[Pommpie]

Originally Posted by darkcloud4579

Well nonetheless, this was a great start and good work. You'll be back and we'll look forward to it when you do.

You're right!

As you can doubtlessly see, this story is not, in fact, dead.

You see, what happened was this: I'm an idiot. I thought that I kept my Out of the Park files on a different physical hard drive than the one I actually kept them on. When I formatted one of my hard drives, I said "oh snap" and bemoaned the fact that Pancho González, Adam Wallace, and Xiang-ling Xun were dead forever. Then, one fateful day, I noticed that the saved game file was there. Which was great. It made me happy. The actual text file containing the story wasn't, but that wasn't a huge deal. I didn't lose anything irreplaceable.

Things are a bit weird with it, mind you. For example, when I first opened it up in a Windows XP virtual machine I'm running on my Linux machine, half of the logos no longer appeared. Later, I opened it again the old-fashioned way, with OOTP running happily under Wine. The logos are now all there, but Facegen doesn't work. Previous generated faces show up as normal, but when a new one is generated it... isn't. You just end up with a blank background, as if the baseball world was populated entirely by the invisible. It's weird. I have no idea what's going on. If any of you have any tips, that would be appreciated, but I'm relucant to report it as a bug since running OOTP under Wine isn't exactly a supported configuration.

Still. There's story going on. So that's nice.

Chapter Nine: Chutes and Ladders

For a man of middling height and mediocre build, there was something about Bill Williams that made him seem larger than life. On a baseball field, anyway; if you ran into him hitting on your girlfriend at two in the morning on New Year's Day, more than one boyfriend wouldn't hesitate to give him a piece of his mind. But if, rather than going in the back alley and trading punches in the traditional manner Williams was to challenge the opposing party to a home run derby, there would be few who could accept his offer and win. Because by God, Bill Williams could rake, and everybody knew it.

Even the fans in Eugene, Oregon knew it. Pacific Bell Park was packed to the rafters when the Civics rolled in on May 1, 1998. They came not for Luis Reyes, Xiang-ling Xun, Pancho González, or any of the team's other stars. They certainly didn't come to watch journeyman pitcher Melvin Stewart getting the start for Edmonton. They came for the man who was making his Civics debut that night, the high-priced star who, in spite of missing the entire season thus far, had been slotted straight into centre field and fourth in the batting order, bumping Xiang-ling Xun to third and Pancho González, hitting .375 to date, down to sixth.

When Williams strode to the plate in the first inning, there was a chorus of boos from the Cranes faithful. Williams's career batting average against Eugene had been described by Cranes starter Doug Forrest as "like, .750 or something". Forrest was the Cranes' own big off-season pickup, coming into Eugene from the Japanese league, a veteran of 49 games with Arlington in the American Baseball Association and 79 at Japan's top level, only 30 years old, a deceptively strong right-hander who could throw six pitches for strikes. Seemingly the ideal starter to quiet the Civics' loud bats. The first inning, however, had gotten off to a bad start for him: after forcing Luis Reyes to fly out he had allowed a triple to Denny King and then walked Xiang-ling Xun on only five pitches. The sight of the slight but solid Williams gyrating his bat furiously in the batter's box was not a welcome one with runners on the corners, one out, and perhaps the fastest man in the United League aching for a fly ball on third.

Forrest stood on the mound, bend over at the waist, his right hand concealed in his glove in front of his chest, shifting the ball about in his grip, staring at Corey Schmitt's fingers as the signs came in. It was a fastball first, zipping slightly outside, Williams not budging as Forrest did his job against the best hitter in the United League. The next pitch was another fastball, clipping the high outside corner: a ball and a strike. Again, Williams did not stir, and this time the Cranes fans cheered their approval. Williams once again waggled his bat and Forrest once again stooped, his copper-red moustache twitching slightly in the May heat, maintaining a look of perfect concentration.

Doug Forrest was a veteran of high-level baseball, but he was new to the United League and had never faced Bill Williams even in exhibition. Reading scouting reports was great but it was no replacement for experience, and when Schmitt called for the curveball Forrest shook him off. The circle change was Forrest's favourite pitch in these situations: it had more movement on it than most players could expect and after a couple rapid fastballs it had thrown more than one batter off in time for the lethal curveball to finish them. Schmitt again insisted on the curve. Forrest again shook him off. The catcher hopped up and jogged to the mound, pulling his mask off with an irritated expression. Like Forrest, Corey Schmitt was a rookie to the United League, but he'd been kicking around the Cranes reserve list since he had been released by the Washington system in 1995 and had spent years learning from Eugene's excellent veteran catchers Wilfredo Delgado and Harry Steward, and he knew this league as well as anybody.

The pitcher and the catcher turned their backs to Bill Williams, holding their gloves in front of their faces and exchanging hurried, angry words. Xiang-ling Xun took a few steps off of first to try and listen in to the conversation, but it was futile: the gist, however, was obvious. When Schmitt jogged back behind home plate, his anger was obvious for that second before he pulled his mask down. The veteran shortstop, guessing what that meant, smiled.

Forrest reared back and threw. As the ball arced high over his head and he twisted about to watch it fly to right, he perhaps gained a small measure of respect for his young catcher, but he certainly learned a thing or two about Bill Williams. Deigning to return Denny King's excited high-five at home plate, Williams walked back towards the dugout, utterly expressionless, having given his new team a 3-0 lead with his first swing of the bat. The Eugene fans booed lustily.

Melvin Stewart allowed a two-run shot to Ernesto Cabral in the bottom of the inning, but the game had already effectively been decided. Forrest managed only two innings as Xiang-ling Xun took him deep for another three-run homer in the second and added a solo shot in the seventh off Manny Alvarez. Williams did not get a hit for the rest if the night but he didn't need one, and Stewart, Masamune Okawa, and Félix Vásquez combined for an effective nine innings as the Civics won 8-3 and took their fifth win in a row.

Williams hit another home run in the fifth inning of his third game back, a game in which the Civics saw their winning streak end at six with a 5-4 loss: Roberto Sánchez notched his first loss of the season when the Cranes won it with a bottom of the ninth single. But Williams was struggling during his return. In spite of his newly healed wrist, Kelsey Bowden ran Williams into centre field to start every game, batted him fourth every night, and never, ever substituted him out. The nadir came on May 6 against Port Angeles. Williams went 0-for-3 to drop his batting average to .211 and struggled in the outfield: he missed a catch on a Benton Jones home run that he should have had and his arm strength allowed two runs across the plate. To be fair to Williams, the Civics as a whole were horrible that night: they lost 17-0, with Melvin Stewart leaving after two innings but still outlasting Félix Vásquez, Masamune Okawa, and Roberto Sánchez who came after him. It took closer Dusty Gill, as the last representative of the team's bullpen, to throw three and a third despite allowing three earned runs.

The next night the defense clamped down and the Civics in fact outhit the Angels 10-7 with a five-to-three advantage in walks, but the Angels got their hits in bunches and overcame seven innings of Adam Wallace to win 4-3, with Williams committing another egregious (but ultimately irrelevant) error.

The Civics were, in short, back to their old selves from 1997: occasionally brilliant but always erratic, capable of putting up fifteen runs one night and allowing fifteen runs the next. Xiang-ling Xun boasted a .287 batting average and seven home runs and was the team's second-best batter: Pancho González was hitting well over .400. But Luis Reyes was struggling to get on base almost as badly as Denny King: King could muster only a .238 batting average, with even journeyman Michael White easily outplaying him in the ninth spot. There were simply not enough players getting on base for the Civics: the most obvious offender was Greg Hubbard, a man never known for batting average but who was still hitting an extraordinary .184 at third base. Jesse Cantrell's averages had all dropped fifty points from his previous season with the Pueblo Anchors.

On May 8, Roberto Espinoza took the ball against the Pueblo Anchors. El Stade Terrible in Pueblo was known as a hitter's park, but Espinoza had traditionally had success in supposedly hitter-friendly parks. Sure enough, he cruised through three one-hit innings with seven strikeouts. Opposing him, Dominican youngster Jaime Murillo matched him blow for blow, and through three innings it was a pitcher's duel all the way, with Murillo wavering only briefly to allow a single run. But rain was in the forecast, and as Espinoza threw in his warmup pitches at the bottom of the fourth, it came. The tarps were rolled out, and both teams retreated to the dugouts to wait out the delay, while the Pueblo fans fidgeted anxiously.

The rain delay lasted nearly an hour: a singularly unpleasant wait during a cold, damp Colorado evening. Espinoza fidgeted irritably in the dugout while the other Civics tried to keep themselves busy: Bill Williams sat aloofly in a corner and occasionally looked up irritably at the field, Pancho González started up an impromptu Texas hold-em game with Michael White, Greg Hubbard, and Xiang-ling Xun (who, in spite of his arrogance, was quite happy to take money from his teammates), various others chatted about baseball, women, and the relationship of women and baseball, and Kelsey Bowden stood on the centre step on the dugout, staring out into the rain as if willing the clouds to part.

When the pouring finally let up, Espinoza and his defense jogged out to retake the field against Men Virgolino and the Anchors. Virgolino led off the half-inning with a double, a hard liner roaring into right-centre before Bill Williams could chase it down. Espinoza cursed quietly, accepting the ball from Ángel García as He Liu came up, only to see Kelsey Bowden jogging out of the dugout.

"Jesus Christ," Espinoza murmured, hiding his blasphemy behind his glove. Exchanging a glance with his batterymate, García stood up and shrugged, pulling his mask out and jogging out to the hill to join the skipper and the pitcher. But as he ran, he noticed another figure coming to join them from the bullpen: Masamune Okawa was coming into the game, concealed behind Espinoza's shoulder as he looked out towards the approaching Kelsey Bowden.

"Okawa's coming," García cautioned Espinoza as he arrived on the mound before the chubby manager, perhaps hoping to calm the pitcher with some advance warning. It didn't work. The instant he heard his catcher's two words, Espinoza wheeled his gaze to Bowden, blue eyes buring with anger, his expression so furious that Bowden actually paused midstep, teetering on the edge of a precipice for a moment before stepping up to the side of the mound and giving his pitcher a pat on the rear.

"Did well tonight, Robbie," Bowden murmured, eyes slightly downcast, but Espinoza's anger was not dissolved by Bowden's compliment. "Three innings, skip! Jesus Christ! What are you doing?" His voice went up an octave, bewilderedly glaring down at his boss, while Ángel García stood a step aside and rubbed the bridge of his nose wearily.

"With the rain delay and all, if you're struggling a bit..."

"I let out one hit!"

"...they've got some good batters coming up and I'd rather get somebody fresh out there. You're probably stiffening up." Another pat on the rear, this one more forcefully, pushing Espinoza off the mound as Okawa stepped up, pulling off his cap to wipe his forehead with his sleeve. García returned to his spot behind the plate, but not without sparing a glance backwards towards the still-reluctant Espinoza.

"What the hell?" he murmured under his breath before setting himself for Okawa's warmup tosses.

Four pitches later, He Liu drove Virgolino home on a ground-ball single getting between González and White. Mario Durán legged out an infield hit to Greg Hubbard, Manuel Ruíz doubled (scoring Liu), David Bowers ground out to short (scoring Duran), and, at last, Okawa struck out Aaron Miller to make it two out and potentially escape a jam without further damage.

Naturally, Kelsey Bowden returned to the mound. Having pulled his starter after three innings, Bowden pulled his long reliever after two-thirds, and Roberto Sánchez came in to retire the side.

"Smart move," Espinoza muttered derisively from the bench. If Bowden heard it, he didn't react.

In the top of the sixth, Pancho González struck a two-run home run, his third long fly of the season, to tie the game. But in the bottom of the inning Sánchez flinched just long enough to allow the Anchors to retake the lead. It took until the eighth inning for the Civics to take their first lead of the game: Diego Guzmán made the mistake of allowing a single to the speedy Denny King to lead off the inning. Worse, a balk to Xiang-ling Xun moved King to second, but Xun's double made the balk moot as he hit the ball hard enough to score Denny King from first base in a different stadium and tied the game. His always-erratic control shakier than usual, Guzmán intentionally walked Bill Williams to get to Jesse Cantrell (popped out) and Pancho González (ground out, though he moved the runners). With two out and runners in scoring position, Guzmán walked Ángel García, bringing up Greg Hubbard and his batting average a healthy distance below the Mendoza line.

Inevitably, Guzmán allowed Hubbard to single.

Less inevitably, the ball was bobbled out in centre. Hubbard chugged his way to second while both Xun and Williams crossed the plate, giving the Civics a two-run lead. In the bottom of the inning, Roberto Sánchez came into his fourth inning of the night and returned the favour: a firm hit from Mario Durán ricocheted off Sánchez's glove and Men Virgolino had scored before Sánchez could recover.

The top of the ninth, however, ended all suspense. Once again, Denny King began proceedings by getting aboard, only this time a steal rather than a balk moved him to second. Once again, though, Xiang-ling Xun rendered King's skill on the basepaths moot, this time by hitting a ball ridiculously hard to centre field, clearing the deep wall at El Stade Terrible by a dozen feet. Another walk to Bill Williams (this time unintentional) put him aboard, a Pancho González single moved him to third, and left-hander Scott Deakin came in to pinch-hit for Ángel García.

Kelsey Bowden had endured a mixed night, but this move was the right one: Deakin hit a triple, clearing the bases and putting himself in prime scoring position. A Michael White double scored Deakin and Greg Hubbard (who had walked in the interim), giving the Civics a six-run inning and a sure easy win.

In the bottom of the inning, four consecutive hits scored two runners. Félix Vásquez, trying to close the game out, allowed three of those hits and followed it up with a three-run home run off the bat of the dangerous Virgolino. All of a sudden, the tying run was on deck. Fortunately for the Civics, He Liu struck out and Mario Durán grounded out to first, and Edmonton ended up with a rollicking 12-10 win.

Both Edmonton and Pueblo had torn up their bullpens in the contest, so with the unremarkable William Lafontaine facing the 0-3 Luis Castillo, another high-scoring night seemed likely the next day. But, with the weather equally terrible, both pitchers came to play, and a Xiang-ling Xun solo shot in the fifth proved the winning margin as the Civics took a 2-1 victory. Lafontaine and Castillo both pitched complete games: in Lafontaine's case, he allowed six hits and five runs against only three strikeouts, but in 143 pitches he managed to allow only a single run.

"Figures," Roberto Espinoza had murmured from the bullpen as Lafontaine laboured into the eighth. "Now he leaves somebody in." The Montrealer picked up his second career complete game in remarkably inept but successful style.

The pair of victories had the Civics back in the division chase with a shout.

The highlight of the month, however, was yet to come. On the 19th, the Civics went into Smuckers Field in Trail to take on the Smelters. William LaFontaine would start against veteran Luis Vela, and neither would end up the highlight of the night. The Civics would lose 7-6, but this wasn't the story either. The story began in the top of the second inning. Bill Williams and Jesse Cantrell had hit back-to-back singles to lead off the inning, and a Pancho González strikeout had sent Ángel García to the plate with runners on first and third. On a 2-2 pitch, the catcher reared back, swung, and struck a mighty ball into left field.

Scouts often said that Ángel García was "fast for a catcher". What this means in baseballese is that García is capable of outrunning a snail provided he's allowed to overrun the base. But when the deep fly ball ricocheted off the left field wall on the hop, García turned on what passed for the gas. By the time Williams and Cantrell had scored, García was still chugging, and the ball flew in, and flew in late. The third baseman swiped to apply the tag but was far too late: Ángel García, of all people, had a two-RBI triple.

