Father Time
Father Time
By Jon Moray
Spring training was well underway in the balmy South Florida sun, as 43-year-old Jake Skowron gathered his worn body in preparation of another season in the big leagues. He sported a hall-of-fame resume and over the years had won several league awards for his pitching excellence. He had also been the winning pitcher in the deciding game of the World Series – albeit ten years ago. He had been hurling fastballs since childhood, but last season he labored through a barrage of struggling performances with a rubbery, tired arm.
Signed to a modest contract, Jake trained hard over the winter and discovered yoga in the hopes of a youthful rejuvenation. He was a fan favorite – management thought releasing him would be a public relations nightmare.
He stepped out of the dugout amid a smattering of applause from the stands. A gentle breeze, carrying the aroma of fresh-cut infield grass, greeted him as he strolled toward the pitcher‘s mound.
“It’s time, Jake.” The words floated in the air. Jake looked to the stands and saw a relic of a man, whose gray hair seemed pasted to his head. He sported a white handlebar mustache and was dressed like a singing barber. His wrinkled smile and olive-green eyes bore down on Jake, who tried to regain his focus on the mound.
“You’re taking a job that belongs to a younger, more able player,” whispered the mysterious man, whose words projected across the third base line, to the mound, and into Jake‘s ear. Jake shook off the metaphysics and went into his windup. He threw a chest-high fastball to the catcher and let out a satisfied sigh at how well his arm felt – it’s going to be a great season – as he caught the return throw from his battery mate. His warm-up session lasted half an hour, and after signing autographs for his devoted fans he made a beeline toward the clubhouse. It was time for a well-deserved shower and ice treatment for his most prized commodity, his right arm.
“It’s time, Jake,” repeated the man, now standing in front of the dugout, blocking the entrance to the clubhouse.
Where’s field security? Jake looked around.
“Security can’t see me, you and only you can.”
“Are you a ghost?” Jake sputtered.
“Not exactly, although I have been around a long time.”
“I don’t follow. Enough with the cryptic clues, what do you want? There are still plenty of wins left in this body,” Jake said, flexing his pitching arm.
“That’s what I’m here to determine. You still think you have something left, do you?”
“Of course! Did you see my fastball humming just now?”
“It looked more like you were playing catch. I didn’t see a hitter taking swings.”
“Well, trust me, I have plenty left. You just see what kind of season I have.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you that kind of luxury. Besides, I have other engagements. But I am fair. I will give you an opportunity to prove to me whether you are worthy of one more glorious season.
“I’ll make you deal,” the old man continued. “I will grab a bat. If you strike me out, I will grant you one more season. If I hit the ball out of the infield, you will immediately announce your retirement. Does that sound like a fair proposition?” the old man inquired, raising his eyebrows.
“I must be going crazy,” Jake answered, wiping the sweat from his forehead.
Suddenly, the old man disappeared and reappeared at home plate.
Jake stared with unbelieving eyes. “I’m really losing it now.”
“Now,” the old man said.
“It doesn’t appear I have a choice in this matter.”
“Of course you do. You can save me the trouble and retire.”
“No way. Batter up,” Jake said, as he punched the ball into his mitt and headed back to the mound. He summoned the perplexed catcher back out to home plate to field more fastballs.
“Strike you out and I play another season, right?”
“Those are the terms,” the old trickster confirmed, tapping the plate with a thirty-ounce Louisville Slugger.
Jake cleared the dirt off the pitching rubber as the old man dug in to the batter’s box with long black buckled boots. Jake rocked into his windup and fired toward the plate. The old man was much too late with his swing and whiffed at Jake’s first offering. Strike one.
“All too easy,” Jake snickered.
The next pitch was more of the same, a fastball and the old man was again too late to make contact.
“That’s strike two. One more strike means one more season, and what a great season it is going to be.”
The catcher inquired after the nature of Jake’s monologue, only to be told it was all part of preparation for the season.
Jake peered over his glove with burning eyes. He was going to put something extra on this next pitch, to punctuate the claim that his playing career was far from over. He would show this old man, it would be Jake to determine when to quit, not some warlock from who knows where. He called out, “Ready?”
“Ready,” the old man answered, with a grin that revealed cream-colored wood teeth, as he gripped the bat a third of the way up the handle. His movements in the batter’s box sounded like the creaking of a rocking chair.
Jake wound up and fired toward the plate. The momentum sent him to the dirt, landing awkwardly on his pitching shoulder. The ball bounced several times in front of home plate before stopping harmlessly at the old man’s feet.
Jake let out an agonized groan as he rolled around in the dirt, reeling from the pain. “My shoulder!” he screamed. “I’ll never be able to pitch again!” Tears filled his eyes as he looked around wildly for the old man.
But the undefeated master was nowhere to be found.
Jon Moray has been writing short stories for over a decade and his work has appeared in several online and print markets. He wishes the time machine is invented so he can go back to 1973 and revisit his first MLB game at Shea Stadium. When not working and being a devoted family man, he enjoys sports, music, the ocean, crossword puzzles, and SCI-FI/Fantasy media.
Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72.
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