Paint Black Read online

  PAINT BLACK

  A

  NOVEL

  BY

  BALTAZAR BOLADO

  Copyright 2015

  C. L. B.

  &

  A. F. B.

  &

  S. L. F. B.

  MLI Publications

  ISBN: 978-0-9972195-7-9

  All rights reserved. You may not reproduce any portion of this book, graphically or electronically, without the express written permission of the publisher and author, except in the case of reasonable quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.

  This novel is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or used fictionally. Any resemblance to actual events, locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Based on the short story “Paint Black” by Baltazar Bolado.

  1st Inning

  Pitchers, like poets, are born not made.

  —Cy Young

  Baseball lives in a young boy’s heart.

  The game exists in the dreams of America.

  —Nyle Clairemont

  One Win—Winner Takes All

  “Throw to the glove, Cowboy! You to me… playing catch!”

  Standing behind home plate, Nikolai “Soldi” Borelli pounded his mitt. Muscular and sturdy, Borelli took the image of a Roman god behind home plate. Glistening sweat and sporting a rich tan, the catcher made effort to calm his pitcher, Ryan Haddox, who stood on the mound.

  “Soldi” stood for “money.” A clutch hitter possessing nerves stronger than steel, Soldi, who’d just turned 22, landed in AAA that year. Already, scouts predicted he’d make it to the major leagues within a year.

  Giving his mitt a final pound, he crouched down over the plate and pushed out his glove to provide Haddox a big target.

  Ryan Haddox expanded his chest to take a deep breath. Stretching his 5’ 11” frame, he extended his arm’s mighty muscle and shook out the tenseness. The simple movement caused a rush of torment and pain to course through his shoulder.

  Not daring to show his pain, Ryan Haddox removed his hat and wiped away the sweat pouring down his face using his left non-throwing arm. He gazed up at the stands in the direction over third base.

  Stephanie, Baby, I wish you were here to see me pitch this game.

  Stephanie normally sat little Mitch next to her over the Panther dugout, about 10 rows back.

  On this game—the biggest of his life—she wasn’t able to make it. Little Mitch, their 10-month old son, was sick with meningitis. Having stayed home to care for him, a heavy-set man in a Dragon baseball jersey (the local minor league team) sat in the seat she usually sat in.

  I’ll have to pitch alone, Haddox coldly reasoned. I must push everything out of mind. If I win this game, I’ll make it to the major leagues.

  A sobering, cruelty gripped him. He returned his cap back to his head and returned his focus to home plate.

  Out of mind. It’s not a game—it’s a business.

  Gone were the days when he played for love of the game. Now, on this momentous game, he played the game for money.

  In this cold truth, consequence followed close behind. Time ravaged his dreams and left nothing to hold on to except the hope of a “cold cash” reward. Damaged goods mentally, now, over the course of a lifelong of wear and tear, his powerful arm showed signs of severe damage.

  He readied to throw the next pitch, the constant pain ripping through his shoulder.

  This was the way it had been most of the season.

  Now, every movement, every pitch, forced him to contest against an opponent not composed of flesh and blood. On the baseball field, his greatest adversary did not exist in the physical.

  Every single pitch sent a dreadful pain coursing through his fingertips and culminating in the rotator cuff. The most unspeakable pain he’d ever felt tormented his soft tissue, underneath the hard muscle and strong bone.

  Attacked at his shoulder, he fought an unspeakable war in his mind reckoning the pain nonexistent, heroically deeming its agony a mere concoction of the senses.

  Over time, his mind forced to accede the pain’s reality.

  The pain was real.

  Pain is a tool of the brain to protect life and limb and guard against the danger of damaging tissue.

  But what if I don’t care about my tissue anymore?

  “Your next pitch… could be your last pitch.”

  Over the roar of the 8234 fans at Dragon Stadium, somehow he heard his uncle’s shout of encouragement. His uncle’s voice a constant inspiration to him growing up. While on the mound, he felt weaker if he didn’t hear it.

  It’s impossible. There’s no way I heard him.

