[Pommpie]

Better late than never. Hopefully somebody's still around to appreciate this update! And if you're new to this thing, feel free to read it from the beginning. This is only the second season, so it's not like you've missed so much that you can't catch up.

Chapter Thirteen: Talking Playoffs

"You're coming up on the pitches too early. I know pro pitching is a bitch, but a real pitcher's going to tear you a new asshole if you keep that up. Watch the spin of the ball as it comes out of the pitcher's hand, watch his arm angle, remember your scouting reports..."

"Jesus Christ!" Rookie third baseman Glen Russell's patience ran out at last, and he rounded on his hitting coach with fire in his eyes. "Watching the spin as it comes out of his hand? Does anybody even do that?"

"I did it," Mitch Daniels snapped back. Russell reminded Daniels of himself when he was much younger, before he had blown out his knee for the last time running the basepaths as an Edmonton Civic - firey, cocky, and a fanatic for self-improvement. Having hit 69 home runs over two half-seasons in AAA, he combined power and a decent average with above-average fielding ability and was a mortal lock to be a star at his position.

As far as Mitch Daniels was concerned, when he was young he'd been an asshole. He was determined to work Russell out of it.

"Didn't you play in the dead ball era?" Russell snapped. "Jesus, I barely have time to realize they threw it before I have to swing at the thing..."

"Learn," Daniels insisted, picking up a bat and thrusting it into Russell's well-built body. "Learn or go back to the minors and never come back. You got this far, don't slack off while you're here."

When he was young, Daniels would have been infuriated by the sort of grilling he was giving Russell. He would have told the hitting coach to stick it up his dugout, stormed into the batting cage, and hit a couple of seven-hundred-foot home runs off the pitching machine. And he'd have kept at it until after everyone else had gone home, if only to prove to that bastard that he could work as hard as anyone.

Mitch Daniels thought he had a pretty good read on Glen Russell.

The third baseman glowered at his hitting coach. Both were well-built men who looked every inch the baseball star. Daniels was on one end of the hill. He was developing a bit of a beer belly, his exercise limited of late by his wonky knee. Russell, meanwhile, wasn't quite fully developed, and still had a bit of the softness of someone who hadn't hit their peak yet. One coming in, the other going out. It would have depressed the hell out of Daniels if not for the fact that Russell was almost supernaturally good.

Russell opened his mouth to snap something, but as quickly as he had given away the bat, Daniels took it back. "Listen. Shut up. I'll show you how it's done."

Mitch Daniels walked into the batting cage. His leg trembled uncertainly beneath him. He didn't pick up a bat much anymore; even pivoting on his bad knee sent white-hot pain firing through his synapses. But he wasn't going to let anybody think that he couldn't put his money where his mouth was.

The pitcher paused. Daniels nodded. A pitiful fastball came in and went "piff" against the catcher's glove.

"Goddammit," the hitting coach roared, "throw it! Throw it like you mean it!"

Another pitch came in: curveball. This kid was tipping the hell out of his pitches; Daniels would have to make a note of that. Curve like this would have been considered a spud in the United League, never mind the majors. Ah, well. Might as well swing at it. Power swing? Sure, if the kid leaves one hanging like that he deserves whatever he gets.

The ball thundered off the old man's bat and flew into the night. The pitcher jerked around and watched it go, gawking like an ostrich. Glen Russell, though, watched the batter rather than the ball. Watched how he reacted, watched how he moved, watched the smooth arc of that swing and the almost lazy way he made contacted in spite of the way age had begun to dull his reflexes and his sight.

He also watched Mitch Daniels quiver on the follow-through, his entire body shaking as if wracked with something unspeakable. He held the bat behind his left shoulder and watched the ball go even as beads of sweat pricked his eyelashes. He didn't say a word or whimper a complaint. He didn't have to. And only those watching very closely, like Glen Russell was, would have noticed the way he clenched his jaw as he walked out of the batting cage.

He gave the bat back to Russell. "Now you try," he said in a perfectly calm voice.

In one moment, Glen Russell understood what it meant to play major league baseball.

---

The Edmonton Civics boasted the United League leader in batting average (Pancho González), hits (Luis Reyes), home runs (Bill Williams), runs batted in (Bill Williams), runs scored (Xiang-ling Xun), total bases (Bill Williams), earned run average (Adam Wallace), and wins (Adam Wallace).

Naturally, they were second in the division.

The team was in good form early in September, featuring a 6-3 victory over Pueblo on the second. Adam Wallace got the start for Edmonton, on a tight leash from José Morales with the playoffs approaching. In the hundred pitches he was permitted Wallace got through six and two-thirds, allowing three hits and one run and staking the Civics to a 3-1 lead. Félix Vásquez came into the game to pitch the last two innings. Being an Edmonton Civics reliever in the 1998 season arguably qualified you for hazard pay and Vásquez lived up to his bullpen's reputation. In the top of the ninth inning with one down, Vásquez gave up a home run to light-hitting third baseman Guillermo Franco, the first home run of his entire professional career, and the Anchors were within one.

Vásquez remained in the game. José Morales was a veteran of baseball benches around the continent, but he had never advanced to management until now. The art of massaging egos and reading minds so essential to baseball management had constantly eluded the staid, unimaginative Morales. Félix Vásquez was about to die a long, lingering death on the mound, and with the top of the Pueblo order up. Everybody in the building realised it, except the one man who could do anything about it.

Men Virgolino got things started with a chopper to third. Greg Hubbard barely gloved the ball just behind the bag and let his best shot go towards Pancho González at first, but the quick Virgolino beat it out with an infield hit. Mario Durán singled with the next swing of the bat, advancing Virgolino to third. Finally, Pablo Gómez popped up a perfect sacrifice fly, Virgolino scored, and the game was tied.

Bruce Farnell came in for the bottom of the ninth for Pueblo. Farnell was a Winnipeg native who'd grown up a fan of the Edmonton Civics and had spent three years at Laval University as a mediocre reliever. Farnell was lousy, but, then, the Anchors had a pretty lousy bullpen. The Civics would start with the number five spot in the order: shortstop Jake Cameron would pinch hit for Greg Hubbard, followed by González and García.