"That's the goddamned stuff!" Pancho González had roared from the dugout, joining many of his teammates against the rail as they roared their approval. From third, García tipped his helmet: he had posted a triple in his rookie season with Pueblo as well but he was no extra-base hitter by trade, and even as he grinned widely his shoulders heaved with his small 23-year-old's efforts to catch his breath. When Michael White singled García home he was met at the top of the dugout by his comrades, and even the often sullen catcher couldn't hide his excitement. "I really hit that thing!" García exhulted to nobody in particular with a grin. "Wow, did I hit it! If I got under it a bit more that could have been two home runs!"

"You'll have to get under it next time," Bill Williams muttered from the bench, glancing at the celebration with an irritated look in his eye. The celebration when he scored had been far more subdued.

Unfortunately, García didn't get under the next one, slapping out a rather mundane single in the fourth inning. In the top of the sixth, however, the middle of the order came up again.

Bill Williams led things off by taking two balls. In his typical way, he looked bored and inattentive, almost as if he was trying to figure out how much he'd be getting paid per hour if he could just strike out looking as quickly as possible and head back to the dugout. And, as usual, when Luis Vela found himself slightly lulled and tried to buzz in a cutter, Williams pounded it to left, hitting a solo home run and jogging around the base.

Jesse Cantrell struck out, but after watching a single strike buzz past him Pancho González stroked a long fly of his own, this one sneaking over the wall in left. Once again González did the jog around the basepaths, and as Ángel García strode to the plate the Smelters went to the bullpen, bringing in 25-year-old right-hander and United League rookie Rex 'The Eye' Wade. As Wade came towards the mound, Pancho paused at the plate and offered the young catcher some of his typically useful advice.

"They're scared of you, Ángel!" González declared, thumping the catcher on the back hard enough to knock him forward slightly. "Bill and I got these bastards primed for you, so don't let us down!"

He didn't. The ball barely cleared the glove of the leaping Ken Stout in left but it cleared it: another solo home run, a 6-1 Civics lead, and as García trotted around the bases the bench high-fived both each other and the catcher as, with a grin even wider than the one which followed his triple, ran down the stairs and touched gloves with everybody willing (even Xiang-ling Xun stood up to get in on the congratulation).

"You're a double away from the cycle, you know," Williams said acerbicly. Everybody ignored him.

The double was, perhaps, inevitable. In the top of the eighth with two out and nobody on, García launched a line drive into left field. The ball was well-hit: the sort of ball that would normally have a catcher playing it safe and stopping at first. But with history on the line García didn't so much as slow down as he rounded first, churning up a cloud of dust as he relatively flew down the basepaths, his teammates cheering him on the whole way, and when the throw came in late they burst up in celebration. The catcher had hit for the cycle. The catcher. The first catcher ever to do it, only the second non-outfielder in United League history, the fourth Civic overall and the first since Ethan Little in 1995 and, as it would turn out, also the first catcher to hit for the cycle in a game his team lost.

The Civics pitching simply collapsed. The mediocre William LaFontaine turned in another respectable start, throwing seven strong innings while only allowing four hits, two walks, and a single run, striking out four in the process. But when LaFontaine left the game, Masamume Okawa set a record for futility that was impressive even by his standards. Failing to get a single out, Okawa allowed four hits and four earned runs in the bottom of the eighth. Roberto Sánchez was normally reliable but the reliever had already thrown an immense number of innings in May: another multi-inning game proved beyond him. A two-run walk-off home run by Bob Lloyd ended the game with Vásquez only a single out away from victory, and the Trails walked out happy. In spite of the sombre defeat, Pancho González insist that the Civics treat Ángel García to a night of drinking to celebrate his unprecedented feat: a 15-8 loss in the second game of their series with Trail was their reward.

The Civics may have been struggling with their pitching (Mark Stewart failed to get out of the second inning against Trail, Masamune Okawa's ERA was over 7, and only Adam Wallace, Roberto Espinoza, and Dusty Gill were proving in any way reliable), but their bats were making up for it. Pancho González, a year removed from his worst season as a Civic, was having a career year: his pace was down but he was still hitting a blistering .404 and, in the loss to Trail, he hit safely for his twenty-sixth consecutive game. Xiang-ling Xun was on fourteen home runs, leading the United League. Though his cycle the previous night was the highlight of his season so far, Ángel García was hitting over .300 with decent power numbers and was putting in one of the league's best offensive seasons for a catcher.

Most importantly, Bill Williams was finally coming on. In the previous series against Boise, Williams had mustered nine hits on twelve at-bats with three home runs. Another three homers came in the Trail series, and on the twenty-second against Salem Williams hit two long balls, giving him a four-game home run streak and home runs in nine of his last eleven games. His batting average was now hovering around the .350 mark, and in spite of his late start he was second on the Civics in home runs and gaining fast.

The tone between the team's two top sluggers was not civil. Xiang-ling Xun and Bill Williams disliked each other, and had done so from day one. Perhaps it was inevitable that the flashy, arrogant outfielder and the isolated, quiet shortstop would clash, but when the former was trying to usurp the position of the latter as the team's home run king, their disagreements took on a different tone. In the last game of their series against Trail, for example, the two let their grievances become public.

It was the top of the eighth inning, and the Civics held a 2-0 lead. Adam Wallace was pitching a gem for the Civics: he had walked two and allowed two hits to that point while striking out eight. Milo Sellers had gotten the start and did not do badly on the hill for the Smelters, but as usual, the combined force of Xiang-ling Xun and Bill Williams was too much for him: both players had solo home runs, and Xun was leading off the eighth.

By this point, Sellers had given way to Trail's young reliever Jim Sutton, an erratic thrower with control problems, the sort of player United League teams had been padding out their rosters with since the beginning of time. Facing Xiang-ling Xun for the first time in his career, Sutton's control was just as bad as usual, and when combined with a natural desire to pitch around Xun and the shortstop's patience at the plate, Xun drew an easy five-pitch walk to bring up Williams.

When Williams strode into the box, he swung his bat with the cocksure assurance of the accustomed United League superstar. Sutton wavered slightly on the hill, and Williams grinned. More than one rookie had been ground into the dust by the bat of Bill Williams in these situations, and as if sensing the outfielder's attention, Xiang-ling Xun's voice came in from first. "Nobody out. Move the runner. Get an insurance run." Williams didn't so much as acknowledge Xun, and when the first pitch came in, Williams took a mighty cut.

Too mighty. The ball didn't duck where Williams expected it to duck, and Bill Williams hit a harmless pop fly: deep as hell, but the Trails would face no peril. Centre fielder Fernando Vásquez got under it and retired Williams. Jesse Cantrell and Pancho González followed him back to the dugout and Xiang-ling Xun was stranded on first when the top of the inning concluded.

Xun jogged back to the dugout to get his glove as he prepared to go out on defense for the bottom of the inning. As he did so, he glared up balefully at Bill Williams, pulling off his batting helmet a little too quickly. "Next time you're in that situation," Xun said, voice acidic, "just try to get it into the outfield. A 3-0 lead is a lot safer than a 2-0 lead."

"And a 4-0 lead is safer still," Williams snapped back, looking back at the shortstop and returning every ounce of the hatred in his eyes. "I get paid to hit home runs. I'm going to hit home runs. And if you don't like being the second-best slugger on the team, you can go to hell." With that, Williams turned about and jogged out of the dugout, as if intending to put an end to that argument right there.

Unfortunately, Xiang-ling Xun was just fine with yelling at somebody's back. "Are you here to play baseball or cash a goddamned cheque?" Xun yelled loudly enough that even some of the Trail fans looked uncomfortable, and Kelsey Bowden looked outright mortified.

"Get the hell out of my face!" Williams yelled, though he was by this point practically at the warning track and, compared to Xiang-ling Xun, his face might as well be in Siberia.

Both players were clearly frustrated: when Joe Whitfield hit a harmless grounder to Xun in the bottom of the eighth, the shortstop scooped it easily and with all the anger he could muster sent a rocket to Pancho González at first, nearly decapitating the large first baseman with a perfect strike and beating the slow Whitfield by about a million miles.

"Jesus Christ!" the normally unflappable González yelled in alarm, twisting his face out of the way but somehow managing to glove the fastball and retire Whitfield. "Ease up, Xiang-ling!"

For the first and last time in his baseball career, Xiang-ling Xun looked very slightly contrite. "Sorry, Pancho!" he called, causing González to look even more frightened than he had when facing imminent death by baseball. In centre field, Bill Williams grinned widely, but he had nothing to grin about: when Jorge Tejada hit a sure-fire single to Williams in the bottom of the ninth Williams turned on the jets towards the shallow arc of the ball. The ball was clearly fated to bounce in front of Williams, but the centre-fielder, adrenalin still pumping from his earlier altercation, clearly had something else on his mind.

"For the love of..." Kelsey Bowden murmured from the dugout stair, burying his head in his hand.

Williams leapt for the ball, diving with the reckless enthusiasm of a motorcycle stunt driver. The ball bounced in front of him, flew over him, and seemed headed for the outfield wall. Luckily, Luis Reyes had been paying attention: he soon got to the ball in Williams's wake and fired it into second in time to prevent extra bases.

Stooping to help Williams up, Reyes smiled at him, politely. He was a veteran and had been around seemingly every league in existance at some point in his baseball career, so his words carried the weight of his years. Patting his fellow outfielder on the back, Reyes said in a friendly voice, "If you try that sort of thing again, I will actually murder you." Then he returned to left field.

The Civics held onto that 2-0 lead: Adam Wallace went eight and two-thirds before allowing a pair of runners in the bottom of the ninth, but Dusty Gill came in and got the save with a single well-thrown pitch. After the game, even Kelsey Bowden felt obliged to say something - anything - about the confrontation between his two stars.

"If you two have a problem with each other, fight on your own time," Bowden declared to the duo, having sequestered them in the locker room after the game. "Don't let it get onto the baseball field, and if I see any of that... that bologna again, you're both suspended for a week." The motivational power of the skipper's speech was somewhat lost by his constant stuttering and stammering and the fact that his voice positively dripped with worry that he would, at some point, have to suspend his two best players for a week. None of the three parties left that locker room happy.

Events continued to unfold on the field. Pancho González's hitting streak ended that night: at twenty-six games, the longest in Civics history and the longest in the United League since 1995, and when the Civics returned home to face the Salem Bingoes at AGT Field, González got a nice ovation for his feat. However, the series went against Edmonton, as the Bingoes swept them at their own park to give the lead in the North Division to Boise. And the Billings Barnstormers were coming to town: for the first time, Bill Williams would face his old club.

The series began on May 26 at AGT Field. Perhaps rattled by meeting his former comrades, Williams struggled at the plate, going 0-for-4. Adam Wallace, starting the game for the Civics, walked four batters and thus allowed Julián González to score on a sacrifice fly in the fourth. But, when his control was on, he was unhittable.

Literally.

The Civics took a 6-1 victory over the Barnstormers to open their series, and Adam Wallace was the star of the night with his first career no-hitter at any level. The no-no was the first in the United League since 1995 (a good year for milestones) and the first by a Civic since May of that year when Zhong-qi Phan turned the trick. No pitcher in the history of the United League had ever thrown a perfect game but Wallace's no-hitter was the tenth in league history: his four bases on balls were actually fairly typical for a United League no-hitter. In 1985, Matt Pace in fact walked seven in his.

"I guess the United League's just not that good," said Wallace philosophically when a reporter informed him of this fact in the post-game interviews. His mood was almost completely unaltered from his usual calm, glib, and blunt manner. Though the Civics lost the next night (as they always seemed to after one of the players achieved something, although nobody was fond enough of Adam Wallace to take him out for drinks), William LaFontaine kept up his bizarrely successful season the night after. LaFontaine pitched eight innings and got plenty of run support thanks to two home runs from Greg Hubbard and one each from Pancho González, Luis Reyes, and Bill Williams. Being William LaFontaine, he still allowed five runs (and his successor, Masamune Okawa, allowed four in two-thirds of an inning), but the Civics won 13-9. In an exceptional achievement, Billings starter Stewart Horton went a third of an inning, walked three, allowed two hits (one of which was González's homer) and five earned runs, threw twenty-five pitches and got tagged with the loss.

The Civic's erratic play continued the next night, when they lost 9-5 in Eugene. But in the last game of the month they won 5-4: Adam Wallace, Roberto Sánchez, Félix Vásquez, and Dusty Gill combined to hold off the powerful Cranes offense by the skin of their teeth, and a two-run Bill Williams home run in the seventh provided the margin of victory. The win kept the Civics in the hunt for the division title after a 13-13 month, but there was work to be done. The Idahoes remained at the top of the North Division and the Trail Smelters were in the thick of it. Only the Billings Barnstormers were out of the race for the moment, following up an excellent 1997 with a spiral into oblivion in 1998. But with the strength of their division, the Civics would need a big month to take the lead.

Coming up: Chapter Ten: Old Time Rock and Roll

[Pommpie]

It has occurred to me a few times over the course of writing that, since this is a fictional story, I'm making several references to history that doesn't actually exist. I started simming in 1975 to give the league a nice history going into the story and I think I've achieved that, but at the same time there's so much that's happened in the past that I've been unable to work in. Some fragments have come out (references to the Civics' glory days are pretty common, and the appearance of 'Rainmaker' Baldwin a couple of chapters ago was a good example), but by and by large things are hidden in my OOTP save game file.

And everybody likes history. Right? Right?

Well, anyway, here it is. I'm planning to break up proper story chapters here and there with glimpses into the past like this: events, players, seasons, the like. Consider them brief interludes that save me from having to write a proper update.

The History of the United League, Chapter One: The Genesis

In 1971, the American Baseball Association was in crisis. The major leagues had not adapted well to the rapid growth of television in their industry: they believed, as they always had to that point in history, that television was their nemesis. A way for otherwise paying fans to stay home and cut themselves out of the game's lifeblood (ticket sales). The spectre of playing baseball in front of half-empty stadia haunted the American Baseball Association bosses, and the 1971 championship between the Houston Rainstorm and the Kansas City Skywarriors was the least successful in league history. Scoring was down, and, worse, the owner of the Rainstorm was looking to sell while the selling was good. It soon became clear that the 1971 champion would raise their banner in a different stadium to start 1972. The league bosses were stuck. For all they knew, they were seeing the death of their game.

Into the void stepped a rather small man from Billings, Montana. Philip Wilder had made his fortune in fertilizer sales: inheriting the business from his father, he had gone one to become a billionaire and a magnate throughout the northwest part of the United States. Wilder was also a fanatical baseball fan. In 1968, he had managed to lure the Washington Capitals and the Staten Island Excelsiors to play a regular season series in his native Billings, and was a constant visitor to major league ballparks. His preferred team was the San Francisco Spikers but he was no sports monogamous: he had probably seen every American Baseball Association team to exist over the last decade and most of the AAA ones. Baseball was his passion.

Wilder was also flamboyant, arrogant, and unpopular. He knew the problems the American Baseball Association faced as well as anybody, and when he got in touch with league president Nathaniel Jenkins he clearly thought himself the saviour of the league. He would purchase the Rainstorm for a then-record price and move them to Billings. A vast 55,000-seat arena would be built, with a fantastic dome to protect the Rainstorm from their namesake. The scheme was ahead of its time, and when Wilder drew himself up to his full five feet, leaned on the table, and told the assortment of staid, conservative governors how incoherently stupid they were and how he would be their salvation, it became clear that no amount of money would get him the Rainstorm.

