AN: Sorry about the long delay between updates. School's been crazy and I haven't found a regular day to update this story. Have no fear though! I'm updating now! I'm glad to see that people are reviewing this story of mine. I'm actually really shocked when people do. I always think people aren't going to read what I wrote (no idea why but I do) and it always shocks me when I get reviews for anything I write. Also, reviews are a great help since I'm taking creative writing this semester. Any opinions I can get help!
E.L. Lockhart: Many thanks for your review and here's the next chapter. I do hope you like this one as much as you liked the last one. This story was just a way for me to pass my time before genetics last year.
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.
The mound was an island in the middle of the emerald jewel of an infield. It was the loneliness place in the universe, really, where a man stood trying to keep another set of men from gaining the invisible advantage.
The crowd, packed into the multicolored seats of the stadium, was as live as a power cord. There was a certain kind of energy in the air that only a play off race could bring. Every seat in the caldera of the stadium was filled, the bodies screaming in that good way only a fan friendly home crowd could.
The team, some grim, stern, serious faced while others, like Andy, were smiling brightly with unabashed happiness, had jogged out to their positions. Nick, though, took his time, long legs taking him towards the lonely island that was the pitcher's mound.
The mound was just so with the rosin bag resting on the downward slope of the mound and a shiny strip of bright white rubber in the center. Nick stood on the mound, throwing warm up pitches to Andy while the strains of John Fogerty's "Centerfield" blared over the stadium's loud speaker system.
Though he was physically on the mound at Shea Stadium, Nick's mind was very far away. Truth be told his mind wasn't even in the boro of Queens, where his stadium was located. It had taken the familiar highways and by-ways to Salem Center, Westchester, New York.
"What I wouldn't give to be telepathic right now," he, bitterly, mused as he wheeled back and tossed a way too hard fastball to Andy.
It took him a full minute, as the first batter stepped into the left handed batter's box, to amend his mental statement. The batter glowered at him, his small size deceptive to the pitcher. He was a speedy one but his bat has some power in it. He pegged the previous day's starter for a lead off home run to start the game.
He threw his first pitch- a nice breaking ball that had the batter swinging at nothing- thinking, "I am telepathic but, of course, not in that useful way."
Nick, like his fiancée and all of his friends, was a mutant. The group, as a mater of fact, had become friends during their stay in the only mutant school in the nation---Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters.
Nick's abilities served him well in his chosen profession, though it was done all in secret. He had been gifted with a surgically accurate flamethrower- literally- for a left arm. It was a highly specific flamethrower, though, since he could only use his ability with a baseball in his hands. His powers were compounded by a low range psychic ability, enabling him to hear only the thoughts of his catcher and the batter in the box. He was "deaf," so to speak, to the thoughts of the others on the field.
He still lived near enough to the school, protected by its umbrella. It was that umbrella that kept the knowledge of his mutant status out of the world's common knowledge. No one within the bounds of Major League Baseball knew he was a mutant. He really had no need to get banned like "Shoeless" Joe Jackson and Pete Rose.
Pitch after pitch, full counts, put outs and pop flies; the game seemed to drag on forever.
Both pitchers, Nick for the New York Mets and a man named Hampton for the Atlanta Braves, were twirling one-hitters. The fans were in awe, watching every pitch with baited breath. This game was going to be decided by one tiny mistake, a slip up by the pitcher or an error in the field.
Neither option seemed likely as both pitchers were on their games and the rest of the teams- the infields and outfields- were playing crisp, clean, sharp games. Scoring seemed like something that wasn't going to happen at all.
Nick's mind, though it was focused on his pitching, had split itself in two. It kept wandering back to Rosie and their friends and the baby whose name he didn't know. They were what was most important to him, since he hadn't seen his real family in ages.
Finding out ones son was a mutant did very little for family relations.
What he wanted, more than anything else, was a sign of some kind. One that would let him know that they were all going to be alright. That this baby was going to live and that maybe, just maybe this game would end.
He threw another pitch of the same velocity the same as it had been earlier on in the game, notching his fifteenth strikeout for the game…a personal high for him during his still young tenure in the major leagues. He didn't even hear the roaring crowd as he stalked towards the dugout to wait out the bottom of the ninth inning.
As per baseball tradition, no one was sitting near Nick on the dugout bench. It had something to do with messing with the pitcher's mind set and hurting his chances for continuing whatever streak he was on.
Nick didn't notice the lack of company anyway. He was still milling around with the thoughts that were dancing their way through his head.
Abandoning his lament for better psychic abilities- since that couldn't change- Nick turned to the almighty baseball gods for help. They'd come to the aid of players, most of the time anyway. Despite their often fickle nature, Nick had no choice but to give them a call. Whatever help they could give was appreciated.
"Hey guys," Nick started, head bowed as if in prayer, "if you could give me a sign that everything's going to be alright, I'd really appreciate it. Oh, yeah, and can we like end this game? I'd really like to go home. There stuff that needs to be done, thanks."
Nick pulled off his sweat stained cap, running a hand through his sweaty hair. All he could do was wait for his sign and for the game to properly end. After all, no coach was mad enough to send him out to pitch the top of the tenth inning.
It seemed like they were headed for the tenth inning. The third baseman, Johnson, had hit a weak grounder to short. Not being particularly fleet of foot, Johnson was easily thrown out. After him was the left fielder Rusch. Rusch hit a sharp line drive that looked as if it was going to fall in for a base hit. Much to everyone's- player and fan alike- chagrin, the ball was snared by the Braves right fielder.
With two men out in the bottom of the ninth inning, Andy came up to bat. The crowd auditable groaned, seeing the rookie step into the batter's box. Normally not a power hitter, Andy had been mired in a deep, deep slump. It seemed he'd forgotten how to hit.
The first pitch, thrown by the Braves closer Benitez, Andy foolish swung at. It was up near his eyes, a bad pitch, a mistake pitch. A ball to be sure. Not something to swing at!
The second pitch was in the dirt, bouncing off home plate, yet Andy swung at it anyway. That brought the "boo birds"- the booing of the fans- out from their nests.
Nick, watching friend flailing at the plate, glared towards the sky. The baseball gods hadn't heard him or, if they had, they were denying him the sign he so desperately wanted. This game was going to go on forever and he wasn't going to get home. He was going to get stuck sitting his rear end on the bench, waiting for something to end this long slow torture.
With a 0-2- no balls, two strikes- count Andy stepped into the batter's box once again. The crowd was booing loudly, someone near the front row hurling the foulest language on the planet at the catcher.
Time seemed to slow itself down as Benitez threw the ball. It slid through the air, tumbling end over end with a syrupy slowness that everyone saw and felt.
With a resounding "crack," the world spend back into normal time again. Faster than the human eye could register, the ball rocketed over the four hundred ten mark.
Like a single minded, many headed entity, the crowd got to their feet and started to roar. Sure, moments ago, they were prepared to throw Andy to the lions but that was forgotten with the crack of the bat. Clutch home runs had the ability to do that.
The team sprinted out, gathering around home plate to greet Andy in the atypical exuberant fashion. That being, them jumping up and down thudding him on the back while he tried to get away.
Nick sprinted out to join the fray, feeing the setting sun warm on his back. He looked up, throwing a thumbs up towards the sky. He'd gotten his sign, sure as anything. What it meant- for good or ill he couldn't say but it was most definitely a sign.