Morales had a lousy grasp on the mental aspect of baseball, but strategically he was sound. Cameron was a patient hitter with good speed, and Hubbard was neither of those things. Meanwhile, the Pueblo pitcher Farnell had poor control. Farnell got up 1-2 on Cameron but couldn't finish the job and the shortstop patiently bided his time, eventually advancing to first on a walk.

Pancho González had a hell of a batting average but was not a patient hitter. His at-bat was the reverse of Cameron's: getting an 2-0 advantage in the count, the first baseman had apparently decided his job was over and cut at three consecutive pitches, not getting a piece of anything and returning to the dugout despondant. Ángel García promptly repeated the trick, and with Cameron at first there were two down for Michael White.

24 years old, White had not been a favourite of previous skipper Kelsey Bowden but he was a perfect José Morales type of ballplayer. He was simple, reliable, and old-fashioned. In three United League seasons, White had never shown a lot of pop but consistently hit for average, adding a reliable mitt at second base. He was never brilliant but seldom slumped. If Jose Morales could have filled out a lineup card with nine Michael Whites, he would have done so and finished around .500 while fans stayed home in droves.

White drew a pleased nod from Morales on this at-bat: the first pitch from Farnell hung a bit and White tapped it, sending it neatly into the outfield and just beneath the glove of shortshop Jean-François Dostie. Cameron ran hard and thought about third, but the ball was a bit too lightly hit: he remained at second. José Morales applauded this display of prudence.

Designated hitter Jesse Cantrell strode like a colossus to bat. Seeing Jesse Cantrell bat was never a pleasant experience for a young pitcher. He was a dangerous hitter for both power and average having a career year in Edmonton. But more than that, he looked the part. Pancho González was a bit too tubby and jovial to be truly intimidating, while Bill Williams was too lean and high-strung to scare anyone. They could both out-hit Cantrell any day of the week, but with a strong figure, plenty of height, and an angry black beard around the lower half of his round face that made him look like a particularly tough drifter, Cantrell scared the hell out of pitchers in a way that none of his more talented teammates could dream of.

Farnell's first pitch was a called strike. The Civics faithful booed a close call, but Farnell looked, if anything, more worried about being up in the count. He tried to pick the corners but couldn't have even picked his nose. Three pitches went so far out of the strike zone that Cantrell didn't even pretend to think about swinging. Catcher David Bowers called time and jogged out to the mind, while first baseman Mike Miller came in to join the conference.

Bowers was one of the best examples of a young United League catcher. Only twenty-three years old, he had still been playing baseball longer than anybody would have guessed. He lacked the offensive upside of an Ángel García but made up for it in being able to manage his pitchers and his flawless fielding. The man also had an encyclopaedia for a memory, and his teammates delighted in having him recite the details of specific at-bats from three seasons previous. He was hardly ever wrong.

Mike Miller was another veteran player, acquired by Pueblo from Port Angeles earlier in the season for third baseman Eric Rushton. Another average offensive player, Miller was one of those guys who became a leader everywhere he played, and the Anchors had been no exception. He lacked many of the skills you look for a first baseman, but if you asked any of his teammates they wouldn't have taken anyone else in the United League.

Between them, they took on the job of trying to calm down the young Farnell. His mitt over his face, Bowers murmured the scouting report on Cantrell. He had a long swing, not much speed, and not much patience. Tonnes of skill, but easily frustrated. Keep him guessing and get him mad with lots of low stuff, and he's an easy out. Miller patted the young pitcher on the back. Keep it simple, remember practice. These are the moments baseball players are made for, and they emerge from the fire either stronger or broken. Over Bowers's shoulder, Cantrell glowered, his eyes like embers in the night.

The two fielders returned to their position. Farnell took the ball and took a breath. He checked Cameron at second. He went into the stretch and uncorked a sinker. It was practically engraved "hit me" and Cantrell took the invitation.

"Get on that ball!" yelled Miller at first, and Pablo Gómez took off like a rocket in pursuit. The AGT Field crowd built up in anticipation, Gómez raced the ball to the fence... and lost. It eked out of the ballpark for a walk-off three run homer. The crowd went ballistic. The Civics won the game, 6-3.

The Civics won lots of games. On September 5, home to Port Angeles, 42-year-old Yoshida Uemura went nine innings for the win, his first complete game since 1994, while allowing seven hits and nary a single walk. Xiang-ling Xun hit his forty-second home run of the year; he had no chance of catching Bill Williams for the league lead but he looked likely to come in a strong second. More surprisingly, Luis Reyes was starting to get it together at just the right time, and went 3-for-4 with a homer and three runs batted in.

The next game lacked a pitching performance to match Uemura's: journeyman southpaw R.J. Yeo got the nod and pitched a respectable complete game as José Morales tried to save his bullpen. But as they so often did, the bats did the work for Edmonton, and Pancho González led the way with a 3-for-5 night. In one of the all-time pitching blunders, in the bottom of the seventh Port Angeles pitcher Jim Keller walked mediocre batter Bob Zasko and retired Xiang-ling Xun to bring up Bill Williams. The call came in to intentionally walk Williams, with one out, for the hot-hitting Jesse Cantrell. Cantrell poked through a seeing-eye single to load the bases and bring up González, and for a marathon eight-pitch at-bat the grand slam seemed a question of not if but when. An attempt to sneak a fastball past González was one move too many for Keller and González stroked a ball to left and towards Edmonton's River Valley, leading the way to a 10-4 final.

Finally, on September 8, the Civics travelled to Salem to face the Bingoes and close out the 1998 regular season. Two aces would square off, with Adam Wallace facing Salem's Ronald Tipton, the best of the bad lot that was Salem's front-line pitching staff. Neither pitcher escaped the fourth inning, but both teams waged a back-and-forth game that was many pundits' pick for game of the season. The lead changed five times in the nine innings and eventually Edmonton closer Dusty Gill took a 10-9 win at the expense of Salem closer Henry Heath. Bill Williams was the hero for Edmonton with two home runs, his forty-seventh and forty-eighth, while 27-year-old United League rookie Carl "Warthog" Boyd had one of the more improbable five-RBI nights in recent history.

The Edmonton Civics hadn't made the playoffs since 1995. Three players remained from that team, the Liberty Series champions: Pancho González had been a young first baseman fighting off a skull fracture early in the season that had robbed him of his prime. Melvin Stewart had been the team's third starter on a remarkably strong pitching staff that featured the great Zhong-qi Phan and Daniel Desbiens as the league's best one-two punch. And Roberto Sánchez made a team-leading sixty-four appearances out of the bullpen, an innings-eating standout.

