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Old 03-06-2005, 02:49 AM   #61
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Old 03-08-2005, 02:21 PM   #62
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Old 03-14-2005, 07:37 PM   #63
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I just love how you're making us wait to find out what will happen to Austin, GForce. I've been checking in at the Dynasty forum each day in anticipation of another installment of this great story.
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Old 03-15-2005, 11:11 PM   #64
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"I'm not ready for this Dad," Austin gasped, stretched out in the back of the mammoth Ford Galaxie as he tried to switch from his soot-stained and torn blue jeans into sweatpants.

"Nonsense," his father barked. "You've been ready for this your whole life, pal."

Both thought the other was missing the point. In Austin's eyes, he was about to make the biggest pitches of his life less than 2 hours after narrowly escaping a blaze with his life, minutes from ending this whole drama surrounding any thoughts of a big league career by completing his registration with the military. As it was, he was hacking and coughing along the Northern State Parkway on the way to Shea Stadium, trying to make him understand.

All Philip knew was that this was likely Austin's only chance. His mind switched from complete denial of what his son had just been through earlier that day to the rationalization that it didn't happen...that he was unable to go through with his registration, that he survived the fire, that he made it home in borderline time...that all these things were signs this was his destiny.

"There's a t-shirt back there for you, too," Philip said. "There may be a sweatshirt...it's cold and..."

Austin rolled half onto the floor of the car with a violent, hacking cough. He raised his head to see, hazily, blood on the floormat. "Oh F*$@," he blurted out.

"Just breathe easy..." his father said.

"Jesus Christ, Dad," he said. "I'm coughing up blood and I can barely see a goddamn thing. I can't do this...I just can't..."

Philip James veered across 3 lanes to the shoulder, cutting off traffic, horns blaring and fingers waving, he slammed the brakes on and whirled around to the back seat, prepared to lay into Austin for giving up on his dream when he was so close.

For the first time since they got in the car, he really looked at him. Dirty, his baseball cap askew, eyes downcast and breathing as though an anvil was imbedded in his chest. In his hand, he held a baseball, rolling it loosely.

Philip realized then Austin knew the opportunity was there. He also knew he was in no shape to take advantage of it. Every road, for months, had been a roller coaster ride of frustration. Now his break finally comes at a time when he really belongs in a hospital bed.

"I'm...sorry...Dad," Austin sputtered through the weezing.

Philip reached back, grabbing Austin's hand around the ball.

"I'm sorry, son," he replied softly. Austin looked up to him, leaned his head back against the window and gazed out. There he saw it...Shea Stadium, just a few miles away.

"I'm so close, Dad. You got me this far."

Philip rested his hand on Austin's neck, rubbing it as he spoke.

"We can go home right now, and we'll take whatever comes our way."

Austin thought of the endless games of catch, the cross-country journeys of summer, their first game together, his dad coaching...as if every baseball memory he had was shared with his father. He was there for all of them. And he was there now.

"Take me to the park, Dad," Austin said, clutching the ball tighter.

Philip James toussled Austin's hair, knocking off his cap, before whirling around and hitting the gas again.

Austin wore an expression a mix of focus and fear. Philip saw him in the rearview as he got off the exit for the stadium.

"You give me the best 10 pitches of your life, pal," he said.

"Ten?" Austin asked. "They're gonna need more than that..."

"TEN," his dad replied. "Your BEST 10. I'll do the rest."

And with that, they passed the open parking booths into the empty lot.

"This is where miracles happen, Dad," Austin said.

Philip James stopped the car a Texas Leaguer from Gate C, turned and looked hopefully, lovingly toward his youngest son.

"It is today, Dukes. It is today."

GH

Last edited by GForce; 03-26-2005 at 05:14 PM.
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Old 03-15-2005, 11:44 PM   #65
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Old 03-15-2005, 11:52 PM   #66
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Old 03-20-2005, 11:01 PM   #67
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As he walked out through a blue door next to Gate C of Shea Stadium, Jesse Blanchard looked like he came from a black and white baseball film. A grotesquely chewed up cigar, a folded newspaper in one hand and a round face weathered by bad hotels and worse diner food from across the country, he was the picture of scouthood, at least as far as Austin knew.