The Rainstorm's owner was inclined to accept Wilder's generous offer, but the remaining major league owners colluded to pad an offer from a Paradise, New York-based consortium while making it clear that any purchase from Wilder would fail at the board level. By 1974, the Rainstorm were in Paradise and a Billings billionaire was pissed.

His involvement with baseball, however, was far from done. He couldn't bring the ABA to Billings, so he resolved to create a new league for the city itself: a league that would smash the obsolete ABA into smithereens and play baseball the way it was meant to be played. With his deep pockets, Wilder thought he could easily afford to pass by the question of bad ownership by owning all the teams himself: he would build the stadia, run the teams, hire the staff, and essentially run the league as his own personal fiefdom.

The United Baseball Association (UBA) was officially formed on February 23, 1972 in Wilder's home in Billings, Montana. The first board of governors were Wilder, his sons Eugene and Stafford, and an assortment of those already employed in his fertilizer business (including the league's third President Leroy Rosen). There were to be twelve teams in Billings, San Diego, Los Angeles, Portland, Seattle, Vancouver, Sacramento, San Francisco, Las Vegas, and three cities to be named later. All would be completely owned by Wilder, and all would play in privately financed stadia built for the purpose. Each team would play a 162-game schedule, just like the American Baseball Association. In a revolutionary move, they would try to get as many games a week as possible televised nationally: a surefire way to expose the UBA to the ABA's traditional audience.

The ABA reacted with all the legal dexterity that the league was known for. They attacked the UBA under anti-trust law (the ABA had managed to get an anti-trust exemption decades earlier but the UBA lacked such an advantage), filed a lawsuit over the similar name, and in Seattle and San Francisco, where the UBA would directly compete with ABA teams, they managed to get the league tied up in various legal and bureaucratic wranglings that would seemingly take a century to dissolve.

Perhaps even worse, the anticipated television coverage simply did not appear. The American Baseball Association, deciding to take a new approach to the medium, came to terms on generous television contracts both regionally and nationally, and with the ABA on the tube the UBA became redundant. Wilder had planned to finance much of his new league with television and radio revenue, but now there was no television revenue and the radio revenue was limited to small local deals. Studies and surveys revealed that interest among the ticketbuying public was lukewarm at best, and the UBA was perceived as either a joke or as a minor league at best. Not even a billionaire could pour cash at will into such an enterprise.

Philip Wilder did not give up. Giving up was not in his character. But, step by step, the ambitious plans for the league began to contract. The three unawarded franchises were quietly killed, followed by the Las Vegas team (a recent revelation about a top ABA player/manager's gambling habits had made a Las Vegas team marketing suicide). His sole Canadian entry, Vancouver, proved beyond Wilder's means, so he simply threw it over the Georgia Strait to Victoria. A similar maneuver moved the Portland team to Pueblo, Colorado. Still, the money did not stretch far enough unless Wilder wanted to sell off most of his share in his family's fertilizer business, and not even his love of baseball extended far enough to deprive his sons of their inheritance.

In July of that year, a syndicate of coal mine owners quietly approached Wilder about purchasing an interest in the league and putting a team in Trail, British Columbia. Wilder sold them the Seattle franchise for a dollar so long as the new owners assumed responsibility for the construction of the arena. When word of this got out, a real estate heir based in Alberta asked for the San Francisco franchise on the same terms. Wilder demurred about putting a team so far north, until the offer was upped to a million dollars for a franchise that existed only on paper. Thus, the Edmonton Civics were born. Wilder soon had his inital alignment: the Edmonton Civics, Victoria Sting, Trail Smelters, and Billings Billionaires (as they were termed at the time) would play in the North Division, while the San Diego Bingoes, the Los Angeles Stars, Pueblo Anchors, and Sacramento Captains would play in the West Division. Play would begin in 1975.

Ground was soon broken on the ballparks. A few cosmetic changes took place: the Billionaires were renamed the Barnstormers after the billionare owner decided the previous nickname was a little too on the nose. The Captains became the Cranes because Wilder thought a crane logo would look nicer. The league itself was renamed the United League as part of a settlement with the ABA. A far more important change occured in the fertilizer trade. There was a significant downturn in the market, enough to cost Wilder much of his wealth. It was the beginning of a permenant decline in his financial fortunes, but he did not know it at the time: all he knew was that his most expensive, extravagant attempt in Los Angeles (a team lacking an ABA franchise, and a market where Wilder was sure he could make major headway) was simply impractical. Money was becoming tight and Los Angeles would require first-class facilities to attract the desired market. Through 1974, Wilder tried to hold on, but it was simply impossible. Potential ownership stepped forward but they refused to put up the money required to keep the team in Los Angeles. Instead, Wilder sold out the franchise and its partially completed stadium to a new ownership group which promptly moved the team to Boise. The half-completed stadium was left unfinished for over eight years until it was finally sold to the City of Los Angeles in 1983, which used the site as the foundation for a new multi-use entertainment complex.

In spite of his setbacks, Wilder was still a wealthy man and he hoped to draw a calibre of player that could at least be compared to AAA baseball. But his fellow owners were largely small-time operators who had just made massive investments in new stadia: stadia that somehow always managed to be smaller than Wilder had envisioned, or too small to possibly support the large salaries required to attract real talent. Player negotiations went on for a year and a half. From going after major leaguers, the United League teams found themselves going after anybody who'd ever held a baseball in their left hand for their starting rotations and former college players to go into the outfield. Each team managed to get the occasional star, but the trend had been set.

30-year-old Jason Gray was a typical example: a southpaw pitcher who had bounced around the high minors and the major leagues, he agreed to a high-priced one-year deal in Boise to be their staff ace. But when the season had concluded Gray had priced himself out of the market of any United League team and no American Baseball Association planned to sign an insignificant minor leaguer who had shown his willingness to (gasp) sell himself to the highest bidder. Gray tried to find work in foreign baseball, but in 1975 an American going overseas was unheard of. A year after compiling a 17-7 record and a .244 opposing batting average in a league that was in its most competitive season, Jason Gray was out of baseball.

Though Gray had no luck finding work abroad, players abroad found the United League a boon. When the shallow pool of affordable talent became obvious, Philip Wilder decided on one of his typical radical schemes. Though baseball was popular in countries like Japan and South Korea, salaries were low and the professional game was in its infancy. Even a United League paycheque could look attractive to the talented men playing in Asia, and Wilder used his considerable means to get word out about the United League in Japan, Taiwan, and South Korea. Professional players who showed any interest were instantly offered a free trip to one of the United League cities and a tryout. It helped that this was 1975 and there was no real international sports media: more than a few thought of the United League as a second major league when they arrived.

In spite of initial reluctance, each team ended up with an Asian or two. Reliever Masaaki Kubo, fresh out of the Japanese league, played in 46 games with Boise and began a successful North American career. 20-year-old centre fielder Tadahisa Nagata played one memorable season in Pueblo, hitting .266 with 12 home runs, and when he returned to Japan he was able to find a successful minor league career. Philip Wilder happily helped himself, with Hyun-jong Chang, Li-hong Chen, Tae-kon Hwang, Hisayusi Ohayashi, Dong-ju Yong, Toyoharu Fukuda, Senzo Honami, and Ji-hyun Muk all playing some role in the Barnstormers' inaugural season. Ohayashi was the best of the bunch: splitting the year between Billings and Edmonton, 23-year-old Ohayashi hit .292 with twelve home runs at the top of both teams' orders and ended up with a Liberty Series ring. Ohayashi split the rest of his career between Mexico and Japan, retiring at age 28 when, after completing the 1980 season as a part-timer in Chiba, he decided that he would never meet the promise of his rookie season and went into business.

Although Billings had the numbers, the Civics ended up with the best foreign players in that first season. Besides acquiring Ohayashi mid-season, the team boasted Kyu-soo Song in its rotation, a hard-throwing righthanded pitcher who amassed 39 starts in 1997, the reliable Hsin Lu who played 14 games before deciding he was homesick and bailing on his contract to return to Taiwan, and the best of all, Norogumi Kawamura. Starting his career in Japan, Kawamura was an eccentric but brilliant player who hit nine home runs and batted only .237 in his rookie year but who walked more than most and stole seventy-seven bases on ninety-seven attempts. Two years later, Kawamura would set a steals record that would stand for decades, record his best season in every category, and walk out on baseball in favour of "personal pursuits". By 1985, Kawamura would be a United League Hall-of-Famer and, more than that, a legend who would feature in stories from old-timers for decades to come.

When the first pitch was thrown during the inaugural match between the Billings Barnstormers and the Victoria Angels, Philip Wilder still had high hopes for his league as a rival to the American Baseball Association. Attendance in Billings was a sellout of over eleven thousand paying fans. Those fans were in for a treat of a game. Left fielder José Torres was a former ABA all-star lured to Victoria by a hefty cheque and, unlike many of his fellows, Torres would not disappoint. The 32-year-old veteran went four-for-four in the United League's debut, but the Angels lost a tight decision 9-7 (Torres would finish the season batting .344 with 34 home runs and the runner-up for most valuable player, but after two years in the United League he would return to the ABA's Long Beach Loons, ending his career in Long Beach at the age of 37).

The momentum, sadly, would not last. The inaugural season of the United League was dominated by pitching, with the league mustering a stingy 3.56 ERA as a unit. Fans were turned off by low-scoring games, and with the major leaguers now being piped into their homes even the fans isolated from an ABA team found themselves able to watch their favourite team. When the Edmonton Civics defeated the Pueblo Anchors 4-0 in the inaugural Liberty Series, a hastily-arranged national television appearance for the final game was outdrawn by professional wrestling. Each team lost money, but the losses were bearable and no owner was willing to bail out just yet. The United League may have been alive, but the question of how large it would grow up to be was still an open one.

[Pommpie]

Okay. So it's been, what, half a year? Please. That's not a hiatus. That's practically a nap.

Tell you the truth, I was having the devil's own time writing this chapter. I struggled and struggled to bring this thing up to the standards I was used to and tore it all down more than once. It's not that I spent the entire half-year fighting to do that, it's just that after a certain point I got tired of trying. Then OOTP9 came out and I grabbed it and I said "hey, this is awesome!" And the old stirring in my heart came, and I imported my Edmonton story from OOTP8 (which only took about eight hours), and I decided to pick up the proverbial pen once more.

The result is... well, adequate.

Since it's been some time, I'd advise those who are glancing at this story for the first time or who read it once but have forgotten what's going on to start from the beginning. It's not huge, I think it's a pretty good read, and it's far more story-based than stats-based, which might make it hard to just leap into things. Although if you are new to it, I'd sure appreciate your input.

Chapter Ten: Old-Time Rock and Roll

A loud crack echoed through the locker room, like a bat connecting with a baseball but somehow even louder, amplified by the stone walls of Salem Field's locker room. Bill Williams staggered backward, back pressing against the aluminium of the lockers, touching his jaw with his right hand as if hardly believing what just happened.

Before he could properly react, Xiang-ling Xun was after him once more, pushing aside big Greg Hubbard's attempt at interference with ease. All around the locker room, towels were allowed to fall to the tile as Civics rushed forward to try and break up the two combatants. Williams got his hands up to try and defend himself, but even as the Civics formed a maelstrom around him Xun landed another solid right flush to Williams's chin before Hubbard and Jesse Cantrell, the two largest Civics, finally got hold of Xun and, between them, managed to pull him off. Williams jolted forward as if to attack his suddenly immobilised opponent, but Pancho González tied Williams's arms up, pushing the centre fielder to the side slightly.

The sky was blue with profanity. Xun and Williams both barked the foulest insults at each other, while the other Civics cried out in shock and anger, the mob filtered between the warriors, just in time for Kelsey Bowden to burst out of his office, jaw slack with shock, eyes looking like placid pools on a spring night, a piece of half-chewed gum visible between his molars. The ruckus continued in spite of the skipper's presence, both Williams and Xun trying in vain to overcome a throng of professional athletes and get at each other, Xun's infuriated Taiwanese accent sounding almost comical if his expression weren't so earnestly serious, Williams retorting with various novel curses through the swollen left side of his jaw.

As the scene sank in, even Kelsey Bowden realised that he had to act. Taking a few laborious steps, the sophomore manager put a foot on one of the benches and, with no little grunting, lifted his hefty frame onto his makeshift plinth. Raising two fingers to his mouth, he let out a shrill whistle.

The scuffling continued. Another whistle. Finally, a yell of "OI!" caused at least the worst of the fracas to calm down and turned most eyes towards the manager.

For a moment, Bowden struggled with finding the appropriate words to open his tirade. Finally, he settled on, "What in the seven circles of Hell happened in here?"

There was a dreadful silence. "I was just giving Xun the gears a bit, the crazy bastard..." Bill Williams finally answered up, giving the shortstop a hateful glance out of the corners of his eye.

Xun scowled back. "You weren't giving me no gears!" he answered, voice almost an angry yell, causing Kelsey Bowden to take a step down the bench.

"What the hell did he say, anyway?" Jesse Cantrell asked, still keeping his body wrapped around Xiang-ling's arm.

Xiang-ling told him.

The gum fell from Kelsey Bowden's mouth. "Holy hell, Williams!" the skipper barked. "What the hell's wrong with you?"

"What the hell's wrong with some crazy bastard going around slugging people?" Williams barked back.

"I'll do worse if you ever give me that again!" Xun retorted.

"Both of you shut up!" Bowden retorted. "Listen." His gaze fixed Xun and Williams, alternatingly. "You two don't have to get along. So just leave each other the hell alone. Or... you'll both regret it." The sentence ended even more lamely than his tirade had begun. Visions of previously-promised suspensions floated through his head. Visions of Bob Zasko batting cleanup while his two best players fought in the press box floated just behind them. He felt vaguely ill.

None of his players called Bowden out on it. Bench coach José Morales, standing a few strides behind Bowden, kept his mouth dutifully shut. Neither Williams nor Xun seemed to have any inclination to get themselves suspended.

Into the awkward silence strode one of the bat boys, looking excited, utterly oblivious to the melee that had just concluded, skipping along in that excited way that only a young batboy could pull off. "Hey, guys!" he said exuberantly. "They just said that Xiang-ling was Player of the Week and Bill was Player of the Month!" Then, with a grin etched permenantly onto his face, he turned and headed off.

The night had been a poor one for more Civics than just Bill Williams and Xiang-ling Xun. The team had started off June with a dull 5-2 loss to the last-place Salem Bingoes, with Edmonton's only runs coming from a Pancho González home run in the seventh. William LaFontaine continued his Bizzaro season: throwing six and a third innings of fairly solid baseball and allowing five hits, he still found himself tagged for four runs (three earned) and the loss. At third base, Greg Hubbard had recorded two errors ("how do you even get two errors at third?" an exasperated Frankie Truro had asked his radio listeners) while the normally sure-handed Xiang-ling Xun had added one of his own at short that could have been a double play ball. Xun and Bill Williams both went 0-for-4, and new signing Jake Cameron (a middle infielder back in the United League after spending 1997 with Port Angeles) had, pinch-hitting for Michael White in his debut, gone 0-for-2 and struck out twice against mediocre Bingoes pitching.

Even without Xiang-ling Xun and Bill Williams trying to murder each other, tempers were high in the Civics locker room. Even the irrepressible Pancho González was looking downcast, and in the finest baseball tradition of drinking off a loss, he practically dragged Xiang-ling Xun out to one of the traditional Salem baseball hangouts, taking advantage of his unique position on the team as one of the few men the shortstop had even the slightest amount of respect for.

