The Independents

By Lian Skaf

After devastating family events, Scott Trundel clings to the last remnant of his former family life: an unrelenting passion for baseball. With no real athletic skills, Scott eventually embarks on a career as a baseball reporter at the turn of the millennium, when newspapers are quickly becoming relics and the information age threatens to make journalists extinct. Scott must rise above the rest to survive in the dying medium he loves.
When Scott meets Cameron Dobson, he feels an inexplicable draw to the player most others now see as unremarkable. Cam was born with velocity in his arm and notoriety in his lineage. His skill is his one way out of his rural Pennsylvania hometown, where his last name is as dreaded as his fastball. To fully realize his talent Cam must overcome a lifetime of unfulfilled expectation .
Scott and Cam meet in the purgatory that is independent league baseball. Both looking for a shot at something bigger, they can only hope someone is taking notice of them and the new baseball team in blue collar Vineland, New Jersey.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lian Skaf
• Release date: Sep 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370430819

Lian Skaf

Lian Skaf is an author and attorney living in Westmont, NJ.

Book preview

Chapter One:

A Dream

When you are alone, insecurities can reveal themselves in all sorts of ways. In baseball, being alone is the game. Sure, there is hitting, throwing, fielding and running, but those are skills. Strategy, timing, chemistry and experience are honed before the game. The certainty of luck plays a role - as does the possibility of injury - but those are uncontrollable. When it comes down to it, winners make plays when all they have is themselves.

Winners stand in front of thousands of fans, pressuring with cheers or tempting with boos, and overcome. Success is knowing there are millions of people watching - that legacy and livelihood will be forever altered in the following seconds, and throwing a strike or hitting on base. It is a test of will power. Success is not about willing your way into ability – that is impossible – but about transcending the self-doubt that plagues everyone when all you have to rely on is yourself.

That night I stood on the mound, completely aware I was able to get one more out, but wholly unsure if I would be able to at that moment.

No matter how quickly I swept away the drops of sweat that slid down my forehead, I couldn’t keep up with the moisture and my eyes started to burn. The burn wasn’t bad though. I welcomed any feeling, even pain, as long as it distracted me from the tension. The sweat became so heavy my sleeves could no longer absorb it each time I wiped my brow and the water dripped into my pitching hand. I felt the moisture on the seams of the ball. I desperately needed to make that pitch cut and it wouldn’t happen with slick seams.

Blue, new ball?

The crowd fell silent for a moment, almost relieved, like a taught balloon seeping out a few seconds of air before its release. If it was an away game, they would have let me hear it for such a delay. I caught the new ball and wiped my forehead again, this time with my left arm. I cocked my head forward for a sign. Since there was a man on second, I had to squint for the sign as the catcher flashed it amid a flurry of flailing decoy fingers between his legs.

Change up, low and outside.

From that moment on, change up, low and outside was the only thought that crossed my mind.

Change up, low and outside. Change up, low and outside.

I stared at the runner on second and even faked a move towards the bag when he taunted me with a lead. But I never really thought about him.

Change up, low and outside.

I knew if I looked at the spot too long, I wouldn’t hit it. If I aimed at my mark, I would miss it. I just thought about words, not action. The more times I repeated those words in my head, the more likely the message got to my arm. Plus, it almost made me forget the importance of the situation. Once I would remember, the ball would be on its own anyway.

The roar of the crowd melted into a stir as I thought about nothing. I was determined to repeat those words from the time I made my move to the plate, to when the ball sailed under the swing, until it pounded into the grave of the catcher’s mitt.

Change up, low and outside.

The message reached my arm and I threw. The again taut balloon exhaled throughout the stadium as the deafening cheers exploded moments after my release. Expecting a fastball inside, the batter was too off balance to connect on a change-up, perfectly placed low and outside; the final strike of a complete-game shutout and the clincher for the division. I won the game of will; successfully overcoming the vulnerability that otherwise infested me. It took a few minutes to feel again.

If it had been the World Series, or even a league championship, it would have been too improbable to believe, even subconsciously. But there was something both magical, and for some inexplicable reason, more plausible, about winning a division.

I had the same dream almost every night for two years. I started to look forward to sleeping just to have that feeling again. There were slight variations – a face in the crowd or a number on a player’s jersey – but the result was always the same. Change up, low and outside.

Chapter Two:

Death of a Family

Life always seemed so fast in our family’s house. It was through the eyes of a child, but even before I realized the impact 12-hour workdays and meals eaten standing up had on people’s sanity, I knew I didn’t like it. Maybe that’s why I loved baseball so much.

For an eight-year old, who resented the erratic pace of the house he lived in, the diversion of watching nine innings deliberately unfold every evening was the perfect escape.

