Batter Up

by
Tom Haynes

Copyright 20003,2004,2006 - All rights reserved by the author.

We cruised through the first 3 games, the Tigers had really taken their toll, but they got off to a good start in the fourth game. Jackson was back in the line up behind me and they had to pitch more to me. So, it was the 11th inning, 2 outs, bases loaded, and they were leading by a run. I was up to bat and I crushed one just outside the foul pole. I also nearly took out the pitcher with the head of my bat when it cracked off.

When you are the two time league MVP, soon to be 3rd time, you are allowed to be a little superstitious. In my case, I don't like anyone, and I mean anyone, touching my bats. Most people think it is because they are corked, but whenever the league takes one of my bats, they never find any tampering. The real reason is that if I don't keep them under lock and key, they end up on eBay. Anyway, I only took two bats out to the field and my other had splintered in the 3rd inning.

The GM for the Yankees was trying to get the umpires to examine the remains of my bat while I was trying to explain to them why I didn't have a spare in the racks and why I wasn't going to borrow just any old bat from my teammates. He got tossed for bumping the home plate ump while shoving the bat head in his face. I said please and that did it, they called a TV timeout and I started down to the clubhouse - there was no way I was giving my locker combination out to anyone else in the stadium. I had to hustle, so I didn't even drop the remains of my bat.

A funny thing happened to me on the way. You have to remember that there were cameras on the dugout the whole time and a crew waiting in the locker room to interview us on our post- game reactions.

I never reached the locker room, they never found me, they now call that hallway the "Bermuda Corridor", and the Yankees went on to win that game and the next three. The Cubs beat them for the World Series in 4 straight.

Talk about notoriety, I've eclipsed Elvis in the tabloids. What did happen in that hallway? What happened to all of my millions? Where am I now? Why do Red Sox fans hate me more than Rodger Clemens?

Well, I can answer one of those with the casual observation that my contract was technically over with the end of the season and anyone who thinks they'll get their hands on my money should remember that stint I did with the CIA - besides killing, the favorite camp talk had been about squirreling away illegal gains. I.e., I transferred my assets out of the bank and took them elsewhere. The Red Sox management tried to sue for the money, but I was long gone.

As to what really happened in that hallway, well, lets just say I met a really rabid Yankees fan and he convinced me to leave the park.

I remember stomping down the hall, pissed that the ball had curved at the end. They couldn't walk me, they were playing for the win and Jackson had already smacked them around earlier. Then this guy just appears out of nowhere, clamps these iron fingers on my shoulder, I'm thinking major bruises, and sinks these major fangs into my neck. I can't do anything, his eyes have got me locked down and none of my muscles are responding.

I didn't have any faith to fall back on to fight this bloodsucker, Iraq took care of that. He took his fangs out, switched to the other side of my neck and slurped out some more blood. I just sat there and let him do his thing. He reared back and I knew he was out to convert me to his faith. I finally saw he was wearing a Yankee cap and I knew he hated me - killing me would have been too easy, just suck it all out. No, he wanted to rob me of playing in the daylight.

Out of nowhere, he chomped down on my left wrist, almost chewing my hand off in the process. Did I mention I was superstitious? The only jewelry I wore was a silver bracelet with a pair of stars - on my left wrist. I wore it tight and under a sweatband so the umps wouldn't throw me out. When he started to chew it, he roared, and grasped at his mouth - it was bleeding, turning green from where it had contacted my bracelet. His hold on me slipped, both physically and mentally. I thrust the remains of my bat through his heart and watched him burn.

Blood was streaming down the front of my jersey and my left hand was clutched up to my chest. It started to burn and when I looked down, it was green. I pulled the bracelet off, it didn't hurt my right hand. It must take an open wound for the silver to work its charm. I felt a slight breeze come from the wall and the ashes scattered out of sight.

Anyway, there I stood, basically dead. The game had drifted into the early night, I could go back out there. I couldn't however go into the locker room looking like this and I couldn't go out onto the field. Baseball is very understanding still about performance enhancers, but not in the form of superhuman strength imparted either by vampirism or lycanthropism. Never mind that I had been out under the sun earlier in that day or that I had been passing the lycanthropy piss test since I started playing high school ball, I couldn't go forth and ruin my accomplishments.

It was weird, I was torn by that Ranger mentality to go out and help my team, but in the long run, I knew it would do more harm to baseball than good. Pete Rose never understood that, yet I finally was starting to soak in the implications of how my needs would damage the game.

As I thought of this, with the roar of the crowd in the back ground, with the blood soaking my uniform, I realized I'd just killed the only source of information on how vampires do their supernatural tricks. Okay, I knew that silver and wood were effective against them, but other than that what was myth and what was fact? The Church wasn't going to help me and the only bloodsuckers I knew of were agents and lawyers.

Thinking about bloodsuckers, even as an euphemism, caused my fangs to extend. Okay, I probably fed on humanity now. I'd experiment with some human style food and if that didn't work, I'd have human food. What, you expect me to be squeamish or rant about my lost humanity? That cherry was popped in the Middle East.

I don't know how I did it, but I found myself in the locker room, standing by my locker. I got out my clothes, keys, and bats. I found myself sitting in my Range Rover. I drove home, arranged for my funds to be transferred to an offshore account that no one knew about and arranged for everything else to be liquidated.

After that, I rode off, but not into the sunset, which I was fated to never see again. Nope, I was freshly minted vampire who needed to find himself. The big question was I going to feast on my fans or on Yankee fans?