Category: Fiction Factor

“Oh, no … not again.”

All Freddie Cullen wanted to do was have a nice, relaxing day at the ballpark.

He’d drink a beer – maybe two – wolf down a pretzel, and enjoy some High-A baseball courtesy of the Asheville Tourists. But it was also a bit of “quiet time.”

Sure, there’d be the crack of the bat and the chirp of the umpire, and he’d hear all of it since only a smattering of fans would show up for an 11 a.m. Wednesday start. But that was the beauty of it … he could enjoy it all without having to make conversation.

However, as he glanced over at Row 3, Section GG of McCormick Field – where his seat was – he saw “Talking Guy.”

Just a couple of weeks earlier he and his wife, Maisie, had gone to a South Atlantic League game between the Tourists and Greenville Drive. Season ticket holders, they were quite comfortable in their perch to the right of home plate and were used to different people occupying the spots around them.

During this particular game Maisie had a non-chatty young woman to her right, while Freddie was stuck with a “talker” to his left – one of those people who couldn’t resist commenting on every ball and strike.

And it was as though he had a form of baseball Tourette syndrome because he’d be yammering away at Freddie about an unrelated subject and suddenly shriek.

It was weird and unsettling, especially for someone who wasn’t entirely comfortable cozying up to strangers.

“Yeah, I was here back when they were the Double-A Asheville Orioles along, oh, about 1973,” said Talking Guy, embarking on a stream of consciousness dialogue. “I pretty much came to all their weekend games because I was a big fan of Rob Andrews, who batted over .300 that year STRIKE ONE! and – of course you know Cal Ripken Sr. was the manager – then they moved and came back in ’76 in the Sally League as the Tourists THAT WAS OUTSIDE BUT WE’LL TAKE IT! and they’ve been affiliated with the Rockies for more than 20 years SHOULDA BEEN STRIKE TWO, BLUE! But they were hooked up with the Rangers for a while, too, so over time you learn to follow the players to the bigs and kinda STRUCK HIM OUT … SAT HIM DOWN!”

Freddie thought of himself as a relatively friendly person but this man in particular just really, really got on his nerves.

By the third inning Freddie hoped either he or the talker would have a fatal heart attack. Didn’t matter which one … it’d be a relief either way.

And today – during what used to be called “Businessman’s Special Day” – he wouldn’t have his wife to bail him out of any unwanted chats.

Of course, he could sit almost anywhere due to the sparse crowd, so maybe he’d just ease his way over to Section MM and watch the game from the third base side.

Yep … that would solve his problem.

Rather than going to his regular seat, he instead went the other direction and plopped down on the general admission aluminum bleachers.

“Hey, Mr. Cullen,” said Randy, a longtime usher at the park who knew Freddie was a regular at the ballpark. “You’re not in your usual spot today.”

Freddie shrugged sheepishly.

“I hope it’s OK,” he said. “I figured it wouldn’t matter on a day like today.”

Randy nodded.

“Oh, no … it’s fine. I doubt there’ll be 300 people here. Besides, you moved from a $25 seat to an $11 seat. It’s not like you traded up”

Freddie chuckled.

“Just between you and me, I didn’t want to sit by that guy over in GG,” he said. “I’m sure he’s a nice old fellow and all, but good grief … he never shuts up. He nearly talked my ear off last time and I’m not really in the mood today.”

Rex walked over to Freddie and sat down.

“Oh, that’s Mr. Friedman,” Randy said. “Years ago, he used to come to all the games with his wife and daughter. He was always cutting up with everybody, and anytime he saw a group of kids he’d buy ‘em all snow cones or ice cream helmets. He does like to talk, there’s no doubt about that.”

Freddie stood up and looked over at Talking Guy, who had Section GG all to himself.

“You said he used to come with his wife and daughter,” Freddie said. “Does he not bring them anymore?”

Randy shook his head.

“He lost both of ‘em a while back,” Randy said. “I don’t remember what happened exactly, but they both died the same year. Seems like it was around 2017, 2018 … sometime along in there. I think he’s just lonely, that’s probably why he talks so much.

