AN: Well, Spring Training games have started and the Mets, in typical Mets fashion, have lost their first game. They're my favorite team and everything but the always seem to lose and that drives me insane! I'd like them to win at least once and a while! Talking about baseball, please don't be put off by any of the baseball jargon used here. If any of it is confusing, please let me know! I'll make sure to explain it better next time or something. Though I'm not a super fan by any means--- That would be my sister more than me ---I know some things about baseball. By the way, contrary to what's written here, personally I like keeping score during baseball games. It's about the only thing that keeps me interested in the game. As always, feel free to leave a review and let me know what you think about this little misadventure!

Disclaimer: I own nothing except the characters I made up and their Real World alter egos. I don't own The Matrix, The Animatrix, or any of that cool stuff. I'm broke and I just finished graduate school for my Master's Degree. All I own are my Pointe shoes.

"Now the little boy doesn't say a word, picks up his ball he is undeterred.
Says, "I am the greatest that there has ever been"
And he grits his teeth and he tries again.
And the ball goes up and the ball comes down,
Swings his bat all the way around
The world so still you can hear the sound, the baseball falls to the ground." (from "The Greatest" by Kenny Rogers)

"That was some game, Robbie," Ben laughed, clapping nine year old Robert on his right shoulder. "You're going to put a hole through my hand one day if you keep throwing like that. I know my hand's totally going to be bruised tomorrow morning."

Robert laughed in an embarrassed sort of way and pulled his yellow and black baseball cap a little further down. Everyone on his team--- that included the team's coach ---often wondered just how Robert saw anything at all. He'd become rather…infamous…for wearing his baseball cap pulled as low as it could possibly go.

No one on the team ever said anything about it, though, since Robert had been converted into a rather reliable left handed pitcher, just like his father before him. It was common baseball knowledge that no one was to annoylefty pitchers. They were all just a bit quirky and it was that quirkiness that gave them their ability to pitch. Without it, well, things tended to get ugly.

Robert's almost innate ability to pitch hadn't really come as a surprise to anyone in Arcadia. His father had been an ace left handed pitcher so it came as no surprise that Robert had become one too. Most in town figured that such things ran in the family, like hair and eye color. Alan had been a great pitcher and now his son was too.

Well, the older one anyway.

Arthur, Robert's little brother, had definitely not inherited his father's baseball skills. It seemed to most of Arcadia that the younger LaLuce son hadn't inherited any athletic abilities at all. Arthur wasn't good at baseball nor was he good at football, the two major sports that were played in Arcadia. He was just sort of there are Robert's little, less athletic brother.

That wasn't the point at the moment, though.

Arthur was sitting in the bleachers, squashed between his two parents in the warm late afternoon sun. The bleachers, metal and still warm from the sun, were a place far removed from the world on the field. Sure their cheers and jeers reached the ears of the boys on the field but they were still far removed from what happened on the field.

Only a select few got to understand that world. Only a select few got to actually be part of what took place within the confines of the miniature jewel of a baseball diamond that the bleachers were all facing.

That select few included a group of nine to ten year old boys who were considered to be the best of the best Arcadia, and some of the smaller towns around Arcadia, had to offer.

Everyone knew that traveling teams were highly competitive. They only took the best of the best players, even at the young ages of nine and ten. It was a point of pride among the teams that competed in their league to have the best of the best players. Anything less than that was considered unacceptable and could get you thrown off of the team.

Robert had been told by his father countless times that he should consider himself lucky to have been scouted for the traveling Arcadia Hornets. The nine year old wasn't entirely sure if he considered himself as lucky as his father made him sound. Baseball was baseball and it was fun, no matter where he played it. He was just glad to play and even gladder to be able to play with his friend Benjamin or, Ben, if you weren't his parents.

Ben was built like the atypical catcher. He was a short, stout but solid looking young boy of nine with blue eyes and buzz cut blond hair. Not only was he built like a catcher, the position he played, but acted like one as well. He was as crazy as they came, unafraid of being run into by opposing players twice his size and weight, yet smart too. No one, in Robert's opinion, called a game quiet like Ben.

