[Pommpie]

Here it is. I have no further input, except that boy howdy, did this chapter ever end up screwing me up.

Chapter Four: The Fractures of Fate

On June 2, the Edmonton Civics did something they almost never did: they played a Monday night game. Mondays were traditionally an off-day in the United League, but the Port Angeles Angels were at AGT Field to close out a two-game set. 24-year-old William LaFontaine, a Montreal native formerly of the McMaster Marauders and a 47th-round pick of major-league Paradise, would be getting his first start as a Civic.

In a press conference before the game, Kelsey Bowden had mumbled into the mic that LaFontaine was a "catcher's dream" and that he had "spectacularly pinpoint control", as though mere pinpoint control was not quite spectacular enough. He was also a catcher's dream in that his fastball was a leisurely low-90s and his only other pitch was a rather mediocre slider, meaning that Ki-tae Yi didn't have to strain too many fingers sending in the signals.

But he worked cheap.

LaFontaine only allowed four hits in his debut, but he allowed them all in the second inning, and three runners got across. LaFontaine was pulled after two-and-a-third, as though Kelsey Bowden, mindful of his hollow words before the game, knew fully well that the skilled Port Angeles hitters would knock LaFontaine around like a pinball the second time they saw him. Nominal closer Dusty Gill got two solid innings in, and both Melvin Stewart and Félix Vásquez did well in later relief. The Angels managed only their three second-inning runs, and Port Angeles starter Bartolo "Wild Thing" Rodríguez was living up to his nickname, managing to walk eight in five innings.

It should go without saying that the Civics offense died anyway.

The Civics failed to muster a single extra-base hit and only five hits total. They managed one run in the fifth when Ki-tae Yi scored on a wild pitch from Rodríguez after the Angels had walked the bases loaded with none out and the middle of the order up (Xiang-Ling Xun and Denny King both flew out and Wei-kang Nao grounded out to short). The Civics ended up with nine walks, a wild pitch, a hit batsman, five hits, one run, and a 3-1 loss.

The continuing problems with the team's starting rotation were becoming glaring. A three-game set in Eugene saw the Cranes rack up a total of thirty runs, with even Adam Wallace failing to get out of the third inning. The team had done its best to stop the bleeding by giving a chance to kids like LaFontaine and even by trade: the team picked up young Torontonian pitcher R.J. Yeo from the Kansas City Skywarriors organisation in exchange for a couple young relievers on the reserve list. The 23-year-old southpaw had pitched in the rookie-level Arizona League for the Arizona Canines in 1996, mustering a 5.55 ERA in 47 innings after four solid years at York University.

The arrival of Yeo, however, only spurred on the growing difficulties in the locker room. Naturally, it was Adam Wallace who fired the first shot. Yeo had joined the team in Boise, and his first visit to AGT Field's clubhouse was an exciting one. The 23-year-old made one mistake, however: he brought in his young girlfriend Cheryl. Introductions went quite smoothly, until Wallace caught wind of what was going on.

The transformation was sudden. The first instant, Yeo and companion were chatting amicably with the amicable Pancho González. The second, Wallace had whipped in a fastball at Sam Quintal's head that, while high and outside, was no less intimidating as it rang off the brick wall and bounded back out down the corridor.

"NO GODDAMNED WOMEN IN THE DRESSING ROOM!" Wallace roared from his seat, his voice echoing off the stone. This was not a rule in the Civics locker room. Not even an unwritten rule. On the contrary, the tightly-knit and underpaid ballplayers of the United League tended to spend as much time hobnobbing as playing, and none of the other ballplayers were complaining about about the attractive young woman now staring at Adam Wallace as though he were out of his mind. To be fair, Wallace was running on two consecutive miserable starts, so his already precarious grasp of social niceties was rapidly slipping.

Off in the corner, Kelsey Bowden chewed his gum furiously, forcing himself to look at everything but the action.

The very next day, however, Wallace's mood was significantly improved. While a somewhat shellshocked Yeo sat outside his locker, the pitcher thumped Yeo on the back and sat down beside him.

"Sorry about last night, there, R.J." Adam Wallace said brightly, giving Yeo another friendly thump. "You know how it is. Stress, losing a few games, that's really all that'll do it." R.J. Yeo looked up at the staff ace as though he were a madman.

The reason for Adam Wallace's enthusiasm was in the papers by the next morning: he was the latest big-name member of the Civics to ink an extension, to the tune of $91,000 over the next two seasons. In spite of the improvement in his statistics as a Civic, it was increasingly clear, even to Wallace himself, that at 29 years old he was not going to burst into the major leagues on the strength of a 3.70 ERA and a 6-3 record in the United League. For this reason, he stunned Rich Walcott by walking into his office early in June and demanding a contract extension in the same tone of voice most players used to demand a trade and a ticket for the first bus out of town. Walcott, naturally, granted one.