Pitchers mulled before deliveries, managers sucked through bags of sunflower seeds to pass time, and timeouts were unlimited. No one would dare rush a chess player, and baseball is its real life equivalent. If you can’t appreciate that, you aren’t a real fan.

I watched as many baseball games as I could during the summer and dreamed of those sticky nights during the winter, when the only glimpses of the game were reports of potential call-ups or hot stove trade rumors.

We lived in New Jersey, across the Ben Franklin Bridge from Philadelphia. The Phillies were the local team, and thus the easiest to follow, but it was the make believe world of baseball that drew me in more than any particular team.

I obsess over the importance of pitch selection, defensive shifts, and batting stances. The toll of a west coast swing, the leadership of veterans in the clubhouse and the development of prospects on the farm were the romantic icing on top. It was a black and white world where cigar smoke smelled endearing, not annoying, and cracker jacks still tasted good. And for God’s sake, no one worked twelve hours any day of the week.

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It was just before the 1986 All-Star break and teams were starting to come into their own. The Phils even looked like they had a shot at contending that summer, supported by a consistent pitching staff and some surprising pop at the plate. The team was opening an important four-game series with the rival New York Mets that would determine the division leader at the break. Like most summer evenings, my mom made me finish my chores before watching t.v. Tonight, I rushed through sweeping the floors so I could watch the game when the magical seven o’clock stroke hit.

Done, I shouted at five of seven, emptying the crumbs left over from dinner into the trash can and darting towards the living room.

Wait, wait, young man, my mother said, grabbing my shirt cuff and spinning me around like a cartoon as I tried to pass through the kitchen. Did you get under the fridge?

Yes, I said.

Her brain swirled, searching for a retort

How about under the oven? she said.

I did, I did. Come on the game’s on, I said.

Let me check.

Check, I said, in pain. Cooome on.

The game is on every night, Scott, she said, leaning over to inspect our black and white linoleum floor.

Come on, are you serious?

Yes, I am very serious, she said.

Fine, I said. By the way, it’s not the same game, it’s a different game every night.

They all look the same to me, she said. And they’re all too long.

I rolled my eyes.

Hmm, Scott this is not totally clean, she said.

Mom. Come on, I pleaded.

You need to sweep better.

Mommmm.

Okay go, she sighed.

I ran.

But you’re turning it off when your father gets home so we can eat.

Minutes later, my father burst through the side door near the kitchen where my mom was slowly slicing what seemed like her hundredth tomato of the night. He kissed her on the cheek while popping open his suitcase-sized leather briefcase. It was clear whatever he was looking for was not in there.

Honey, where are my files?

What files? Mom answered. You’re home early, everything okay?

I tilted my head from my spot on the couch, turning from the start of the game briefly to give my father the chance to say hello, then turning back after no response.

I’m not home, he said. I gotta head back, I’m sorry. I just need those files I left here this morning.

You’re not home? she said. Bill, please. It’s dinner time. You have to eat.

I know, but I just need the files right now, he said.

I don’t know what files you mean, dear.

There were files here, he said with some frustration.

I don’t know, she said. Is everything okay?

Yes, it’s okay, he said. I’m sorry. Some client wants to see a motion I’ve sent them five times now, and then I have to run home and get it for the partners, so we can send it a sixth time. But of course they will pretend like it’s the first time I am sending it.

I’m sorry honey, I don’t know what you’re talking about, she said. But I didn’t see any files.

It’s okay, he said. I’ll find them. Just eat without me tonight, I’ll be back later.

Are you sure you can’t just stay to eat, Mom said. It will be done in a half an hour. It will take 15 minutes to eat, then you can go back?

He was out of the kitchen before he could answer. Crossing through the living room on his way to his study, my father reached over and tussled my hair.

How they makin’ out tonight kiddo?

He was out of the room before I could answer. It was only the top of the first inning anyway. I hadn’t even turned my attention back to the game when he rushed back through the living room and into the kitchen, grasping a ratty manila accordion folder stuffed with papers that stuck out of the top like overgrown weeds.

Found them, gotta run honey. Love you.

And with that, he was gone. It was still the top of the first.

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Just after I turned back to the game, my 16-year old brother Tim vaulted onto the couch from my blind side. The game was off and Excitebike was on.

Turn it back, I said.

No, I’m playing Nintendo.

I was watching the game, I screamed.

I tried to wrestle the controller from his hands, but he was too strong.

Well, you’re not anymore, he said.

Mom, I yelled. He yelled the same almost in unison.

Tim, your brother was here first, she said. She grabbed the controller from his hands with surprising ease.

Come on, Mom. He can watch the game in your room, Tim rebutted. I can’t play Nintendo there.

It was sound logic. At the very least, it was his best argument – and it won over my mom.