“Anyway, I better get up here and get back to my post. Shiner’s pitching for us today and it might be the last time we see him. I imagine he’ll get called up to Corpus Christi before too long. Enjoy the game, Mr. Cullen.”

Freddie – feeling like a monumental jerk – sat in silence for a moment and once again glanced over at the man he now knew as Mr. Friedman.

He got up, trudged to the concession stand, bought two draft beers, and made the trek over to Row 3, Section GG.

“I don’t think I introduced myself last time we saw each other,” he said, handing Mr. Friedman a beer. “I’m Freddie Cullen. So, I remember you saying something about the time Cal Ripken Sr. was the manager here …”

The sound of the basketball thundered throughout the gymnasium, with each bounce creating a reverberating thump. Joining in the hardwood concert were well-worn high-tops, adding their own rhythmic squeak as the player worked from left to right, then shifted from right to left, and finally raced from one baseline to the other.

Sometimes when he shot, the clank of the rim signaled a missed opportunity. Sometimes, but not often.

Usually when the ball was catapulted by his right hand, the only sound was a swish.

Harley Mayfair was born to play basketball. His father coached the local high school boys’ team – the Freetown Firebirds – and Harley started tagging along to practices and games from the time he could walk. He was the quintessential “gym rat.”

He loved the sounds in a gym … all of them. The furious grunting that could be heard during suicides, the sound of his dad shouting, “You never know what’s next, so always be ready” after every drill, and the roar of the crowd whenever the Firebirds hosted a game.

He often thought back to the first time fans cheered for him. It was during the opening game of his freshman season. With just a couple of minutes to go in a blowout win over Milton High, his dad decided to put him in to get some game experience.

He recalled how dry his mouth was as he took the court and how embarrassed he was when a small group of his friends starting chanting, “Harley! Harley!”

He thought he was going to throw up.

But when one of the seniors brought the ball up court and passed it to him, he calmly raced toward the top of the key, stopped, pulled the ball to his chest and launched a beautiful set shot that barely touched the net on its way through the hoop.

The crowd, as they say, went wild.

By the time he was a sophomore he had replaced the set shot with a dead-eye jumper, and finished the year as the region’s leading scorer.

The word “superstar” wasn’t a phrase used much during his prep years, but he most certainly was one. In fact, he was so good by the time he finished high school he had college scholarship offers from across the country.

He wanted to stay close to home so his mom and dad could watch from the stands, so he signed with Calico Polytechnic Institute. The CPI Bulldogs played in what looked like an old Army barracks – Calico Hall – and Harley loved the echoes inside the 5,000-seat arena.

He even enjoyed day games, where the sun would often shine in through the windows of the building and provide the north end of the court with something of a spotlight.

And that’s what he was waiting for today – one last day in the spotlight. One last day in his old stomping grounds.

Across the way, the sparkling new Harley Mayfair Memorial Arena was set to have its grand opening in just a few months, and Calico Hall would be razed and replaced with a parking lot.

It was progress, of course. And CPI – now known as Calico Tech – was due for a makeover.

Much had changed since Harley played in the 1950s, and even more since he died in 1997.

But there was one more chance to work from left to right, then shift from right to left, and race from one baseline to the other.

He might even have time to take a set shot before the hydraulic equipment was moved into place for the demolition.

Calico Hall had always seemed like home to him – especially in the afterlife.

After today, though, he’d have to move on.

Like his dad used to say, “You never know what’s next, so always be ready.”

Every molded plastic chair was taken in the hazy, glass and steel arena, and those without a place to sit pressed against the aluminum rails separating the seating area from the concrete floor.

Shoving matches were already taking place in the stands as everyone packed inside was hoping to secure the best possible spot.

Time was when The People’s Arena in downtown New Mega-annum City was filled, basketball or ice hockey was the draw. Jamal Felker remembered the days of coming here with his father and watching the New Mega-annum Tarantulas of the World League of Professional Basketball play.

Part of the fan experience was the “T-Shirt Cannon”; each time the Tarantulas scored a 3-point basket, a crew of young people armed with pressurized cylinders would fire T-shirts into the crowd.

