A/N: Here's the second installment, this time of one Kid Blink Ballatt. A big thank you to all my lovely reviewers, and especially to God'sgirlforever for her wonderful ideas! Your chapter will be coming soon.
Disclaimer: No son mis.
Ryan had always been a quick boy, and he had good aim, too. As a kid he'd loved nothing more than rounding up the neighborhood boys. Somebody would always scrounge up a stick or a broom handle, and there was always a ball of some sort, may it be leather or burlap or newspaper. Ryan would call out to the others, designating teams he deemed fair. An older boy would always smack him upside the head and tell him to mind his own damn business, but the teams would stay the same.
Ryan had always had good eyesight. He could see a ball from miles away and know just when to swing, to connect and hear that crack as the ball sailed high, so high, higher than his kitchen window, higher than the clothesline. And he shot like a bat out of hell round the bases. No one could catch him.
Ryan always thought that the only time his father was ever proud of him was when he was down in the street, clutching a broomstick and yelling profanity at the other boys on the block. His pop had always thought he'd be useless, a real cripple, because of his bum eye. But that couldn't stop him; he slapped on a patch and just tried that much harder, focused that much more to find the sweet spot on the bat when he swung.
And now, at nineteen, there was still nothing he loved more now than a game of stickball. But out on the fields they called it something else—baseball. Ryan, now called Kid Blink by his friends, had first seen a sign for stadium while he was walking to Jersey for a game of poker. He'd been intrigued until he realized what this meant. He could play stickball forever, every day until he grew old. He could make money, support a family, with nothing but a game. He almost couldn't believe his luck that day, when he swaggered inside the stadium and asked the nearest attendant about the next open try outs.
Some would call it lucky that try outs were the very next day. Ryan knew that it was not chance but fate. And so he was confident as printed his name on a list of hundreds. He whistled his way home to the lodging house and that night he dreamt of Hilltop Park, and the smell of fresh chalk lining the diamond.
Ryan was nineteen years old, clearly one of the youngest candidates for the team. Most were men in their thirties, with a round gut and tobacco juice dribbling down their chins. Ryan was young and fit. When they asked him to throw, he threw as hard as he could. When they told him to run, he sprinted round the stadium with a spry speed that doubled that of his competitors. And when they were finally split into teams and told to play ball, Ryan raced his way to the pitcher's mound before anyone could claim it. He was quick, he was lively, he was good, and he knew it.
The next week, Ryan skipped selling to find the finalized team roster for the 1903 season. He whooped for joy when he found his name. Ryan Ballatt, the paper boasted. Reserve pitcher.
He was a Highlander! Sure, he wasn't the starting pitcher, but he was just a kid. He had time to work his way up. And when the pitcher cracked his right thumb in the third game of the season, Ryan ecstatically took over. This felt right, calling to his teammates, signaling to the catcher, making friends with the wind that would carry his ball. This was true happiness, as he saw Mush and Racetrack stomping in the stands, hollering for him to throw the damn ball already. This was his life now, as a cluster of girls giggled and flirted with him after each game. This was his job.
Ryan "Kid Blink" Ballatt quickly became known for the way his lips curled into a heartbreaking smile each time he pitched for the New York Highlanders.