Author's Note: Here's another chapter! Some action this time. The season didn't end all that well for the Rangers, but taking a step back, they won 13 of their last 16. I hope y'all enjoy this update. Don't forget to review!

2

"What could be going on down there?" one of the radio announcers asked.

"I have no idea," the second commentator said. "My only guess is a crazed fan or something."

"Now that is a desperate attempt for an autograph," the first announcer laughed. "Where the heck is security?"

"Washington's waving 'em off. Listen folks, if you're just joining us, we are watching as an interesting scene develops on the field. A random fan has jumped onto the field and gone into the Ranger's dugout. We have no clue who he is or what he's doing, but Ron doesn't seem to have a problem with it."

"Not at all. This is really strange. I hope his business doesn't take too long, because we've got a game to play!"

"Maybe Ron's called up yet another pitcher from the minors. What would that make? Five thousand this season?"

"I am sure that—"

Adrian Beltre flipped off the radio that sat in the corner of the dugout and focused his full attention on the stranger. The figure was so unlike anyone the team had ever seen, and they all waited anxiously for him to do something.

"You have defeat in your hearts," the stranger said in a deep, sober, almost musical voice. "That is logical: you are likely to lose this game, as you have lost so many others. You play and speak now as if you are certain to fail today. This is probably true. Yet will you simply accept defeat, or will you not fight until there is no strength left in you? Is hope truly gone? It seems so, but do you not know that day shall come again?

"In battle long ago, when the greatest host of the Free Peoples was assembled, there was a warrior named Húrin Thalion, which means 'steadfast'. Though the battle was at one time near victory, treachery dashed the hopes of all, and many great heroes fell. When the Free Peoples were completely routed, the men of Húrin held their ground so that others might escape. Slowly, the men's numbers waned as evil continued to pour forth on them like water from a rushing river.

"Last of all, Húrin stood alone. Then he cast aside his shield and wielded an axe two-handed; and it is sung that the axe smoked in the black blood of the troll-guard of Gothmog, a great demon of ancient days, until it withered. And each time that he slew, Húrin cried 'Aurë entuluva! Day shall come again!' Seventy times he uttered that cry; though they took him at last alive."

The dugout was completely silent. Everyone was immersed in this story, this effect being especially due to the stranger's superb ability to captivate his audience with his words and voice. Something about the way he spoke was compelling, and no one stirred as the person paused.

"You are the Texas Rangers," he continued. "Prove yourselves as steadfast as Húrin today! Do you believe that day really shall come again? Do you believe it?" There was a corporate nod. "Then go to battle and prove it! You are not pitted against an unbeatable foe: the One may shine upon you yet. Do not disgrace yourselves with utter despair! Day will come again, be it today or next year. Fight for that light, for that hope! Show the Yankees, as well as everyone here, that if this game ends in another loss, you will make such an end as to be worthy of remembrance!"

The entire dugout exploded in a shout of defiance. No one was going to waltz into the Rangers' Ballpark and take a win without a fight. No one.

The Umpires were now walking over to the dugout, seemingly confused and frustrated by the short delay. Ron Washington rushed out to meet them and explain that everything was fine and they were ready to resume the game. The batters got into their appropriate order, and to the stranger's surprise, he was offered a seat beside the players who could not play on account of their injuries.

"We now go into the bottom of the seventh," the commentator's voice echoed through the dugout from the radio that had been turned back on. "The Rangers are starting at the top of their order with Daniel Robertson. He is 0 for 3 so far tonight."

As the announcer had said, Daniel Robertson was now up to bat. He grabbed up his bat as a soldier does his sword and marched resolutely out to the plate. He cast a brief glance to the dugout where the stranger sat. Near the guest was the injured Shin-soo Choo, in whose place Robertson was batting.

"For Choo's sake, and for the Rangers'," Robertson mumbled through clenched teeth.

The first pitch flew by at just less than a hundred miles an hour, and Robertson swung for the fences.

"Strike one!"

Robertson reset his feet and looked defiantly at the pitcher. The curve ball had evaded him, and the pitcher was quite glad. The man was almost smirking with glee, and this only fueled Robertson's energy even more.

The second pitch had no chance of getting into the catcher's glove, and the cheering in the dugout almost drowned out the report of the radio commentators.

"There's a line drive down the right side, hard hit, going way back is the right fielder, and he won't get there in time! Robertson has touched first and is heading for second. He will easily beat the throw, and the Rangers now have a man on second with no outs! Robertson had picked up a double: the Ranger's fourth hit of the night. Next up is Andrus, who has the only RBI of the game for Texas."

Elvis Andrus, the shortstop, made his way from the on-deck circle toward the plate. He patted his bat on the toes of his shoes and then got into his batting position, looking toward the pitcher with resolve. The first pitch was low and outside for a ball, and the second was hit foul down the right side. Andrus shook out thoughts of doubt and faced his foe again.

"Day shall come again," he whispered.

The next pitch was slightly out of the strike zone, but Andrus swung anyway and made contact. The ball shot between the pitcher's legs and down the middle of the field, rolling into center. Robertson sprinted around third and slid into home as Andrus watched from first base.

The umpire indicated that the runner was safe, and shouts of joy erupted from both the dugout and the stands. Robertson ran into the dugout and received high-fives and pats on the back from just about everyone. It was only one run, but it was a run.

It was now Alex Rios' turn to bat. He walked up to the plate, swinging the bat a few times to loosen his muscles. Each swing hurt his minor injuries, but he ignored the pain as best he could.

He was soon behind in the count 1-2, but he, like Andrus, did not let that faze him. Then, with as much force as he could, Rios swung at the next pitch with all his might. His swing was a little early, but the force of the hit sent what would have been a groundout past the infielders and into the outfield. Andrus made it to third.

"And the Rangers have managed another hit!" the commentator proclaimed, unable to mask a little excitement. "Now they've got men on the corners, zero outs, and Adrian Beltre coming up to bat."

Despite the condition of the game, Beltre got a rousing cheer from the stands. His average was one of the highest in all of baseball, and he always had the respect and admiration of fans and team members alike. In addition to his skill, he was similar to Andrus in that he enjoyed a good tease every now and then. Baseball wasn't just a job to him: it was a fun game that he played with friends. He had several ongoing jokes with Andrus, since as the third basemen, he was always near the shortstop. Their comedy was a favorite among all true fans, including the stranger.

Beltre had several minutes to warm up as the Yankees' pitching coach and catcher jogged out to the mound to talk with the struggling pitcher. When the short conference was over, everyone returned to their place, and the first pitch flew toward the plate.

"That pitch is in there for a strike," one of the radio announcers reported, his voice easily heard in the quiet and tense dugout.

"That was a very good sinker down the middle," the other observed. "It always looks like it will be too high."

"And here's the windup, and the pitch: Beltre hammers the ball to left field! Going way back after the ball is the left fielder…it's still going…goodbye! Beltre hits a 3-run homer, and that will do it for the Yankees' starting pitcher!"

Nothing more could be heard of the radio, for the dugout was totally immersed in yells and cheers. The runners came in one by one, each receiving much encouragement and praise. Andrus sneaked back to Beltre and rubbed the slugger's head according to tradition, drawing a playful slap from Beltre and a laugh from everyone else.

"Aurë entuluva!" a few players cried. Several others took up the shout, and soon the dugout was echoing with it. "Aurë entuluva! Aurë entuluva!"

The stranger did not shout with them, being a very composed sort of person, though he grinned widely and felt a surge in his veins which had not been there in many long years. Hope was kindled and burning fiercely.

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