(Note: I'm trying to get this story rolling along so that I can start simming. And I'll probably post less frequently once I get into the baseball season. I hope it's not too boring so far, for anyone who has happened to read this. Real baseball is just around the corner.)
Chapter 4: What is in a name?
The morning after the draft, I got up early and went out to get the Jackson Advocate. As soon as I had it in my hands, I opened up to page one of the sports section. And there it was-- St. Louis had drafted 2 catchers early on, James Moore in the second round and Norbert Fuller in the third. The night before, all I felt was helplessness; now, only anger. I was convinced that I had been the victim of some middle-aged man's cruel joke. I went home and spent the rest of the day sleeping.
* * * * * *
On the first of March, I joined my father at the municipal archives, resigning myself to a career of filing. The hours weren't bad, and it was generally peaceful. Dad had me working on a pile of documents for the Department of Parks and Recreation. It was here that I stumbled onto a report that was marked for cross-filing. It read:
Date 11/22
Case Report: VT 11/22/4233
Reporting Officer: Constable John Kay
At about 1440 hours, I met with the EMT at Highland Park, Meridian. A male, Scott F. Patterson, had collapsed after engaging in an argument with another male, Jim Reed.
EMT pronounced Patterson dead on the scene due to a massive cardiac arrest.
I spoke with Mrs. Patterson and she said Mr. Patterson and Mr. Reed began arguing about a baseball player. Shortly thereafter, Mr. Patterson collapsed. No physical violence had occurred.
...
"I'll be damned," I said out loud.
As I found out later, Scotty had found a great shortstop prospect from King's Academy that nobody had seen. That day Scotty went to watch him play, but instead he found Jim Reed talking with him before the game. Apparently, Reed is known in the scouting community as the "Mercenary;" his job, as he sees it, is to out-scoop everyone else. He finds your 'secret' leads and sells them, so to speak, to the highest bidder. When Scotty saw him there, he lost it-- he lost it all.
So, he died before he had a chance to report his prospects to the main office in St. Louis. I no longer felt duped by a man, just cheated by fate.
April came around and the season began. Dad went to the Giant's season opener, but I stayed home. I was too bitter to face a shattered dream that had been destroyed by mere chance. If Scotty Patterson hadn't have died, I thought, I'd be playing, not watching. It was that one random event that separated the bleachers from the field. But now it seemed like a barrier thicker than any concrete wall.
* * * * * *
Later that evening, though, the phone rang.
"Hello"
"Is Hank Johnson there?"
"Hank Johnson? No, you have the wrong number."
"Hank Johns?"
"What? Who is this?"
"Is there a Hank Johns there?"
"No, there is a Hank Jones. Who is this?"
"Is Hank Jones a ball player?"
"Yes ... no ... I mean, he was."
"Was he a catcher for Oxford Senior High?"
"Look, I'm not answering anymore questions until you tell me who you are."
"My name is Kerry Whitten and I'm with the Tampa Bay Bombers. I've been trying to get in touch with Hank for a while now."
"Why?"
"To tell him that he has been drafted-- "
I dropped the phone.