"What is your problem?" he had asked Xiang-ling once the pair had dumped a few drinks into themselves and passed a few hours staring blankly at the bottles on the wall, picking out whichever ones were the most obscure and ordering shots of them. "I know Williams is an asshole, you know Williams is an asshole, you didn't need to rise to his crap like that. That didn't help anything."

Xiang-ling gave Pancho a muted version of the same angry expression he had previously used on Williams. "I'm not going to let him be the cock of the walk," the shortstop answered in a soft, surly tone, lifting up his highball glass and swirling around the remaining eighth-of-a-glass of liquid, examining its consistency with the narrowed, keenly observant eyes of the accomplished baseball slugger. His thick accent made the very English idiom sound charmingly foreign, but nobody was smiling.

"Why, Xiang-ling. I had no idea you cared." Pancho took a pull from his glass.

The shortstop laughed. "I don't!" he answered, and his voice echoed derision. "You know. Edmonton means nothing to me, it's just a city. But baseball?" Lifting the glass as if to take a drink, Xiang-ling merely rested his elbow on the table, holding it up to the dim light of the taphouse. "Baseball, I give a crap. I don't need some half-assed pole polisher deciding we're all his merry little band of followers." The glass dropped down onto the table, Xiang-ling clenching it tightly within his fist, looking at the bartender as if considering something, before letting his eyes begin their long trek back to Pancho González.

This, Pancho seized on like liquor. Clapping a hand on Xiang-ling's back, Pancho shook the slight shortstop around on his stool gently, setting him positively jiggling in his inebriated state. "Exactly. You like baseball." He nodded, leaning in slightly, one elbow in an old beer stain, the other encroaching perilously on Xiang-ling's personal space. "And you have to admit, Bill's good at baseball."

"Bastard swings for the fences every time..." Xiang-ling murmured, staring angrily at a bottle of rye across from him. "All those legs and all those eyes and no idea what small-ball is..."

Another thump on Xiang-ling's back. "Come on, Xi-li," Pancho said, employing the friendly nickname and sending a visible wince through Xiang-ling Xun, "he can hit. And he can... well, he can hit." The shortstop chuckled softly. "And you can't tell me we're not a better team with sixty zigillion extra home runs a year."

"Like that fat prick Hubbard," Xiang-ling murmured darkly. "Either hits a home run or hits into a double play..."

"You don't have to give the guy a hug or anything. Just stay out of his way." A brief pause, and Pancho leaned into jab Xiang-ling gently in the chest, finger teetering unsteadily. "Tellyawat," he rapidly added. "If Williams gives you any trouble... anything at all... just take a deep breath, walk away, and let me know. I'll make sure it gets taken care of."

"You sound like Bowden."

"Yeah, except I'd actually do it."

The two infielders shared a raucous laugh, before clinking their glasses together in agreement.

The next night before the second game of the Bingoes series when the team got ready, Xiang-ling Xun made a point of staying away from Bill Williams (his bruised face casually explained in public as being hit in the face by a pitch during batting practice). Both Kelsey Bowden and Pancho González noted the new demilitarised zone with approval, and when the game actually began Williams was feeling uninjured enough to go two-for-four with a walk while Xiang-ling hit a first-inning home run. Mark Stewart ran his record to 3-5 with seven strong innings and the Civics won 8-3 before taking the rubber match 12-4. In the latter match, Xun mustered a triple, a double, and a home run, in that order, falling just short of the cycle when a would-be single in the fourth inning was robbed by an excellent catch by right fielder Yeo-san Ch'on. Bill Williams also hit a home run, and after the Salem series Xun and Williams were first and second in the United League in home runs with twenty and seventeen respectively.

A loss to the division-leading Boise Idahoes back in Edmonton followed, but the Civics then took off with five consecutive wins: two over the Idahoes and a three-game sweep at home of the Billings Barnstormers, winning by a combined score of 27-9. By June 14, the Civics had a record of 8-4 on the month and had moved up into first place in the North Division, gaining half a game on the Idahoes. Even when the Civics lost, they won: a heavy 11-1 defeat to the Pueblo Anchors on the 13th (former Civic Kichibei Fujita threw a complete game with only four hits) was followed by a dramatic 7-6 win the next night. The Civics took a 7-1 lead into the bottom of the ninth before the bullpen imploded: Felix Vásquez allowed two earned runs, Charles-Émile Sirois and Roberto Sánchez failed to record a single out (Sánchez throwing only a single pitch before getting the hook), and Dusty Gill eventually had to take a far too difficult save.

The victories did much to improve the mood of the Civics clubhouse. The team won, Jesse Cantrell was made Player of the Week, and almost every loss was followed by two wins. Even Kelsey Bowden could figure out how to manage a relatively happy, successful ball club. Xiang-ling Xun and Bill Williams continued to keep their distance, even as Williams gained on Xun for the league lead in home runs: he hit two in the victory over Pueblo and moved into a tie with Xun on twenty-two home runs each. Increasingly, Xiang-ling took Pancho González's advice to let him know about Williams's disturbances: on more than one occasion Xun and González would meet after the game for a beer and the shortstop would just vent. Through all these meetings, González was more than patient and communicative, and when a relieved Xiang-ling Xun belted the occasional pitch into the stands, the results became clear.

González himself, meanwhile, might have quietly been the most valuable fielder on the Civics. An immense 10-3 victory in Port Angeles was accompanied by a four-for-four night with a walk, a run batted in, and a run of his own for Pancho González. A career .298 hitter in previous United League seasons, the 29-year-old had fallen off the .400 pace but was still hitting a league-best .374 with thirteen home runs. In spite of hitting sixth in the lineup González was also third on the team in runs batted in, behind only Xun and Williams. Despite being traditionally pegged as a middle-of-the-order power hitter, González was in fact badly outhitting Denny King, the .219-batting second batter in the order, and Luis Reyes, who at .348 was leading off. While Reyes and King were both considerably faster on the basepaths than the chubby González, neither of them walked nearly as much as the first baseman (Reyes in particular was second in the United League in strikeouts). And even the Edmonton media, which didn't give the Civics much attention at the best of times, was starting to ask questions.

John Noatun was the baseball writer at the Edmonton Journal, and when not churning out feature stories on ABA Montreal's backup catcher he was fond of doing the occasional story on the local team. Noatun was a young sports writer, a devoted Civics fan (his father had been one of the original season ticket holders in 1975 and had a signed picture of 'Rainmaker' Baldwin and Norogumi Kawamura on his study wall), and the sort of man who was too happy to wonder why Kelsey Bowden's batting order was the way it was.

"Having signed Luis Reyes to a three-year contract with the objective of making him the leadoff hitter," Noatun wrote, "the Civics made the mistake of expecting a .372 on-base percentage and only twenty-five walks in his best-ever season to set the table for the team's power sluggers. Over one hundred strikeouts per season isn't helpful either, but the fact that Reyes's numbers have precipitously declined from last season have only made matters worse for Kelsey Bowden. Denny King, hitting below Reyes, has made so little contact with the ball that he's on base only 33% of the time. Meanwhile, Pancho González is hitting over .370, walking more often than he strikes out, slugging around .600, and is setting the table for the bottom of the order. Yet, clinging to Reyes and King's superior speed (in spite of the fact that Reyes is thrown out on a third of his steal attempts), the team's leader continues to bat sixth in the order. Coming on the heels of his inexplicable use of a 36-year-old defensive specialist named Sam Quintal in the leadoff spot for the second half of last season, this is merely more evidence of the former pitcher's difficulty in writing a lineup card."

Reading the article, Kelsey Bowden merely scoffed quietly. "On-base and slugging percentage?" he murmured, tossing the paper aside. "Gee, didn't know Bill James watched the United League."

Pancho González would certainly not be caught complaining about his spot in the batting order. As a 23-year-old United League rookie in 1992, González hit .293 and was on-base at .354. Both of those numbers improved over his next two seasons, until his serious skull injury in 1995 threatened his career. He eventually recovered, but in 1996 González recorded career lows in every major statistical category save home runs. In 1997, even his formerly reliable power numbers dipped as González bounced around the lineup between injuries to veteran leadoff man Mitch Daniels and Xiang-ling Xun and never got into a groove. In 1998, having seemingly lost his status as a future United League superstar in favour of becoming a mere role player, he was suddenly having a career year.

And, though he was a true team player, Pancho González was utterly delighted to finally be hitting the ball like he used to.

After one successful game against the Billings Barnstormers, González had gathered most of the Civics at one of the watering holes he knew so well. The booze flowed freely, and Pancho was at the centre of it all, chatting merrily about the team's victory. In particular, González had gotten the team off on the right foot in the first inning, hitting a long three-run home run over the left field wall to score Xiang-ling Xun and Jesse Cantrell and take a 4-0 lead. Many of the Civics laughed merrily. Xiang-ling Xun and Adam Wallace sat on the periphery, looking grumpy but just good enough teammates to not get up and leave too early. Bill Williams hadn't even shown up; as a former Barnstormer he had friends in the area and was off to his hotel room with one of the prettier female ones.

As the Civics talked up a storm, a small but pudgy figure circled around the periphery. Holding a beer in his hand, the man bobbed around the edges of the Civics circle, occasionally limping around the gang on a bad right knee, constantly wearing a strange little smile, until Melvin Stewart, relating a story about his experience in the 1995 Liberty Series, spotted the figure, his eyes brightening in recognition.

"Holy hell!" the pitcher cried, extending his arm. "Ethan Little? The Bitty Bopper himself? How the hell have you been?"

Stewart leapt off his stool to embrace the small man, with Roberto Sánchez and Pancho González close in his wake. The three had been teammates of Little's in his only full season of United League baseball when, twenty-three years old, the second baseman hit 24 home runs and batted .306 to lead the Civics to their most recent Liberty Series title. However, a car accident in his native Lafayette during the offseason had seriously injured his right knee and instantly ended his once-promising baseball career. Little, González, and Sánchez exchanged handshakes while Stewart (one of Little's closest friends on the old Civics) pulled Little into the mob, sitting him up on a stool and ordering a drink.

"So, Bopper, what's brought you into Billings?" González asked when the furor of introductions and greetings for an old friend had died down.

"Oh, I'm working for the league these days," Little answers, casually. "Doing some stuff on the side scouting with SISA. Took in the ball game, thought I'd come for a drink. Nice to see you guys again."

"SISA, eh?" Sánchez replied with a visible smirk. "Hope you saw me throw a couple of nights ago, you guys have been underrating me for too long."

Melvin Stewart laughed. "God," he asked, "it's been how long, three years?"

"Three years," Little answered, nodding his round head solemnly. "Too damned long. Last time I saw you guys together... probably the party after the Liberty Series." The three veterans grinned, nodding and glancing around at each other, while the more recent Civics merely sat rather awkwardly around the edges, reluctant to break into the veterans' throng but at the same time finding the conversation too dominant to start ones of their own. Xiang-ling Xun made a point of checking his watch, then glaring at the long-time Civics, then checking his watch again.

Glancing at González, Little grinned, grabbing a glass as it arrived and taking a quick pull of beer before thumping the glass down onto the bar. "So, Jesus, Pancho," he said with a wide grin. "You were the elder statesman when I got there and you're still the elder stateman, eh?" It had been a running joke among the Civics of the era; González had been 25 years old that season and, aside from the third baseman, had been the oldest starting member of the Civics' infield.

"Not anymore," González replied, his smile dipping very slightly, liquor on his breath assailing the nostrils of those around him. "Ethan Little, Greg Hubbard. Greg Hubbard, Ethan Little."

Hubbard popped off his stool and shook hands. The third baseman was 35, after all, and years of riding the buses through the dregs of minor league baseball had made sure that his face showed every one.

"You're having a pretty good year, huh, Pancho?" Little asked with a friendly grin, standing on tip-toe long enough to smack González on the back chummily. "About bloody time, huh, old man?" Little had often ragged on González in their playing days; it had been one of the few consistent parts of the turbulent early-to-mid-1990s Edmonton Civics.

For once, however, González wasn't in a mood to be funny. "Still playing, too," he retorted with uncharacteristic venom. "Guess I take baseball a little more seriously than some folks."

Nobody looked more surprised at this uncharacteristically acerbic answer than Ethan Little. He and González had always gotten along very well and their banter had been part of what made the clubhouse click three years ago. Melvin Stewart shot González a surprised little glance, and Ethan Little's expression was somewhere between contrite and bewildered.

"Hey, Pancho, man, if I..." Little began.

But González was pissed off for the first time in a long time, and he was not going to be so easily deterred. "You think you're funny, with all that 'old man' crap?" he barked, popping off the stool with fury in his eyes while Little awkwardly backed up, leaning on good leg a little more than usual.

"You don't think I know that, Ethan?" Pancho jabbed a finger into his own pudgy chest. "You don't think I know? You think I don't get up every morning before a game, think about where I was that rookie season and where I am now, and you don't think I get pissed off?" Judging by the expressions of the Civics around them, nobody had ever given a thought to Pancho González being pissed off.

Nor had Ethan Little. "What the hell are you talking about, man?" he asked, voice a little higher-pitched than usual.

For a moment, Pancho González looked ready to explode, swaying unsteadily on his feet as he took a few tentative, a dangerous expression in his eyes. But he paused when he glanced around him and saw his teammates standing in a phalanx around him, most looking concerned, and then when he looked down at his old teammate, trying to present a courage in the face of a far larger, far fitter, and far more threatening man that he clearly didn't feel.

Pancho's shoulders slumped. Melvin Stewart, in spite of his diminutive size, promptly stepped forward, grabbing Pancho González's arm and pushing him off away from the scene. "We'll talk to you later, Ethan," the pitcher said to his old comrade before turning back to his current one. "Come on, big guy, we're going back to the hotel."

"**** that guy," González murmured, but his heart wasn't in it.

The next night, the Civics played their second game of the series against the Barnstormers. Melvin Stewart was the starting pitcher that night, and while he warmed up he occasionally spared glances over to first, towards Pancho González loosening up with second baseman Michael White. During batting practice that morning González had been his usual excitable, energetic self, showing no signs of even remembering his altercation with his old friend the previous night. It was only late in the warmup that González tossed the ball to White for the last time and strolled towards the pitcher's mound, as easily as he would as if he were going to just talk strategy.

"Hey, Melvin," González murmured to call the pitcher's attention, even though Stewart had been watching González walk over the entire way. "Sorry about last night, buddy." A firm thump on the pitcher's back, enough to send the slight Stewart lurching a step forward. "Had a few too many. Guess I was a bit of an asshole."

Stewart jabbed his glove into Pancho's chest in a friendly way. "Don't sweat it, Pancho." Melvin smiled a smile that did not reach his eyes. "Do you remember what it was that you were saying last night?"

"I was on Ethan for something," Pancho lied blatantly. "Can't remember what."

This did not improve Melvin Stewart's demeanour. "You were pissed off about his 'old man' bit. Kinda weird, Pancho. You were going on about..."

Pancho cut him off, his usual smile replaced with great earnestness. "I was in a mood, Mel. And I don't want to talk about it."

Melvin Stewart opened his mouth to reply, but Pancho González was already on his way back to first base.

Perhaps distracted, Stewart was not at his best that night. The Barn in Billings is the United League's largest and rowdiest ballpark and an intimidating environment for any opposing pitcher, featuring crowds of a sort not usually seen below AAA. There were 22,000 excitable Billings fans in the building that night, and all of them were determined to agitate a pitcher who didn't need any help being agitated. Stewart walked five over five and two thirds, hit a batsman, and only struck out two.

