Elysian Field

Elysian Field

By Scott MacLeod

Detective Comagee loved the ballpark. There was nothing like that moment when you walked from the broad concourse through the narrow tunnel and were blinded by sunlight, azure sky and emerald grass. On a nice day that is. And in an old ballyard. The new ones took away all the Christmas morning elements by bombarding you with full field views the moment some septuagenarian scanned your phone for your e-ticket. There was no mystery to new stadiums. All exposed beams and lattice work that allowed peeks at the field from all vantage points. And a goodly portion of brick or faux brick to give the desired distressed charm. Comagee had heard a joke that the hardest part of building a modern ballpark was erecting the ubiquitous Roaring Twenties era warehouse attached to it.

Comagee understood baseball was an acquired taste and a vanishing one at that. Statistics showed baseball fans dying at a daily rate that rivaled Korean War vets. The new stadiums’ architecture showed the dirty secret of baseball. You see, the park was designed for strolling not sitting. Stadium seats were almost unnecessary. The concourses now circled the action and allowed for leisurely strolling while sampling an overwhelming array of gastronomic and mercantile options. Including full blown restaurants and saloons that would rival a cruise ship. One might inadvertently catch a snippet of game play while perambulating or nightclubbing but that would be a bug not a feature. That dirty secret is this: most people hate baseball. Long before TikTok evaporated attention spans in general, America had tired of its so-called pastime. Pastime? The word implies participation if not ardor. What is the most popular innovation in recent baseball, you ask? Well, it’s the strict time limits on play designed to shorten the games. These revisions have been praised almost universally. Who wants less of a good thing? McDonalds is not likely to introduce sliders.

In any event, the detective had inherited a taste for horsehide from his old man and, befitting his demographic profile, had found it hard to shake.

Accordingly, he decided on a whim to subway to the field for a rare throwback, like himself a vestige of another simpler time: a day game.

He purchased the cheapest domestic draft he could find, biting his tongue to hold back a crack about needing credit approval for a purchase of such size, and a standard hot dog.  No insouciant craft IPA or cedar charred brat for him. He moved to his bleacher seat among the hoi polloi; wouldn’t be caught dead in the concierge level whatever the hell that is. He leaned back in his hard plastic chair and drank in the sun’s rays with his suds.

Time disappeared as the teams enacted the ritualistic movements that had somehow simultaneously captivated and relaxed him since his youth.

Seeming to chase each other around the base paths in their long johns. Taking their turn at bat after retreating from the field en masse only to return as a group after the allotted trio of failures, ebbing and flowing like the tide. And the individual duels. The would-be Davids slingshotting their rocks from a tiny hill but with evasion not skull splitting on their minds. And the Goliaths who not only knew how to duck but could swing their spears and send projectiles rocketing back the other way.

All in all, a delightful day away from the desk and the city streets. Ultimately his out-of-warranty prostate would have its say and Comagee arose to satisfy the call, noticing a gathering commotion at the far end of the row. He hustled to the site of a truly ancient spectator sitting frozen in her front row seat, staring straight ahead peacefully amid a gathering crowd. She sat motionless, swimming in an oversized jersey the store sold as a child’s medium, with a snow-white ponytail spilling from her ballcap.

Comagee flipped open his badge and elbowed his way to her side. He encountered a young couple shaking her bony shoulders gently. They looked up at him warily noting his flashed credentials. The boy sported a backwards cap so ubiquitous among his generation that it was now more telling than ironic. The lad proved to be a stand-up guy, however, and Comagee chided himself for ageist prejudging.  Between wetting his handlebar ‘stache with sips of his Hefeweizen the kid described to the policeman how the delightful grandmother of eight, alone in the seat next to him, had introduced herself to them as the team’s biggest fan and had enjoyed with them a lovely day at the park chatting amiably with him about various highlights of her nine decades among second guessing managerial strategies and pitch selection. Until suddenly when it came time for the seventh inning stretch and she failed to rise for the singalong he realized that this game would be her last. His partner was not quite so gracious. She scowled under her nose ring, clearly not sharing her mate’s anachronistic passion for the contest. Or empathy for the victim.

“She died of boredom,” smirked the tattooed young lady, rolling her cat eye contact lenses. “Good thing a cop is here. She was murdered. Killed by baseball. Tortured.  Slowly.”

Comagee shook his head resignedly. Gutted by the girl’s callous frivolity. And by how far off base she was. But then he brightened.

“No, you’re wrong,” he said quietly, “just look at her face.” And sure enough, anyone who filed by to look couldn’t help but agree with Comagee. The old gal’s sunbeaten, time-wrinkled death mask wore a smile as wide as Babe Ruth’s behind.

Scott MacLeod is a father of two who writes in Central Florida. His work has appeared recently in Flash Fiction Magazine, Punk Noir, Rmag, Micromance, Free Flash Fiction, Westwords, Microzine, Dead Mule, Close to the Bone, Roi Faineant, Urban Pigs, Every Day Fiction, Wrong Turn Lit, JAKE, Underbelly Press, Bristol Noir, Havok, Witcraft, NFFD Write-In, Coffin Bell, 10 By 10 Flash, Frontier Tales, The Yard: Crime Blog, Yellow Mama, Short-story.me and Gumshoe, with more forthcoming. His Son of Ugly weekly flash newsletter can be found on Substack at https://scottmacleod1.substack.com, on Instagram @scottmacleod478 and at http://www.facebook.com/scott.Macleod.334

Michael C. Paul is an illustrator, writer, and historian. He grew up outside of Kansas City, has moved around a bit over the years working as a history professor, illustrator, and occasionally an editorial cartoonist, and now lives in Northern Virginia with his wife and daughter. For more, visit https://mikepaulart.com or @MikePaulArt.

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