've been working real hard right now in practices. Your wife even tells me that you've been eating healthy.” I cringed at his assumption. “The point of this message was to inform you, well...that Bobby Marks' elbow's feeling pretty good, so we're taking him off of the day-to-day listing, and putting him back in the full starting rotation. You're going back to bullpen duty. Well, I...uh, hope you enjoy the rest of the day. Don't be late for the bus tomorrow, we're going to Arkansas, and they've been beating us all April. Catch you later, kid.”

The intercom came on and said beeped. A mechanical voice said, “End of message. To replay this message, hit...”

The poor voice never got to finish it's last sentence, because I ripped the phone unit out of the wall, and hurled it across the room, leaving a giant, gaping hole in the drywall.

Breathing heavily once again, I noticed Rebeccah standing behind me, absolutely petrified. I took a step back to inspect the damage I had done.

The hole must have been a good foot in diameter, and revealed a thick pipe that ran vertically through the wall.

“I'll call the contractor right away,” she said, picking up the phone off the ground. Her hands were shaking. She began to dial the number, but I put my hand out, and took the phone from her.

She looked at me, terrified of what I would do with the phone next. She looked at me as if I was a vampire, a monster a.....completely different person.

I paused in my anger.

“Sit,” I told her. Together, we sat on the edge of the bed.

I sighed, and then began. “I want to tell you a story that's very important to me. Just let me finish my story once through, and then you can say all you want, whether you want to complain at me, yell at me, or console me.”

She nodded, and I took that as the “all clear” signal.

“I'm an orphan,” I blurted out. It was partially true. “I remember my parents a little bit. By the time I was seven, they were both dead.”

“I grew up in extreme poverty. My mother was a druggie, and both of my parents were severe alcoholics. My mother, at her lowest moment, killed herself right in front of me. That left me alone with my father.”

“My father was, well...he was quite a madman. There was never a moment in my life where I was proud to call him my father, for he was always drunk. His temper was just terrible. And when he was drunk, which was always, his temper would become magnified by a tenfold.”

“In his rage, he would hit whatever he could find. Sometimes it was a phone, other times it was a chair. More often than not it was one of my siblings. It seemed like the entire house was a bunch of punching bags to him. However, I'd have to say that his favorite punching bag was me.”

“I was never good enough for him. If I did well in school, he got angry, mainly because he didn't do well in school. If I flunked, he called me a lazy insubordinate child, and also got just as angry. Either way, he died as well of a drug overdose.”

I couldn't look her in the face while I told the story. I was afraid her expression would be one of shock or pity, and not of understanding and acceptance.

“The day he died, I swore to myself that I would never be like my father. Never in my life would I bring the cruelty that he brought down on me on somebody else. Never in my life would I do drugs, and never in my life would I do some of the things that he did.”

In a softer tone, I added, “And never in my life would I get angry like he did. Never again would I bring destruction down on the ones I love most in my wrath.”

“I like that hole,” I said, “because from now on, whenever I feel myself starting to get angry, I will see the hole in the wall, and see the sharp comparison of my father and myself.”

“And now I want to apologize,” I said to her. Now I was able to look her in the eyes. And what I saw was not a look of pity, or fear, or indifference, or calm acceptance. What I saw was something else. A fiery passion in her, and as our eyes met, so did our minds, and finally, I knew it. I knew she was having the same feeling, too.

I embraced her tightly, and whispered into her ear, “I love you.”

Her response was but a grunt, but I knew exactly what she meant. And for the first time in my life, I felt happy. Truly happy and peaceful.

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:54 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

The month of May ended, and I felt my statistics were pretty darn good. My record was an impressive 3-0, and I had a solid ERA of 1.25. Although, I had 2 blown saves, I had only allowed 36 hits in 36 innings pitched, giving me a WHIP of 1.03. I had 28 strikeouts and only 1 walk. I was on fire, and although I had yet to make an official start, I led the all star game votes in the Starting Pitcher category by a good 10 thousand votes.

Rebeccah and I were driving through Springfield when all of a sudden we passed a new building, one which neither of us had ever seen before. On top of it all, the type of building that it was perplexed us, and it was something completely new to us. We decided we both had to try it.

We entered the ice rink, and bought two tickets to general admissions, as well as two more tickets for rental skates. I had heard about this sport called “hockey”, but never in my life would I have imagined the complexity, and hilarity, that is involved in simple ice skating.
When he had laced up our rental skates, we decided to take it slow. Being the chivalrous gentleman that I was, I decided to go onto the ice first, to make sure everything was OK.

I took my first ever step on an ice rink, and fell flat on my stomach.

