Maddy's Game

By Michael Lund

Raised in a religious household, Drew Tanner pursues his dream of playing in the Major Leagues. The gifted ballplayer finds the love of his life while on his quest.

A family tragedy puts him on a collision course with life's injustices and creates a crisis in faith. He quites the game but six weeks later, the All-star is convinced to return in order to help the team's race for the pennant. During the come-back game, a freak incident involving eleven-year-old Maddy Tyler unleashes a cascade of events that culminates in a mysterious death. Maddy's pursuit for the truth to save her hero leads to long-held family secrets. Does the key to Drew's salvation lie within those secrets?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Michael Lund
• Release date: Jun 1, 2017
• ISBN: 9781544681344

Book preview

Prologue:

On April 14, 1968, Nathan Ellis strolled out of Fat Al’s corner market with an RC Cola in one hand and a half eaten Moon Pie in the other. His cheeks almost burst from his favorite snack. He opened his mouth to lubricate the marshmallow goo with cola when a thug shoved him to the ground, which then launched the can of soda through the open door at Fat Al’s. Apparently, Nate’s earlier flirtatious remark to a doe-eyed cheerleader did not sit well with her boyfriend.

The bully towered over his victim with clenched fists when pain suddenly rocketed from his crotch to his head like a bolt of lightning making its way back to the heavens. He dropped to his knees and screamed out in agony. After the shock wore off, he cradled his privates with both hands, rose to his feet and hobbled off. The bow in his legs would be a reminder that a Good Samaritan finally settled all scores. A kick to the groin dropped the meanest bully in the little town of Crayville that day, courtesy of Nate’s best friend, Drew Tanner.

Drew never involved himself in quarrels until now. He’d risked his future career if the intervention failed, but saving Nate from a beating was more important. Drew’s ambition to play baseball in the major leagues drove him to be the best on the high school’s ball club. He had an arm like a cannon, speed on the bases, and was a better-than-average hitter. General Managers battled to draft players like Tanner.

Nate’s obsession, besides playing baseball, involved the opposite sex. He put as much effort into his pick-up skills as he did playing shortstop. Nate was a ‘player’ on and off the field. Shorter than Drew by almost five inches and weighing forty pounds less, he had a cherubic face that made him look younger than his age. Unlike Drew who wore his hair long, Nate kept his cut short. Town folks said the boys were as opposite of one another as one could get.

Drew received numerous scholarship offers after graduation. He told recruiters their proposal must include Nate or it was no deal. One athletic director, from a nearby Appalachian regional college, agreed to the terms. In 1969, Nate received a scholarship by the biggest arm twist his friend could apply.

Baseball scouts pursued Drew for the next four years. The future Hall of Fame prospect received a signing bonus in 1973 and went to a Triple-A farm club in the municipality of Larma.

Nate, however, began his apprenticeship in Single A ball. For the first time since growing up together, the game they loved so much separated the two.

The childhood friends eventually made their way to the major leagues even though it took Nate several years longer to do so. They ended up on opposing clubs until an injury by one of Drew’s teammates brought them together. In the spring of 1981, Drew twisted the arm of the general manager—much as he did with college recruiters and the team acquired Nate in a trade.

Several months later, a young girl and a wealthy industrialist, would change their lives forever...

Chapter 1

September 1981

The gate into the player’s parking lot rolled shut without warning. Drew slammed the brakes to the floorboard and braced himself for impact. Clouds of black smoke and the smell of burnt rubber swirled around the vehicle. In a blur, the security guard dove to the side as Drew’s classic car struck the chain link barrier.

Are you blind? the guard yelled as he picked himself up off the pavement. Look what you did to my gate! He jerked his thumb with an angry gesture, motioning Drew to roll down the car window.

Mr. Tanner? Surprise and chagrin crossed the guard’s now familiar face.

Geez Eddie! Are you okay?

I’m all right...I guess. My heart is practically in my throat. Eddie re-adjusted his badge and slapped his chaffed hands up and down the uniform to knock off the dust. He meekly added, I was just doing my job you understand.

I didn’t think you were going to close the gate. I’ll pay for the damages, Drew said.

I’ve never seen this car before and didn’t recognize you behind the wheel. Don’t worry about the gate. I’ll tell maintenance some drunk must have backed his car into it. By the way, look over there. He pointed to a sign above a parking space. The wet paint glistened in the sunlight.

