Hey there, thanks for reading. I promise, it will be nicely worth your while.
Anyway, this entire story has been written for months, but I will update when I can (AKA when I have actual free time). I've only just started school again (college, actually, at New York University in the middle of crazy Manhattan) and I've been so busy it's impossible to comprehend. Sorry about typos as well ... I don't have time to properly and completely proofread even though I try. Please, please tell me about them!
studentnumber: I didn't steal this, honest! Don't sue -- when I say I have no money it's not a metaphor for being almost broke, it means I have $5 of someone else's money to my name and I can't even afford to eat anymore! Saltines have become my steady diet! Seriously, though, thanks for the review, and I love oldschool baseball, especially oldschool Yankees crap. And now that New York City is home to me, it's easier than ever for a Pittsburgh girl to be a big Yankees fan!
Thumbsucker Snitch: I am flattered by your review. A good idea is something very new for me and I'm still working out all the technical flaws of such a miracle. At any rate, I hope you continue to like this story. I swear, it gets better!
And lastly, to Arty – New York is treating me wonderfully. I might not be home for Thanksgiving (I can't effing afford the train, the cheapest way of travel!) so I'll see you at Christmas. I love you!
SECOND INNING: BEFORE
The face had long since blurred his mind, but in his dreams that night, he saw his past, his friends, the long-forgotten time from before.
Michael was sweating, coldly, and rolling from side to side beneath his worn, scratchy covers. The wool made his legs itch, but he did not, could not wake.
What was it that made Michael's mind so fitful? He remembered certain people, certain places, certain events. He remembered the before, the time when he had been too young and too dependent to carve out any semblance of a life for himself. It was not a time of which he was fond, not a time of which he was especially proud. He could vividly recall very little of his previous life, and in the day he understood it to be a time riddled with confusion and extremes. Beyond the strong, close bonds with the friends he had managed to find all too late in life, he simply hated to think of that time at all.
In truth, what he hated about that time were only the realizations he had come to about himself. Secret as he kept those relationships, they were there, and they would be the ultimate bane of his existence. Just sixteen years old, he had been the epitome of innocence, the picture of youthful confusion and desire. Dark-haired, rosy-cheeked, dirty-faced, passers-by on the street could never refuse buying his so-called last pape.
"Skittery..."
Michael's face drew tighter, and he rolled fitfully onto his other side.
"Skittery..."
Michael's hands were cold and clammy, sweat beading up on his hot forehead.
"Skittery..."
Michael bolted awake, a gruff sound escaping brokenly from his throat. His bare chest heaved in the darkness.
"Snitch," he swore, then uncovered his strong legs and rose from the narrow, creaky bed.
He lit a candle and walked to the basin of water he left by his mirror. His reflection was ruffled, scrappy, disturbed. Michael splashed some water onto his face and let it drip down his skin.
As if something had changed, Michael opened his desk drawer and reached in, lifting his lone, simple book, and let his fingers grope the letter. It was still there, indeed. He lifted it and set it before him.
I've read about you in the papers, it said, and I want to see you.
I want to see you.
"Our business was finished years ago," Michael whispered. "I don't want to see you."
But his fingers had gone and wrapped themselves in the silver chain around his neck.
Maybe, when Michael said such things, he was lying even to himself.
He was still sitting on the edge of his bed, face in his hands, thinking. In the earliest hours of the morning, Michael was thinking.
Strange emotions had resurfaced in his chest; he could not ignore them again, that much he knew. Once he had ignored, then given in completely. Then he had withdrawn, and now he was once again teetering on the edge. Michael knew that he had to find a happy medium.
But Michael did not know how to find a happy medium. He considered exactly how to answer the letter, for not answering it had never truly crossed his mind at all. Instead, he was not sure if he would say yes, or no. Though Michael could feel his heart begin to answer for him. Dear Snitch, he would say, I couldn't believe it was you after four years...
Four years. What an amazing thing, this singular, miraculous letter. A gift, a second chance ... would he now be brave enough to take it?
0000000
He knew the number already. "Jack," he said, after the New York Americans pitcher picked up the telephone. "Ches, I don't think I can come tah practice. I ain't feelin' so good, Ches."
"Smith? Where the hell are you?" But the voice wasn't angry, only concerned.
"The lobby, downstairs from my apartment," Michael answered. "I ain't feelin' so good, Ches."
"It ain't no problem, Smith. You go upstairs, and you get some sleep. We need yah for the next game." There was a pause as Jack Chesbro adjusted the phone against his ear. "Yah need anything, Smith?"
"Nah, Ches, I'll be better soon. But thanks, Jack, I appreciate it."
"Yeah, take care," Jack answered. "Bye, Smith."
Michael hung up the phone. Someone was already waiting patiently behind him, and he sidled out of the way to make room for the newcomer. He went back upstairs, into his hallway and took a relieved breath. Fumbling for the key in his pocket, Michael found that he was glad Jack Chesbro had not questioned him at all.
His apartment was small, so spartan that it could not even be considered unkempt, and his. After four years of relying on the kindness of others, Michael was now extraordinarily proud of his less-than-meager income and the place which he had managed to buy on his own. He barely owned more than three outfits of poor-quality clothing, but Michael was happy, and indeed, proud. As he opened the door, and went inside, he could not have imagined something better.
The letter was still waiting for him, though, and Michael found himself to be somewhere between ecstasy and despair. Or, perhaps, he had found both at once.