Hardball-Chapter 2

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Chapter 2-MAGIC

Bob hadn’t played ball in months. It was the first time in his life he could remember not playing for such a long period of time. Without baseball, there was a wide void in his life. But his mission to find and reveal the truth was emerging as his only focus. Now the only reminder he had of the game he loved so much was a special baseball he carried around with him virtually everywhere he went. The day he got that ball was etched in his mind as clearly as it was yesterday.
It was the summer of 1994. Bob was a federal law enforcement officer on assignment in Boston where a domestic terrorist group was threatening to blow up an internationally influential New England bank or some other Boston landmark. One of the most likely targets was old Fenway Park. Everyone on the force knew of Bob’s devotion to baseball so he and his partner got the assignment of attending the Red Sox and Anaheim Angels 7:05 game at Fenway. The threat received from the terrorists was serious. As such, Bob could only remain in his seat for a few batters at one sitting before tending to his mission. He must have checked every square inch of his side of the stadium for any clues of bombs, other ballistics or unexplained behaviors. Despite the many lives potentially in danger, he just couldn’t resist the Fenway snack stands where he partook in a famous Monster Dog, a mini Papa Gino’s pizza and a bowl of authentic New England Clam Chowder.
Flamethrowing Roger “The Rocket” Clemens was on the mound and, shall we say, was “bringing” it to the plate from the first pitch onward. As the legend goes, Clemens, who normally approached and sometimes exceeded the speed of 100 miles per hour with his fastball, was beyond comprehension on this night. If he regularly fired his deliveries with a shotgun, on this night he launched them with an atomic cannon. The radar gun was put to the test. He seemed to get stronger as the game wore on and the heat generated from his right arm intensified. Twice the Rocket was clocked at 106 miles per and plenty of other pitches were somewhere in three figures. Despite the noise of the crowd of nearly 40,000 at the cozy confines of Fenway Park, one could hear the catcher’s mitt popping in the right field stands, at the Green Monster high above left field and beyond.
Clemens went into the ninth inning with a perfect game. That, in the long, magnificent history of baseball has happened before. But not combined with 27 dazzling strikeouts, some by way of a curve ball or a change-up, but mostly it was the pure, unmerciful Heat of the menacing right-hander that blew the hitters away. From where Bob was sitting, a few rows up behind the Red Sox dugout, he, as he told the story years later, could have sworn he heard a humming, radio-like sound being emitted from the balls as they were launched from the hill and whizzed down Roger’s 60 foot-6-inch speedway where velocities reached seemingly supersonic dimensions.
Yes sir, that bad boy from Texas was mowing down Angels with the coldness and precision of an executioner. After just a few innings, the Angel batters reluctantly stepped into what seemed like the gallows rather than the batter’s box. Bob, seated in a perfect position to realize the dream of any boy or boy at heart, managed to catch a foul ball hitinto the seats in the ninth just before Clemens fanned his 27th and final Angel. It was like some magical dream. Every hitter the fireballer faced went down swinging or just stood there helplessly. In fact, Bob was in possession of the best the Angels could do against him that night: a line drive foul ball into the stands. He had been going to ball games for over 40 years and never came close to experiencing the feel of a major league baseball that had just been in play. This one was better. It was historic. Twenty-seven strikeouts in a nine-inning regulation game is one of those rare sports records that is truly unbreakable. A pitcher cannot be any more perfect. Bob had one of only sixteen foul balls hit by the Angels during the game.
Bringston used his priceless memento as a handy aid in the healing and strengthening of a broken wrist he had suffered recently. Throughout any given day he could be seen squeezing and rolling the ball in his palm or tossing it lightly to himself. Playing the game with a passion since he was a small boy had already made him a master craftsman with the ball. During these few months of therapy with the baseball, he created ways to toss the ball to himself and otherwise cagily, craftily and controllably move the ball around his body and around the room. He put quirky rotations on the ball or sometimes no rotation at all to mysteriously move the ball around all kinds of places. What Bob accomplished in creating new and interesting solitary games out of the seemingly simple act of tossing around a baseball to one’s self should itself go down in baseball history.
For instance, Bob could lie on his back, stand, or sit and toss the ball up towards the ceiling with such precision, the baseball would be just fractions of an inch from the ceiling, or, by design, merely graze the ceiling before falling straight back into his hand. He would bank it off the wall, skip it off the floor or curve it around a lamp in the den as he relaxed on the couch. In addition, that silly little ball conjured up nothing but happy thoughts of smokin’ fastballs and strikeouts and served Bob as an inspiration throughout an otherwise dull, sometimes dangerous day.
