AN: I'd like to first apologize for anything that seems confusing of super technical. I'm a biology major and I sometimes use really super technical words because I'm not thinking. I don't want to sound like I'm bragging or anything because I'm not. I really know only what I'm told I have to know. It's just that I have a terrible tendency to memorize everything I'm asked to know and this stuff becomes part of my everyday vocabulary. Anyway, if ever I make anything too technical, please feel free to tell me I'm doing so! Thanks for your reviews! I'm always shocked when I get them and they're always a delight to read! Please, continue to read and review!
E.L. Lockhart: Thank you for your encouragement! Here's the next part of the story. I really hope you like it!
Ms. Unknown: Hi there! I'm glad you liked this chapter. It ties in, eventually, to my Lord of the Rings story. Here's the next installment.
PixiePea000: Hey! You know the Dynamic Duo are busy with stuff….not saying what though. You'll have to wait to find that out. I'll just get my operator to help me out…since that's his job and all. Anywho, I'm glad you liked this chapter! The cliffhangers are probably going to crop up but you know who to blame. Anyway, GOLLUM and watch out for Agent Elrond Smith (since the Dynamic Duo are otherwise occupied).
Disclaimer: I own nothing except a handful or two of made up characters. All of this wonderful stuff belongs to the geniuses at Marvel Comics. I'm just playing in their world. I'm broke and in college. All I own are my Pointe shoes.
About Fourteen Years Prior…
The room was wide and noisy. Here and there men sat or reclined in chairs in front of open faced lockers. They din was a result of the radio blaring some kind of rock music, used to "calm" the nerves of the players sitting in the room, and the loud speech of the players. It was an atypical atmosphere for the locker room of the first place- clinging tenaciously to a two game lead, I might add- New York Mets before a game.
"Hey Rook, phone call. It's a chick, says it's urgent," called a burly man with bottle blond hair and a goatee.
He was thickly built with a large amount of neck and very little torso. In actuality, he looked like a human fire plug, though no one was brave enough to tell him that. Stretched across his massive chest was a white-with-blue-stripes jersey. The name "Doyle" and the number "29" were stitched to his back, straining against the fine stitches that kept them in place.
Rook- the team's "affectionate" name for the rookie pitcher Nicolas Giacatore- made his way over to where Doyle stood holding the phone. Unlike number twenty-nine, Nicholas was a tall thin man with just some muscle on his body. His blackish-brown hair was trimmed neatly and his eyes were large, making him look younger. Well, he was younger than most in the locker room---fresh from the minors, an accident that shouldn't have been on the team in the first place.
Nicholas- Nick or Nicky to his friends- took the phone with a "Thanks."
"Make sure to give the little lady on the other end of the line a kissy from me," Doyle replied, laughing crudely.
It was tradition to make the rookie on the team as miserable as possible. One of those insane rights of passage that every team had. It really didn't matter that the "Rook" had an excellent ERA- Earned Run Average- and a winning record. They had to do it just because.
"Nick here," he said, holding the phone in his right hand.
His left hung loose and relaxed at his side. He was a lefty- a left handed pitcher- and he wouldn't risk harm to his pitching arm…especially since he was the starting pitcher.
"Nicky, it's Rose," said a panicky voice on the other end of the line.
A smile flitted over Nick's face at the sound of the voice. Rose was his long time lady-love and, as of the start of the baseball season, his fiancée. He planned on marrying her. It would be all the sweeter if he had a World Series win under his belt and a Cy Young Trophy in his possession.
"What's wrong, Rosie?" he asked, noting the unusual tone in her voice, "You sound upset."
He raised his voice ever so slightly. He couldn't speak as loudly as he wanted for fear of alerting someone to his call. He didn't need anymore ribbing then he already got.
'Something's happened, Nicky. Something terrible," she stated, her voice continuing to sound frightened.
The tone sent an icy shot of fear through Nick. In all the years he had known Rose, he'd never heard her sound like this. There'd never been a reason for her too. After all, they lived in one of the safest places in the world. Well, it was in his humble opinion…
"Are you alright, Rosie?" he asked, receiving a muffled "yes" for an answer.
It sounded as if she had started to cry or was trying to hold back the tears that wanted to fall.
Thinking quickly, he asked, "How about Angie and Matt? Are they alright?"
Angelina and Matthew D'Amichi, a newly married couple with a baby on the way, were two of Nick and Rose's best friends. The four had attended the same private boarding school in Salem Center, Westchester together. Nick and Matt had been roommates like Angelina- Angie- and Rose.
Somewhere along the lines, the quartet had split into pairs and, in those pairs, they had found someone to stay with. It didn't, however, mean they all weren't best friends in the world.
"Matt's fine, as fine as he can be all things considered, but you have to promise me you'll pitch really well, despite what I'm going to say," Rose, hurriedly, replied.