Pancho González, meanwhile, was playing completely care-free baseball. He rapped out two sharp singles in his first three at-bats off tenth-season Billings pitcher Francisco Velázquez, and on the latter he showed some characteristic hustle when he beat former Civic Rick Lewis's throw from centre to score on a Michael Lewis single. The other Civics stroked the ball very well as well: Bill Williams hit three singles in five at-bats and even backup catcher Sloan "Groundhog" Leighton, who moved like the tectonic plates and hit like he was using a piece of straw, got in on the act with three hits. Finally, in the ninth, with the Civics already running away with it 10-3, González drove a two-run home run off of Velázquez into deep right centre, a towering four-hundred-foot shot that made it a 12-3 game.

The next night, however, the Barnstormers recovered. Juan García was possibly one of the finest pitchers in the United League, a 28-year-old in the prime of his career who had thrown six quality seasons as a starter in Japan and who had only returned to North America on account of his involvement in a serious drug scandal. The United League, which was never afraid to take a chance on a persona non grata, snapped García up, and though he had put on weight and was obviously dogging it in practice, he could also throw like a demon and led the league in quality starts for the Barnstormers.

He was more than suited to cooling off the Civics' hot bats. He was fantastically accurate, striking out twelve and walking only one in a shutout effort that saw the Civics lose 3-0. It was their first loss in seven games, but one that still left them on top of the United League North Division. They closed out the month with the division lead, the Boise Idahoes breathing down their neck only one game back: it was the first Civics' division lead in seemingly forever, but there was an increasing simmering sound coming from the Civics clubhouse.

Meanwhile, Kelsey Bowden stood on the sidelines, staring into the increasing storm like a deer in the headlights.

Coming up: Chapter Eleven: Take On Me

[elmwood44]

Originally Posted by Pommpie

The result is... well, adequate.

You are far, far too humble.
Great stuff!!!!

[ifspuds]

Man, I'd forgotten how fantastic this was. Damn well better not be this long before the next post!

[Pommpie]

Originally Posted by elmwood44

You are far, far too humble.
Great stuff!!!!

Please. No such thing as too humble. :P

Originally Posted by ifspuds

Man, I'd forgotten how fantastic this was. Damn well better not be this long before the next post!

Well, I don't plan on it. Of course, nobody ever does plan on going seven months between posts, but the point is that I think I should be able to better next time.

Part of the problem with this particular chapter is that one part of it (the bit where Pancho Gonzalez bickers with Ethan Little at the bar) was kicking my ass. At the same time, I knew it had to get in there, for reasons that I hope I'll be able to make obvious and that I've already foreshadowed at least a little. So I'd come back to it every now and then and stare at it and just not be able to make it work. And then I'd walk away and come back to it, and each time the walking away would last a little longer.

Eventually, I managed to just chop the thing down until I could get a handle on it. But I still think it's by far the weakest part of the chapter.

So, yeah, let's just hope that doesn't happen again.

[Robster49]

I just finished reading up to this point and am very impressed. Great stuff!

I have been trying to get OOTP to work correctly with handling an independent league, but always have problems. How is your universe set up, especially the financials? Thanks and keep it up.

[ifspuds]

Originally Posted by Robster49

I have been trying to get OOTP to work correctly with handling an independent league, but always have problems. How is your universe set up, especially the financials? Thanks and keep it up.

I'd be interested in the answer to this as well.

[Pommpie]

Originally Posted by Robster49

I have been trying to get OOTP to work correctly with handling an independent league, but always have problems. How is your universe set up, especially the financials?

The answer, truth be told, is "badly".

I mean, it's perfectly adequate for story purposes, which essentially requires a moderately-believable setup (or at least one that can be finessed into being moderately believable). But if I wanted to run some real high-accuracy sims rather than some real adequate accuracy sims with dramatic potential, I'd have some work to do.

I'm at work, so specifics aren't at hand, but here are a few things from my limited memory:

1) The financial system kinda almost works. The minimum salary for a league player is $10,000 and things tend to scale well from there according to the scale I set: the highest-paid players make a few hundred thousand and the teams stick to what they're told their budget should be nicely. However, particularly in the early years before I made a few adjustments, their incomes were way out of whack with their expenditures, meaning that most teams have, for example, about $20 million (or enough to run the team for a decade without a cent in revenue) in the bank.

Since they set realistic salaries and players who make enough money to command the big bucks almost always go to higher-quality leagues anyway, this works if you're willing to close your eyes when the bank balances are on the screen.

2) However, they sometimes allocate their resources a little weirdly. I have a big United States high school league, a pretty large United States college league, and a modest Canadian college league all dumping out North American players to one full major league system, the ten-team Canadian league (which ranks below the major leagues and above the United League), and the eight-team United League itself. So there's a surplus of decent UL-level talent out there for the $10,000 minimum. Therefore, the logical thing to do is to sign your Bill Williams-level talents for whatever the hell they want and fill up the rest of your roster with replacement-level players who are going to be more-or-less as good as the guys making $30,000 or $50,000 a year because they've been around a while.

What the teams actually do is let their really epochal talents go because they don't think they can afford them and instead resign a bunch of depth guys. Sometimes I 'act as' for the other seven UL teams just to make sure some good players stick around. It's not always that they get outbid: a lot of these guys go unsigned and retire free agents. It's that they arbitrarily seem to say "no, we can't afford him" so they don't even try.

3) The player surplus I just mentioned means that you end up with really weird player histories where a guy doesn't play a competitive game for seven years then gets brought up off a reserve list and hits 40 home runs in his rookie season. This is probably what pisses me off most from a story perspective.

So yeah, don't learn from me. :P

[Pommpie]

Hey! It didn't take six months this time! Mostly because when I ran into trouble this time around, I decided that I just wasn't going to worry about it on the grounds that the last time I worried about it, I didn't actually get anywhere for half a year. So enjoy. Someday I might even finish this thing.

For what it's worth: I do have a finishing point in mind. No, I won't tell you what it is. :P

Chapter Eleven: Take On Me

There is a tradition in the Canadian United League cities that the season only really begins on Canada Day. Fans of the American teams preferred Independence Day, for obvious reasons, but it was in Canada that the saying was coined and it was in Canada that it remained most popular. If it was true, the Edmonton Civics were in serious trouble.

June had been fantastically successful for the Civics on the field, but in the clubhouse relations were rapidly deteriorating. The two batting stars, Bill Williams and Xiang-ling Xun, had begun the month by getting into a fight. General manager Rich Walcott was proving able to stock the team with talent, but it was talent that couldn't always get along. Too many players were like Adam Wallace, Luis Reyes, and Angel García: loners in a team game who were happiest when their teammates could just leave them alone. Too many others were like Xun and Williams: contentious personalities who seemed to take a perverse delight in infuriating their teammates. Even Pancho González, normally the steadiest and most reliable team player in the world, was growing alarmingly erratic.

The rifts in the clubhouse were growing too great to paper over. When the team was winning, as it usually was, the players were able to put the mutual distaste behind them. When the team was losing, things were less good.

Canada Day began with a game at AGT Field against the visiting Eugene Cranes. The Cranes' boasted a poor record but a strong team: starting pitcher Andrés Quiñones was an electric if inconsistent pitcher with six lively pitches bearing plenty of movement. 27-year-old Rick Shaw was making the leap into a standout United Leaguer, combining speed on the basepaths and superior fielding ability with devestating power at the plate. Utility infielder Javier Domínguez was 31 years old and had seemingly been a star in the United League forever, with a career batting average over .300 and a hundred home runs in over eight hundred career games with the Cranes.

All of them, however, paled next to the prodigy, Ernesto Cabral. Cabral was a Cuban who, at age twenty, had defected to the United States with the help of a family friend in the Kansas City Skywarriors organisation. Cabral failed to catch on with the Skywarriors or any other major league team, as the outfielder was sick with worry about his family back in Cuba and his baseball performance completely fell off. In 1996, Cabral was reduced to signing a contract with the Eugene Cranes: the very day after he signed, however, his parents and brother called him from Miami, having successfully gotten out themselves. In the last five games of the season, Cabral made his mark on the Cranes. And in 1997, as a 21-year-old rookie, Cabral was like no other.

For a man who didn't even speak English and was stuck in little Eugene, Oregon playing against grown men for less than a hundred dollars per game, Cabral proved that he could play ball. He hit .285 in his first year of professional baseball, adding twenty home runs and seventy-eight RBI. In 1998 he continued to improve, and going into July he was only slightly behind Shaw for the team lead in home runs and RBIs and threatening first baseman Sergio Sánchez for the lead in batting average. There were rumours that American Baseball Association clubs were looking at Cabral, whose contract was up at the end of the season.

Today, though, he was a Eugene Crane, And he'd show the Civics what that meant.

Cabral led off the second inning with a home run to right field off Roberto Espinoza. He came up again in the third and hit a three-run home run to almost the precise same part of the park, jogging around the bases almost leisurely with his head down as the Civics fans rained abuse down on the Crane. The Civics got a run in the bottom of the inning from a Xiang-ling Xun single, but with Xun aboard it remained Ernesto Cabral 4, Edmonton Civics 1 with one out.

Xun stood at first, arms swinging lazily as he eyed Quiñones carefully. Quiñones's pitches had a great deal of movement and not a lot of heat. Moreover, he was known for a slow delivery even from the stretch: more than one player had victimised him on the basepaths. A quick glance up towards the Civics dugout and the signals coming in from Kelsey Bowden: green light. Xun, usually so serious, allowed himself a small smile. He was never much of a base-stealer but he could still move. And when he glanced back towards Bill Williams at the bat, Xun told himself that he'd need the help.

Quiñones reared back, the pitch fluttered in, and Xun was off like a shot. Cranes catcher Corey Schmitt was a new adversary for Xun; he was a first-year United League player, a light hitter who had only recently started to play every day. But he had a gun for an arm, and the ball was soon in Alfredo Rodríguez's glove, swinging out towards the sliding shortstop. There was a cloud of dirt, a call of "out!", and a string of Taiwanese profanity.

"Safe, ump, safe!" Xun insisted, his knowledge of the language temporarily blotted out by raw anger. He wasn't safe. Even the Civics fans in the stands hardly bothered to boo the umpire's decision. Xiang-ling Xun was usually too level-headed to argue even close plays, but today he was giving the fans a show, slamming his batting helmet into the gravel agitatedly and pointing to the bag, as though all language was beyond his power. Meanwhile, the shortstop Rodríguez stood off to the side, eyes wide with surprise. Rodríguez was another United League rookie, but he'd heard enough about Xiang-ling Xun to realise that this outburst was more than a little out-of-character.

So had second-base umpire Jesus Santana. A hefty but largely demure man, Santana looked at Xun in something like shock as the shortstop colourfully commented upon Santana's ancestry, eyesight, and sexual inclination. It was that shock, perhaps, which saved Xiang-ling Xun from a prompt and discourteous ejection; by the time Santana had regained his composure Xun had lost his steam, settling for kicking the second-base bag grumpily and storming off the field, while the crowd howled in derision: whether in belated defiance of the umpire's call or in mockery of their superstar's temper tantrum, nobody could say.

From that point on, things went downhill pretty quickly for the Civics. Roberto Espinoza, normally so reliable, didn't record an out in the fifth inning before absorbing two earned runs and being pulled in favour of Roberto Sánchez, who fared little better. Only in the bottom of the eighth did the Civics scratch out a couple more runs, when Bill Williams sent his twenty-fourth home run of the season out of AGT Field in centre field, closing to within two of Xun's league lead. The Civics wound up with an 11-4 loss, with the phenomenal Ernesto Cabral finishing two-for-two with two home runs and two walks, not to mention a chorus of incensed boos from the fans in Edmonton.

The next night was a big one for the Civics, however, in more ways than one. Not only was a win essential to try and break the Civics out of their slump, but the Civics had made the sort of signing that they had excelled at throughout the Rich Walcott era: a big name, past his prime, for not a lot of money.

The new Civic was 41-year-old starting pitcher Yoshida Uemura. The signing of Uemura was greeted with great fanfare in United League circles: he was widely regarded as one of the finest pitchers ever to take part in the United League. His United League career had begun in 1980 with the San Diego Bingoes: he made 185 starts over six seasons in San Diego before moving with the team to Salem and spending three more years there. Some of his records were less-than-glorious: he was, for example, the last United Leaguer to ever lose 20 games in a season in 1983. But he had always been a remarkably effective hurler on a consistently mediocre team.

In the offseason of 1988, Uemura was 32 - old for a United League starting pitcher - and was universally regarded as being on the downslope of his career. The Bingoes got rid of him on October 13, trading the Salem icon to the Pueblo Anchors in exchange for journeyman shortstop Wes French. It was one of the most lopsided trades in league history - French played 126 games as a Bingo, hit .256 with a single home run in that time, and retired after the 1989 season. Uemura, who was supposedly past his prime, pitched six full seasons for the Pueblo Anchors. Like the Bingoes, the Anchors were never one of the stronger teams in the league, but Uemura could still pitch like a demon. He appeared in the 1990 and 1991 All-Star games and was once runner-up for the BMO Arm of Steel award as the league's top pitcher.

The 1994 season was Uemura's last with Pueblo. He was 38 when the season ended and the oldest starter in the United League, posting a 6-10 record with a 4.37 ERA. Age had robbed Uemeura of his once-devestating fastball, and the Anchors let Uemura go after 1994. Rather than sign with another United League team, however, Uemura went abroad, pitching briefly with the Escogido Flames of the Dominican league and winding up in his native Japan. The Hanshin Fireants signed him as a pitching coach, and his playing career seemed to be done.

Naturally, he came back. For the first time in his career Uemura worked out of the bullpen, but at an age where most pitchers were looking past baseball Uemura was starting his career anew in his home country. 39 years young, Uemura pitched in twenty-two games and compiled a 3-2 record with a 4.18 ERA. The next year he was claimed off of waivers by the Seibu River Bats and pitched ten more games. In the last game of the season, as what was supposed to be a retirement present, Uemura got the start against Hanshin, threw seven innings, and lost the win only on a blown save. After 481 professional games, Yoshida Uemura rode off into the sunset.

Until, of course, Rich Walcott came calling. There wasn't much money, but Uemura had always been one of those men unable to resist the siren call of baseball. He had not retired after the Bingoes let him go, seeing him as past his prime. He had stuck around when Pueblo did the same thing, and though he was now forty-one years old, not even a retirement game in his home country could keep him away from baseball for long.

Uemura was formally introduced before the game on July 2; the third game of the Salem series. The casual fans in the crowd roared their approval, recognising one of the great names in league history as the tall, lean pitcher tipped his cap to the crowd. Only the old-timers, who had the most appreciation for Uemura's talents, were sceptical: their faith in Rich Walcott had never been high, and bringing in has-been pitchers did not further endear him to them.

The starting pitcher for Edmonton was William LaFontaine, who was less a has-been and more a never-been. LaFontaine sported a 4-4 record and a 4.56 ERA, an undersized southpaw of the sort that could always find jobs in the United League. A strong arm that topped out in the mid-nineties, an acceptable slider, erratic control, and not near enough ability to consistently retire batters. He had made great strides since this 1997 rookie campaign where he went 0-6 in eleven starts, but he was still notoriously erratic.

