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Hendu Style · 11-06-2013, 03:46 AM

Chapter 9
For Whom the Bell Tolls

Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" is playing. The O.co is rocking. Sean Doolittle has come on to close out the ninth inning in Game 7 of the American League Championship Series.

The A's are three outs away from going to the 2013 World Series.

Their 3-2 series win against the Los Angeles Angels in the ALDS is a distant memory. Nobody seems to care that the A's have blown a 3-1 series lead here in the ALCS to open the door for the Detroit Tigers. The same Tigers who eliminated the A's in last year's ALDS, mind you.

A.J. Griffin has pitched the game of a lifetime, holding Detroit's vaunted batting order to a scant one run on four hits in eight innings of work. The second-year pitcher Griffin comes out for a curtain call in the 9th inning as manager Bob Melvin turns the game over to his closer with a 3-1 lead.

Standing in Doolittle's way is the heart of the Tigers order:
Miguel Cabrera (.339 average, 39 homeruns, 116 RBI in the regular season), Prince Fielder (.294, 29 HR, 90 RBI), and Victor Martinez (.303, 17 HR, 87 RBI).

Cabrera flies out to Coco Crisp to center to lead off the inning.

Two outs away...

Fielder, a hulking, menacing monster at 275 pounds, strides to the batter's box. He never sees a strike, quickly drawing a five-pitch walk.

One on, nobody out. Here's Martinez. Get this guy out, and you're home free. Four straight balls later, and Martinez is jogging to first on back-to-back walks.

Son of a bitch.

Get a grip, Doolittle. This is Game 7 of the ALCS. Roll up a double play. Get this guy to fly out. JUST PUT THE BALL IN THE STRIKE ZONE.

Doolittle pumps in three straight fastballs. Pop foul. Called strike. Strikeout swinging.

ONE OUT AWAY...

The harmless John Mayberry Jr. is at the plate. 2-0 count... he punches a weak nubber off the plate. Derek Norris, brought in as a defensive replacement in the eighth at catcher for John Jaso, bobbles and clutches at the ball, not even mustering a throw. Fielder to third. Martinez to second. Mayberry Jr. to first.

Bases loaded, two out. Doolittle, sweat pouring off of his forehead, sees Grant Balfour hurriedly warming up in the bullpen. Jhonny Peralta strides up to the plate. He's no Cabrera or Fielder, but right now he's King F---ing Kong as far as Doolittle is concerned.

Doolittle nervously peers in for the sign from Norris. The guy who has just loaded the bases on a fielding error.

Fine, live with it, Doolittle. Strike this mother f---er out.

First pitch... fastball... just off the outside corner. Ball One.

Second pitch... another fastball... fouled straight back. Peralta's all over it.

Third pitch... fastball on the corner... he's not biting. 2-1 count.

Fourth pitch... curveball, and a swing and a miss. Strike Two! 2-2 count.

ONE PITCH AWAY...

Fastball... Peralta juuuuust catches a piece of it, and fouls it behind home plate.

Mount Davis is swaying out in right field. This has to be registering on the Richter Scale. "LET'S GO A'S" chants cascade throughout the stadium. The A's are one game... one out... one strike away from going to their first World Series since 1990. It was on this same exact field that the A's were swept away by the Cincinnati Reds in the Series. Oakland figured its team would get back here soon enough. But that was 23 years ago. LaRussa, Canseco, McGwire, Eck, Stew, and Rickey are long gone.

Doolittle takes a breath to try and regain his composure. It's no use.

JUST GET UP THERE AND BLOW THAT F---ING FASTBALL BY HIM. ATLANTA'S WAITING FOR US IN THE WORLD SERIES.

LET'S. DO. THIS.

Sean Doolittle cranes his neck toward home plate for the sign. He shakes off the curveball. He grips the baseball tighter than he's ever held on to anything in his life. He unleashes holy hell on Jhonny Peralta.

High flyball to left.

Yoenis Cespedes is tracking it.

It's high...

Cespedes is at the track.

It's deep...

Cespedes is at the wall.

It is... OUTTA HERE!

An earthquake might as well have opened up the middle of the Coliseum and swallowed everyone inside of it. Dead silence. The only noise to be heard in the entire stadium is coming from the Tigers dugout, and from Jhonny Peralta, who is racing around the bases as if he's on fire.

