On a gray and uninspiring afternoon in Brooklyn, something extraordinary was happening. In a showing that was clearly practiced but barely choreographed, the long, lithe southpaw from the Western League fired pitch-after-pitch towards Whales’ backup catcher Noah Forbes. His delivery, all limbs and violence, was equal parts riveting and unrepeatable. The ultimate location of each throw was unknowable at his release.
New Whales’ pitcher, Ocie Stibbs, should have been exhausted. He had thrown 161 pitches against the Rifles and another 142 against the team from Philadelphia. But, true to his age, he possessed a boundless energy and a stupid resolve to push through his ailments at the long-term expense of his health—this was a debt for an older Stibbs to pay.
On the first baseline, watching quietly and with a calculating stare, stood Whales’ pitching coach Nate Ford. Ford was generally considered among the best pitching minds in the game of baseball. Surely, if there was a fix for the lefthanded twister trying to get the ball over the plate, Ford could find it.
Next to him stood Marques Williams, the gargantuan manager for the Whales. With each new windup, the short-tempered Williams’ rage grew until it palpably filled the stadium.
“Those fucking shitstains of the Western League did a real fucking number on this kid, didn’t they, Nate? Fuck. If I had known it was this bad, I wouldn’t have pressed so God damned hard to bring him over here. Fucker is out there spinning like a God damned top. Fuck. What do you think?”
“You were not wrong, Skip. There’s something to this kid. Could’ve used a little more instruction ‘fore now, but that’s the West for you. Buncha cowboys.”
“Sons of whores,” added Williams, to the great benefit of none save his rising blood pressure.
“It’s going to take some work. No doubt about it. Three hundred pitches and maybe 20 good ones. But, you were right to throw him early so we could see what we’ve got.”
“What we’ve got is a fucking headache,” yelled Williams, loud enough for Stibbs to hear and cause the next pitch to sail well over Forbes’ head.”
“What I’ve got is a fucking headache,” corrected Ford. “But, nothing that can’t be overcome. I think you know Forbes can’t handle him though.”
“Yes. That much is fucking clear as crystal. Deacon is hitting like a God damned invalid, too. 4 for 23. Sick fuck’s back is all torn up.” Williams muttered under his breath, “Can’t have him running to the backstop all God damned game.”
“We need to bring Talmadge back. He can help this kid get right.”
“Doc? You must be out of your fucking mind, Nate. Guy’s a God damned loon.”
“He’s no crazier than the rest of ‘em, Skip.”
“Well, that does sound like the fucking truth. Hm. Alright, I will make the call. Let’s park this kid’s ass out in the bullpen until Doc gets here, though. I have seen more than my fucking fill for now.”
“You got it, Skip.”