I got up slow, and majestically extended a hand to Rebeccah, who took it, and easily glided onto the ice, already in a graceful stride.

“Are you sure you've never done this before?” I questioned her.

“Positive,” she replied. “I don't know why you're having such a hard time with this, it's so much fun!”

“Well maybe it's because your first experience touching the ice was being romantically helped onto it.”

She laughed, and said, “Romantic?? I beg your pardon! I was merely using the services of my pet mule to make sure the ice was fully solid.”

She laughed again, and I said, “Well what would've happened if I had fallen through, never to return again?”

“Well, that's an easy question. I'd just get a new mule!”

We continued on in the session, Rebeccah smoothly skating across the rink. There were some hockey playing kids out there trying to race her, and by god, she was almost winning.

And then there's me, taking baby steps on the ice ever so slowly, waving to her every time she sped around, pretending to have a good time.

On her third time overlapping me, she managed to skate by me so quickly that I turned too hard to see her, and fell, once again. I saw her turn around, and she sped on towards me, and managed to spray me in a thick coat of cold ice, laughing as she did so.

“Do you like my new hockey stop?” she asked pleasantly.

“I think you need a new mule,” I groaned out from below her.

Eventually, we made our way off the ice, and began to untie our skates. That's when we were approached by Nancy.

Nancy was tall, well built, and blonde. She was so well built, in fact, that her forearms looked like they belonged to my team's clean up hitter more than they belonged to a tall blonde women.

“Hello,” she said, shaking our hands politely while introducing herself.

After we had introduced ourselves, she looked at me and said, “Your wife's a really good skater. I heard you yelling at each other, there's absolutely no way that somebody could have such raw potential on their first ice session.”

“Well,” Rebeccah said, “My husband and I are both from warm-climate areas, so we never really had any ice rinks around.” She had this devilish look in her eye the entire time, trying to see how long the whole “husband and wife” charade would last.

“Listen,” Nancy said to Rebeccah. “I'm the captain and coach of the local women's spring ice hockey team. We're a really good team, and if we end up having a good year, we sometimes play at the national level in Washington, and if we win that, we go to the international amateurs tournament in Toronto.”

“Wow,” Rebeccah exclaimed. “That's pretty impressive.”

Nancy seemed to take extreme delight in any compliments made about her hockey game, and showed it by flourishing her hair and thanking us.

“We're one woman short this year of a full team,” said Nancy. “I don't know what to do. Nobody seems to come to the tryouts. I've been coaching this team for over 10 years now, and I'm not about to let that all go in a heartbeat. I need you, Rebeccach, to play on my team.”

I looked at Rebeccah in awe, who seemed to be considering the offer over, and said, “wow honey, look at that! Now we've got two jocks in the family!”

Nancy said, “Oh, you guys have a son?”

“No,” Rebeccah said, giggling. “He was talking about himself.”

“Oh...” replied Nancy indignantly. “Funny...you don't look like somebody who's good at sports—more like a computer technician to me.”

Rebeccah giggled under her hands. My face had reddened, and I couldn't look either women in the eye.

Finally, Rebeccah sobered up and said, “Alright. I'll do it. But I don't have any equipment, and I don't think it's a smart idea for me to get a lot of playing time at first.”

“Relax,” said Nancy nonchalantly. “We've got tons of used gear that we can give you, and we're not expecting you to get a whole lot of playing time. Just a little bit so that you can officially be on the roster according to the league rules.”

The conversation continued on a bit about the time slots of the practices, what was expected of the team as a whole, and also some basic hockey lingo that Nancy taught Rebeccah with ease. I struggled to learn the concept of “offsides”, but Rebeccah seemed to have a natural talent for ice hockey.

We walked out of the rink into the hot, blazing, June sun, holding hands.

“What do you think of my new hobby, honey?” Rebeccah asked me with a smile on her face.

My face lit up, and I turned and pointed at her. “Ah ha!” I exclaimed. “This is all part of your master plan!”

She made a facial gesture that I didn't quite catch, and said, “patience, young jedi. You shall learn of my plan soon enough.”

The rest of the way home I tried to figure out what exactly she meant by the word “jedi.”

**shinderhizzle84** · 04-21-2009, 03:54 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

well, sorry that i had to post it so damn quickly, and sorry all the chapters are so damn long.

whenever you get through reading it, let me know what you think!!!

**FlyersFan30** · 04-21-2009, 05:43 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

I did somewhat of a quick read through and I think it was very good and I hope you continue.

**Whitesox** · 04-21-2009, 07:50 PM

Re: a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

Wow thats a long read, but great none the less. I liked it, please continue.

a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

Recommended Videos

a pitcher in King Cardina's court: A Parody SP RTTS Story

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment

Comment