FANATIC

by Joshua Allen

Charlie had never been to North Platte, Nebraska, nor to

the ball field that held North Platte's farm league team, the

Marigolds. He had only come to cheer on his minor league team,

the Grand Island Gray Hens. There was a cold wind circling

around the outfield and blowing down the third base line, where

Charlie had stationed himself. He was the only one in the park

wearing the Gray Hens colors. Midway into the first inning, a

large man dressed in a red shirt walked out toward Charlie.

Charlie thought the man was a fellow Hens fan, until the guy got

close.

"You aren't allowed to sit here."

Charlie heard ball hit leather and glanced at the field

just long enough to see the umpire calling the first pitch of

the at-bat a ball. He looked back up at the big man. "Okay."

"The players don't like it."

A crack issued from the field. Charlie ducked and glanced

toward the field. The batter had hit a foul ball to the back
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stop. Charlie stood up, wiping his hands on his shirt. "I guess

you're right. Could be dangerous."

"The player don't like it, so move your ass out of here."

The big man turned around and left. Charlie expected to see

the white or black lettering of a security guard on the man's

back, but instead there was nothing. Charlie moved quickly to

the grandstands.

Charlie hadn't planned on coming alone. He had planned to

bring his son with him, but his son had decided at some point

over the winter that he hated baseball. He wouldn't even go to

the batting cages with his old man anymore.

There was a seat near the end of a bench row on the Gray

Hens' side of the field. The people on the bench scooted down a

little to make room, then a little more. Charlie sat with one

cheek hanging off the edge, even though there was almost enough

room for him to lie down if he wanted. The cold of the aluminum

bench worked its way into his legs quickly.

Back home, he always sat on the third base line. There was

a club of men who sat with him. They would laugh at how dumb the

bleacher bums were for buying the souvenir shop blankets to keep

warm half-way through the game.

Charlie tried to forget about it and focus on the game. He

opened his program and looked up the current batter's number. It

 Allen - Fanatic - 3

was a guy named Santorio McKenzie, a young kid they had really

talked up during the draft at the end of last season. He was

expected to move up quickly into the pros, so Charlie was lucky

to get this chance to see him.

McKenzie struck out. Charlie clapped anyway. "It's all

right," he said. "Get 'em next time."

The person in front of him, a big man with long greasy hair

and a baseball cap, turned and shot Charlie a look. The next

Gray Hens batter came up with two outs. The Marigolds fans all

rose to their feet and began to shake cans full rocks. Charlie

remembered a few of them doing this at some of last year's

games, but he'd never imagined everyone did it at home games. It

was the loudest thing Charlie had heard since Vietnam. The

batter struck out.

The game coasted by, with the players all looking like they

had not practiced enough in the off-season. Charlie wondered if

anyone would score a run today. By the fifth inning, Charlie

finally decided that he had to buy that blanket he'd seen in the

souvenir booth before the game, even though it was sure to mean

a scolding at home later. His ass was frozen to the bench and

his decision to wear shorts had been fine earlier in the day,

but was quickly turning into a mistake.

 Allen - Fanatic - 4

He was reluctant to give up his seat, however. Charlie

stood and stretched. He looked over at the people to his left.

"I'll be right back."

The woman closest to him shook her can without looking at

him. A small boy on the other side of her peeked at him. The boy

stuck his tongue out. Charlie returned the gesture, only to

realize that the woman as now looking at him. He nodded.

As Charlie trotted down the stairs, he got a look down the

third base line. Several people had blankets spread out down

there and were enjoying the game.

When he first started following the Gray Hens, Charlie had

that single A ball would be different from the Majors. He

imagined and had been told that the fans would be warmer and

more laid back. They would share a bond, no matter what team

they rooted for, that was the game itself and pure joy of

baseball. Last year, it had seemed true. Last year, he hadn't

gone to any away games.

Going home was the best option. He didn't. His wife would

pitch a fit, for one. He'd talked about opening day all winter

long. For two, this was baseball. If that meant nothing to these

people, with their noisemakers and sour dispositions, it still

meant something to him.

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Charlie bought a blanket--a steal at $100--then hit the

concession stand for a hot dog and beer. Because of the cold, he

downed the first beer almost immediately and ordered a second

before going back to his seat. It was too cold not to drink beer.