The games Bringston played at work were scored with lives defended and lost. Bob Bringston was a special agent in charge of the anti-government cult enforcement division for the U.S. Treasury Department’s Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco and Firearms. The hardball Bob plays against his opponents during the average day on the job ain’t no little league. With all the bullets being bandied about, the battles are hard involving blood not baseballs. Somehow, though, Bringston found a way to put a baseball in the midst of his violent world. Always looking for a way to avoid using his gun, Bob discovered what a powerful weapon the baseball can be in the right hands.
Bringston was a man whose life was in constant danger. His survival depended on remaining one step ahead of the competition. To do this required focus, concentration and innovation. Bob’s creative mind led him to first use his cherished baseball while on the job in a 1996 violent conflict against a group of mad militiamen from Montana. The wacky warriors were as determined as they were desperate. They were dedicated vegetarians and got word that a team of United States Agriculture Department agents was going to inspect a large Chicago meatpacking plant.
They called themselves the Meatless Militia and five of its members took over the plant in the early morning hours soon after three high-ranking U.S.D.A inspectors had arrived. Violence certainly wasn’t part of their formula a few years prior when the Meatless Militia first organized. They were called Planting Earth and the most brutal act they performed was cutting spears off broccoli plants. Their passion for their cause resulted in their inability to hold any conventional job.
To continue their campaign, contraband was the only answer. Drugs mostly, along with some black market tobacco. Their illicit territory had to be protected and the premium for the protection was blood. Some lost. Some taken. In any case, the cost of doing business with lives as the currency had been consistently on the rise. Recent government pressure of surveillance and infiltration made things more difficult. It wasn’t even the fruits and vegetables thing anymore. It was a matter of survival and the Militia saw the desperate measure of taking over the meat plant as the only answer.
The government men were there in response to complaints that the slaughtering methods used at the plant were cruel and unsanitary. Among the accusations were that oftentimes, the animals were placed directly on the meat hooks before they had even perished. The vegans were seeking victory by slaughtering the three agents in the same fashion, but not before assuring certain demands were met. Bob and nine other agents from the ATF and FBI got the assignment. He was on the rescue team for not only his proven bravery and sharp shooting skills but his adept abilities in negotiation of hostage situations. His creative killing talents were now a legend amongst the anarchists’ community, who, respected, if did not fear him. Bringston’s decades of experience as an ATF agent with exposure to countless numbers of life-threatening situations amply prepared him to attack these tense moments with patience and calculation. Regardless, he and the others were the only ones around crazy and capable enough to handle this explosive situation.
When the team of 10 government rescuers arrived, Bob immediately took charge with no objections. He ordered the nine others, six men and three women, to surround the building to monitor and report the activity and status and communicate with each other by hand-held radio. With the reports he received from his team of agents and the briefing they all reviewed earlier that morning, Bob was armed with a considerable amount of helpful information. All 10 on the team were verse in the layout of the meat plant from the location and size of each door and window, to the amount, location and dimensions of each meat hook inside.
One of his agents, Emily Sanchez, reported that one of the inspectors had already met his demise and was on gruesome display near the main entrance. His body was extended from the ceiling with a large meat hook protruding through his front torso. The radicals clearly put the body on display for strategic purposes. They called for a government representative to personally meet them in the slaughterhouse so their demands could be conveyed. No one else volunteered. Bob jumped on the opportunity.
Upon entry into the plant, Bob was greeted by two heavily armed goons who nearly strip-searched him. Their leader, standing nearby, in front of the dangling dead agent, asked about the ball in Bob’s hand. Bob explained he carried the ball around with him to squeeze it and relieve the pain in his arthritic wrist. He nervously tossed the ball around close to his body.
“Do you remember the 1994 Red Sox-Angels where Roger Clemens struck out every hitter he faced? This is one of the balls he used to nail the last two Angel hitters,” Bob proudly proclaimed.
The leader smiled and said, “Yeah, I saw that game when I was in the cooler, I’ll never forget it. But never mind that. No more fucking around. Toss that ball to the side before your sorry ass is hanging on a hook like your friend behind me.”