LaFontaine started badly. A leadoff single on a 2-0 count to John Smith began LaFontaine's troubles. He retired Corey Schmitt on a grounder to third but Smith moved to second, and when Sergio Sánchez stroked a single into centre Smith came around to score and stake Eugene to a 1-0 lead with the mighty Ernesto Cabral at bat.

Fortunately for the Civics, LaFontaine bore down. Two called strikes racked up a quick 0-2 count on Cabral and a mighty fastball up high struck Cabral out swinging. Cipriano Saldaña struck out afterwards, and after a listless bottom of the first for the Civics LaFontaine forced the Cranes' second-best batter, Rick Shaw, to fly out on his second pitch. He got through the second without damage, and even if the Civics offense had trouble getting going, the pitching seemed to be in order.

Naturally, the fans were surprised when the top of the third came about and Félix Vásquez jogged out to take the mound for Edmonton.

There had been no sign of the pitching change before it had happened. LaFontaine, sitting on the bench, looked as surprised as anybody, jerking his head towards Kelsey Bowden and leaping off the bench, stretching his arms out, demanding an explanation from the skipper. The fans greeted poor Vásquez in the worst way: with boos and jeers, more directed to the management than the pitcher but still making an impact on the reliever's expression. Catcher's mask in hand, Angel García stood behind William LaFontaine in the dugout, not even bothering to go onto the field, pelting Kelsey Bowden with questions.

"You didn't have it tonight, Willy," Bowden stated, simply, clapping LaFontaine on the back and trying to look more certain than he felt. "You got a couple outs, but these guys can hit..."

"Jesus Christ!" yelled an anonymous Civic on the bench, witnessing the altercation.

Bowden's eyes danced like a rat in a cage, trying to track down whichever Civic had expressed his bewilderment so openly. Meanwhile, LaFontaine spluttered ineffectively, and García answered more directly, poking Bowden in his soft chest.

"You may have pitched for a long time, Bowden," the catcher yelled, voice carrying up into the crowd, "but you don't know **** about pitching."

Jaws chewing furiously on his trademark piece of gum, Bowden pointed out onto the field. "García," he cried, "get the hell on that field."

"What're you gonna do, skip? Suspend me? I notice Bill and Xun's suspensions are coming along really nicely now!"

Even the crowd had gone quiet, the sounds of the altercation carrying up into the seats and leading the fans to glance between each other nervously. Kelsey Bowden stared down at the smaller catcher for a few moments, then turned his back and walked to the other side of the dugout.

It was supposed to look defiant. It looked more defeated. Veteran bench coach José Morales quickly followed Bowden as García, with a look of purest contempt, pulled on his mask and walked out onto the field.

"Christ, Kelsey, you're not going to let him get away with that?" Morales whispered urgently to Bowden. "The bastard was calling you out. You can't put up with that."

Bowden shook his head, mutely. "What're we gonna do, Morales?" he whispered, voice trembling, eyes slightly watery as he stood in the bricked-up corner of the dugout. "Play the Groundhog? We need García, Morales. And Xiang-ling. And that bastard Williams. We need them all."

"Better to lose a game now than lose ten later," retorted Morales. "I mean..." the bench coach's voice trailed off, thunking his head gently against the red brickwork, eyes closed. José Morales had been doing this for a long time. He had been a veteran when he joined the Civics in 1986 alongside legendary manager Alfredo Pérez and had simply never left. Ty Crabtree and now Kelsey Bowden had also come along during his tenure, and Morales had thought he'd seen it all. It turned out that he was wrong.

"What the hell am I gonna do, Morales?" Bowden sounded like he might cry.

Morales had an answer, for all the good it would do. "You're losing this clubhouse, skip. You've got to show them who's boss."

Bowden simply shook his head. Morales felt even worse.

On the mound, Félix Vásquez cruised through the third and survived the fourth in spite of allowing a run on a couple of hits. In the fifth, Vásquez walked John Smith on five pitches and that brought out Kelsey Bowden once more, looking somewhat shakier and paler than usual, calling for Roberto Sánchez from the bullpen. This, in turn, received a chorus of boos directed towards Bowden, even though Vásquez was clearly beginning to labour: confidence in the manager was low enough tonight that they were booing his defensible moves.

It turned out the fans were right. Corey Schmitt lined Sánchez's first pitch into centre for a double, scoring Smith. Sergio Sánchez walked, and Ernesto Cabral let five pitches - three balls and two strikes - go past him without swinging once, and then on the sixth pitch he turned on it, hitting a double of his own into the gap in left-centre, scoring Schmitt and moving Sergio Sánchez to third. Roberto Sánchez allowed another run when Rick Shaw sacrificed Sergio Sánchez across the plate, and after four and a half it was 5-0 for the Eugene Cranes with no end in sight.

It took until the bottom of the sixth for the Civics to make some noise. Alfred Brewer was the pitcher for Eugene: a rookie, Brewer was another rather mediocre lefthander in the William LaFontaine mold, but unlike LaFontaine Brewer had made the best of his meagre talents and was a respected part of the Cranes rotation. But he was still prone to the failings of the rookie pitcher and he was not known for his endurance. He led off the bottom of the sixth by walking Denny King on four pitches. There were few players in the United League you'd less like to walk than the speedy King, and with catcher Schmitt's rifle of an arm, a close steal attempt seemed likely.

Brewer was clearly thinking about King's speed. Thinking too hard. A quick pickoff attempt to first sailed well left and King was off like a shot, getting into second before anybody could react. Xiang-ling Xun grounded out harmlessly to second, but that in turn moved King to third. Bill Williams had had a miserable night at the plate so far, like all the Civics, but he managed to grab another productive out when he smacked a Brewer fastball into right, deep enough to score King fairly easily.

Finally, Greg Hubbard closed out the Civics offense in the sixth in style. On Brewer's second pitch Hubbard socked it to right field, a gargantuan home run that brought the previously surly crowd to its feet. Hubbard's blast was estimated at 454 feet, and the solo bomb meant the Civics were back in it with a shout.

The new pitcher for the Civics in the top of the seventh was an unusual choice: centre-fielder Scott Deakin. It was not as eccentric as it first sounded, however: Deakin had been a skilled left-handed reliever in college and had only moved to the outfield fulltime when he was drafted by the Minnesota Drummers. Deakin, remarkably, in his first professional pitching appearance, struck out the side in spite of a single to Sergio Sánchez and a walk to Ernesto Cabral, bringing the Civics up in the bottom of the sixth.

Brewer remained in the game for the Cranes, but not for long. Angel García led off with a double, and Jake Cameron (pinch-hitting for Michael White) slapped out a scrappy single that moved García to third. A Jesse Cantrell flyout scored García and when Luis Reyes singled at the top of the order, runners were on first and second and Alfred Brewer's night was over. Veteran Mike Ferguson came in to put out the fire: a 33-year-old right-hander who had pitched in almost 250 games in an eight-year career as a Eugene Crane, an unremarkable but effective arm out of the bullpen.

The Civics, however, were cooking at last. A Denny King line drive to left gave Ferguson a rude welcome, and only Jake Cameron's sloth-like pace on the basepaths prevented a run from getting in. The bases were loaded with only one out, and the news wasn't getting any better. Xiang-ling Xun was striding to the plate, the league leader in home runs, with the go-ahead run on first.

Ferguson had faced Xun slightly over a dozen times but the record was in Xun's favour, including a .360 batting average and a single home run. Ferguson fired his first pitch well outside, Corey Schmitt only just getting over in time to cover it up. Perhaps chastened by his miss, Ferguson got his next pitch in. Too far in. Xun turned on it and Ferguson could only watch it fly, jaw dropping in disbelief as the ball went out to right, bounding towards the street and instantly making the score 7-5 Civics.

Previous disagreements between the fans and the manager disappeared in an instant. The Civics fans present leapt to their feet and roared their approval while Xun embarked on his usual non-chalant jog around the basepaths. not even deigning to high-five his teammates when he got to home plate. Later in the inning, the Civics pulled out another run, when Pancho González doubled home Bill Williams and drew another delighted cheer from the crowd, as in one giant inning the Civics had been staked to an 8-5 lead.

Deakin remained in for the eighth, but his would not be an easy inning. The first fault was not of his making. Antonio Villa grounded what ought to be a harmless ball to second. Jake Cameron received it easily and fired to Pancho González at first. But the normally reliable González let it eat him up, the ball falling out of his glove and skipping into foul territory. Villa, hustling down the foul line, reached on the error before González could recover, and the Cranes had a man aboard with one out. Alfredo Rodríguez singled to move Villa to second and Deakin hit John Smith with a pitch, loading the bases for catcher Corey Schmitt.

Deakin wiped off his brow anxiously. The nominal centre-fielder looked in nervously, shifting the ball around in his glove. Schmitt was not a strong hitter, but for Scott Deakin any batter might as well be Ernesto Cabral at the moment. He threw low, trying to draw a ground ball. Too low. Twice, García had to move quickly to prevent a pitch from heading to the backstop. And when, on a 3-0 count, an agitated García set up right down the heart of the plate, Deakin threw so high that García had to leap from his crouch to snare the ball. Villa scored, the Cranes were within two, and closer Dusty Gill came in from the bullpen.

Gill was regarded as one of the better closers in the United League, but he would face the heart of Eugene's order with the bases loaded. Sergio Sánchez was at bat: a capable first baseman and a .300 hitter with a good eye and 15-home-run power. Gill tried to be careful with Sánchez, nibbling the corner of the plate with a couple quick fastballs, getting a called strike on the first but not on the second. The third pitch of the at-bat was a slider heading outside that Sánchez turned on, lining it well foul. The next pitch was a fastball inside and this time Sánchez got it into fair territory, heading right towards second. Gill twisted to try and glove the ball but missed, and it flew towards Bill Williams in centre field.

Slapping his glove against his thigh, Gill swore loudly as Alfredo Rodríguez scored. Williams came up with the ball and fired home, trying to beat Smith. Williams had a strong arm, but not strong enough to beat John Smith: the Eugene centre fielder was, along with Denny King, one of the fastest men in the United League. Sánchez almost skipped to first base: he had tied the game and handed Dusty Gill a rare blown save. The closer crouched at the mound, looking distraught as Eugene Cabral walked to the plate with only one out to add on more misery.

Cabral was intentionally walked to load the bases once again and Cipriano Saldaña, a light-hitting infielder, came to the plate. Gill bore down to try and stop the bleeding, firing BBs and striking out Saldaña on three superb pitches, although the achievement drew only scattered applause. His next pitch to the dangerous Rick Shaw was also well-chosen, and Shaw grounded out to short, ending the inning and leaving the game tied at eight.

The bottom of the eighth passed quietly for the Civics and the top of the ninth came with Gill still pitching. Shortshop Javier Domínguez was one of the large number of solid hitters on the Eugene roster, and Gill had to be careful against the crafty veteran of nine years with the Cranes. Gill soon went up 0-2, but Domínguez was no easy strikeout mark. Three straight pitches came in, teasing the shortstop to offer at them, three times Domínguez declined, and three times the call came "ball!" With the count full, Gill tried once more, but again Domínguez laid off and again the umpire agreed, sending the shortstop strolling to first.

Antonio Villa took less time to make his mark. Gill's first pitch was higher than García had set up and Villa got a hold of it, sending a home run to right centre. It was 10-8 Eugene. Forget the blown save: Gill was now on the hook for the loss, remaining in long enough to strike out the next three batters and firing his glove against the side of the dugout in anger.

The best part of the Civics order came up in the bottom of the ninth against Eugene closer José Hernández. Hernández was nicknamed "Clueless" by the fans but the Venezuelan rookie could pitch with the best of them, saving recorded sixteen saves on a 2.52 ERA to that point of the season. Xiang-ling Xun led off and fought Hernández in a scrappy at-bat, fouling off four pitches and trying desperately to hold on until he saw one he could drive. He thought he did on a slider outside, but Xun got under it, flying out harmlessly.

As Bill Williams came up to bat, Xun passed him. "Just get aboard," the shortstop hissed between his teeth, Williams merely smirking in reply.

Williams was a dangerous hitter and Hernández was rightly wary. Soon, Williams had a 3-0 count, that same smirk etched on his features. He laid off the 3-0 pitch, a strike. The next pitch came in and Williams swung mightly, fouling the pitch to right. On the bench, Xun put his head in his hands.

The next pitch was well outside. Williams swung anyway and came up empty. A roared profanity echoed through AGT Field and Williams stormed off, Xun not even managing to look pleased at his rival's failure.

Greg Hubbard strode to the plate. He, too, was a mighty cutter, but he was more patient than Williams and Hernández was apparently itching to walk somebody. He did walk Hubbard, thanks to a disciplined eye and an opportune foul ball on a 3-2 count. And, with two out, up came Pancho González representing the tying run.

González had never faced Hernández in his career. He swung his bat nimbly, trying to remember the scouting reports as he settled in against the Eugene closer. Fastball. I know that. Loves the fastball, mid-nineties. Good splitter. Dammit, what else was there? Was there anything else? He held the bat in his usual relaxed stance, barrel hovering just over his shoulder. He stared down at Hernández, trying to find some clue: some sort of tipoff in his delivery, some betraying glance towards the catcher's signs. Nothing. The bastard didn't even have the decency to shake Schmitt off once or twice.

The first pitch was the fastball, heading low but hittable. González brought the bat forward no goddammit that's the splitter! With an audible grunt of exertion, Pancho held back on the swing as the ball dropped out of the strike zone. Schmitt immediately leapt up and pointed towards first for the appeal, but the ruling came in: no swing. Ball one.

González asked for and was granted time, taking a step backwards out of the box and swinging his bat idly, trying to loosen his muscles after the tough checked swing. As he did so he glanced towards first base and Greg Hubbard still standing on the bag. Hubbard? I'm faster than Hubbard. Surely we should have a pinch runner out there? González frowned, his grip on the bat tightening ever-so-slightly. That was odd. Of course, Kelsey Bowden was managing, so that probably explained that. González stepped back into the box and got ready.

Hernández took a breath on the mound and threw without even bothering to glance towards Hubbard at first. This one González could see from the start was heading outside, and he let it pass. Ball two. A small smile. On hitter's counts Hernández backed off the splitter as his control with it was less precise. One more advantage for Pancho González.

The fastball flew in, and González swung. He was taking a step towards first before he had fully registered making contact, and as a result he was almost out of the batter's box before noticing that he hadn't. González looked back as Schmitt threw the ball back to Hernández, and frowned. He's got some heat, the bastard. But the frown vanished as quickly as it came. That's the last time he's getting away with that.

Hernández shook off the first signal from Schmitt. González let out a slow breath and stared in towards the pitcher, balanced as though on a knife's edge. When the pitch came, Pancho knew he'd be ready for it.

The pitch came, flying towards the heart of the plate. González swung. As his bat arced towards the ball it ducked, ever-so-slightly, the spin sending it towards, allowing González's bat to gently graze the top of the ball and send it bouncing out harmlessly towards second. Javier Domínguez threw the ball to first, and the game was over.

Pancho González didn't even bother to run it out. With a great cry of anger and frustration he drove the bat down over his raised knee, snapping the maple cleanly in half. Throwing the remains of his bat without regard for where they landed, the first baseman stormed towards the dugout as his teammates filed away. Pats on the back, muttered condolences, all were ignored. He showered and changed in total silence and strode out towards the dirt parking lot at AGT Field to drive home.

As he walked, a fan was waiting. He eyed Pancho with the unsteady eye of the experienced drunkard. "Baldwin woulda hit it!" the fan proclaimed.