Jamal got lucky once – the night the Tarantulas beat the Ocean City Tsunami in a playoff game. Following a 30-foot bucket from team star Rod Arrington, a tee was fired right where Jamal was sitting.

Although there were a sea of arms reaching for the same prize, he was able to snatch the shirt out of the air and cradle it against his stomach.

On the front of the white garment was the team logo – a fierce black and gold spider – while on the back was a list of sponsors, including the New Mega-annum Pest Control Company.

Jamal always thought that was funny … a team with a spider mascot funded by a company that kills, among other things, spiders.

But the Tarantulas were long gone, just as organized professional sports were now nothing more than bittersweet memories. And the irony didn’t seem nearly as humorous these days.

Ever since the Cyber Wars and the formation of the Corporation of Nations, only the extremely wealthy could afford – and had access to – recreation and entertainment.

Jamal had heard there were still elite sports teams, although apparently only the elite knew about them.

But with food, housing and healthcare in short supply, “the little people” didn’t have the luxury of cheering for men and women playing a child’s game. Instead, three times a year they’d pack into arenas like this one hoping to catch a T-shirt – and catch a big break.

As the lights in each section of The People’s Arena dimmed, the spotlight glared on what used to be center court. Two people armed with T-shirt cannons were situated at each end, while three lined up on either side of the floor.

The hype guy – a man wearing a red fedora and oversized yellow sunglasses – stood in the middle, holding a microphone.

For the price of seven Corporation Credits, people could spend 30 minutes inside the arena in hopes of being on the receiving end of a launch.

This was the 17^th time Jamal had attended one of these events, and each was identical. Over half an hour, 10 shooters – known as the Launch Crew – would fire 20 shirts apiece into various sections of the crowd.

The hype guy would whip them into a frenzy with prompts such as, “The next shirt goes to the loudest section!” or “Let’s see your dance moves, beautiful people!”

Perhaps 18,000 were inside today, but only 200 would walk away with a coveted tee.

“Are you ready, New Mega-annum City?” screamed the hype guy who – as far as Jamal knew – had never given his name. “Show me your best dance moves!”

Everyone rose and everyone danced, some simply swaying awkwardly while others gyrated like they were possessed. The automated lighting moved across the arena, ultimately stopping to showcase some of the more enthusiastic performers.

The cannons then fired simultaneously, sending shirts sailing to every part of the arena.

One – propelled from the end of the floor closest to Jamal – hit a young girl squarely on her head. But before she could reach up to grab it a sea of adults pounced on her, hitting and clawing in an effort to seize the prize.

The “winner” was a tall, heavyset man in his mid-50s, who quickly pulled the tee over his head and raised his arms in triumph.

The barcode on the front of the shirt was scanned by one of camouflaged security personnel, who escorted him to the “ready room” while the young girl lay crying and bleeding.

The scene repeated itself for the next several minutes; T-shirts went flying, along with bodies.

Roughly 20 minutes into the event Jamal got his chance. He had noticed one of the Launch Crew members always seemed to aim between section 213 and 214, so he worked his way up to the area.

As one of the cloth projectiles came his way, he charged toward it, snared it with his left hand, and never broke stride as he deftly ran down the steps.

A youngster had caught his eye earlier – one who reminded him of himself during those simpler times when arenas were for sports and T-shirts were worn for fun.

He grabbed the startled child, quickly pulled the tee over his head, and forced a smile.

“Go, kid,” he said. “Be brave and good luck.”

The member of the security team charged with scanning the code looked at Jamal, shook his head, and then took the child away.

Jamal hoped he had done the right thing.

The T-shirt meant the kid would be transported to one of the space stations floating far above his dying planet. Yes, he’d be used as a laborer at a Corporation of Nations warehouse, but at least he’d be assured of food and shelter. He’d have a chance to grow up – and maybe even grow old.

But after seeing all the violence at The People’s Arena – and the increasingly grotesque nature of the humans who filled it in hopes of being shipped off to a “better world” – Jamal was unsure if he was helping or hurting the child.

All he could do was hope, even though any hope that remained for the residents of New Mega-annum City came at the end of a T-shirt cannon.