“Well, excuse me, but isn’t your love of baseball in violation of vegetarian protocol? After all, the baseball itself is made from slaughtered cows and there are probably enough weenies consumed during baseball season to fill ten of these slaughterhouses, probably 20 . . . ”
“Fuck you, prick. Either you toss that ball to the side or you can join our bovine brothers on the slaughter assembly line,“ the leader screamed as his veins protruded far from the surface of his neck.
Bob sensed he was reaching the end of the line of the leader’s patience. If he was going to earn a save of the remaining U.S.D.A. agents, himself and his cherished baseball, he had to do something and do it without any further delay. During this verbal exchange, Bringston closely gauged his immediate surroundings. He was directly facing the crazed cultist about 20 feet away. Between him and Bob and slightly to Bob’s right was an empty low-hanging meat hook on a curved track less than 10 feet from the intended target. The two thugs were directly to the left of the leader about 50 feet away. According to reports received from his fellow agents, the two other militia members were in the second story of the plant holding the other two U.S.D.A. agents hostage.
“ OK, pal,” Bob cautioned,“ but I may not be as accurate as I used to . . .”
Before he finished his sentence, Agent Bringston made one spectacular pitch. He hurled the ball, without a full windup at about 70 miles per hour and it hit exactly where he intended: At the top of the meat hook chain and just below the track. Since his high school days, Bob always had speed and control as a pitcher, but never had he thrown a payoff pitch like this one. Major League pitchers from Koufax to Clemens would have been proud. In what seemed like less than a second from the time of Bob’s release, the meat hook sped down the track directly towards his adversary’s head. As he put his arms up, the hook drove through one of his arms and into his neck like a fisherman baiting his pole. As the three-inch diameter stainless steel hook plunged through the front and exited the back, large sections of neck and throat tissue were sprayed all over the floor beneath. The AK-47 he was holding was flung in the opposite direction towards Bob. Fortunately, the two goon guards were disabled for just a split second as they stood in amazement at Agent Bringston’s spectacular feat. It was just enough time for Bob to safely grab the weapon off the floor as he successfully sought refuge a few rows back behind a hooked side of beef and a large solid metal beef cart.
Once the guards realized what happened and got over the awe of Bringston’s pitch and its results, they randomly and harmlessly fired their high-powered automatic weapons in the direction where Bob had leaped. Bob’s fabled baseball was still lying harmlessly on the floor only 10 feet away. But if he stepped over to get it, he would be in view of the thugs. He needed that ball to deploy other plans and besides wanted it back for sentimental reasons. His moment came as they scampered around the plant in search of Bringston. He grabbed his ball and raced back under cover. With his cannon-like arm, Bringston hurled the baseball at the far end of the building nearly 200 feet away.
It was like a throw from the deep part of the outfield that nails a base runner speeding around third for home. The ball hit the far end aluminum wall and made a billowing noise that emanated throughout the plant. When the two thugs turned their backs on him, that was all Bringston needed. He eliminated them with a few quick rounds to the back of the head. Each time Bob ended a life, it took another bite out of his soul. Each one that died by his hand was another reminder that in striving to stop the murderers, he himself was becoming as much a cold-blooded killer as those he pursues. He couldn’t let such deep-rooted dilemmas drag him down. He was focused on detaining those two remaining radicals and protecting the safety of the two U.S.D.A. inspectors.
He could not help but thinking about, however, what had happened to his precious baseball. He was frantically searching on the floor for it near the far-end of the plant as he kept tabs on the terrorists whom he expected to come downstairs any moment. Just then Agent Emily Sanchez came up from behind him. She had heard the gunfire and noise of the baseball crashing against the wall and decided to march in to lend her support.
“Looking for something?“ she said.
Anytime she spoke with her sexy Latina accent, to say nothing of her effervescent aura, it always inspired Bringston. Now, however, she had the cherry on top of the sundae with the delivery of Bob’s cherished baseball. He accepted the ball; the lovely Emily would have to be encountered off the clock. He used Sanchez’ radio to order FBI agents Frank Ganji and Tim Tuttlehorn into the complex via the rear utility entrance furthest from where Bringston and Sanchez were standing to assist the team’s efforts. He briefed them as to the status and told them precisely where to place themselves within the plant in preparation of an assault on the remaining terrorists.