Technically speaking, Ben was one of the Hornet's two catchers. There was also Ramon, a very broad and stocky ten year old Spanish boy. He wasn't the team's "everyday" catcher, though. His father didn't want him "ruining" his knees at such a young age.

That didn't exactly matter, though, since Ramon had two flaws going against him. One was that he wasn't exactly the fastest of runners. The coach had often joked that he looked like a bear trying to run on his hind legs. The other was that there was one person on the team he couldn't catch to save his life.

For some reason --- maybe because they were such good friends or because they'd always played together ---Ben seemed to be the only one able to catch Robert's games. He was unfazed by Robert's throws. He didn't seem to care that, at his best, Robert was throwing a lot harder than he should have been at his age.

The fact Robert threw harder than was considered normal was something that had, initially, bothered the spunky, middle aged coach, William Valentine, that coached the nine to ten year old Hornets. Coach Valentine had worried that the strain and stress of throwing so hard at such a young age could cause permanent damage to the boy's still developing bones and muscles. It was, actually, an all too common thing to see happen within the traveling teams. Kids forced to throw too hard at too young an age needing Tommy John Surgery--- a procedure in which tendons were taken from another part of the body and used to replace worn out shoulder tendons---to repair shoulder damage they never should have had in the first place.

In order to allay the coach's fears, as well as many of his own, Alan wound up taking his son for an MRI of his shoulder. Much to everyone's surprise, there were no signs of stress or strain on the Robert's shoulder. It was almost as if he'd never pitched an inning in his life. From the look of things, everything was completely and utterly normal. Not that anyone minded such a result anyway.

The test results might have been extremely weird but Alan had paid no mind to it. As long as his son was able to pitch he was happy. It had been shoulder surgery--- Not Tommy John, though ---that had ended his promising baseball career so many years earlier. He didn't want that for his son. Not when Robert was so young.

Robert, for his part, was just glad that he could play his favorite sport without fear of injury for the moment. Not that he really cared if he got hurt in the first place. It wasn't a good game, in his mind, until he got his uniform dirty and he was tired and sore. He figured that, if there was something wrong with his shoulder, he could always learn to do something else. There were plenty of other positions on the field he could play.

"I'm not doing it on purpose," Robert countered, rubbing the back of his neck with one of his hands. "That's just how I throw. It's the way my dad showed me."

"Yeah well we all know about your father, Robbie," one of the other boys, a pitcher named Billy, pointed out. "My dad still talks about him to this very day. Says he would have been a big deal if he hadn't busted up his arm."

"The first big deal anything to come out of this boring little town," Ryan, a newer player outfielder on the team, pointed out. "Your dad would have seriously put Arcadia on the map."

"Arcadia is on the map, Ryan," Ben countered. "Most people think it's just dust though. We're the town most likely to be ignored or something. No one even knows they're driving through this dump."

'Maybe his dad busted up his arm to pass his pitching skills on to him," the team's third baseman, David, cut in as he strolled across the dugout to retrieve his bat from the rack. "Robbie, you keep pitching like that and we'll take the league this season."

"And the one after that and the one after that until we're all out of this division," Ramon, the backup catcher, quipped from his spot on the bench. "This boy's a monster."

"Shame you can't catch him, you big Ogre," Billy stated, leaning back against the bench with his hands behind his head.

Billy had been in charge of "the book"--- also known as the team's score pad ---during the day's game. It was customary for the next day's starting pitcher to take score in "the book" since it forced them to pay very close attention to the team they were playing, instead of fooling around with the other boys on the bench.

In theory, it would help them when they had to pitch against the opposing team. Generally, though, it wasn't the most enjoyable task on the team. Everyone knew keeping score was the most boring job anyone could be charged with.

"Ogre?" Ramon asked. "Where'd you come up with that one, Billy?"

Billy laughed and answered, "I've been thinking...you know how all the most awesome major league players from back in the day had nicknames. I think we need nicknames too."