  Moving behind the unbalanced minor league mound, Ryan adjusted his cap, caressed the big “P” on its front, and rubbed up the ball carefully. He labored to focus on the next pitch, as if it were his last.

  I love you Dad.

  I call him dad because he’s the only dad I’ve known. He loved me like no one else did. And Aunt Dorothy, she’s been my mom.

  A different dull pain came over Haddox. The dull pain struck him in his heart, not his arm. It grew worse with each image he remembered of his real dad.

  I never knew him. He died soon after my birth.

  “Stay focused, Ryan!”

  The voice of his uncle sounded clearly in his ears. He knew the voice existed only in his head.

  Uncle Mitch couldn’t make it to the game; he’s not even in the stands.

  Raw images entered his mind. Uncle Mitch lay on a bed 400 miles away in Oklahoma, recovering from open-heart surgery.

  I should be back in Brownsville helping him fight for his life. Just like he helped me fight throughout my life.

  Growing up, he’d heard his uncle’s voice in his ears, yelling encouragement, or offering advice. Now, as his uncle lay in a hospital bed, miles away, Haddox heard his voice in his head.

  Readjusting his cap again, he, again, touched the “P” affectionately.

  The “P” stood for the Lockhart Panthers, the AAA affiliate of the Major League baseball team Frankfort Panthers. He’d played in the Frankfort Panther minor league system since his signing directly out of high school 6 years prior.

  Lockhart Field’s legendary status at times transcended the game itself. A long list of major league players looked back on the field fondly as their minor league home, at some point in their careers.

  There came to mind Lyle Lockhart, the man whose name carried over to the stadium’s appellation and tag. His trailblazing career presented the unspoiled ballplayer. Full of sterling play and personal integrity, his playing days made even more special because of the fact that controversy never stained his baseball legend.

  Often held up and singled out, the Panther organization pointed to Lyle Lockhart as the epitome of old fashioned American values. Since his playing days, the Panther front office often quoted, saying God had created Lyle Lockhart in the image of the “perfect” Panther ballplayer.

  Aside from Lockhart, the list continued long and rich. Brad “Dizzy” Wagner, Sylvester “Syl” Higgins, Pepper Gnirs—the names hung in the air and over the field, their ghosts filling every inch of the stadium.

  Amid legends, stories, and memories, Ryan Haddox emerged out of the dust of their greatness, hopeful of joining the folklore that absorbed Panther Stadium. He recalled what Joe Strickland, the Panther’s scout, told him at signing.

  “Kid, you got a live arm and a moving heater. I like the movement in your pitches and your spin’s hard to pick up. I can get you a seven-year standard, guaranteed ‘slot money,’ if you sign to play ball with the Panthers.”

  The lure of the signing bonus made him think. “How mu
ch slot money?” he asked.

  It wasn’t the amount he wanted, but enough to induce him to put ink on the line.

  To a boy from Brownsville, Oklahoma, a $110, 000 signing bonus seemed like a lot of money. It meant even more to him—personally—to sign with the Panthers, the team he’d grown up watching in his childhood.

  Uncle Mitch attempted to get him to reject the contract and signing bonus offer, advising him to get his college education instead.

  “It’s not enough, Ryan. Your Aunt Dorothy… and I… feel you’re best off following your education, unless something better comes along.”

  “It’ll be alright,” Ryan quickly assured him, his youth and excitement blind to the shortness of the deal and the speed of life. Like a stubborn kid, his head swimming of “big league” glory, he hadn’t been able to resist the temptation.

  Six years later, he still played to make it into the big time.

  He thought back to a memory, fourteen years earlier.

  “Dad?”

  “Yes?”

  “Can I tell you something?”

  “You can tell me anything, Son.”

  “When I grow up, I want to pitch in the major leagues for the Frankfort Panthers.”

  A smile came over the man. Looking at the boy returned him to his childhood. He recalled how his dreams were special in his youth.

  No different than other kids, the dreams residing in Ryan Haddox’ heart left him breathless. He didn’t have a clue how hard the path to his dream—he only saw the glory. More than anything else, at the tender age of nine, Ryan Haddox wanted to be a major league pitcher.