Honey, why don’t you go into our bedroom and watch the game? Dinner is almost ready anyway.

Mooooom, I whined.

Please Scott, she said with exasperation. I can’t deal with this right now. Go watch the game in our room.

Fine, I conceded, stomping off. I turned back and saw Tim smirking at me.

Exiled again. It seemed like it was always only a matter of time. Still, being alone with the game was not that bad because I could focus.

After dinner, I went back to watching the game. When Josh Kylien stepped to the plate during the top of the eighth and did that weird thing where he rubbed his forearms together between each pitch, I heard the front door open. I peered through the crack of my parents’ bedroom door, thinking it was Tim. It was my father. My mom was in the kitchen washing dishes and didn’t look at him when he walked into the room. He knew she was upset he was home so late again.

Later in life I learned there was speculation in my family that my father was having an affair. There were a few phone calls with quick hang-ups and some business trips that extended a day longer than they should have, but my mother was steadfast in her faith in him. She always gave him the benefit of the doubt. The hang-ups were wrong numbers and the trips were all business. Naturally, though, the rumors sometimes upset her. They would upset any wife.

On that night, though, my father knew how to make things right. He sidled up behind my mom as she pretended to fixate on the mixing bowl she had been washing for two minutes too long. Despite her initial resistance, he moved in closer and whispered in her ear. I couldn’t hear what he said, but I could tell he was singing it to her

It only took him about thirty seconds to break her. She slipped a smile, then lost it with laughter. Mom turned and forgave him with a kiss; another victory for the old man. He took the bowl out of her hand, placed it in the sink and softly pulled her to their bedroom. My father amusingly kicked open the door like a gladiator charging into the Coliseum.

No, Bill, Scotty’s in there, she said.

Oh, hey there big guy, he said out of breath. He gathered himself and sat down. How they doing tonight?

Eh, okay. Just starting the ninth, down a run.

Why don’t you two watch the end of the game while I get ready for bed, Mom said. After that it’s bed time, okay Scotty?

Okay, I said.

He looked at my mom with frustration, but she just shrugged her shoulders. My father and I laid down on what seemed like the biggest bed in the world, and watched the end of the game.

I often acted indignant when people started watching in the middle of a game when I had watched since the first pitch. It was something I felt strongly about, even at such a young age, and still feel strongly about today. Get to the game on time and don’t leave early; same goes for movies and concerts. But my father was an exception. Even if I had showed resentment, he would have easily diffused me with his ability to interpret a situation and call the next pitch without having seen a single previous one.

Breaking ball, he said assertively.

Breaking ball? I repeated. No way. Rickson throws almost all fastballs. He can get up to 98.

Look at the shift, Scott, he said. The shortstop is almost at second and the first baseman is hugging the bag. The batter’s a lefty so they want him to pull it into the shift on the right side. You throw this guy, a fastball he hits it right in the hole. He’ll jump on the breaking ball and hit into the shift. You’ll see.

No way, I said again.

I’ll bet you a dollar, he said.

Bill, my mom called out from the bathroom. I heard that. No betting. You’re going to teach him bad habits.

Okay, I’ll bet you an ice cream cone, he said.

That’s still betting, she said. And now with sweets, which is worse.

You got it, I said. Fastball, definitely. He always throws fastballs.

A beat later, Rickson threw a looping curveball and the batter, as predicted, hit right into the shift. In retrospect, his analysis was unremarkable. At the time, it seemed like magic.

You owe me a cone, he said.

Bill, stop it, my mom said.

A bet is a bet, hon, he said. The kid needs to learn to pay up when he loses.

I don’t have an ice cream cone, I said.

I’m just kidding with you, Scotty. Come on, let’s sneak out before your mom here notices.

Bill, come on, you know I heard you, she said. It’s late, almost ten. He has to get to bed, and so do you for that matter.

Ten minutes, he said. Just up to Jilly’s, two blocks away. We’ll even bring you back a cup of coffee ice cream.

Dad knew mom hated anything that tasted or smelled like coffee. She brewed it for him every morning with a shudder.

Be back in ten minutes, she said. And don’t bring me anything, especially not coffee.

We walked up to Jilly’s and each got a giant waffle cone with two scoops of rocky road crammed into it, talking about pitching the entire time.

A smart pitcher knows when to lean on his out pitch and when he has to mix it up, he said. If you don’t develop more than one solid pitch besides your out pitch, you’re bound to fail at some point. No matter how fast your fastball is or how much your breaking ball breaks, the pros will hit it if they see it enough. But if they don’t know what’s coming, the pitcher has the advantage. That’s why you throw the others, so they don’t know what’s coming. You always need to figure out what brings the advantage back to you.

That makes sense, I said. How come pitchers just don’t learn to throw every pitch?