But none of them had been the big stars back in 1995. The names on the lips of youngsters had been Ethan Little, Jorge Féliz, and the veteran Hyung-gook Hu, an international star who had spent most of his career in Taiwan's major league but had shown up in Edmonton for one surprising, stand-out season. That had been back in the days when the Edmonton Civics were the powerhouse of the United League and a star would be proud to call himself a Civic.

It had all gone so wrong, so quickly. Ethan Little had suffered a career-ending injury in a car accident that winter, and it had really begun the downslide. Zhong-qi Phan, perhaps the best pitcher in the United League in 1995, retired after that season at the age of 31. Daniel Desbiens stuck around through 1996, putting up strong numbers on a lousy team, but he, too, retired. Jorge Féliz fought shoulder problems, never recovered the form that saw him hit .329 in 1995, left Edmonton after 1996 and soon retired. Catcher Greg Andrews, who hit seventeen home runs in 1995, was Edmonton's sole bright spot in 1996 with 27 homers and an MVP nomination. He then chased the money in Mexico, where he was still playing. Hyung-gook Hu went back to Taiwan after his one triumphant season in Edmonton and continued to tour the best leagues in Asia.

The new, 1998-vintage Edmonton Civics were a different team altogether. They had stars - Bill Williams, Xiang-ling Xun, Pancho González and Adam Wallace. But most of their roster was made up of journeymen and mediocrities for whom this was just one more stop on the nomadic path of a minor baseball player. Guys like Greg Hubbard could hit forty home runs but only bat .200. Luis Reyes hit .330 but couldn't do anything else on a baseball diamond. And the pitching staff were an assortments of has-beens and castoffs. They still didn't even have a long-term manager. But they were in the playoffs.

And they were happy to be there.

---

The fans of the Eugene Cranes roared lustily. Drums were beaten, leatherlungs howled. 9,931 thundering fans at Pacific Bell Park rose to their feet as a unit and applauded their representatives, the West Division champion Eugene Cranes.

Alfred Brewer was the starting pitcher for Eugene in Game One. 24 years old, Brewer was another representative of the best crop of rookie pitchers to come through the United League in many moons. With a 3.93 ERA and 127 strikeouts against 40 bases on balls, he was the quinessential United League finesse pitcher. His fastball barely touched ninety miles per hour but he had four pitches he could throw for strikes and had a variety of releases capable of fooling even veteran batters. Slight of build and utterly unassuming in person, Brewer was the least intimidating pitcher imaginable, but the man could play.

Edmonton's starter was 24-year-old Roberto Espinoza. Espinoza had just completed his third season in the United League and his first with Edmonton, posting a 9-4 record with a 3.61 earned-run average. Espinoza may have been the second pitcher behind Adam Wallace but he could have been the ace of more than one United League staff. He sat way forward in the Civics dugout, warmup jacket hanging loosely around his broad shoulders, taking a deep breath and letting it out. Brewer completed his warmup tosses to catcher Corey Schmitt, and Luis Reyes stepped into the batter's box to lead off.

Reyes struck out. But the Civics didn't. Denny King got about with a slippery single between third and short and ended up scoring on a well-hit, if rare, Greg Hubbard single. In the second inning Angel García hit a solo home run and the Civics had a 2-0 lead.

The Cranes gave Edmonton a scare in the fifth inning, tying the game off Espinoza. They took a 3-2 lead in the seventh but the Civics weren't done: as always they did it with the long ball, Greg Hubbard hitting a two-run homer in the top of the eighth for a 4-3 lead. Two-time All-Star closer Dusty Gill recorded a perfect save on only seven pitches, and the Civics were up 1-0 in the series.

The visitor's locker room at Pacific Bell Park was as loud as the ballpark had been at the beginning of the game, but there weren't almost ten thousand fans making it. Dusty Gill stepped into the locker room with a roar of approval and a chorus of high-fives, hugs, and head-rubs. Greg Hubbard was one of those to meet him at the entrance, and the two shared a fist-tap as the Civics continued to try to come down from their triumphant victory.

In the corner, José Morales nodded approvingly. Celebration wasn't for him. Indeed, most forms of emotions weren't for him. His arms were folded across his ample gut, his jaw shifting to and fro as he watched most of the team celebrate. Bill Williams walked around outside the exuberant mob, but even he had the smallest of smiles upon his face, a rare fragment of positive emotion breaking through his shell.

Only when the cheering died down did José Morales attempt to speak.

"First off, Boise beat Trail 9-7..." There was a thundering roar. When the Civics had last had a chance to see the score Trail was up 5-1 in the second inning, but the game had been a classic of epic proportions. Boise had clawed their way back into a tie by the fourth inning, Trail went back up 7-5 after the seventh, Boise clawed one back in the eighth and in the bottom of the ninth 35-year-old catcher Scott Sharp, in his twelfth year in the United League and ninth in Boise, one of the most popular player in Idahoes history making a rare appearance as the designated hitter, hit a three-run walkoff homer off All-Star closer Will Kiel to give Boise an 8-5 win.

"We want Boise! We want Boise!" cried the crowd. The Idahoes and the Civics had been old rivals, and Pancho González led the chant with unseemly eagerness. Of course, most teams in the United League had some sort of rivalry. That was one of the advantages in being an eight-team league.

José Morales stood back and let his team wear out their enthusiasm. "We've won the first game on the road. That's what you have to do in a five-game series. We're in the driver's seat. Now we just have to keep it going. R.J. Yeo, you're starting tomorrow." Everyone knew that; it had been written on the schedule for weeks. But they cheered anyway and thumped the journeyman lefthander on the back. "Now go get some sleep."

---

It was midnight, and in the hotel bar only two Civics were left up. Their next game wasn't until seven in the evening and so neither player was afraid to stay up: in fact, neither of them felt like they had any chance of getting to sleep in the near future.

Xiang-ling Xun sat on a bar stool. A Black Russian sat near his right hand, left unattended long enough that the ice was beginning to melt in spite of the cool Eugene night. Beside him sat Pancho González, drinking a pint of beer as usual.