The Walcott extension had eaten up more of the Civics budget for next season, and the surplus was already perilously thin with no few contracts unfilled. Meanwhile, after a 9-1 loss to Salem on the 11th (R.J. Yeo falling to 0-2 after a three-inning, six-hit beating), the Civics had once again dipped out of a playoff position, dipping behind the surging Trail Smelters for the second wildcard spot. Despite eight hits out of the Civics, only a solo shot from Mitch Daniels in the eighth had given the Civics a run.

Once again, on the heels of the losing skid, Kelsey Bowden had tried his best to fire up the locker room. This time, however, his speech was even more of an abortion. The instant the skipper stepped up in front of the lockers, he had fixed the players with the firiest, most angry stare he could muster, one sufficiently volatile that even Adam Wallace sat up and started to pay attention.

But Bowden was unable to maintain the momentum. His mouth opened but no sounds came out. Lifting his right arm, he held it in the air, but soon dropped it to his side. "Win," he said, simply, before turning around and leaving the room.

A few minutes passed.

"It had a certain understated elegance," Páncho Gonzalez said, looking between the rest of the players, who were in a vaguely bored state of shock.

A few more quiet seconds passed.

"Jesus Christ, guys," Mitch Daniels finally said, breaking the silence and looking around the locker room. "I mean, what the hell is this?"

The players turned in their chairs and looked at him blankly.

Internally, Mitch Daniels swore. He had sworn he'd never be that stupid veteran who gave the plucky, inspiring speech in the dressing room. He had no problem with being a leader, but he didn't want to be That Guy, the guy in the movie who always said to go out and win for the guy who'd just blown out his knee and who was probably watching from a hospital bed as they spoke. If the guy who blew out his knee was so important, he should be out on the bloody field. And if the leader was so important, he should stop talking and go get a hit. Mitch's own batting average was down to .273.

Still, it was too late to back out now. "Come on," Mitch continued. "I mean, we're the Edmonton Civics. We win. It's what we do. Damn, I've been here half a year and I've already picked up on that." His eyes flickered around to some of the new arrivals scattered around the dressing room. And there were a lot of them. "When will the rest of you pick this crap up?"

By now, the room was visibly aroused. It wasn't much of a speech, truth be told. But to the Edmonton Civics, starving for leadership at this point, any speech was a hell of a speech.

"I mean..." Daniels started to repeat himself, tripping over his words as he felt the eyes on him. "Let's just win this one. We'll worry about the playoffs and stuff later. Let's just win this one, just so guys back home can say 'hey, they can win.'"

There was no chorus of applause. Everybody just nodded.

For his part, Mitch started the game against Salem in grand style: he grounded out to short. The Civics in general seemed a little wound-up, with even normally-patient hitter Denny King taking a gigantic cut at a 3-0 pitch outside the strike zone and coming up empty (though he later walked). Meanwhile, Joe Bascombe yielded yet another subpar outing from the rotation, going three and two-thirds and escaping with six earned runs, four walks, and five hits against him.

Fortunately for the Civics, the reliable Félix Vásquez was on-form. The 27-year-old Puerto Rican had been busy chewing up innings that year, and as yet another stint of long relief beckoned, the team needed Vásquez to get some outs (and the bats to come alive, with the Civics already back 6-1). However, Vásquez held the fort, getting out of the fourth and blanking the Bingoes in the fifth and the sixth. By the bottom of six, Rick Lewis was leading off and the team needed a rally.

"Don't sweat it!" yelled Lewis to light-hitting Dave Garner, on deck. "This one's in the bag." With the bottom of the lineup due up for the Civics, this did not seem likely. Yet Lewis promptly eked a grounder between first and second on the first pitch from Ed Longchamps. When Garner stepped up, he stroked a line drive to left field that brought Lewis to third. Finally, the number nine hitter, catcher Ki-tae Yi, drove a hard-hit line drive to right, bringing Lewis home and getting the crowd of 1,113 to their feet: runners on first and second, none out, a run across, and the top of the order coming up.

1,113 fans could only make so much noise. But as Mitch Daniels stepped into the box, it seemed like a deafening roar, every bit as loud as the gigantic crowds he had heard in his hey-day in New York. The United League was not the major leagues, not by a longshot. But if you closed your eyes in just the right moment, there were still major-league moments to be had.

A curveball from Longchamps came in. That was all Mitch needed, and he got just enough of the ball. He saw the third baseman dive, somehow grabbing the ball as Mitch hustled for all he was worth to first. All the mileage on his body seemed to bubble up in that moment, his knee aching, his lungs suddenly gasping raggedly for first as he tried to claw out ninety precious feet. The ball rifled in from third, but even as the first baseman reached out to grab it, Mitch knew he'd made it. Still, it wasn't until the call of "safe!" that the crowd cheered. The bases were loaded, with Raúl García at the plate.