Well you could, he said. But then you wouldn’t be great at one. You have to figure out what you’re best at and build around it, to make it better. That takes a lot of time. If you have a great fastball, make it the best, then work on a couple pitches to use around the fastball. Be the best at what you are best at, but make sure it’s not the only thing you do.

You are only a lawyer though, right? I said, trying to match wits. Shouldn’t you be a doctor, or a farmer, or a cab driver, too?

Scott, that is a fantastic point, he said. You are getting smarter every day. I think the best way to answer that is with…sprinkles.

He flicked a chocolate sprinkle from the top of his cone onto my forehead and I laughed.

That cone is huge, Scott, he said, changing the subject. You’re not going to get a stomach ache from this now are you?

No. I swear, I won’t.

Okay. Cause if you do, your mother won’t let me hear the end of it.

I won’t.

We had been gone for over a half hour when we got home, but my mom was asleep. As soon as I laid down to bed, my stomach started to rumble, but I didn’t say anything to my parents. I didn’t want to rat out my dad. Eventually, I just fell asleep.

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At that time, my father, Bill Trundel, was a senior associate at the law firm of Weiler, Prabert and Muntz. Located in the center city section of Philadelphia and with offices in three other states, it was one of the leading insurance defense firms in the area. He was 36 years old, coming up on his eighth year at the firm and generating the most billable hours of any other associate. Through growing referrals and connections he made at endless conferences, luncheons and late-night poker games, he was even starting to generate some potential clients.

Bill was not afraid of working early, late and on the weekends, needing only coffee and Led Zeppelin playing quietly in his office for fuel. His commitment impressed the partners, and inevitably, ticked off some of his less ambitious peers. That didn’t concern him though. It was clear to everyone: my father had become a valued asset and was rooted in the all-important, yet unofficial, partner tract.

After two more years of grinding out long days and increasing his billable hours, Bill became impatient. There was no evidence he was off tract, but there were no signs he was going to make partner any time soon either. Raises and added responsibility used to be enough to motivate him, but as he plateaued, Bill became frustrated. He found himself assisting on other attorney’s cases and seeing his work product disappear into endless settlements. He was stalled and he could feel it.

I don’t get it, Bill said to Ben Chang, a fellow associate. "I’m billing tons of hours, the clients are all happy with the cases I’m working on, what do you have to do to make partner around here?

I think you know the answer to that, Ben said.

"Bring money in the door.

That’s it man. That’s the only thing that counts when it comes to partnership. Can you bring in new blood?

I’ve got four or five guys telling me they’ll send me some business, Bill said. But it just hasn’t happened yet.

I guess you just have to wait until it happens, Ben said. But to be honest, we all have four or five guys telling us the same thing for four or five years.

It’s not right. You bust your ass, and that’s fine with them. As long as you’re their employee and not their partner. Then they want more.

It’s not right, Ben said, but it’s reality.

One rainy Friday, Bill finally mustered enough gumption to walk into the office of the managing partner, and only living founder, Victor Muntz. He planned to just ask to be made partner. It was as simple a move in the real world as it was bizarre in the firm world. Although Bill would have preferred to talk to him on a late night when there were few people around, he couldn’t wait too late as Muntz was a 78-year old man and usually liked to be home by six o’clock. On that Friday night, when Muntz was still riffling through a dusty court reporter past six, Bill decided to make his move. Just after Muntz shut the reporter and before he could reach for his sport coat, Bill knocked on his door.

Excuse me Mr. Muntz, he said, speaking like a child in the principal’s office.

Yes? Muntz replied with his back to the door.

Hello, Bill said, standing and waiting for his attention.

Hello, Muntz said. He finally turned around after an awkward length of time. Oh, hello, Bill. How are you? Delaying the weekend like the rest of us I see.

I’m just finishing up a few things here and there, making sure the Peppermill brief is ready to go for Monday morning so I don’t have it hanging over my head all weekend.

Muntz had no idea what brief he was referring to, but Bill said it as if anyone would.

Peace of mind makes for a peaceful weekend, Muntz said. I never leave the office until everything I set out to do that day is done. It has certainly made for some long nights and longer arguments with the wife, but when I am home, I am home.

I couldn’t agree more, Bill said.

Spending the weekend with the family? Muntz asked.

Yes, Bill said. Maybe take the kids bowling or something like that.

Good. Good, he replied. Well, is there something I can do for you Bill? Any problems?

Oh no sir, Mr. Muntz, no problems.

I’ve told you before Bill, it’s Victor, he said, cutting him off.

Right, Victor. Like I said, no problems, I just wanted to come talk to you. You know, be frank about things.

There’s not enough frankness these days, Bill.

Yes, Bill said. "Again, I completely agree. Well, I know I’ve never actually been promised anything, and I never expected it either. But I