The two had been silent for a hell of a long time. As the clock tolled midnight, the silence grew almost oppressive. There was nobody else in the bar, aside from the staff and the inebriates. The Civics' hotel was near the ballpark, and the ballpark wasn't near anything. Those who wanted the excitement of the Eugene nightlife went elsewhere.

It was 12:05 until anybody said a word. "Never been in the playoffs before," Xiang-ling said, idly, trying to make it sound like the most casual observation in the world.

Pancho González turned, very slowly, towards Xun with a somewhat surprised expression. Xun was 29 years old and had been playing professional baseball since 1989. It was hard to believe.

"That's hard to believe," said González with the careful diction of somebody who'd been drinking a fair bit that night.

"It's true," replied Xun after a lengthy pause. "When I was in Taiwan, and when I was in Mexico, I was mostly in the minors. Never on a playoff roster. Never even once."

"Hrm." Pancho took a good, long draught of his lager. "Well. Welcome to the playoffs." Pancho had been in a couple of playoff series, back when the Civics were the terror of the United League.

Xiang-ling Xun had gone 0-for-4 in the first game. "What's it like?"

"Imagine the most terrifying moment of your life and multiply that by every at-bat. Every fielding chance. Every swing."

"Jesus."

"Not that I'm calming you down."

"You're a prick, Pancho González." That was as close as Xiang-ling Xun ever got to a compliment.

Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of footsteps from the doorway. Neither ballplayer turned around. Neither of them even took notice until the flabby figure settled into the stool to the right of Xiang-ling Xun, and it was only then that both Xun and González turned to look.

It was Kelsey Bowden. The former manager of the Civics looked terrible. His always-chunky body looked like it was made of plasticine rather than flesh. He drooped, rather than sat, and his every motion carried the deep-seated lethargy that had so completely characterised the former pitcher's stint as a United League manager.

He was smiling.

"Evening, boys," Bowden said, conversationally. As he was the titular manager of the Civics until his contract ran out at the end of the season, he could still travel with the team. He hadn't done so for the regular season, but apparently during the playoffs he'd decided to show up back on the bus.

Neither ballplayer made any sort of reply. "Do you have Canadian Club? Get me one of those on the rocks." He then glanced back to the two baseball players, his watery eyes peering into them. His drink arrived. The whisky was gone in less than a second.

He gestured for a refill. "I got a job," he said, simply. "You're looking at the new manager of the Burlington Raging Bulls of the Midwest League."

"You're kidding," replied Xiang-ling Xun. The Raging Bulls were the class-A affiliate of the ABA's Madison Warhorses.

"I'm not," replied Kelsey Bowden, and for an instant he almost looked like he wished he was. "They're looking for someone, and Rich Walcott gave me a great recommendation." The refill came and Bowden downed it just as quickly. "Told me that I was great with youngsters, knew as much about the game as anybody, made a great team with a really limited budget."

"Jesus, Kelsey." Pancho paused. "Congratulations," he said, but the word felt wrong on the tip of his tongue.

Bowden nodded. He pushed his glass of ice around on the bartop, nudging it into a paper coaster and idly pushing it about in long, lazy circles. "Well, not much else I can do, you know. You hear I'm selling my bar? The Bowden Bowl? I'm selling it. Been losing money for years." He laughed. "Gotta do something."

If the atmosphere had been sombre before, now it was outright depressing. Pancho González said the only think he could think to say.

"Good luck," but he avoided looking Bowden in the eye when he said it.

---

The Game Two starter for Eugene was Andrés Quiñones. Quiñones was in his fifth season in Eugene, owner of a career 4.83 ERA in the United League and a 7-9 record in 1998. A relatively talented journeyman pitcher with six strong pitches, Quiñones was a skilled right-hander and probably the best third pitcher in any United League rotation.

R.J. Yeo was not. The left-hander owned almost every school pitching record at York, but he was no record-setter as a professional. 24 years old, he pitched like a man younger and that was no compliment. A history of back and shoulder injuries had robbed him of his once powerful fastball and he now walked more batters than he struck out. José Morales insisted that Yeo still had a shot at a real major-league career, but it took a true optimist to believe him.

Quiñones and Yeo put up a pitching clinic for the first three innings and in the fourth Quiñones blinked first, throwing a wild pitch to Greg Hubbard that scored Pancho González and then giving up a double to Michael White that scored Angel García. In the fifth, after Xiang-ling Xun got a board on an air from the shortstop, Bill Williams pounded a home run on his first pitch and the Civics were up 4-0.

Bill Williams was not the most popular Civic but the dugout leapt up for him anyway. Williams found himself met by a forest of high-fives, butt-pats, and jubilant roars of approval. Pacific Bell Park was once again sold out and the Cranes fans had been stunned into silence. Quiñones remained on the hill, wiping sweat off his brow in spite of the cool night. 64-year-old Eugene manager Dave Hansen, who had been managing around the continent since 1975 and in his first year with Eugene, looked on impassively. Hansen was the classic veteran manager and had never been one to panic.

Quiñones rewarded his faith. Jesse Cantrell struck out swinging, and though Pancho González walked on a highly debatable call on a full count, Angel García flied out to end the inning. R.J. Yeo jogged back out onto the field, the ball tucked into the glove on his right hand, to take on the bottom of Eugene's order.

Left fielder Bob Dixon was the designated hitter for Eugene that game. Dixon was a mediocre player both offensively and defensively, and in fifty-six at-bats in 1998 had put up a .286 batting average with no home runs in part-time duty. He had never hit a home run as a professional. So when he took R.J. Yeo deep on a 1-0 pitch, the crowd erupted not only in joy but in surprise. Yeo got out of the inning without conceding another run.

But the Cranes had been roused.

Quiñones left the game in the sixth after hitting Greg Hubbard and allowing a single to Luis Reyes. His replacement, Mike Ferguson, retired Denny King and Xiang-ling Xun on pop flies to strand two inherited runners, and in the bottom of the inning the Cranes were officially back in the game. Veteran Rick Shaw hit a lead-off double to open the inning.

Shaw did not have a lot of speed on second base, and Yeo didn't have to pay him much mind. Better pitches than R.J. Yeo had allowed bigger hits than that to Rick Shaw over four United League seasons: it was best for Yeo to put Shaw out of his head and concentrate on the next batter, switch-hitting shortstop Javier Domínguez, who at age 30 had 800 career hits and 112 career home runs as a Eugene Crane.