Austin's heart began to beat faster, his throat closing a bit against his will. His father walked ahead.

"Mr. Blanchard," Philip James said firmly, "this is my son."

Blanchard eyed Austin top to bottom before extending his meaty hand. "Pleasure, son. You've had a lot going on, I hear."

Austin returned the shake. "Yes, sir. You could say that."

Blanchard noted the scratches and scrapes on Austin's face and arms, his sudden, spasmic blinking at times from the smoke he couldn't quite shake -- and that Blanchard's stogie wasn't helping. Of all times for the wind to be calm at Shea, this was a bad one.

"Jesus, kid," Blanchard bellowed. "You look like you've been ****ed by a train."

Austin laughed at the expression, shaking his head slowly.

"No, sir," he replied.

"He got caught up in an anti-war group's own militancy," Philip said. "There was a fire..."

Blanchard nodded. "Just heard on the radio," he said, muffled as he gnawed his smoke stick. "And you still got here."

An awkward pause followed. "Chance of a lifetime," Philip chipped in, Austin rocking nervously side to side.

Blanchard walked away toward a metal protective gate, next to a sign that said "Players Parking." He walked a few steps past the gate and turned back to Austin.

"You coming?"

Philip walked ahead, Austin behind, looking up from behind the giant scoreboard. Blanchard took them through the lot, through a blue door. On the other side, Austin froze. His right hand brushed against some leaves from a tomato plant...he was inside the Mets' bullpen.

"Oh my God," he screeched, higher than he was comfortable with. Sheepishly, he put his head down as his father and Blanchard laughed.

Austin paced around the pitcher's mound, pawing at the dirt. He kicked at the rubber, sliding the capped toe of his cleat over the pristine white slab. He breathed slowly, rhythmically, trying to calm himself for the moment of his life.

"So who do I throw to, sir?" Austin asked, looking up for the first time in minutes.

Blanchard stepped back from what was the back of the leftfield wall. He undid a hinge and pointed.

"I'm no pitcher, kid," he drawled slightly, "but my guess is you should go where the catcher is."

There, on the playing field of Shea Stadium, his catcher stood behind home plate, waving a gloved hand.

A crackling came over the PA.

"Your starting pitcher for today's game, number 25, Austin....James!"

"Move it, boy, let's go," Blanchard barked. A stunned Austin ran to the opening and looked around, then back at his father.

"Showtime?" he asked.

Philip smiled and flipped a perfect white ball to his son.

"YOUR time."

And with a hop to start his step, Austin jogged toward the infield.

GH
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Old 03-21-2005, 02:38 AM   #68
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I'm confused, is he starting in a real game? What's going on?
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Old 03-22-2005, 01:01 AM   #69
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Nah, it's January

Consider it a recruiting tool, like they do in college hoops.

I'll clear it up to follow.

GH
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Old 03-22-2005, 01:12 AM   #70
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oh ok cool. Really confused there. Hey great job on this story again, it's really awesome.
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Old 03-23-2005, 06:06 PM   #71
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Great stuff. It'll be interesting to see if Austin can get the job done in his condition.
Keep up the good work.
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Old 03-25-2005, 10:43 PM   #72
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Philip walked slowly behind with Blanchard, angling toward foul ground down the first base line.

"You didn't have to do that for him," Philip said.

Blanchard puffed away and smiled. "Well, he's been put through the ringer a bit...kid deserved a thrill." He paused a moment.

"Truth is, Phil, it wasn't all for him. There's a rush, a pressure that's going through him right now...I want to see how he responds."

Philip looked around. "All you need is 50,000 people."

"That's the point," Blanchard said. "What an odd feeling, an uncomfortable one, perhaps, to be out there in this huge ballpark, on the mound where your favorite team just celebrated its first world championship, and you're basically playing for your life. Hell, I think right now for him, this is tougher."