The hot dog and second beer warmed him a little. He tucked

his trash into a barrel at the foot of the grandstand and

trotted back up the metal stairs. He smiled. He'd been wrong,

then. These people weren't all bad. His seat was still open.

When he looked up at the scoreboard he saw that he'd been wrong

about something else, too. There was a score: 3-0 in favor of

the Marigolds. He smiled harder. The game was on. It didn't even

bother him when the woman next to him shook her can, though it

was between innings and nothing was happening.

Charlie felt like a new man. He only drank at baseball

games and only had one or two. In his younger days, he had been

an alcoholic, but God had helped him through that. He'd been a

dumb kid, like the kids on the field before him. He, too, had

always swung for the fences back then, trying to pour every bit

of talent and energy into every single action, as though his

life rode on this one single moment. But he didn't live like

that anymore. Now he was a minister and a family man and he was

happy.
 Allen - Fanatic - 6

And if he still felt some of that old passion occasionally,

that's why he came to these games. He let the players be the

ones putting it out there and he lived through them. He watched

and lived the life of a fan, win or lose.

Charlie stood and clapped when Santorio McKenzie stepped up

to the plate for the second time in the game. He'd gotten to see

McKenzie's arm earlier, and the kid had a rocket. McKenzie drew

a walk, and one pitch later, the next Gray Hens batter took the

ball out of the park. Just like that, the Hens were within a run

of the lead. Charlie cheered the batter all the way around the

bases, timing his claps with the falls of the player's feet.

Someone behind him yelled, "Down in front, asshole."

Charlie looked back. A scrawny man was sitting next to a

plump woman with a tattoo just above her neckline on the left

breast that read Belle in fine script.

The scrawny man waved his middle finger at Charlie.

"Fucking sit!" The man said, then smacked his lips around a wad

of chewing tobacco.

Charlie shrugged, threw the man a good-natured grin.

"What is that supposed to mean? You deaf or coming on to

me?"

"I'm not deaf, I'm--"

"Fucking faggot!"
 Allen - Fanatic - 7

Charlie decided to take the ribbing with good humor, but to

sit before he caused a scene. He adjusted his blanket and sat

back down. Sure, he was angry. He could feel it like an egg in

his throat, but he was no longer a man who gave into anger. In

his younger days? Yes. In his younger days, he had also lost

about half the fights he'd engaged in.

Charlie watched the game.

An inning later, he heard the scrawny man talking again:

"...then the faggot wouldn't sit down. So I told him I'd let him

suck my balls if I could just enjoy the game, and he took a

quick seat."

A bunch of people laughed.

"You know what we do to faggots around here, don't you?"

Charlie heard no reply. For a moment, he feared the

question was directed at him. Then the woman mumbled something

that got the lot of them laughing again.

A beer vendor appeared at the base of the grandstands.

Charlie signaled for another beer and sipped the head when it

came to him. He was starting to feel a little warm from the

first two, but that would wear off before the game was over.

The loud speakers blared the Charge! tune. Instead of

screaming "Charge!" everyone shook their cans of rocks on time

with the appropriate chord. Everyone except the scrawny man,

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who screamed "Faggooooot! Bah dah duh dum da da! Faaaaa-

gooooooooot."

Charlie didn't mind that inning when the Marigolds went

down in order.

As the Hens came up to bat, Charlie heard, "Look at that

fucking shirt, Belle. Is that a come stain on the back?"

The stain was from where Charlie had accidentally put

bleach in the washing machine. He felt anger growing. He battled

it back. He prayed for serenity. He searched for another place

to sit. There was none.

In the next inning, already the seventh, the beer vendor

made his way back. Charlie ordered another. Charlie sucked it

down before the vendor got five steps away. He took a breath.

"One more!" Charlie called. Charlie flashed a ten dollar

bill. The vendor shrugged and poured another beer. Charlie gave

him the bill and told the guy to keep the change.

As Charlie drank the beer, the scrawny man chanted, "Chug.

Chug. Chug." Then cheered when Charlie finished this one as well.

"Think he's drunk, yet Belle? Three beers, that's a lot for a

faggot."