Even as García strode to the plate, Angelo Ramirez strode out to Ed Longchamps, the 64-year-old skipper operating as quickly as his fame indicated. Longchamps had hardly handed the ball over before veteran southpaw Simon Bond had jogged out to the mound, 39 years young and a fixture in the Salem bullpen since 1993, known for throwing a lot of innings both starting and relieving and for his deadly effectiveness getting that one out.

"He's scared of you, Raúl!" Dave Garner yelled to the sombre infielder who was at bat. "Scared of you! Hit the hell out of that thing!"

At his age, Bond was hardly known for zipping the ball in there. Perhaps Angelo Ramirez should have studied his scouting reports, for Garcia was legendarily effective when he had time to get his bat to a ball: his swing was perhaps the longest in pro baseball, and yet in the right situation it was deadly effective. For the first two pitches, García didn't take the bat off his shoulder. For the third, a surprise fastball, García turned on it.

"Yeah!" yelled Dave Garner exuberantly from third, leaping up and clapping his hands. The sound of the ball coming off the bat was almost an explosion, but a misdirected one. The ball was too high, and Mario Durán was able to jog back to the warning track, holding up his glove to shield against the evening sun and easily snagging the high fly.

Still, it was a deep ball, and Dave Garner took off from third. Durán didn't even pretend to throw it back in, instead flipping it idly to short. The same fans who had cried out in anguish when the ball was caught cheered once more as Garner crossed, high-fiving the crestfallen García half against the latter's will and jogging to the dugout with vaguely articulate roars of enthusiasm.

Steve Bond had got the out, but Ramirez left him in to get two more. His next opponent was no easy mark: mighty Xiang-Ling Xun, sweeping his bat through the air as though the air had better get the hell out of the way before he hurt it. Xun glared towards the mound, considering Bond the same way he considered every pitcher, including his own: a piece of meat fit only to be hit off of. And Xiang-Ling got his hit, lacing the ball past short and picking up a stand-up double. Ki-tae Yi easily scored from second, causing Dave Garner to run out of the dugout long enough to give the number nine hitter an enthusiastic punch on the shoulder.

Next up, Páncho González, who if he lacked Xiang-Ling's power made up for it in consistent clutch hitting. Steve Bond, veteran or not, was beginning to get a shell-shocked look on his face, the sort of face that skilled hitters feasted on. Both of the runs would be charged to Longchamps, but that didn't matter to a pitcher who'd already let two across and now had two more in scoring position with a superb contact hitter at the plate. Sure enough, González got ahold of a poorly thrown slider, launching it into right and picking up a double of his own, allowing Mitch Daniels to almost walk home from third (and allowing Xiang-Ling Xun, hustling as if his life depended on it, to almost run into the second baseman as he did so). A 6-1 game had become a 6-6 game, and Páncho González was standing exuberantly at second, waving to Denny King with only one out.

If Steve Bond was going to get one batter out that inning, Denny King would have been a good bet. King was a blazer but he was also a startlingly light hitter. Hitting number five in the order though he was, King was a weak link in the Civics lineup. His biggest threat was as a base-stealer, but obviously he had to get on base first.

Steve Bond walked Denny King on five pitches.

By now, Steve Bond was fading fast. As Wei-kang Nao strode to the plate, he flashed a panicked glance to his own dugout, then off towards the bullpen, where Henry Heath was throwing furiously, trying to get ready to come into the game. No pitcher, however long they have been playing successfully, ever entirely loses that slight horror when the heart of the order hits the hell out of them, and the manager is already groping for another reliever. It is simple human nature to panic in that situation. And when he threw a hanging curveball as the first pitch to Wei-kang Nao, Steve Bond officially panicked.

This time, it was a no-doubter. Even Raúl García, still depressed over his near-grand-slam, leaped out of the dugout to watch it go. The ball flew over the wall in left, bounding off towards the North Saskatchewan River, as 1,113 patrons erupted and Wei-kang Nao punched the air. A three-run home run, as Nao was met at home by González and King practically mobbing him. 9-6 Edmonton. The crowd was almost delirious. Where the hell did this come from? Even Rick Lewis, at bat for the second time in the inning (facing new pitcher Henry Heath) seemed on cloud nine.

Heath made quick work of Lewis and Dave Garner to end the inning, but you'd have a hard time finding anybody at AGT Field who cared. When Félix Vásquez came up for the seventh and retired Félix Serrano, Chris Lynch, and Donald Farr in order, it was as if 1,113 fans were pitching with him. And when, in the top of the ninth, Dusty Gill forced Serrano to ground into a double play (Garner to Daniels to García) to end the ballgame, the fans of the Edmonton Civics were as happy as they'd been since they'd won title number nine two years ago. A 9-6 final, and all it took was one half of an inning to send the old-timers at AGT Field home happy, content with the knowledge that even a mediocre club could give them one story this year.

