The HooseCows Own The Plate

The HooseCows Own The Plate

The pitching coach walked back to the dugout. Hank watched from first base, and he saw Taylor Nickles ready and waiting for the coach at dugout steps. Nickles listened to whatever the coach had to say, and then shook his head and spit on the ground. The first batter of the first game of this league’s season was at home plate, and he was crowding the plate pretty badly. T.S. Wilson was on the mound as the opening day starter, and he was starting lose the strike zone. The count was already 3-1, and with another pitch the Rochester Radiation’s lead off guy went to first base with a walk.

What happened next happened fast. Nickles exploded from the dugout and stomped out to the pitcher’s mound. He was yelling, and none of it made any sense – except for the swearwords that rose above the mumbles. He hadn’t taken the time to spit the sunflower seeds out of his mouth, and now they were flying out when Nickles opened his mouth to swear more. T.S. Wilson was a 28-year-old major league veteran who ran out of steam about the same time as his roommate got busted selling stolen television sets, and he wilted wordlessly on the mound.

In a few more moments, the starting pitcher was gone and John Todd was motioned in from the bullpen. The meek T.S. Wilson went to the bench. Hank had an idea what had made the crotchety Nickles pull his starting pitcher after only one batter, and it was definitely connected to the mild-mannered nature of T.S., who had never taken a bus seat from a less experienced player in his entire career.

“Is your coach mad because the pitcher did throw at me?” Archie Kant, the leadoff batter, asked Hank when he got to first base.

“I’m thinking so,” Hank replied. “Guess we’ll find out on the next batter.”

The air was hot and humid, and the crowd was bigger than Hank had expected. A lot of the fans were holding homemade signs that read “Real Ballplayers Care About The Fans” and things like that. Everyone was starting to believe a strike was coming, and people were looking for heroes they felt were more dependable. And more affordable.

Todd  took the sign from the catcher, reared back, and hit the batter in the small of his back with a fastball. The meaty thud was audible at first base, and Hank winced. He’d been hit by intentional pitches before, and he’d seen teammates get hit. Normally, the pitcher threw the ball just a little softer. This pitch didn’t look very soft at all. The batter reached for the spot where the ball had struck like there was a knife stuck there, and then he dropped to his knees. The Rochester Radiation’s coach, who was a retired doctor and former minor league player, came out to examine the batter.

“Think that was meant for me,” Archie said. If he was angry about this part of the game, Hank couldn’t tell. He nodded as Archie trotted to second and the next batter limped to first base. The umpire went out to have a few words for the pitcher and for Nickles. The Rochester Radiation’s coach was standing at the top of the steps to the dugout, his jaw clenched tightly and his eyes bulging in their sockets. The fans didn’t seem to know how to react. Hank suddenly remembered learning, in high school, that families had brought picnic lunches to the first battle of the Civil War because they didn’t think it would become what it really was. He wondered if they felt anything like the people here, watching a baseball team go to war on the very first at bat because the first batter stood too close to the plate.

In the end, the HooseCows lost 4-2. The Radiation scored three quick runs in that first inning when, after two strikeouts, the fifth batter hit a three run home run. Hank finished the game with a single and nothing else, and there were two solo home runs in the third and fifth inning. When it was over, Hank and some of the other players signed a few autographs and tried to play nice with the fans who tried to heckle them. He didn’t see T.S. Wilson around at all.

As Hank got on the bus, he managed to find a moment to talk to John Todd. He gently grabbed the pitcher by his elbow and leaned in to talk to him.

“Nickles told you to throw at the guy?”

Todd’s eyes looked confused, and then maybe a little angry. For a moment, Hank was afraid the younger man was going to punch him.

“He told me to throw at the guy’s head. Even pointed, like this,” Todd said, acting it out. “Said we were going to own the plate every at bat, every game. Even the first at bat of the season. Tell you the truth, I think he’s still going to be mad what I did end up doing wasn’t enough.”

Hank nodded. John Todd looked back at the older player, then glanced over Hank’s shoulder to watch Colin Johnson, the player he had beaned, wincing as he walked off of the field.

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