Five, by Charlie's count. The most he'd had at a time in

years. He never would have had that many if his son had been
 Allen - Fanatic - 9

with him. Charlie thanked God when the Gray Hens tied it up,

finally quieting the scrawny man.

In the eighth inning, the Gray Hens got into a rhythm and

took a lead. The Marigolds rallied in the bottom of the inning

and reclaimed it.

The Hens came up to bat for their last chance. The inning

started with a walk, then a double that failed to score the run,

and another walk to load the bases. The next couple of hitters

both struck out, but then McKenzie came up to bat with one last

chance to keep the Hens' rally alive. Charlie wasn't holding out

much hope, since McKenzie had already struck out three times

this game. He was happy, though, if for no other reason than

because the scrawny man had finally grown bored of pestering him.

Charlie stood. He wavered a little, feeling the effects of

all the beer. Behind him, the scrawny idiot had started up

again. Charlie whirled to finally give that bastard what he

deserved. Instead of a scrawny guy with a girlfriend, there was

just a little kid holding a soda can filled with rocks.

Charlie turned back to the field. "Let's go Gray Hens!"

The first pitch came, and McKenzie took his signature full-

body swing. Somehow, the bat connected with the ball. The hit

sounded hollow. The ball soared high, but looked like an easy
 Allen - Fanatic - 10

out in right. The right fielder took a few steps back, then

backpedaled a few more. Suddenly, he turned and ran.

That's when Charlie and everyone else realized that the

swirling wind had swirled in McKenzie's favor. The right fielder

paused at the fence. He had run out of room and had only one

chance left. He dug into the fence with a cleated foot and

launched himself into the air.

The ball landed in the right fielder's glove. Everyone saw

it. A gasp went up from the crowd. As the right fielder came

down, his glove struck the top of the fence. The white ball

dribbled out on the other side of the fence. The umpires

signaled. Over the PA, the announcer noted with a complete lack

of emotion, "Grand slam. Grand slam, McKenzie."

Charlie went nuts. He was so happy that he even was able to

imagine the shaking of the cans was a good noise. Then another

sound drowned out his cheers. The crowd began booing.

Charlie fell silent. The boos intensified. He sat down. HIs

disgust tasted like black dirt in his mouth. This isn't

baseball, Charlie thought.

The boos swelled even after the Marigolds got the third

out. In the bottom of the ninth, the right fielder was first up

to bat and the boos crescendoed.

 Allen - Fanatic - 11

Stop! Charlie wanted to scream. That isn't the way the game

works.

"This isn't baseball," he said, looking around for someone

to agree with him. "This isn't baseball."

The game ended with a Marigold's loss.

The fans threw debris onto the field. The Marigolds packed

up their belongings. The right fielder, Charlie noticed, seemed

to be taking the loss especially hard. Charlie wanted to offer a

kind word to the young man, but didn't know what it would be,

even if he had the opportunity. Life is hard, maybe, or At least

you got a taste of the real world now. But this wasn't supposed

to be the real world. This was supposed to be where people came

and loved the game. Loved it for what it was, flaws and all.

Charlie sat in his seat a long time. Long after everyone

else left. He sat there until the grounds crew--three old guys

wearing yellow polo shirts-- cleaned up the field and the lights

went dark. He didn't cry. He didn't feel like crying. What he

felt was deeper than tears.

Charlie got up from his seat. He left the blanket he had

purchased behind. The effects of the beer were fading now. The

parking lot was dark and empty. Charlie's car was in the far

corner, alone.
 Allen - Fanatic - 12

As he cross the gravel lot, he saw that he was wrong. There

were a couple of other cars parked close to his. They were

facing the back corner, headlights on, illuminating the

cornfield beyond. A little bit closer and he realized that the

remaining cars formed a semicircle corralling the back corner of

the lot, and that his car was a member of the circle simply by

coincidence.

A chorus of shouts went up from the circle. Well, if they

were having some kind of barbecue or drinking party, Charlie was

about to play the spoiler. He laughed a little to himself. He

would be doing to their party what the Hens had done to the

Marigolds' home opener.

Immediately he felt ashamed. He took back the thought, as

much as something can be taken back that was never said. He

refused to buy into these fans' cynicism. He would explain to

them what had happened and be polite as he left.