The Civics lost the next night in Trail, 3-2. But they then won nine in a row, including a vital sweep against division-leading Billings which opened with a 14-11 slugfest (which included Xiang-Ling Xun's team-leading twenty-sixth home run), continued with an 11-7 win (including Mitch Daniels's twelfth long fly), and ended with a relative pitcher's duel as both Joe Bascombe and Carlos García threw complete games, although it ended up an 8-4 Civics victory. Even García, for all his struggles, was better than the alternative: both bullpens were utterly gassed by the end of the series, and Dave Garner insisted to the few that would listen that he saw substitute second baseman Jen-djieh Che warming up in Billings's bullpen in the eighth.

By the time of their June 28 game against Pueblo, the winning streak was over, but the Edmonton Civics were two games up on Billings and five up on third-place Trail for the division lead. With the Anchors the doormats in the West Division, the table was set for a big night from the Civics.

---

"Batting first for the Civics, the second baseman, number eight, Mitch Daniels!"

Mitch Daniels strode easily into the box, swinging his bat lightly as veteran Ricardo Carrillo rolled his shoulders on the mound. The leadoff hitter smiled over to the hill, waggling the bat over towards the Pueblo dugout. Carrillo grinned back, but the grin failed to intimidate Daniels in the least.

You poor bastard, mused Daniels, tapping home plate and holding the bat over his shoulder. You poor, poor bastard. You'll have no idea what hit you, buddy. Mitch had always been fond of thinking this way to himself when leading off a ballgame. Every batter had their superstitions, and that was his. It certainly seemed to be working out well for him so far.

Fastball, change, slider, cutter, splitter. Fastball, change, slider, cutter, splitter. Fastball, change, slider, cutter, splitter. Splitter. Mitch Daniels went through the scouting report in his head as Carrillo reared back and let fly. It was the splitter, the very splitter that Xiang-Ling had promised Mitch Carrillo would throw on the first pitch nine times in ten. Mitch had just enough time to mouth "you poor bastard" before swinging and tattooing it.

The ball flew, arcing smoothly into left field, and Mitch Daniels got on his horse. If Denny King had hit that, it would be a triple for sure. But Mitch Daniels, at 37 years old, lacked King's speed, and Jason White had played the carom off the wall well. Mitch had to turn on the jets. From the on-deck circle, he just heard Raúl García roaring encouragement through the wind rushing past his years. His helmet popped off as he rounded first. Jason White let fly a strike from left field, and Rafael Vásquez was in good position at second. Daniels went into a slide just as Vásquez's arm came sweeping down to apply the tag, and just as white-hot pain shot up Mitch Daniels's right leg.

It was as though somebody turned off the switch connecting Mitch Daniels to the world. He observed the umpire swinging his arms (safe!), but he didn't notice it. Vásquez, as though not noticing the leadoff batter crumpled in a heap below him, threw the ball glumly to the mound. In the Civics dugout, a few players and coaches stood up, walking up to the rail, their breath caught in their throat, waiting for the second baseman to at least move. He didn't. Movement wasn't even in his mind. All that was in his mind was the breathtaking agony resounding in his right knee, like a million billion shards of hot metal had suddenly exploded at the heart of his joint.

Team doctor Juan Flores was the first man to reach Mitch, bending over, saying things that Daniels couldn't even hear. Slowly, awareness seeped back into his mind. He noticed that he was being put on a stretcher. He noticed that he was saying thing to Flores and to Kelsey Bowden, who met him at the foul line. He noticed Sam Quintal jogging past to pinch run. And he noticed that he kept saying that one word, that one infernal word: "knee, knee, knee."

He noticed that he was being taken back through the visitor's locker room, and that he was being taken onto a waiting ambulance. He noticed the doctors X-raying his knee, glancing between each other, injecting a little something into Mitch's system to take the edge off. And when he finally had the presence of mind to form a coherent sentence, he glanced at the doctor and asked, like a little boy despairing in the existence of Santa Claus, "will I be able to play tomorrow night?"

"Mr. Daniels," answered the doctor, "I don't think you'll ever be able to play again."

The Civics won 5-4. Sam Quintal went 2-for-4 with a double.

Back in the visitors clubhouse, the players just sat for a moment. Kelsey Bowden had just come in with the news, and the mood was sombre. Finally, of all people, Xiang-Ling Xun summed up what every other player was thinking.

"****," he said.

Coming Up: Chapter Five: Slings and Arrows