Fielder comes in to score. Mayberry Junior comes in to score. And Peralta jumps emphatically on home plate, the final exclamation mark on a grand slam homerun with two out in the top of the 9th inning. Detroit has just taken a 5-3 lead.

Balfour comes in from the bullpen and quickly retires Omar Infante on a groundout. One at-bat too late.

If the baseball gods were kind -- and trust me, they are not -- they would've mercifully allowed the side to be retired in the bottom of the ninth, so as not to delay Detroit's inevitable celebration. But with two outs, Jed Lowrie brings the A's back from the dead when he dumps a flyball double into the corner in right.

Norris, the goat of the ballgame, comes to the plate almost apologetically, representing the game-tying run. In any other situation, Norris would assuredly be pinch-hit, but he's the only catcher remaining with Jaso out of the ballgame.

Tigers closer Joaquin Benoit sails three successive balls out of the strike zone. Norris finds himself in a 3-0 count. Brandon Moss is waiting on deck; the game-winning run. The fans are starting to buy in again. So are the A's. Cespedes, Crisp, Billy Butler and the rest are all perched on the dugout steps, rally caps and all. Now it's Benoit who is sweating bullets on the mound.

Benoit fires a dart of a fastball right down Broadway. The bat never leaves Norris's shoulder. Strike one.

Doolittle is nowhere to be seen in the dugout. He's already in the clubhouse, but even he can't take his eyes off the TV screen.

Another fastball, again, right down the pipe. Norris is frozen in his tracks. Strike two.

Joe Buck is going through his usual hyperbole of what a Tiger win would mean for the city of Detroit.

F--- that, A's fans are thinking. How about Oakland? Low-wage employees... high crime... pissed on and dumped on for the last decade by robot owners and a do-nothing Commissioner's Office... this makes it all worth it.

Benoit knows none of that. Nor does he care. He pipes another fastball, only this time Norris manages to wake out of his zombie state to muster a feeble swing.

Strike 3.

Ballgame.