"What's wrong, Rose?" Nick asked, trying to keep his voice calm.
A million and one thoughts, all of them bad, ran through his head. Each of them he hoped were untrue, as he only wanted the best for his friends.
"Promise me first, Nicholas," Rose retorted, a bit of warning in her voice.
No information was going to be given unless she first extracted a promise from him.
"Aright," he sighed, "I promise to pitch my best. Now, tell me."
The other end of the line grew dangerously quiet for several long moments. Nick began to think Rose had panicked and decided not to tell him or that something had happened and she wasn't able to get to the line.
"Angie got sick today," she informed Nick, her voice weak and shaky, "She was assisting a lab and…and just collapsed. They brought her to the school's infirmary because there wasn't anyplace else they could take her. Her appendix ruptured at some point- apparently she had appendicitis but hadn't noticed it or something- and she had a massive infection. The…infection spread to her blood, Nicky."
Stunned silence was all Rose received for an answer. Nick, no long hearing the merry sounds of a locker room primed for a good game against the Atlanta Braves, was trying to process this newly learned information.
"Holy Cow! What about the baby?" he asked, finding his voice.
It seemed impossible, really, for something like that to have happened. Angelina seemed in the peak of health- for a seven month pregnant woman- just a few days previous. He remembered talking to her about baby names and nursery colors over breakfast. That seemed so long ago now.
"They had no choice but to deliver the baby. It has massive blood poisoning as a result of the infection. No one's sure how long it'll last, respirator or not," Rose said, her voice sad, small, and bleak.
"I'm coming up there," he announced, sounding about as firm as a limp noodle.
The game- his game- no longer held any meaning for him. What he wanted was to be with his friend's, his family really, in their time of trouble.
"Nicholas," Rose scolded, "I want you to stay down there and pitch, for the baby's sake and for your team's sake. They're counting on you. You've got a job to do."
He relented, not wanting to walk into the house to an angry Rose and not really feeling up to the task to explain to his coach why he had to go. There was no one ready to replace him. These games meant so much to everyone and he couldn't let them down. Them being his teammates and the fans.
"Alright," he relented, "I'm coming straight up there after the game. I want to be there for everyone."
There was no arguing with Rose, especially after she had extracted a promise from him. He'd seen her temper flare more times than he could guess. Each time it had quite ugly results.
"I'll see you then, Nicky. Love ya," Rose said, trying and failing to maintain a light tone.
"Love ya, too," Nicky replied with the air of someone who was badly distracted.
The news weighed heavily on his mind as he walked over to his locker down on "Pitcher's Row." Without really thinking- since he'd done it so many times before- he continued to dress.
A normal white t-shirt was replaced with a dusky gray one with tiny red "X"s on the bottom of each sleeve. The shirt was worn beyond compare but never would he trade it. He considered it to be his lucky shirt. Never had he lost wearing it to a game.
"What's wrong, buddy?" asked the player in a neighboring locker.
Nick buttoned up his jersey, a huge number thirteen on its back, and replied, "Bad new from home, Andy."
Andrew "Andy" Unker was the team's rookie catcher and had known Nick in his little league days. It was a strange but happy coincidence that the pair were battery mates in the big leagues.
"What happened? Are you going to start today?" he asked, sounding nervous.
Andy was, by rule, Nick's personal catcher. He had a knack for calling the right pitches in every situation. It helped, of course, that Nick was an exceptionally talented pitcher.
"I had to promise Rose I'd pitch today. The game of my life no less. You remember Matt, the guy I went to that prep school with?" Nick inquired, sitting in his locker.
"I remember you mentioning him once or twice. How come?" Andy inquired, taking a seat near his own locker.
His stool had gone missing so he was forced to sit on the floor. Yet another nasty bit of "ribbing" by the elders on the team.
He relayed nearly all of the story- so much he knew anyway- to his battery mate. Though it felt better to tell the news to someone- anyone- Nick felt as if he was betraying a trust. This was by and large personal information that he was sharing and an outsider, such as Andy, really shouldn't have been privy to it.
"Is she alright?" Andy asked.
He had only fleeting knowledge of the people Nick was talking about. On opening day, he had been introduced to the trio of Matt, Angie, and Rose.
"I'm not sure, Andy. This kid- Man, I don't even know if it's a boy or a girl!- was born like two months too early with this nasty blood infection. It doesn't look good no matter how you paint it," Nick moaned.
"Man, buddy, I'm sorry. Just keep your head in the game today and everything will be fine," Andy commented, going back to his own dressing.
"Leave it to, Andy," Nick mused, "If anything's wrong, think about baseball."
Out loud, he stated, "I'll try, Andy, I really will."
If he was going to be able to keep that promise, he didn't know. After all, baseball was still a game of chances and inches and skill. Perhaps the news had just been the first omen in a very bad day…
(AN: Alas I wish the Mets were in first place. Just a little more fiction on my part.)