Pancho González broke his nose.

---

José Morales looked around unsteadily as he walked into Rich Walcott's office. In eighteen years in professional baseball, Morales had never done anything like this before. He had hardly even been in the GM's office at AGT Field, except to sign contract extensions every couple of years. But he had a soft spot in his heart for the Civics, and he had to do something.

"What's up, José?" the general manager asked from his desk, with the windows behind him looking on the darkened field. Morales stepped in awkwardly as Walcott waved vaguely towards the seats in front of his desk. Morales sat down, but didn't look in the least comfortable.

"I've got to talk to you about Bowden," Morales said, the words coming out in one great blob of verbiage. "He's completely lost the clubhouse."

Walcott broke in there, the lines on his face creasing into a frown. "I know he's had some trouble with Xun and Williams..."

"Not just Xun and Williams," Morales retorted just as quickly to his boss. "Everybody. I think even Pancho would get rid of him if he could."

Walcott waved his hand, almost dismissively, towards the bench coach. He opened his mouth to say something, but Morales cut him off. He'd been in this game for a hell of a long time, and nobody - not Kelsey Bowden, not Rich Walcott, nobody - was going to stop him from saying what he had to say.

"You've got to get rid of him, Rich," Morales said, simply. "Replace him with whoever you'd like, I'm not sure it matters. But the boys just won't play ball for him anymore."

Walcott broke in. "I know he's had some problems, José, but for god's sake, he's only in his second season..."

"Not 'problems', Rich. I see those guys down there. Xun and Williams are going to kill each other and Bowden can't do a thing to get them under control. Half those guys whose contracts are coming up are going to try and get out of here. Angel García is going crazy trying to deal with the way Bowden runs the rotation. And Pancho's just getting angrier and angrier and hitting worse and worse. He's got to go."

"And what happens if he stays?" The increasingly strident tone of Morales's voice had not escaped Rich Walcott, and he was not happy about it.

"Then I'm gone. Melvin Stewart's gone, William LaFontaine's gone, half our bullpen's gone, a couple guys either go in the tank or demand trades, and you end up with a team licking the boots of the North Division again. Is that what you want?"

At that moment, fate intervened. The phone rang. With an angry glare towards the bench coach, Walcott picked it up. His glare at Morales merely intensified. He hung up.

"González is at the police station," the general manager observed, matter-of-factly. "He beat the hell out of some drunkard in the parking lot."

There was a pause. "Get rid of Bowden, Rich," Morales said quietly.

Fortunately, González's legal troubles blew over. The officer arresting him was a Civics fan, and once the drunkard had sobered up he viewed the story more as one to laugh at than press charges over. An autographed Civics jersey courtesy of the team was all it took to win the fan's goodwill back, and Pancho González was out in time to join the team bus on their trip down to Boise to play the Idahoes in a three-game set.

The first game was a debacle. González went 0-for-4, his every swing seeming more like he was chopping down a tree than hitting a baseball. Melvin Stewart got the start for Edmonton and lasted only four innings, allowing five earned runs before Kelsey Bowden strode out to give Stewart the hook. José Morales watched demurely from the dugout, occasionally glancing up to the press box at Boise Grounds, where Rich Walcott observed the game with an equal lack of intensity.

Dusty Gill ended up throwing the last three innings of the game after a multi-inning game the previous night in Edmonton, the closer throwing fifty-one pitches, striking out three, and allowing three earned runs, as by that point his arm was practically ready to fall off. The game had been lost when Gill came in anyway: the team's only runs had come by Xiang-ling Xun and Jesse Cantrell solo homers, and the Civics fell by the ignomious score of 11-2. The next night the Civics dropped their fourth in a row 7-6 in extra innings, with staff ace Adam Wallace lasting only four and two-thirds before being pulled after seventy-seven pitches and two earned runs. Wallace didn't even bother to argue with Bowden's erratic hook: he looked more resigned than angered.

The Civics were, to put it bluntly, going in the tank. The team's confidence had never been worse and the dressing room was growing increasingly toxic. Bill Williams was no longer on speaking terms with anybody, having been rejected by the entire team. Pancho González was miserable, and his batting average showed it. On July 5, Denny King hyperextended his knee, putting himself out of the lineup for four weeks. And the youngster almost looked glad to get the time off, with Bob Zasko taking his place in the lineup.

From time to time, the results did some for the Civics. On July 10, Bill Williams recorded a three home run game in Trail, British Columbia, in a game the Civics won 10-3 on the back of six and a third solid innings from Melvin Stewart. The third home run was Williams's 29th of the season, moving him one ahead of Xiang-ling Xun for the Civics and the United League lead. With Greg Hubbard on 23 home runs and Pancho González on 18, the Civics boasted by far the best slugging attack in the United League. It was putting together everything else that was the trouble: the next night was Yoshida Uemura's debut as a Civic, starting against Trail, and in five and a third innings of work he allowed six hits, five walks, two homers, and six earned runs against only one strikeout. It took slugger Greg Hubbard scoring on a Luis Reyes single in the eleventh inning to get the Civics the win.

It was, naturally, the big home run sluggers that found their way onto the United League All-Star teams when they were named that month. Bill Williams was named a starter in the outfield, Xiang-ling Xun at shortstop, Pancho González at first base, and Jesse Cantrell as the designated hitter. Of the fielders, Angel García, Greg Hubbard, and Luis Reyes found their ways onto the team as reserves, while Adam Wallace, Roberto Espinoza, and Dusty Gill joined the team as reserve pitchers.

With every game Rich Walcott watched from his office or the press box, he found himself growing less and less satisfied with his team. José Morales's words rang through his ears despite his best efforts to block them out: he found himself paying mroe and more attention to Kelsey Bowden in the dugout, to the way he walked, the way he talked, and the way he ran the team. And, gradually, without even realising he was doing it, he began to think about a replacement.

Meanwhile, the Civics sputtered away below. They were still second in the division. Still in the hunt for the playoffs. Barely.

Coming up: Chapter Twelve: The Seventh-Inning Stretch

[Pommpie]

Well, that took a while. But look at it this way. You can go back and read it from the beginning if you've forgotten what went on! This may or may not be an advantage depending on what you think of my OOTP story! Whee!

This chapter's a little shorter than some of the others, but truth be told it was a pretty dull month and there wasn't a whole hell of a lot to write about. But, for that one of you who's worried about this kind of thing, rest assured that this story isn't dead. It's never dead until I say it's dead. Sometimes I take my sweet time updating the thing, but it's still going strong. Don't worry about that.

Chapter Twelve: The Seventh-Inning Stretch

Rich Walcott hardly even looked up from his paperwork when he heard the small knock at the door. "Come in, Kelsey."

The manager of the Edmonton Civics stepped carefully into his boss's room, as if the old carpet at AGT Field had been sewn with landmines and he had to tread warily. The manager, however, was as subtle as a slashed tire: the years had not been kind to the old pitcher, his flabby body lacking the grace and finesse he had been known for in his athletic days. He looked more a fool than the cagey veteran he supposedly was.

Rich Walcott didn't look up. He didn't think he could bear it if he did.

Carefully, the manager lowered himself into the guest chair before Walcott's desk. It was only then that the general manager deigned to raise his gaze, to look at the man to whom he had, over a season and a half ago, entrusted the future of the Edmonton Civics.

The manager's mournful, flabby face looked back at him. Bowden looked like he'd lost quite a bit of weight, but the effect was more like a man suffering from a terminal illness than somebody getting themself into shape. His skin drooped, his every step was flaccid and weak, his eyes were watery. He looked tired: like the weight of the world had been on his shoulders and he had proven unequal to the burden but had nobody to hand it off to.

Before Rich Walcott had brought him in, Kelsey Bowden had been managing a popular pub on Edmonton's Whyte Avenue. What a mistake that had been.

"Kelsey," began the general manager, getting right down to business, "I've consulted with the ownership, and we've decided not to offer you a contract extension for the coming season. The team has opted to go in a different direction."

Kelsey Bowden nodded. He looked completely at ease, as if he had seen this moment coming for months and was relieved it had finally arrived.

"So I'm gone, then?"

Walcott paused. "Not as such," he said, simply. "We're going to keep you on until the end of the season when..." hesitating, the general manager shuffled one particular piece of paper under a stack of other papers, "until our preferred candidate becomes available. Until that time, you will continue as manager, and Jose will take on a more active role running the team."

Once again, Kelsey Bowden nodded. That was it. He was out. Bench coach Jose Morales would be calling the shots from now on, and Bowden would stick around for appearance's sake. Many managers in Bowden's situation would be asking themselves where it had all gone wrong, wondering what they could do differently next time. But Kelsey Bowden had only one thought dominating his mind.

He wanted to go home.

---

"Second?" Luis Reyes stormed after Kelsey Bowden in the dugout. On the mound, Civics starter Yoshida Uemura was taking his warmup tosses, most of the fielders were taking their assigned positions, but the temperamental left fielder was warming up on his manager instead. "You have me batting second?" He was using the voice usually reserved for the government taking somebody's children away.

Kelsey Bowden kept walking. His expression was almost serene, and the other players picked up on it: Michael White, who hadn't been with the Civics long but was still used to Bowden's trademark angst, looked at the skipper as if he had grown a third arm out of his head and was trying to throw an eephus pitch with it.

Reyes continued to storm after Bowden, yelling phrases that, with another manager, would have gotten him a one-way bus trip to obscurity. Still, the manager appeared as if he was enjoying winding Reyes up, and when José Morales stepped between the left-fielder and the manager, Kelsey Bowden's fat face fell instantly.

Putting a hand to Reyes's chest, Morales softly said, "**** off, Reyes."

Reyes was a tall ballplayer, but Morales was every inch of his height and quite a bit heavier. Moreover, decades in the game had given Morales the sort of mental presence that a blustering buffoon like Luis Reyes could never hope to compete with. The two stared for a moment, and the dugout was silent.

Morales broke it. "Get on the field before I tear your arm off and feed it to the goats."

A comeback failed Luis Reyes. With one last somewhat feeble glower, he stomped off towards his accustomed position in left field.

Backup catcher Sloan Leighton stared from his spot near the top of the dugout, his catching gear protecting him from the smothering gaze of José Morales, in charge for the first time in his career and liking it. Turning to the nearby White, the Groundhog rubbed a pattern on the side of his mask somewhat absentmindedly.

"Guess old man Bowden has checked out more than usual tonight," Leighton murmured.

White was more upbeat. "Or somebody checked him out for us."

The two journeymen glanced upward, towards Rich Walcott's office above AGT Field. "God," murmured the Groundhog, "I hope you're right."

It turned out that Luis Reyes played good angry baseball. An average fielder on the best days, Reyes came up with a diabolical catch off of Pueblo's Aruban designated hitter Wout de Jager to prevent extra bases in the top of the sixth and added two firm hits of his own, one of which came off his bat hard enough that pitcher Luis Castillo hit the deck rather than even try to field it. The rest of the Civics were little worse: Uemura threw seven and two-thirds, pitching decently and picking up six strikeouts, while Bill Williams, Pancho González, Greg Hubbard, and Michael White all had multiple hits.

It was Hubbard, however, who was the hero. In the top of the eighth Uemura had gotten himself into trouble. After striking out Manuel Morales and Aaron Miller to lead off the inning, Uemura gave up consective hits to Men Virgolino, Mario Durán, and Pablo Gómez, scoring two runs. A rare error by Xiang-ling Xun at shortstop prevented Uemura from getting out of the inning, and by the time the inning was over Félix Vásquez had come into the game and three more runs had plated. A five-run inning on only four hits put Pueblo up 6-2 heading into the bottom of the inning with the heart of the order due up.

Seeking to make amends for his costly error, Xiang-ling Xun strode to the plate to lead off, swinging the bat hard and glowering out to Castillo on the Pueblo mound.

"Get us a single, Xi-Xi!" yelled Pancho González encouragingly from the dugout.

"Bet you I can hit the power station!" yelled Xun back.

He didn't hit the power station. Frustrated, Xun took an atypical cut at a pitcher high out of the zone and was popped up harmlessly to left. Castillo had no time to relax, though, as the best hitter in the United League was on deck. Bill Williams was far more serene than Xun - as usual. And far more aggressive - as usual. He was also, as much as any Civic might hate to admit it, far better. Castillo buzzed in a fastball well off the plate and Williams got it anyway, tagging a nice single into centre field, jogging into first, and smiling over at Xiang-ling Xun in the Edmonton dugout. Five pitches later, Jesse Cantrell walked and there were runners on first and second with one out.

That was it for Luis Castillo. Pancho González was up and Castillo had always struggled against the Civics star, to the tune of a .368 career batting average. Coming in was 23-year-old Tim James, a fireballing United League rookie with a fastball that touched the mid-nineties. González had never faced James before, and it showed. González had let two strikes go by him while trying to size up the rookie, and the third pitch was a hellacious fastball that beat González easily and sent him back to the dugout muttering.

Any baseball fan could tell you that Angel García was a quick study. Seeing González flail away had been all the catcher needed to see, and he was more than quick enough to keep up with James's heat. The first pitch was fouled off behind home plate as García tried to get his eye in, the second was outside, and the third was a picture-perfect Texas-Leaguer between the centre fielder and second baseman. The fly was too shallow to let the slow Bill Williams score, and so the bases were loaded for Greg Hubbard.

Hubbard was possibly the most dangerous hitter in the United League. He was dangerous to the other team - he had already hit thirty-one home runs in 1998. He was dangerous to his own team - his batting averages always hovered around the Mendoza line and no baseball player who had ever lived was less adept at running out a double play. But he also had a surprisingly good eye, and if James was expecting to get Greg Hubbard on bad pitches, he was sorely mistaken.

At first, he tried to nibble around the edges. But you don't get to the United League with Tim James's velocity unless there's something wrong with you, and in his case it was control. Hubbard had an easy time laying off the pitches - once the umpire felt generous and credited James with a called strike, but the count was soon 3-1.

With the bases full, James had little choice. A walk gave the Civics a lifeline into the match, and with Greg Hubbard the odds always were that he would hit the ball harmlessly. Closing his eyes for a moment, the young pitcher looked at the signs from Jeff Graves, nodded once, took a deep breath, and fired in his absolute best fastball around Greg Hubbard's knees.

This was a profound mistake. A crack ripped through AGT Field like an assault rifle firing through six layers of balsa wood. Tim James jerked around so fast to watch the ball go that he almost strained his neck. From the Civics dugout, the only sound was Pancho González's amazed "Jesus Christ!" as the ball went for a very, very long ride.

Eventually, of course, the fans exploded, almost ten thousand patrons leaping from their seats and saluting Hubbard's trot around the bases, flexing a big bicep to the crowd's delight as Tim James looked on, his youthful face the expression of mortal horror, his manager soon moving up the stairs from the dugout and putting the rookie out of his misery.

Félix Vásquez overcame his earlier jitters to go 1-2-3 in the ninth, and the bottom of the inning came with utility infielder Jake Cameron leading off, pitch-hitting for Luis Reyes and driving a single on the first pitch. Bob Zasko and Xiang-ling Xun were both retired in short order, and Bill Williams came up with Cameron on second and two down.

The crowd cheered the star slugger, and Williams focused his eyes on Pueblo pitcher Doug Stevens. Stevens was twenty-four but already in his fourth season in the United League, the polar opposite to Tim James: an experienced pitcher in spite of his age who boasted an assortment of good pitches and decent control, not to mention three All-Star appearances. He was, on paper, the ideal sort of pitcher to go against Bill Williams. On paper - Williams was hitting over .400 career against Stevens.