Eddie stepped aside and pushed the gate back, wobbling on one wheel instead of two.

Drew pulled down on the gearshift lever but the transmission rattled. His legs shook from the near disastrous encounter moments ago. He steadied his nerves and pressed down on the clutch pedal one more time. The sound of grinding metal faded as the car slipped into gear. Drew eased his foot off the break and maneuvered the ‘57 Chevy toward a newly painted sign that read, Reserved—All-Star, Drew Tanner. The ballplayer appreciated the gesture but it did not ease his suffering. Nearly killing Eddie made things worse.

He stepped out of the car and walked around to inspect the damage. The dents and scratches to the once flawless body carved out another piece of his heart. Drew closed his eyes to let the warm sun soothe his face that looked so different in the mirror this morning. The newly roughed-up grill and he shared something in common.

Maybe Eddie didn’t recognize him because he had lost so much weight. Or was it something on his face? His expression? This second-guessing had to stop—no distractions wanted. Right now, he needed to summon his soul back from the depths of hell. That would, however, require assistance from the One he’d recently turned his back on.

God, if you get me through this, I’ll call a truce, Drew uttered up to a passing cloud.

The All-Star squeezed past the clubhouse door, partially wedged open to vent the odor of bleached uniforms. He looked over to his locker to see if it had been given to another. A clubhouse attendant stood in front of Drew’s locker with his back to the door. The nameplate, Tanner, was in full view.

The old man’s sweat-stained cap, turned slightly off center, along with his khaki dress slacks, didn’t go with the team T-shirt and dirty sneakers. Although his boom box was quiet, he hadn’t changed a bit otherwise. Usually he played his favorite oldies before anyone showed up.

Drew approached him from behind. DJ, I’d like to switch lockers. Can I have the corner one over there...the one that’s not being used?

DJ spun around, looking as if he’d seen a ghost. Drew figured it was because his voice had been absent from the clubhouse far too long. DJ glanced down at his over-size tennis shoe to see if his shoe pointed in the same direction as his foot after turning around so fast. Looking back up, he declared, Mister Tanner, whatever you want, I’ll be glad to do it for you. You know, that’s the locker I gave you when you were a rookie. Lousy location if you ask me.

I remember, but I need my privacy right now. I know this clubhouse belongs to you, so that’s why I’m asking permission.

DJ pulled a towel from his shoulder and wiped shoe polish off his hands. Dried red and white paint slowly revealed itself on his fingertips, divulging the sign-maker. He tossed the towel into a bin that would fill with dirty uniforms after the game. DJ picked up the cleats, grabbed a hanger holding a freshly laundered uniform, and headed to the corner locker.

Not looking back at his charge as he ambled away, the old man repeated, Like I said...whatever you want, Mr. Tanner. When Hank told me you were comin’ back, it filled my heart with joy. I’ve been praying for you.

Drew followed the clubhouse ‘gopher’ to the rear. You’re a good man.

DJ re-hung the uniform and aligned the cleats neatly in front of the chair. I figured you’d get here early, so I polished your shoes for good luck. Are you going to the cage?

Drew didn’t respond. He lifted up the jersey’s shirttail and ran his fingers over the embroidered name, Tanner. It felt surreal, as if he and the name were strangers meeting for the first time. Drew let go of the jersey, stuck out both hands and leaned straight-armed onto the locker. He bowed his head and answered softly, I need some batting practice. Hopefully it will calm my nerves.

DJ reached out a wrinkled palm toward Drew’s arm, but pulled back at the last minute, unsure if physical contact would assuage Drew’s tormented soul. Don’t be worried about playin’, Mr. Tanner, DJ reassured him. The good Lord will help you.

Drew sure hoped DJ was right. Tonight, he would need all the help he could get.

After hacking at baseballs from a pitching machine for almost an hour, Drew walked back into the clubhouse. His teammates were going in and out of the trainer’s room, some bandaged up like mummies. The minty-scent of rubbing liniment drifted throughout the clubhouse. The contradiction of smells heightened his senses when, after a game, the odor of perspiration caked the air like rancid grease.

The smell of sweaty athletes once had DJ sing out, Ya’ll don’t smell like honey, to the opening tune of Otis Redding’s, ‘Dock of the Bay’. A witty player finished the refrain with, "But we dooo smell like money." Laughter filled the clubhouse.