Yeo began the at-bat well, forcing Domínguez to chase a pitch out of the strike zone for strike one. An attempt to pick the corner of the plate was called a ball, another was called strike two. Another ball on a very close call and a big slider to try and retire Domínguez. The shortstop got around just fast enough to slice it foul, and laid off the next pitch for a full count. Yeo took a deep breath and fired in.

Domínguez swung hard but Yeo had done his job well and the ball bounced out harmlessly towards Yeo. The pitcher collected it. He glanced to third. The slow Shaw had been caught flat-footed and might be in trouble. Spinning fast, he fired the ball towards Greg Hubbard. But it was a long way left. Hubbard leapt off the base and just got a glove to it, but the ball squirted away towards the dugout. The big Hubbard leapt up to try and gather the ball, finally getting to it just before it fell into the dugout. But by the time he'd gathered the ball back up, Domínguez was safe and Shaw had scored.

Yeo put his hand on his face, his expression horrified. Runner on first, none out, and a run already in. His next pitch, to centre fielder John Smith, was a long way outside and ricocheted off the backstop. Domínguez ran to second, and Yeo was breathing even harder. Smith laid down a bunt on the 1-1 pitch and Yeo was too slow to react: Smith bunted his way aboard and Domínguez advanced to third. A fielder's choice on Bob Dixon scored Domínguez, and by the time Yeo was out of the inning the Cranes were within a run.

The Civics collapsed. In the bottom of the seventh Shaw struck at Yeo again, hitting a two-run home run to give Eugene their first lead of the ballgame. An RBI single by Paul Howard in the eighth off Félix Vásquez made it 6-4. The series was tied going back to Edmonton.

In Boise, there was yet another back-and-forth game. Once again Trail took an early lead. Once again the Idahoes clawed back and once again designated hitter Scott Sharp hit a walk-off home run off Will Kiel to take his team from a loss to a win. Boise Grounds exploded for their veteran catcher, and Sharp was met at home plate not only by his teammates but by the Idahoes faithful, pouring over the fences to join in the celebration as Scott Sharp single-handedly staked Boise to a 2-0 series lead.

This time, none of the Civics were celebrating.

Game Three took place on a beautiful Sunday night in Edmonton. AGT Field was host to as delightful a day as you could expect in Edmonton in September, with gorgeous clear skies and just a puff of wind out to left field. Adam Wallace was getting the start against Eugene's Doug Forrest. Forrest was a long-time baseball warrior who had made forty-nine career major league appearances and sixty more in Japan's top league before moving to the United League. He had been outshone by Wallace in 1998 but if you tied any United League reporter in a chair and withheld their liquor, they'd admit Forrest was the better pitcher. The best pitcher in the United League, according to those who paid attention to these things, and Adam Wallace's MVP-calibre season didn't do anything to change that.

Everything was on the line in what was expected to be a tense pitching duel. AGT Field was absolutely sold out for the city's first taste of playoff baseball in three seasons. Wallace was firing his best fastballs into Angel García in the warmup. Tension was high. When Paul Howard, a long-time minor leaguer who had already announced he would retire at the end of the season, came up to lead off for Eugene, he was rained with such a chorus of boos and catcalls that he had to take time twice in the at-bat before Wallace struck him out, to a cheer of such intensity that AGT Field shook from it.

The cheers didn't last. Wallace allowed only six hits but they were the wrong six as he had to absorb four earned runs and came out after six innings in spite of striking out nine. Roberto Sánchez took another three earned runs in only an inning and two-thirds of work. And Doug Forrest was every bit as good as advertised, going eight and a third, allowing five hits and one run, striking out three, walking nobody, and handing off to Mike Ferguson after only a hundred and one pitches.

"You suck, Forrest!" yelled a wag from the stands. But his heart wasn't in it. The Civics lost their first home playoff game in three years 7-1. After the Game One scare, Eugene was in control in the series.

---

"We'll get them next time, boys," José Morales concluded in his post-game speech to the demoralised locker room. "Melvin Stewart, you start game four. Now go home."

The players filed out. All except Roberto Espinoza, who suddenly jerked upright as Morales announced the pitching assignment. Pancho González gave him a pat on the back as the pitcher jerked, but Espinoza remained in place. If the Civics had lost, he wanted to start game four. Everybody knew that. And who better for the job? He had thrown hardly a hundred pitches in his Game One start and had three days rest under his belt. He had three days rest under his belt. And he was a much, much better pitcher than Melvin Stewart.

Soon, there were only two men in that cavernous locker room. "Skipper..." Espinoza's voice cracked. "Why am I out?"

"You'd be on three days rest, Roberto, and you throw fireballs. Eugene's already seen you once in this series and if you let up against them they'd pound you." José Morales shook his head. "Got to be Melvin. He's a veteran and they haven't faced him too much this year."

"But I want this game." Roberto Espinoza leapt to his feet, fire in his eyes, as if he thought that was the only thing that mattered. "You saw me in Game One. I can get these bastards, I know I can! Didn't you guys sign me for just these sorts of games?"

"I didn't sign you," José Morales reminded Espinoza. "I wasn't the manager when you were signed. And if you want to know? When you were signed I told Rich Walcott it was a mistake. You've never won the big game. Not once."

José Morales stood, very calmly. Espinoza quaked, his mouth half-open, his arms hanging awkwardly at his side. He glared at Morales, torn between bewilderment and utter, mindnumbing fury.

He chose fury.

That night, Pancho González got a phone call. Rolling over awkwardly in his bed, he grabbed the phone from the nightstand and murmured a vague "hello" into the receiver.

Espinoza's voice was clear as a bell. "Morales sent me home. Sorry. Good luck tomorrow." Then a dial tone.

---

"And that closes the book on Melvin Stewart," Frankie Truro murmured from the press box. The Fox rubbed his fingers across the wood of his desk, looking down at the field starkly illuminated by the lights and at the fans who slumped back in their seats, drained and demoralised. "Six and two-thirds for the veteran right-hander, six hits, four earned runs, four walks, and six strikeouts. Currently on the hook for a 4-0 Edmonton Civics loss, and Roberto Sánchez, the only other pitcher still playing from that 1995 championship team, is getting the call from José Morales."