Playing for his life Philip thought.

It was true in a sense. He knew that if this failed, Austin would go back and register as he was supposed to, head off to war. From there who knows. Philip flexed his wounded hand as he thought about it, rubbing it firmly with his left hand.

By this point, Philip and Blanchard had reached first base and were heading toward the backstop. Austin stood on the mound a sweaty mess despite the high 30s temperatures. The catcher, a bullpen staffer named Jack who was helping a minor leaguer on rehab in the area, had let Austin get his arm loose, throwing and stretching with him.

"Ready to rip, kid," Jack asked.

Austin nodded, kicking his spikes against back edge of the rubber. He dug a hole in front of the mound, a small trench, in fact. Opposing pitchers always used to complain about it in high school, but he said he liked being able to get more of his foot to push off, and his foot came up slightly on release to where it never hindered him.

But while he dug it, Blanchard turned to Philip. "He trying to dig a hole to jump in?" Blanchard laughed, and Philip even cracked a smile.

"Just watch," Philip replied.

Austin stood atop the mound, hat low with his brown glove facing him slightly out from his belt. He felt the seams as he watched Jack, though no sign was coming.

"Straight cheese, kid," Jack barked. "Nothing cute yet."

Philip dropped to a knee near the home on deck circle. "C'mon, Dukes. Give it to 'em."

Austin's left foot stepped back short, his glove raised toward his chest. He pivoted, rocking back, his arms following in tight to his body. Stepping forward his front arm stayed tight, just like he was taught, keeping the shoulder in. He felt his drive leg push hard, a full throttle leg drive.

It felt perfect, textbook, his right arm began to come forward as his front foot hit the dirt. With a grunt he let the ball go, shoulders squared, body low.

Give me your 10 best

A sizzling blur popped the glove 18 inches off the ground, catching the black with a little tail.

*POP* echoed through the park.

"BANG, baby," yelled Jack enthusiastically, while holding the glove steady to be sure Blanchard caught the location.

"WHOOOOOOOOOOO!" Philip howled, laughing heartily at the end of it. "That's my boy!"

Blanchard walked through a door next to the dugout, into the stands, and moved to a vantagepoint behind the plate. He didn't say a word. But Austin knew he had his attention.

He looked to his father, who had told him in the car not to say a word to him once he started throwing. Just throw, on your own, and you'll be fine.

But he stared until he was sure of eye contact.

Nine he mouthed.

Philip nodded short, with a smile and a proud parent's thought...

That boy always listened.

GH

Last edited by GForce; 10-01-2005 at 12:52 PM.
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Old 03-25-2005, 10:55 PM   #73
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damnit this is good
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Old 03-26-2005, 04:18 PM   #74
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Aaaah, caught up, I love it when you don't check in on one of these stroy dynasties for a while and you check back and find a few chapters waiting for you, just itching to be read. Continually great stuff! Of course I'm now waiting impatiently again for the next twist to make things more difficult for poor Austin.

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Philip rolled half onto the floor of the car with a violent, hacking cough. He raised his head to see, hazily, blood on the floormat. "Oh F*$@," he blurted out.
Sorry for the nitpick, but this confused me for a second!
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Old 03-26-2005, 05:14 PM   #75
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Quote:
Originally Posted by The Funk
Aaaah, caught up, I love it when you don't check in on one of these stroy dynasties for a while and you check back and find a few chapters waiting for you, just itching to be read. Continually great stuff! Of course I'm now waiting impatiently again for the next twist to make things more difficult for poor Austin.

Sorry for the nitpick, but this confused me for a second!
No problem...thanks for the kind words, and the catch.

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Old 03-26-2005, 08:29 PM   #76
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I thought the outside life of Austin was good, but your description of the baseball tryout is even better.
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Old 03-26-2005, 08:43 PM   #77
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Thanks, guys. Been doing roster work so I had been away from it a bit, but I'll try to post a bit more regularly again.

GH
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Old 03-28-2005, 12:59 AM   #78
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A man in a blue overcoat approached Blanchard in his orange seat. Blanchard said something quickly, and the man was gone up the stairs and down a tunnel, out of sight.