Fortunately, the two had always had good battles, and with two outs in the bottom of the ninth and the star slugger at the plate, it was the stereotypical time for a war between pitcher and batter. Stevens readied back, glancing back to the speedy Cameron at second as though daring him to try anything before looking back in towards home. One deep breath, and one pitch, a slider on the outside half of the pitch.

Bill Williams had never much cared about the fans, and it showed. They had come expecting the sort of pitcher-batter battle they could tell their grandkids about, and instead he ripped the first pitch into right field. Jake Cameron scored by so much he was already into his celebratory dance halfway between third and home. The more personable Civics mobbed Cameron as the scored, jumping up and down delightedly, high-fiving, and revelling in the roars of the delighted crowd.

Nobody even bothered to meet Bill Williams.

The Civics bats had picked the beginning of August to go on a tear. The next night Hubbard hit another two home runs in a 9-6 victory, Edmonton tagging former Civic Kichibei Fujita for seven hits, six runs, and two walks in two and a third. Any night where Adam Wallace allows five runs before the second inning is usually a big loss for the Civics, but power hitting once again saw them through. Even when they lost, as in two defeats to the Eugene Cranes, they still put a combined twelve runs across the plate.

The winning didn't go on forever - it never does. But the unofficial managerial change had a positive effect on the Civics regardless of the outcome on the field. José Morales was the epitome of the hard-boiled baseball manager: the sort of man who read scouting reports over breakfast and dreamed of bunt singles, suicide squeezes, and running from first to third on a hit into the outfield. Many years ago, Morales had been a catcher in the Mexican league, serving for twenty years with teams across the nation and in every one of the many leagues the Mexicans boasted in the 1960s. There was nothing he hadn't seen and little he hadn't done. He had won championships sometimes, he had finished dead last far more often, and after retiring he had moved into the dugout as though it was the only possible progression.

Edmonton was a long way from Mexico, but baseball was baseball and it knew no national borders. Thirty degrees in Yucatan or minus thirty in Edmonton, it was all the same to José Morales. And, even for the most tempramental players, it was impossible not to respect Morales a little bit.

But he wasn't perfect. The simple truth was that, for all his experience and wisdom, José Morales wasn't managerial material. Never had been. He could cow players but he could never relate with them. He could fill out a lineup card but he could never massage the egos that went along with it. He worked best as a secondary figure: the enforcer of the dugout rather than the leader. With all the eyes upon him and all the players coming to him first for answers, his act would rapidly grow thin.

Fortunately, Rich Walcott could not be accused of making the same mistake twice. The instant he had sent Kelsey Bowden out of his office, he had already been working the phones.

In the short-term, though, the Civics were responding well to Morales's treatment for the most part. Some of the changes he made were long overdue. Luis Reyes's futility as a leadoff hitter had been well-documented, and Morales's first act was to move him further down in the batting order against left-handers. Pancho González, whose on-base percentage was first on the team by a stupidly high amount, found himself taking leadoff against southpaws, and Morales made it abundantly clear to Reyes that the only reason he was in the top half of the order at all was that almost none of the Civics could get on base to save their lives.

This didn't mean that the Civics always got along. Early on in his managerial career, Morales had attempted to resolve the icy detente that existed between two of his best players, Xiang-ling Xun and Bill Williams. His solution was to get the more personable Pancho González to take the two out for drinks and to have them "straighten things out". González had registered his protests, but one of José Morales's flaws was that other peoples' protests might as well have been in Swahili, and the meeting went off regardless.

It was a catastrophe. Xun and González had always gotten along as well as Xun got along with anybody, but his resentment of Williams more than overcame his friendship with the first baseman, and he spent most of the night glowering at both of them. Williams, meanwhile, was a braggart with no time for either of his teammates, and liquor did not improve his disposition. While González tried to improve relations, Williams spent the night bashing their teammates, bashing their organization, and bashing his drinking partners, before Xiang-ling Xun finally got fed up and bashed Bill Williams with a beer bottle.

González was a big man, and towered over both Williams and Xun. But he wasn't big enough to stop the resulting scuffle, caught like the filling in a sandwich as Williams and Xun dove at each other, yelling things about each others' family and each trying to put the other's head through the bar. It was only with the help of the bouncer that González seperated them at all, flinging Williams (still cursing a blue streak) into a cab and dragging Xiang-ling Xun home himself.

The meeting had far from its intended impact. Xun and Williams were on even worse terms than before, and the shortstop was almost as pissed off at Pancho González. Trying to strike up a conversation at batting practice the next day, Xun told González to do something biologically improbable.

"It'll pass," said Morales to González as the two watched events unfold from the dugout later in batting practice, while Xiang-ling Xun seemed to aim for the skulls of his fellow infielders every time he was at the plate and Bill Williams, complete with bandaged cut on his forehead, was playing as lazily as physically possible while shooting spiteful gazes to any Civic daring to inhabit the same field as him.

"It better," murmured González under his breath. Even Pancho was disgruntled with the Civics' leadership, and it showed.

"Hell," he admitted to his long-time teammate Melvin Stewart after the game that night, a 3-1 loss in Port Angeles in which González, Xun, and Williams combined to go 2-for-12, "I think I liked Bowden better."

Kelsey Bowden was still around the team. The Civics had no intention of suffering the indignity of terminating his contract or paying for another manager for the rest of the season, and so the old pitcher endured stalking around the dugout, hanging around AGT Field, and generally getting in the way, all-but-forgotten by the team he was ostensibly in charge of. Players passed him in the hallways as though he were part of the scenery. José Morales didn't even do him the dignity of pretending to ask for his advice on the lineups. It was a sad, lonely life for any man, and it was made clear to Bowden that his paycheques rode on his continuing to show up and make sure that appearances were maintained. His only real role was walking out to the mound and replacing the pitcher, and even then it was only when José Morales whispered in his ear.

Nobody was fooled, least of all Bowden. He took to slumping about in the corridors, reading a book during batting practice, fulfilling the terms of his contract and not a whisper more. Young pitcher R.J. Yeo took to asking Bowden for advice just to relieve himself of the sight of Bowden sitting on the bench and staring out into space, slowly working over a piece of gum like a cow chewing her cud, mentally counting the seconds until he could go home, grab a bottle of whisky, and just forget. Probably the greatest pitcher who had ever worn the pink and white of the Edmonton Civics, Kelsey Bowden wanted nothing more in life than to go home, but the paycheques were important enough that the only thing he could do was show up.

If anything, it was even worse that it had been before.

---

"A clear Sunday evening at AGT Field, the wind blowing in from right field, as the Edmonton Civics prepare to take the ball in the top of the first. Adam Wallace gets the start for Edmonton tonight... the lanky left-hander leads the United League with thirteen wins this season and will look for a big result over the Salem Bingoes here tonight."

Frankie Truro's usual dulcet tones echoed over a transistor radio in the stands as the Civics took to the field. Adam Wallace was getting the start and he was hot. He was best in the United League in wins, earned run average, and strikeouts, and near the top in every other category that counted. Thirty-one years old, Wallace was just heading towards the downslope of his career but was responding with the best season he had ever posted at any level. He had been healthy and, by Adam Wallace's modest standards, happy. Angel García caught his warmup tosses and fired them back with an easy grin. The battery was made up of two mercurial, solitary figures who had never had a close friend in any clubhouse, so naturally the two got along famously.

"Xun and Williams ought to take lessons," Morales growled from the dugout.

The Salem Bingoes weren't a bad ballclub, and they needed a result against the Civics. Designated hitter Chris Lynch was a scrappy veteran of five professional leagues and yanked out a remarkable infield hit in the top of the inning, squirting a little ball between Michael White at second and Pancho González at first that González had to desperately sprint to get to and flip the ball backwards to Adam Wallace covering first - just a bit behind him, and the runner was safe. Gasping frantically for air, González looked up at the grinning Lynch and scowled.

"You son of a bitch, don't make me run like that!" he demanded between gulps of oxygen. Lynch, a tall player of the sort who averaged twenty-five steals a season even in his thirties, merely grinned and stood, solid as a rock.

It was González who had the last laugh. The next batter, left fielder Jim Balcom, launched a single into right and Lynch, with a good head-start, tried to head for third and test the arm of Bob Zasko from shallow right.

"You don't want to do that, boy!" González yelled from across the diamond and, of course, he was quite right. Bob Zasko could rifle a ball into a catcher's mitt from the warning track harder and more accurately than half the United League could from second base, and Lynch was utterly dead to rights. Sliding through a cloud of gravel, Lynch felt the tag from Greg Hubbard seemingly miles before he felt the bag beneath his left foot, and fired his helmet to the dirt in frustration as he stalked off.

"Better luck next time, Chris!" González called after him. He had no love lost for any Salem Bingo.

Right-hander Ronald Tipton was on the mound for Salem and so Luis Reyes returned to the leadoff spot, glowering at the 26-year-old with his accustomed scorn. A free-swinger at all times, Reyes tore through the first two pitches and got lucky on the third, sending a looper just above the second baseman that the centre fielder had to run like hell to get to. Reyes managed to get into second with a leadoff double, and the applause was enough that even he felt obliged to tip his cap to the crowd.

Bob Zasko came up as the second batter. He had gunned down Lynch in the top of the inning but that was likely to be his only contribution: Zasko was a .220 hitter most valuable as a pinch runner and defensive replacement. It said something about Ronald Tipton, then, that Zasko doubled as well, hitting one into the corner in left and scoring Reyes. Another huge cheer from the AGT Field crowd, and the Civics went up 1-0 in a hell of a hurry.

Tipton settled down slightly, managing to retire the always-dangerous Xiang-ling Xun and Bill Williams in order. His luck ran out on Jesse Cantrell: Cantrell didn't so much as lift the bat off his shoulder as he walked in five pitches, and when Pancho González got to the plate he slapped the first pitch weakly but accurately between second and short. Zasko managed to score and Cantrell moved to second, while an Angel García walk left the bases loaded for Greg Hubbard.

Calling the game, Frankie Truro flipped through his papers to try and find Hubbard's career batting average with the bases loaded. He was unable to come up with the number but confessed that it was "a lot", an unusually imprecise statement from the veteran play-by-play man. Fortunately, Hubbard proved his point: on a 2-2 count, Tipton made the mistake so many others had made with Greg Hubbard and tried to catch him off-guard with a zippped fastball. Hubbard turned on it ferociously, launching one of his trademark big flies out towards the river valley and putting the Civics up 6-0 in the bottom of the first.

Delerium. As the ball exploded off of Hubbard's bat AGT Field exploded with it, roaring and stamping and chanting and welcoming Greg Hubbard home with the biggest ovation any Civic had probably ever had after two thirds of an inning. They didn't even stop cheering when the number nine hitter, Michael White, narrowly missed legging out an infield hit on a close play at first and ended the inning. They kept standing when Adam Wallace retired Félix Serrano on a sublime splitter. They grew a bit quiet when Wallace fell down 3-0 to the next hitter, Carl Boyd, and then cheered even louder when Wallace devestated Boyd with three picture-perfect pitches and struck him out swinging.

Unsurprisingly, the bottom of the second saw a new pitcher for Salem: Pete Swerdlove, a 32-year-old Montrealer and a United League rookie who had never played professional baseball in his life before the 1998 season; an ill-advised choice to face the top of the order. He retired Luis Reyes but walked Bob Zasko - as Frankie Truro put it, "there's no right time to walk a .200 hitter who can steal bases with power on deck." Xiang-ling Xun singled and moved Zasko to second, and Bill Williams fought off a couple of foul balls before singling on his own, scoring Zasko and moving Xun to second in turn. Jesse Cantrell pulled the same trick on a 1-1 pitch, and by the time Pancho González came to bat it was clear the Civics had Swerdlove's stuff figured out. One pitch did it for González, rapping a line drive single that scored Williams easily from second and would have scored the runner from first if he'd been anybody else but Jesse Cantrell.

Swerdlove left the game at that point in favour of veteran Steve Bond, but the Civics fans were too happy to much care. 9-0 after one and a third. 9-0! When was the last time the Civics had led any game at home 9-0? Ronald Tipton and Pete Swerdlove sat in the Salem dugout with shell-shocked expressions, and though Steve Bond got out of the inning and fought through the third without allowing a run, the Bingoes were dead men walking. The fifth was another catastrophe for Salem: 37-year-old Aubrey Williams had taken the hill for the Bingoes and, facing Bob Zasko as his first batter, allowed a solo home run.

"Bob Zasko!" yelled Pancho González from the dugout, leaping up as the ball eked over the left field wall and leading the charge out to high-five the light-hitting outfielder. "Who the hell taught you to hit while I wasn't looking?"

"I'm seeing the ball tonight, Pancho!" replied Zasko excitedly, hugging the bigger infielder happily. "I mean, why can't I do this every night? I'd have an American Baseball League contract before you knew it... holy hell!"

The exclamation came in response to Xiang-ling Xun, who had spent the whole game seeing other players get into the home run act and wasn't happy about being left out. Williams put his hand on his head as Xun hit a solo bomb of his own - back-to-back home runs and a 13-0 Edmonton lead. The crowd was almost drunk on their own excitement, clinging to each other, yelling frantically, and running AGT Field out of beer. Ushers high-fived delighted old-timers as they moved up the staircases. AGT Field hadn't rocked like this in years.

"Good hit, Xiang-ling!" González yelled, not wanting the shortstop to feel left out. In spite of their disagreement of late, Xun returned González's high-five with at least some friendliness, and spent the pitching change discussing how the Bingoes staff seemed to think they had the night off. Javier González was coming into the game as Salem's new pitcher, and warmed up with Bill Williams waiting, not at all patiently. When Williams at last got to have an at-bat he swung on the first pitch and hit the everloving bejeezus out of it. The sound of a smashed windshield from the passing roadway echoed through the Edmonton night. The crowd thundered.

Leading off the inning with back-to-back-to-back home runs! It was 15-0 Edmonton, and in spite of himself Bill Williams couldn't conceal a smile as he trotted around the bases. Jesse Cantrell strode to bat next, took a mighty cut, hit the top of the ball and grounded out, but the crowd cheered him on anyway. The Civics even got another run in the inning, as Luis Reyes managed to single home Pancho González from second, the fat first baseman huffing and puffing and barely beating the throw home before high-fiving everybody in sight, including a bat boy and the Bingoes catcher.

Adam Wallace got into the seventh inning before getting the hook and (another) standing ovation, and though Roberto Sánchez let a run across in the eighth nobody cared. It ended up as a 16-1 final, and the fans of the Edmonton Civics danced long through the night. More than one diehard showed up at work Monday morning with the mother of all hangovers. There had been precious little to celebrate in recent seasons, but this would do.

"Pretty simple, really," Bob Zasko said in an interview after the game. "See the ball, hit the ball. Don't see what all the fuss is about." The next game, he went 0-for-4.

But the Civics were rallying. If they could figure out the Salem Bingoes - their probable playoff adversary if it got that far - the sky was the limit for them. And, managerial troubles aside, the Civics were winning ballgames again. The Civics were two games back of the Bingoes with a week left in the regular season. It was questionable whether they'd finish first or second heading into the playoffs. What was certain is that, after the 16-1 victory over the Bingoes, it was a mathematical certainty that they'd be there for the first time since 1995.

Who could blame them if some champagne corks popped?

Coming up: Chapter Thirteen: Talking Playoffs

[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