A few yard shy of his car, Charlie heard a sound he hadn't

heard since the war. It was a clear and unmistakable sound. It

was the sound of fist hitting flesh.

The heads just visible over his car were circling

something, he could see now. Charlie stuffed his hand into his

pocket and extracted his remote door lock. If there was a fight,
 Allen - Fanatic - 13

he wanted no part of it. And he wanted his car to have no part

of it either.

A man emerged from the mob. Charlie saw fists and heard the

meat-smack sound of them landing blows. The man slammed up

against Charlie's car and called out for mercy.

The man was wearing a baseball uniform.

Charlie could just see the pattern, but the tint on his

windows obscured the colors. He knew it had to be McKenzie.

Somehow they had lured McKenzie away from the team and were now

giving him a beat down.

Ducking low, Charlie ran as silently as he could across the

gravel to his car. He reached the rear quarter panel and hit the

trunk release. It opened with a soft click not even he could

hear over the shouts. Charlie reached one hand up and over into

the trunk. His fingers found the sports bag he had started

carrying with him in case the urge to go the batting cage struck

him at an odd hour this winter.

His fingers closed around the ash nub. Charlie extracted

the bat as he stood and circled around the back of his car,

squeezing between the pickup that had him boxed in.

One man noticed him. He tapped the shoulder of the man next

to him and pointed. The man turned. It was the scrawny man from

the stands. The shouts died down, as people turned their

 Allen - Fanatic - 14

attention to what the scrawny man was staring at. Charlie

counted eight more of then, nine total. The player was on the

ground, curled up in a ball.

The player was not McKenzie.

"This is a personal matter, faggot," the scrawny man said.

The kid behind the scrawny man was struggling to crawl

away. It was the right fielder of the Marigolds. Charlie could

only recognize the man by the number on his jersey. His face was

now just a mass of purple bruises.

"Put that twig back in the car and get the fuck out of

here."

Charlie considered the offer. He took a tentative step

back. He raised the bat up to a ready position. Someone on his

left feinted an attack. Charlie shuffled another quick step

back. He was running out of room to run.

He probably didn't look like a man who could swing a bat,

but he knew he could. In the batting cages, he'd hit more than a

few out of the park. It was a matter of technique and timing,

only. Hell, a part of him even had held out some kind of

childish hope that one day he could try out for the minors. He

could admit that hope. A part of him wished his son would play

baseball and be great. That didn't make Charlie a bad father.

 Allen - Fanatic - 15

His foot hit the back tire of his car. Charlie knew,

though, that watching was as close as he was ever going to come

to playing even semi-pro baseball. He knew his son was no

athlete, even when Charlie could get him to play. Charlie knew

in his heart of hears that he would always be just a fan.

Charlie stopped backtracking. He dug his toe into the dirt.

"This is a 34 ounce Louisville slugger. Kentucky ash," Charlie

said. "Let the boy go."

The scrawny man spit into the dirt. The man on the left who

had feinted now charged. Charlie saw him just in time. He

stepped with his left foot, opening his stance for a high and

inside pitch. Way inside. He twisted his torso, using the extra

distance his bat would need to add punch to the swing. He

connected with the man's stomach full force.

The man doubled over, trying weakly to grab the bat, but

unable. He toppled face first into a puddle consisting of gravel

mixed with his own vomit.

Charlie sidestepped down the edge of the truck. Giving

himself a clear batting lane for the next pitch. Everyone took a

step back. The scrawny man held the line. They could see they

had him outnumbered, bat or no.

"I told you this was private. That asshole cost me my whole

paycheck. This is how we play it around here."

 Allen - Fanatic - 16

"That's not baseball."

The man spat his wad into the blackness beyond the parking

lot. He adjusted his crotch. "Fuck baseball."

Charlie dug in again with his right foot. "No, sir. Fuck

you."

"Just leave. Leave and we won't have to do this," someone

else said.

Charlie could hear his wife screaming in his head, telling

him to run away. Just run away. For the sake of his boy, she was

telling him, go! But he knew it was for the sake of his boy that

he couldn't. If baseball didn't mean anything, maybe nothing

did. If he wouldn't fight to protect it, maybe no one would. He

tapped the ground with his bat.

"Let's play ball."

THE END