Melvin Stewart threw his glove at the back of the dugout as Sánchez took the mound, tossing his warmup throws to García. "Not bad, Melvin," said José Morales, giving his veteran a pat on the back.

It hadn't been bad, truth be told, but the Civics had needed brilliance and they hadn't gotten it. A three-run home run by Javier Domínguez in the top of the first had got Edmonton off on the wrong foot and it had all gone downhill from there. Aside from a Corey Schmitt RBI single in the fourth Stewart had mostly kept it under control from there, but his offense had been decrepit. Xiang-ling Xun, Pancho González, and Bill Williams had all been worse than useless. The Civics were going down without a fight.

The Eugene Cranes, on the other hand, looked like they were playing a sandlot game. It had been utterly effortless for them to silence Edmonton's loudest bats. Clinton Leek was another asset to that superb Eugene starting rotation: he had gone 12-4, allowed only a .214 batting average, and went to the All-Star Game. He through the seventh inning almost effortlessly, and faced Jesse Cantrell to lead off the eighth with a four run cushion.

Leek's one weakness as a pitcher was control, and he walked Cantrell on five pitches. But if you were going to walk anybody, Jesse Cantrell was a good man to walk: he was slightly slower than evolution. Pancho González was batting, but he was in a nasty slump and didn't seem like much of a threat.

Leek pricked the outside of the plate on a couple of pitches, picking up two called strikes and putting González on his back foot. Leek went out of the stretch quickly on the third pitch, letting it go up high. González swung. He had to. Somehow he made contact, and somehow the ball went between the first and second basemen, popping into the outfield for a base hit. Right fielder Paul Howard scooped up the ball leisurely.

Then he noticed that Jesse Cantrell was digging in for third. Jesse Cantrell going for third on that ball against Paul Howard was absurd. Ridiculous. Indefensible. Howard had a titan of an arm in right field, and Cantrell was strictly a station-to-station hitter. It was so ridiculous that Howard didn't realise Cantrell wasn't stopping until he was almost gone. That cannon arm fired, the ball came in, Antonio Villa swept in for the tag as Cantrell slid, and Cantrell was safe.

The crowd around third base cheered, as numb with disbelief as Howard had been. He wiped his brow and looked into third, as the big Civics designated hitter pulled himself to his feet and dusted down his ample stomach, taking off his batting helmet and waving to the crowd. At first, Pancho González leapt up in delight as he saw the umpire wave his arms, throwing his helmet down into the ground and letting out a delighted roar. Jesse Cantrell! If that didn't spark the Civics, nothing would.

Angel García came to bat, and Leek was far more cautious. A mistake here could turn the game around in an instant, and Leek did not want to make that mistake. García fouled off the first pitch and took the second. He fouled off another one, took the next pitch for ball two. García hit a grounder foul, then popped one behind the plate. Then he took another ball. Full count.

When García socked another one foul into the stands, the crowd was behind him. They cheered as Leek delivered the ninth pitch of the at-bat and cheered even harder when it went outside. García tossed his bat away and trotted to first base as the crowd cheered. Leek frowned and looked at the man coming in to bat.

Forty home-run hitter Greg Hubbard grinned back at him.

Corey Schmitt came from behind the plate to talk to Leek, keeping Leek facing home plate, trying to distract him from Dave Hansen on the bullpen phone, calling for someone to warm up and fast. No pitcher improved when they knew the bullpen was getting ready behind them, and Schmitt's job was not just to keep Leek calm but to get his self-assurance back up. Greg Hubbard windmilled his huge bat, stroking imaginary five-hundred foot home runs, and wearing the smile of a cat loose in the mouse cage.

Schmitt returned behind the plate. Leek closed his eyes and drew himself together for one final effort. Even if he didn't dare turn around to look at the bullpen, he knew someone had to be warming up. All pitchers did. And he would get Greg Hubbard out if it was the last thing he ever did.

Hubbard grinned. Leek fired. Ball one. The crowd went wild.

Hubbard grinned even wider. Leek released. Ball two. The crowd stood up and roared.

Hubbard's face looked like it would split in half with his smile even before Leek made the pitch. Ball three. The crowd didn't bother to sit down, stomping and cheering, waving flags, AGT Field vibrating beneath their feet, the leatherlungs roaring the most creative insults they could find to the pitcher and having them lost in the tumult. This was the sort of moment Edmonton's die-hard fans lived for.

Even on a 3-0 count, Leek didn't have the nerve to give Greg Hubbard a fastball down the middle with the bases loaded. The cutter came and Greg Hubbard laid off. Strike one! The crowd didn't have time to boo, continuing to let fly with every ounce of air their lungs could provide. If anybody driving by on Jasper Avenue didn't know there was a ballgame on, they would by the time they went past.

The 3-1 pitch came. Hubbard socked it, a hit so loud that even the crowd was no match for it. The ball exploded into the air. Clinton Leek fell to the ground, unable to even watch. In the booth, Frankie Truro did something he almost never did and leaned forward, his voice rising almost imperceptibly.

"A thundering hit from Hubbard! He drops his bat, watches it go!" The crowd almost - almost - drowned him out. "This is gonna be... caught! Caught at the wall! Shaw comes down with it!"

Rick Shaw had provided one of the all-time greatest catches in AGT Field history. Planting one foot into the Pizza 73 sign, Shaw had thrust himself into the air and barely snagged Hubbard's bomb, reeling it back into the ballpark. And not one fan in AGT Field was in anything like the mood to appreciate it. Half of them high-fived, hugged, and jumped around until they saw that flash of white as Shaw threw in towards home plate, trying to bag Cantrell at home on a double play.

Jesse Cantrell was paying just enough attention. He got back to third as Shaw caught it and was off like a starter's pistol had been fired, racing Shaw's arm home. Shaw did not have a particularly good arm and that saved Edmonton's playoff dream. Eugene Thomas cut it off at the top of the infield and threw hard enough that he almost fell over, but Cantrell just slid under Corey Schmitt's tag. There was no grand slam, but Edmonton was on the board.