"Billy, we all know keeping the book is boring but you're just talking crazy now," David stated, sitting down on the bench in order to take his cleats off. "The heat got to your head or something?"

"No...I think Billy has a good point," Robert admitted, though he knew he really shouldn't egg Billy on any further. "I mean Nolan Ryan was the 'Ryan Express' and there were lots of other really famous players with nicknames. Maybe we should have them too."

"Now, Wheeler gets my point!" Billy blurted. "We want to be like those big guys we need to start acting like them now! That way we've been practicing for years when we all become famous."

Robert gave Billy a side long glance and asked, "Wheeler? Seriously? Why?"

Billy gave Robert a long suffering look and answered, "Robbie, what do you tell every one of us when we ask you how you manage to throw the ball as hard as you do?"

"I don't say anything," Robert stated, taking a cue from David and sitting down to remove his own cleats.

Nothing against his cleats, which were relatively comfortable, but Robert preferred his sneakers. Sneakers were better for after game pizza or whatever else the team had planned to celebrate their victory. Besides, his dad frowned upon him wearing his cleats any place other than the baseball field.

"Yeah you do!" David countered. "You said itCoach Valentinethe other day after we blasted theHoustonWranglersout of the water. He asked you how you always manage to throw so hard and you answered..."

Ben cleared his throat and, in a mimic of Robert's own voice, said, "Aw shucks Coach V. I don't do nothing special. I just wheel back and throw. I don't know why I throw that hard."

The other boys, some sitting and some standing, all captivated by Billy and Ben's antics, laughed. They'd all heard Robert say that at one time or another, no matter how hard Robert tried to deny it. He had no way to explain how he threw so hard and why he was really accurate with his pitches but still he tried, for what that was worth.

"I don't say that," Robert said, starting to laugh himself, "When have you ever heard me say that?"

"Yeah you do!" Billy countered. "That's why you're Wheeler. You always just 'wheel back and throw.' I think it's a good name. What about you, Ben?"

"NoI agree," Ben answered. "Sorry Robbie, I think that's a good nickname for you."

Robert was quiet as he laced up his blue sneakers and put his things away in his bag. He knew Billy had been bored when he'd come up with his little nicknames. That was the only reason why he'd wound up with the awful nickname of "Wheeler."

Still, he had to ask, "Can't you come up with something better? Wheeler's kind of stupid. It doesn't make any sense. I mean, alright Ramon's a big Ogre so that makes sense but what even is a Wheeler?"

Billy shook his head and answered, "Nope...I think it fits you, Wheeler. Anyone disagree with me?"

The rest of the team, now all curious as to what nickname Billy had given them, all seemed to agree with Billy. If anyone did disagree, they weren't saying anything. No, all Billy got in reply was a chorus of agreements when it came to his choice of nicknames for the scruffy looking pitcher.

"Seems like we're all in agreement on this one, Robbie," Billy laughed. "I dub thee...Wheeler!"

Robert sighed, knowing that it had become futile to argue with Billy. All he could do was hope that the whole "nickname" thing would pass so he could get rid of the stupid "Wheeler" moniker. There were plenty of good nicknames for pitchers and, when compared to some of them, "Wheeler" just seemed a little silly. It, certainly, wasn't as amazing as "The Nolan Express" to say the least.

What in the world was a "Wheeler" anyway?

"You have fun with your nicknames, Billy," Robert called. "I think my dad wants to head back home. Something about me having to ice down my shoulder or something like that. I'll catch you guys tomorrow!"

"Alright...Wheeler!" Billy shouted in reply as Robert wandered away from his team and to his parents and brother.

The young man could only hope, as he walked away, that the nickname thing didn't last all that long. Like the rest of his strange jokes, Billy would eventually tire of calling people by nicknames and go back to calling them their real names. If he didn't, well, Robert wasn't entirely sure what he was going to do. He knew, however, he wasn't going to enjoy being called "Wheeler." That wasn't a name for him.