  “What do you want for your tenth birthday?” Uncle Mitch always made him feel like a prince.

  After a thought, the boy looked at his uncle intently, “You said last year if I did good in school, you would take me to a Frankfort Panther game.”

  “Well.”

  “Huh?” Ryan asked, blankly.

  “Well. If you did well in school.” Shifting gears, Uncle Mitch, changed to a softer tone. “Your Aunt Dorothy just wants what’s best for you. She insists you work hard toward getting the best education you can.” Uncle Mitch shook his head. “We don’t want you to make the same mistakes I did.”

  Quiet overtook the boy. “Well,” he said, under his breath. Uncle Mitch never disheartened his spirit. Instead, he gave him hope in himself and in his future.

  Ryan regarded the greatness in his uncle. He craved to emulate him in his exploits and life.

  “Why don’t you go and stretch your legs in the outfield,” Mitch Haddox prompted the boy. “Later we’ll talk about it some more.”

  The Oklahoma sun beat down on the young ballplayer running across the outfield of Brownsville’s little league field. He looked up to the huge Oklahoma sky and dreamed of playing in the major leagues.

  The summer seemed to last forever. Every day gave birth to new, brighter dreams in his young heart.

  Dear God, please have Aunt Dorothy say we can go see the Panthers play! Please!

  Running in from the outfield, vibrant and glistening sweat, Ryan’s skin shown bright in the sunlight. As usual, he helped Uncle Mitch gather the baseball equipment and store it in the truck.

  “Let’s stop and get a cone, before we head home?” said Uncle Mitch.

  Two days later, Ryan awoke on his tenth birthday to breakfast in bed.

  Aunt Dorothy brought the tray full of eggs, sausage, hash browns, and pancakes to the yawning boy.

  Rather than start eating, he looked up and said, “Aunt Dorothy—”

  Holding her hand up, the woman said, “Ryan Lionel Haddox, will you wait long enough to eat your breakfast, before you begin asking me if we can go see the Panthers play?”

  The past two days, prior to his birthday, Ryan’s incessant nagging had tormented his aunt. Normally patient, she seemed to have reached her breaking point.

  Slowly, Ryan sat up and, without a word, adjusted the tray on his lap. Unwrapping the napkin, he noticed an awkwardness to the cloth.

  A ticket fell out, landing to one side of the tray.

  First shock, then joy, overcame him and Ryan almost knocked over the tray.

  “Careful!” Aunt Dorothy called out, half laughing.

  Setting the tray aside, Ryan threw his arms around his aunt. Only then did he see Uncle Mitch standing at the doorway, grinning exuberantly. “Awesome! Thank you, Ma!” Bounding off the bed, he ran to his uncle and embraced him. The boy’s excitement exploded across the room.

  Looking at the date of the tickets, Ryan roared, “Tomorrow! We can go tomorrow?”

  “It’s all arranged, Son,” replied Uncle Mitch. “Even before I asked her, your mother’d already packed your stuff. You’re ready to go, Buddy! She knew it would make you happy!”

  Panther Stadium stood over two-hundred, fifty miles away in Frankfort, Oklahoma. Just the same, to Ryan, a boy who lived and dreamed baseball, the stadium lived in his heart, with every blade of grass etched in his mind.

  He memorized every inch of the stadium and its field.

  He loved the purple and gold uniforms of the Panther squad. The brightness of the Panther ball club’s uniform colors called back to the days of yore, to a time when baseball infused freshness into American culture.

  One day, I’ll wear the purple and gold, he hoped, his dreams filling his boyhood days.

  Over the years, the family day spent at Panther Stadium played repeatedly in his mind. Each time Ryan felt down or demoralized and ready to quit his dreams, he recalled the day at Panther Stadium and it gave him the strength to go on.

  Panther Stadium in Frankfort, Oklahoma and Lockhart Field—places linked together by a storied baseball history Ryan grew up hearing about through his Uncle Mitch and other Oklahoma residents.