Clinton Leek handed over to Hirotsugu Harada, a fourth-year pitcher who owned 55 career United League saves and an All-Star in 1996 and 1997. He walked Michael White to load the bases and José Morales made a move to the bench of his own, bringing in shortstop Jake Cameron to pinch-hit for Luis Reyes. Cameron had hit .257 in limited duty in 1998 and having him hit for Reyes, whose batting averages were always well north of .300, elicited boos from the crowd and a surprised comment from Frankie Truro. When Cameron struck out, the boos rained down even more furiously. Denny King flew out on the next pitch and the Cranes were, amazingly, out of the inning with only a run against them.

Roberto Sánchez remained in the game to start the ninth, but Morales had little confidence in the veteran reliever. Two arms were soon sighted warming up in the bullpen: Félix Vásquez and closer Dusty Gill.

Sánchez got Corey Schmitt and Paul Howard out without any trouble. Eugene Thomas, however, rapped a single off Sánchez after a lengthy at-bat, and José Morales came out to the mound.

"This pitching change brought to you by Mr. Lube, one-hour oil changes guaranteed, no appointment necessary, call your locally-owned Mr. Lube retailer today, and the new pitcher for Edmonton is... Félix Vásquez!" Frankie Truro had seen a lot of things in his years of calling the United League, but he had seldom seen a manager go to the likes of Félix Vásquez over a two-time All-Star closer in a situation like this. "Vásquez went 7-7 in 1998 with four saves in 106.2 innings... a 6.24 ERA, eighty-two walks and seventy-four strikeouts... I don't mind telling all you folks at home, I don't know why Morales isn't going to Dusty Gill. It's not as though he needs to save his closer for tomorrow."

Sergio Sánchez scraped an infield hit off of Vásquez, but luckily Truro's pessimism proved unfounded. Dangerous shortstop Javier Domínguez struck out, and the side was retired.

But the Civics still needed a miracle in the bottom of the inning.

José Hernández was Eugene's closer. He had notched up twenty-eight saves in 1998 but he was no star: his stuff was average at best and it was widely rumoured that Eugene would not retain him for 1999 win, lose, or draw. He was facing the heart of Edmonton's order, starting with Xiang-ling Xun.

Xun was a mere 1-for-15 to that point in the playoffs, the sort of batting average that would make a pitcher confident if you picked him out of the stands. But he still had all the skill and all the physical ability in the world, and the pitcher who grew overconfident could easily be exposed against him. Hernández rang up a 3-0 count against Xun in a hurry and wound up conceding a single, to bring up Bill Williams.

The best hitter in the United League, Bill Williams was the sort of hitter you always had to pitch around. But Hernández took that a bit too far when he uncorked a wild pitch that eluded Corey Schmitt. Xiang-ling Xun advanced to second and by then there was no reason not to intentionally walk Williams. Jesse Cantrell, the hero of the first inning, soon had a 3-0 count of his own.

Hernández was struggling, not for the first time in 1998, and when a pitcher is struggling anything can go wrong. Cantrell hit a harmless 3-1 pitch that, in better hands, would be a double-play ball. Hernández simply booted it towards third, the crowd cheering his mistake lustily. Everybody was safe. The bases were loaded. Pancho González, one of the most popular Civics ever to live, represented the winning run at bat.

In the first round of the playoffs in 1992, Michael "Rainmaker" Baldwin had salted his reputation forever in Edmonton. It was the fifth and final game in Edmonton, with the Civics down by three and the bases loaded in the bottom of the ninth. Baldwin hit a grand slam home run that, according to the old-timers, still hadn't come down, and Edmonton won the series. From that moment on, as far as anyone in Edmonton was concerned the Rainmaker could do no wrong. When he won the 1993 Liberty Series in his final game of professional baseball, he cited that 1992 game as one of the best nights of his life.

Pancho González could have made himself every bit as immortal. The stardom was there, the natural charisma was there. All it took was the big moment, the single event which would make the next generation of old-timers say "I was there."

There were six pitches. González did not take his bat off his shoulder. He struck out looking and slumped back to the dugout without even looking back at the umpire's signal.

Angel García came up with one down. He, too, watched the first strike from Hernández. But on the second one, he swung and he swung hard. The ball screamed away into the night, and the crowd went wild again as a small white streak went out to dead straightaway centre.

"García is in his trot, he'll watch it go..." the wind gusted. There was just the smallest gust of wind in from the North Saskatchewan River. Nobody in AGT Field needed to be told what that meant.

"It's happening again," said one old-timer. "I can't believe it's happening again."

In front of the huge black wall that served as the batter's eye in Edmonton, the ball dropped smoothly into the glove of centre fielder John Smith, leaning against the wall. Over ten thousand baseball fans howled in the depths of agony. Only Xiang-ling Xun seemed to have any strength left, jogging home easily from third as Smith didn't even try to throw it in.

Angel García held his bat by the barrel dejectedly. He stared at his feet as, all around him, the crowd recovered from the torment of his at-bat. His teammates simply stared into the middle distance. There were two men on and only one out, but they looked like they had lost already. Only one voice came up from behind him.

"Good at bat," said his player, giving García a pat on the back. The catcher turned around with surprise. It was Xiang-ling Xun. But before the catcher could recover from his surprise, Xun had returned to his accustomed spot on the bench.

Greg Hubbard walked to the plate dejectedly. Hernández, the Eugene closer, looked like a shell of his usual self on the mound, utterly exhausted. Hubbard had all the emotion drained out of him. The entire stadium seemed to have shot their bolt and were now coasting on fumes, beyond any sort of emotion. Hernández threw three pitches without really noticing where they were. They were all outside. On the 3-0 pitch he threw a strike down the middle that Hubbard didn't offer at. The big third baseman stood wearily at home, and at the next pitch, out of nowhere, he unleashed one of those long, epic swings and a screaming frozen rope into the outfield.

All of a sudden, the game was alive again. It was a hell of a ball, but Bill Williams, Jesse Cantrell, and Greg Hubbard were prominently involved. Were there three slower players in the United League? Williams ran like his life depended on it from second as John Smith caught Hubbard's ball on a ricochet off the wall. Behind him, Jesse Cantrell chugged hard. His batting helmet flew off as he ran for everything he was worth. Williams scored easily and Cantrell rounded third just as Smith unleashed his throw.