He wanted Ganji and Tuttlehorn because of their unequivocal will to win and their equally unflappable abilities to stop the enemy under the most difficult of circumstances. Bringston anticipated what lie ahead and how the two agents would be a vital part of the success of the operation. Bob positioned Ganji and Tuttlehorn. Then that persistent feeling of hesitation entered his gut. No matter how much he succeeded in his life and career, Bob suffered from a crippling fear of failure that oftentimes overwhelmed him. At any given moment, it has gripped him tightly like a vise, reducing him to a meek, harmless participant in whatever endeavor he was engaged. Typically, it hit him when he is on a roll, on the verge of victory and something deep down made him question his success. Sometimes his strong self-confidence squelched these deep-rooted self-doubts. Other times the failure he feared became reality. Fortunately, the guerrillas were detained upstairs by untying the two hostages before they came down. It was just enough time for Bob to do a few yoga chants, tell himself how much he liked himself and otherwise tap his plentiful well of a winning attitude. It also gave him time to think about the deployment of his plan. The kidnappers and their captives descended the stairs and walked towards their fallen brethren.
“You will pay for this,” said one as he discovered his leader grotesquely hanging from the ceiling and his two other comrades soaking in growing collections of their blood.
“Now come on,“ Bob cracked. “Is it my fault, your vegetarian friend got hooked on this place?“
“You’re a fucking comedian aren’t you? Now, drop your weapons, including that stupid ball,“ the militant demanded.
Bob and Emily immediately dropped their guns but Bob held onto his beloved baseball and went into one of his favorite subjects: the Roger Clemens/Fenway Park story.
“J.T. Snow, the last batter of the game, was up. He hit a towering fly ball right over the location in the stands where I was sitting. I thought the ball would never come down. When it did, I reached over the guy in front of me and with one bare hand, caught one of the most epic baseballs in history,“ Bob explained as he slightly changed the facts of the story for the situation before him.
“I’ll never forget the magnificent flight of this ball. As a matter of fact, the high ceiling of this slaughterhouse is just about exactly the altitude the ball reached,“ Bob said as the two terrorists seemed most interested.
“Here’s a bet. One that could save lives and get you what you want. I throw this ball as high as the ceiling and if either one of you catch it, these negotiations end, we immediately walk out of the room and see to it that all your demands are met,“ Bob proposed.
“If you miss, as I think you wimps will, the hostages are freed and you two can go as you please either now or after you’re sure we have left and that it is safe to do so,“ Bob assured them.
“You win either way. If you catch the fly ball, your noble aspirations are achieved with a lot less complications, guaranteed by your control of the two captives. If I’m right, all you lose is the hostages. You keep, however, your sorry-ass lives and freedom, at least for the time being,“ Bringston explained. “So what do you say boys? “C’mon hotshots, my mitt’s out in the car. Let’s take a break and go get it,” he urged. Or do you wait for the rest of my troops to eventually blast your fuckin’ heads off, the same way Clemens took care of his last two strikeout victims with this baseball,” Bob shouted impatiently.
As the two terrorists discussed the situation, Bob sensed they were not about to accept his wild wager. He was running out of solutions. The distraction factor though, was still available. He threw the baseball to the ceiling. The ball, at the hands of the master, went perfectly to the forty-five foot height of the ceiling without touching it. At its height, the ball was literally millimeters from the ceiling. With the backspin Bob put on it, the baseball seemed to hang up there as if in a state of suspended animation.
At first they pointed their guns at Bringston’s head. Then, just as the rest in the plant, they gazed up at the baseball as it fell back towards earth. As such, the window of opportunity presented itself. Tuttlehorn nailed one guy with a bullet in the ear and Ganji played some lethal chin music on the other, with a bullet or two in the face. In the meantime, the ball was thrown so high with so much hang time that Bringston had enough time to actually run over and make a lunging catch of the ball he lobbed up to the ceiling.
The Bringston-to-Tuttlehorn-to Ganji double play combination was as thrilling as they get. As Bob and his team of nine celebrated their big victory, he started to wonder about what just happened. Sure his baseball had a magical, mystical history, but just how far did it go and with how much power. After all, the day was saved by Bob’s pure, raw talents in not just tossing the baseball around, but management under pressure and his abilities to incapacitate his opponents by embellishing on an already fascinating baseball story. Maybe though, the legend of that wondrous baseball itself became reality. Bob was the mere conduit of the magic. Although an inanimate object, the bond between Bob and his baseball was not much unlike a long, loyal friendship. Strange as it may seem, that little globe in his hand gave him a deep sense of comfort and confidence wherever he was. Feelings so strong, so penetrating, that he resolved never to be without that ball as long as he lived.