  Grand, magnificent, through the years the baseball stories took on a larger than life prominence in Ryan’s life. He revered the great Panther players of the past. He esteemed the sacred stadium erected in Frankfort Oklahoma’s center; he respected the hallowed field that adorned Lockhart’s “hot corner” district. Ryan’s youth absorbed the celebrated lore.

  He wanted nothing more than to become a part of the Panther folklore.

  The rest of the day passed slowly for Ryan. In the hopes of distracting his mind, Uncle Mitch and Aunt Dorothy involved him in the next day’s planning. It didn’t work. He couldn’t take his mind off the upcoming special events.

  At last evening came. Having completed their preparations, the family ate an early dinner.

  “After we eat,” Uncle Mitch said, chewing on a bite of the roasted pork, “we’ll go to bed early. Four in the morning will come pretty fast and we don’t want to be tired tomorrow, do we?”

  Ryan didn’t put up much resistance. To him, going to bed early made the morning come sooner. Instead, he tossed and turned. Hours later, he finally fell into a restless sleep.

  Up before the alarm went off, Ryan showered and dressed before Uncle Mitch and Aunt Dorothy stirred. Putting on his Panther jersey—cap, full uniform, even stirrups—he sat on the porch bench in the coolness of the morning.

  Major-league players wore their pants down to the ankles. Even though players in the minor and amateur leagues followed the practice, Ryan always preferred stirrups.

  “I want to look like you did when you played,” Ryan grinned at Uncle Mitch.

  Uncle Mitch chuckled. “You’ll probably change your mind one day.”

  Putting on his glove, he tossed a ball into the air and caught it, repeatedly.

  The day was one of the highlights of his youth. From the trip, to laughing and talking baseball with Uncle Mitch in the front seat, to walking around the grand stadium, to finally watching the game highlighted by the Panthers winning—the entire day flashed before his memory in clean pictures of a happy time in his youth.

  He placed his right foot on the rubber and looked in to get the signal. The score was 1-0 and the screaming home fans were going wild, urging the Climax Heights D
ragons to deliver the two runs that would win the game.

  Pitching the game of his life—a masterpiece—Ryan Haddox’s entire career depended on protecting the one-run lead.

  Don’t think about it. Too much pressure will crack the nut. Relax, take a deep breath and throw.

  Three outs away from his greatest victory, the crowd noise buzzed his ears making it difficult to think. He closed his eyes and clenched his jaw against the pain ripping through his tissue.

  A horrific pain in his arm remained constant.

  Having suffered the pain through the previous three months, in this final game it seemed to reach a cruel zenith. Like a mighty storm whose center sat in calm tranquility, his mind no longer registered the pain in the same way it did at the beginning. Yet, the throbbing all around the shoulder joint resulted in great discomfort.

  The pain, both new and old, first occurring in his high school career, had taken a doctor’s care to overcome.

  “It’s not a global tear,” Haddox remembered Doctor Summers explain to his father. “This offers us more options in resolving the matter without surgery. In order to solve the issue we must thoroughly explore the biomechanics of Ryan’s pitching motion, start to finish.”

  How I wish I could see you now, Doc. But I know if I did, you’d stop me from pitching. I can’t take the chance. After the season and I’ve accomplished what I’ve set out to do, then I’ll come to see you and we can work toward maybe saving my arm.

  His arm in flames after a first strike fastball, Ryan paused to rub up the ball. Gritting his teeth, he reached back, in agony, and threw right through the center of the baseball. The eighty-nine mile an hour cut fastball tailed in on the left-handed hitter, Alonzo Quinones, the Dragon’s shortstop.

  Quinones thought of swinging, stopped, and to Haddox’s dismay, laid off the pitch. Haddox—not a power pitcher—relied on the over anxiousness of the hitter to swing when he shouldn’t.

  If Quinones tried to hit the high and tight fastball, chances were in Haddox’s favor it would’ve sawed off his bat and resulted in a feeble ground ball or some other easy out.

  Quinones didn’t swing.

  The cutter cut in too far and missed the inside black of the plate by inches.