11-06-2013, 03:46 AM	#12
Hendu Style All Star Starter Join Date: Jul 2007 Posts: 1,452	Chapter 9 For Whom the Bell Tolls Metallica's "For Whom the Bell Tolls" is playing. The O.co is rocking. Sean Doolittle has come on to close out the ninth inning in Game 7 of the American League Championship Series. The A's are three outs away from going to the 2013 World Series. Their 3-2 series win against the Los Angeles Angels in the ALDS is a distant memory. Nobody seems to care that the A's have blown a 3-1 series lead here in the ALCS to open the door for the Detroit Tigers. The same Tigers who eliminated the A's in last year's ALDS, mind you. A.J. Griffin has pitched the game of a lifetime, holding Detroit's vaunted batting order to a scant one run on four hits in eight innings of work. The second-year pitcher Griffin comes out for a curtain call in the 9th inning as manager Bob Melvin turns the game over to his closer with a 3-1 lead. Standing in Doolittle's way is the heart of the Tigers order: Miguel Cabrera (.339 average, 39 homeruns, 116 RBI in the regular season), Prince Fielder (.294, 29 HR, 90 RBI), and Victor Martinez (.303, 17 HR, 87 RBI). Cabrera flies out to Coco Crisp to center to lead off the inning. Two outs away... Fielder, a hulking, menacing monster at 275 pounds, strides to the batter's box. He never sees a strike, quickly drawing a five-pitch walk. One on, nobody out. Here's Martinez. Get this guy out, and you're home free. Four straight balls later, and Martinez is jogging to first on back-to-back walks. Son of a bitch. Get a grip, Doolittle. This is Game 7 of the ALCS. Roll up a double play. Get this guy to fly out. JUST PUT THE BALL IN THE STRIKE ZONE. Doolittle pumps in three straight fastballs. Pop foul. Called strike. Strikeout swinging. ONE OUT AWAY... The harmless John Mayberry Jr. is at the plate. 2-0 count... he punches a weak nubber off the plate. Derek Norris, brought in as a defensive replacement in the eighth at catcher for John Jaso, bobbles and clutches at the ball, not even mustering a throw. Fielder to third. Martinez to second. Mayberry Jr. to first. Bases loaded, two out. Doolittle, sweat pouring off of his forehead, sees Grant Balfour hurriedly warming up in the bullpen. Jhonny Peralta strides up to the plate. He's no Cabrera or Fielder, but right now he's King F---ing Kong as far as Doolittle is concerned. Doolittle nervously peers in for the sign from Norris. The guy who has just loaded the bases on a fielding error. Fine, live with it, Doolittle. Strike this mother f---er out. First pitch... fastball... just off the outside corner. Ball One. Second pitch... another fastball... fouled straight back. Peralta's all over it. Third pitch... fastball on the corner... he's not biting. 2-1 count. Fourth pitch... curveball, and a swing and a miss. Strike Two! 2-2 count. ONE PITCH AWAY... Fastball... Peralta juuuuust catches a piece of it, and fouls it behind home plate. Mount Davis is swaying out in right field. This has to be registering on the Richter Scale. "LET'S GO A'S" chants cascade throughout the stadium. The A's are one game... one out... one strike away from going to their first World Series since 1990. It was on this same exact field that the A's were swept away by the Cincinnati Reds in the Series. Oakland figured its team would get back here soon enough. But that was 23 years ago. LaRussa, Canseco, McGwire, Eck, Stew, and Rickey are long gone. Doolittle takes a breath to try and regain his composure. It's no use. JUST GET UP THERE AND BLOW THAT F---ING FASTBALL BY HIM. ATLANTA'S WAITING FOR US IN THE WORLD SERIES. LET'S. DO. THIS. Sean Doolittle cranes his neck toward home plate for the sign. He shakes off the curveball. He grips the baseball tighter than he's ever held on to anything in his life. He unleashes holy hell on Jhonny Peralta. High flyball to left. Yoenis Cespedes is tracking it. It's high... Cespedes is at the track. It's deep... Cespedes is at the wall. It is... OUTTA HERE! An earthquake might as well have opened up the middle of the Coliseum and swallowed everyone inside of it. Dead silence. The only noise to be heard in the entire stadium is coming from the Tigers dugout, and from Jhonny Peralta, who is racing around the bases as if he's on fire. Fielder comes in to score. Mayberry Junior comes in to score. And Peralta jumps emphatically on home plate, the final exclamation mark on a grand slam homerun with two out in the top of the 9th inning. Detroit has just taken a 5-3 lead. Balfour comes in from the bullpen and quickly retires Omar Infante on a groundout. One at-bat too late. If the baseball gods were kind -- and trust me, they are not -- they would've mercifully allowed the side to be retired in the bottom of the ninth, so as not to delay Detroit's inevitable celebration. But with two outs, Jed Lowrie brings the A's back from the dead when he dumps a flyball double into the corner in right. Norris, the goat of the ballgame, comes to the plate almost apologetically, representing the game-tying run. In any other situation, Norris would assuredly be pinch-hit, but he's the only catcher remaining with Jaso out of the ballgame. Tigers closer Joaquin Benoit sails three successive balls out of the strike zone. Norris finds himself in a 3-0 count. Brandon Moss is waiting on deck; the game-winning run. The fans are starting to buy in again. So are the A's. Cespedes, Crisp, Billy Butler and the rest are all perched on the dugout steps, rally caps and all. Now it's Benoit who is sweating bullets on the mound. Benoit fires a dart of a fastball right down Broadway. The bat never leaves Norris's shoulder. Strike one. Doolittle is nowhere to be seen in the dugout. He's already in the clubhouse, but even he can't take his eyes off the TV screen. Another fastball, again, right down the pipe. Norris is frozen in his tracks. Strike two. Joe Buck is going through his usual hyperbole of what a Tiger win would mean for the city of Detroit. F--- that, A's fans are thinking. How about Oakland? Low-wage employees... high crime... pissed on and dumped on for the last decade by robot owners and a do-nothing Commissioner's Office... this makes it all worth it. Benoit knows none of that. Nor does he care. He pipes another fastball, only this time Norris manages to wake out of his zombie state to muster a feeble swing. Strike 3. Ballgame. Attached Images __________________ Catch me on Twitch.tv as Dr. Dynastic (drdynastic) Previous OOTP Dynasties: SimNation Fictional Universe (est. 1889) This is Oakland A's Baseball Beane Counting: The Oakland A's Last edited by Hendu Style; 11-06-2013 at 03:52 AM.