Austin got the ball back from Jack, flipping it into the air with the web of his glove before grabbing it with a bare hand and playing with the seams as he walked up the back of the mound again.

Philip remained on one knee, watching Austin as he stood on the rubber again. Jack set a target on the black of the other side of the plate, knee high again. Austin was ready to gas it again. His mechanics felt rote, easily repeatable as though his limbs simply did it on their own. As he came forward, a quick sensation came over him that -- be it the height of the mound, the well manicured dirt, the stiffness of the rubber -- he felt like a horse, stronger than ever, more in control than he'd ever felt.

The Hicksville mound was sandy, and it wasn't nearly as bad as those of schools on either shore, particularly Long Island's south shore. Wantagh, Merrick, Freeport...all these places had mounds that may as well have been on Jones Beach. You sunk, you slid. He had it out with coaches at Merrick when, after his left ankle buckled upon landing in the sandy stuff, he dug dirt off the mound himself the next inning, casting it around the infield grass.

Here it was like the mound was part of him, pushing him on. He heard the seams as he released the pearl with a pop into Jack's mitt again, cutting across the front corner.

Screw the best 10...I could throw like this all day

Blanchard still wasn't speaking. But he could see Philip was in thought, and he knew what he was thinking.

"Philip!" he called, with a waved hand, his gnawed stogie between two fingers.

Philip went through the door and behind the plate, sitting two seats from Blanchard, a habit he'd always had, particularly at movie theaters...if there's an open seat, give yourself the room, he figured.

Austin circled the mound again, looking over his shoulder to where his father had moved. Now he was curious, his mind racing.

"Throwin' gas," Philip said, seeking to gauge Blanchard.

"What else does he have?" he replied.

"Tell him what you want to see...changeup, curveball"

"Nope." Blanchard said. "If he's confident in them, HE should decide to throw them."

Austin got up top again, and it dawned on him Jack wasn't putting any signals down. Still fastballs?

This is where it got tricky. Austin knew his curve was erratic. His changeup was his best pitch, but it's deception he felt would be somewhat lost without a hitter up there. Otherwise, it just looked...well...slow.

Philip flexed his hand again as he watched, hoping Austin would catch on. He went into his motion, square and full of drive again, arm a perfect 3/4. A brief puff of dirt shot from Jack's glove as another fastball cut the dead center of the plate, again at the knees. Hard...good location...

Philip cursed under his breath. Blanchard grinned subtly as a hand came to rest on his shoulder.

"Something to believe in, Jess?" the man asked. The tall, slender man was in his mid-50's, with salt and pepper hair, clad in a charcoal gray suit and red tie under a beige overcoat.

Blanchard tipped his head back.

"Low 90s, Bob," he said. "Hopefully, he's getting ready for the goods."

Philip listened in. "Knee-high 90s ain't 'goods' at 18, sir?" he inquired.

"Live arm is good," Blanchard drawled. "Live mind is better."

Philip looked back out to Austin, who was watching them as he made his way onto the rubber again.

"Philip James," Blanchard said with an extended hand as he swept it across his chest to the man who had just joined them..."Bob Scheffing."

The two shook hands, exchanging pleasantries.

Blanchard eased back into his seat.

"He's General Manager."

Blanchard had beaten Austin to the first curveball.

GH

Last edited by GForce; 03-28-2005 at 01:32 AM.
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Old 03-28-2005, 01:30 AM   #79
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Love the punch of that last phrase, but I do have a minor nitpick if you don't mind

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Philip listened in. "Knee-high 90s ain't 'goods' at 18, sir," he inquired.
I would change the comma to a question mark since it's a query. Otherwise there's some confusion... or at least I had to read it over a couple times before I caught on that he was actually asking him.
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Old 03-28-2005, 07:28 PM   #80
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Thanks, Jestor. I had written it a different way, edited it and didn't adjust the punctuation.

GH

Last edited by GForce; 03-28-2005 at 08:28 PM.
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