Everything was on Jesse Cantrell's back, and he ran. If he had exhausted himself by his miracle of baserunning in the eighth than he had caught his second wind in the ninth. There was no cutoff and Smith had placed his throw well. Schmitt tried to block the plate as Cantrell came directly at him without slowing down. There was a crashing sound, Schmitt's catching paraphenalia getting caught up as Cantrell pumped his arms, the catcher's helmet flying off towards the dugout, the ball ricocheting off Schmitt's knee and back into the infield. Cantrell scored and Schmitt gathered himself up. Hernández scooped up the ball and threw for third: Greg Hubbard, seeing his chance, had tried to go on from second. But the collision had taken too much time, and Hubbard was safe too.

The game was tied, and the winning run was ninety feet away. Michael White, the next batter, grounded out, but nobody cared. The party in the stands was back on.

Félix Vásquez came back out to pitch the top of the tenth with the cheers of the crowd ringing in his ears. He would not have an easy job: he was against the heart of the Eugene order, with Rick Shaw leading off. Pitching carefully to Shaw, Vásquez walked the veteran and Shaw took his base.

John Smith, a light hitter, put down a successful sacrifice bunt to move Shaw over. Bob Dixon flew out, and with Antonio Villa up, Vásquez was in the driver's seat. The dugout cheered, clapped, and tried their damndest to encourage the journeyman pitcher. Only wise old Frankie Truro, in the broadcasting booth, occasionally glanced to the bullpen and to the idle Dusty Gill.

Antonio Villa walked.

The catcher, Corey Schmitt, came up. Schmitt had hit only .207 in 1998, though he was praised for his defense and his management of pitchers. If Vásquez kept himself composed, Schmitt ought to be an easy way to end the inning. But Félix Vásquez had never been known for keeping himself composed. His first pitch skipped in the grass in front of the plate, and it squirmed away from Angel García. The catcher scrambled to recover it, while Shaw and Villa jogged easily to the next base.

Vásquez kept working on Schmitt, but his pitches lacked zip and the catcher got around on each of them. He fouled off four consecutive pitches and took the next three, walking to load the bases.

Frankie Truro pressed the mute switch. "Come on, José..." he quietly murmured, glaring daggers down to the bullpen. But there was no action. Dusty Gill still sat idle. With the bases full, Félix Vásquez set in against leadoff hitter Paul Howard.

Standing up from behind the plate, García walked out towards Vásquez. He took his time, trying to give the pitcher time to get himself together before they had their chat. Pulling off his helmet only when he was halfway to the mound, García tried to still his own heart before having a word with the pitcher.

"God, you almost came close to winning this thing," Vásquez said first, looking miserable. A reminder that did not improve the catcher's mood either, and he briefly turned away towards Howard at home plate, tucking his helmet under his right arm and knitting his emotions back together.

"We have to put that behind us," García replied, and his voice choked midway through. "We've missed more than once chance tonight." He clapped a hand on the back of the taller pitcher. "Let's just try not to miss this one."

"Try," Vásquez murmured unhappily.

"Howard's an easy one. He chases anything outside. No eye. Take a deep breath before you throw. Pick the corners. Don't even think about the other guys." García waved his mitt towards the loaded bases. "Let me worry about that. You just pick those corners."

"I'll try," Vásquez replied with a nod, looking utterly uninspired. García returned to behind the plate.

The signals. Fastball, high. García set up. Vásquez steeled himself, went into the stretch, and fired a high fastball. Very high. Too high. García leapt up from his crouch, the top of his mitt just grazing the ball as it hurdled towards the backstop. The ball bounded out behind the plate and García turned to chase it, not even taking the time to pull his mask off. From third, Rick Shaw ran like all the demons of hell were chasing him on.

García slid on the wet grass but picked up the ball easily and turned towards home. He could beat Shaw. He knew he could. And he could only look on in slack horror as Vásquez, so mortified by his blunder, compounded it by failing to come forward and cover home plate.

"José!" yelled García, yanking the pitcher out of his reverie. But it was too late. Shaw crossed the plate and leapt up in joy, sprinting towards his dugout and being met by a mob of congratulations. 5-4 Eugene.

And, in his bones, Angel García knew they weren't coming back this time.

---

Paradise, Nevada. September 23, 1998.

Hundreds of miles away, the Boise Idahoes celebrated their first Liberty Series win since 1984 after defeating Eugene 7-0 in Game Five. The staff of the New York Sky Warriors didn't know that, and most of them wouldn't care if they did. The United League was small fry to each of them, something too small to even care about.

For all of them except one.

The Sky Warriors had just dropped a 6-1 decision to the Paradise Rainstorm. It had been a horrifying display against the last-place team in the American Conference, and New York had dropped to the basement of the AC East with the loss. The ballpark was rapidly emptying and even most of the players and staff had gone home. Only one ballplayer from either team remained: New York third baseman Glen Russell was hitting a mere .206 in his first crack at being a major-league ballplayer. And he had insisted on sticking around, trying to work off his frustation in some impromptu batting practice.

Hitting coach Mitch Daniels stood to the side, arms crossed, watching Russell crank moon shots off the pitching machine. Each crack of that bat was a further reminder of just how far Russell was ahead of his peers, and each stumble in an actual game was a brutal example of just how far he had to go. But he was a talent. Daniels was absolutely certain about that.

"Extend your arms," the hitting coach called. "Don't get caught shortening up just because the balls are a bit faster. If you can't get all the way around, you'll never make it." Russell made no reply except to try and swing harder, the ball flitting past him. A club employee tried to get Daniels's attention.

"Hang on," Mitch Daniels said, turning and walking towards the dugout. He came down the stairs, pausing next to the rail, looking out on the desert ballpark. Holding nearly 40,000, the home park of the Paradise Rainstorm was the biggest sporting facility in the Las Vegas region, and that was saying something. The only major-league team in the Las Vegas region, the Rainstorm sold out almost every night, both with natives and with tourists. An awful lot of tickets were given away by casinos as prizes, and the Rainstorm hardly had a conventional fanbase. But they were making it work.

Turning back, Daniels came down into the locker room. He passed the gleaming reminders of major league life: the exercise room, the televisions, the lockers larger than some minor leaguers' apartments. He stepped into the manager's office, where his skipper David Adkins held the phone.

"Daniels," said Adkins, handing him the phone.

"Mitch? Hey. Rich Walcott, general manager of the Edmonton Civics. I have a job proposal for you and I think you might like to hear about it."

Coming up: Chapter Fourteen: Changes