Drew suspected there would be no singing or laughter tonight–—even with a win. Yet, some things hadn’t changed. Teammates verbally jousted to release nervous tension. It might be a team sport but individual performance mattered. His move to the corner locker didn’t stop the trash talking but it sent a clear message. His teammates left him alone, hoping he could deliver a much-needed victory.

Drew sat down and leaned his chair back on two legs. Propped up against the locker, he covered his face with a cap that had seen better days. Not that long ago, he told the skipper he was through playing ball. Why now, after everything that happened, had he agreed to set aside his personal feelings for the sake of the team?

Mentally exhausted, Drew nodded off. It did not take long for another nightmare to interrupt the tranquility he longed for.

It’s okay sport. I’ll forgive you.

A woman’s voice screamed out in terror. A silver-plated, snub nose .38 floated above his head like an apparition– bullets dropped into its chamber by gargoyle-like demons. He reached up to grab the gun only to have them hand it to him. They were smiling.

Then...

A gunshot pierced the silence. A pool of blood formed on a kitchen table. It crept along the edge before it fell onto the tiled floor. The sound of drip...splat, drip...splat, grew louder.

The folding chair pitched forward, landing hard on four legs. Adrenaline surged through every blood vessel in his body, awakening him. Was it caused by the dream or a sense of falling? Hands shaking, he reached down for his cap that had tumbled from his face. Surprised, he encountered Nate’s hand instead.

Where’s the rest of the team? Drew asked.

Nate picked the cap up and handed it to him. They’re out on the field warming up.

How come you didn’t wake me?

Hank—I mean the skipper—told me to let you sleep for a while. He thought you might need it. I was just about to wake you but–

But what?

You’ve been asleep for over an hour. A few minutes ago, you started making sounds as if you’re trying to communicate with someone. Were you dreaming about...?

I think it’s game time, Drew mumbled.

Chapter 2

An accident on the freeway caused four lanes to merge into one. Rick Tyler clenched his jaw in frustration at the long line of red taillights. The one night he got free tickets to the ball game, courtesy of his boss, and this had to happen. An idiot driver cut across three lanes of traffic to take an exit ramp and left a trail of metal carnage in his wake. There was but one option to bypass the eighteen-wheeler that jack-knifed trying to avoid cars pin-balling off one another.

Looks like we’re not going to make the first pitch, his wife, Erin, said. Get off at the next exit and take the back roads to the stadium.

I doubt we’ll make the first couple of innings at the rate we’re going, Rick grumbled. You okay back there, Maddy?

Daddy, when are we going to get there? I’m hungry...and thirsty, the little girl protested. She tugged at her constraining seatbelt, feeling trapped, unable to see out the front window. Even though she was eleven years old, Maddy’s legs barely reached beyond the edge of her seat.

Erin believed that getting pregnant at forty-five, long after they gave up trying to conceive, resulted in Maddy’s diminutive size. What she thought to be the onset of menopause produced their precious miracle.

The Tylers followed a conga-line of traffic inching their way to the ballpark. By the time they got to their front row seats, between third base and left field, it was the bottom of the third inning. The balmy September evening turned Erin’s unneeded jacket into a seat cushion for Maddy.

Rick cupped his hand so Maddy could hear over the crowd noise. What do you want to eat?

She settled onto the improvised padded chair and asked, Can I have pizza?

You want plain cheese or pepperoni?

Pepperoni! A big piece!

A vendor matched her enthusiasm when he cried out, Pizza! Getch ya Pizza here! The young hawker sprinted down the stairs to the throng of hands going up.

Rick wiggled three fingers in the air and shouted, Hey! Over here!

***

Drew stood in the on-deck circle taking practice swings at non-existent fastballs. He questioned batting seventh in the lineup. Always been a clean-up hitter. The skipper must be trying to take the pressure off. No runs, no hits, no errors. Six teammates have struck out so far. No pressure? Yeah—right.

The announcer bellowed out Drew’s name as a ringmaster would for a boxing match. Now batting... number thirty-eight... Drrrew Taaa-ner.

The ballpark suddenly became quiet. The crowd rose to its feet almost in unison. Sporadic clapping grew into deafening applause at Tanner’s surprising addition to the lineup.

The crowd yelled, Tan-ner. Tan-ner. Tan-ner.

Not expecting their heartfelt and moving reception, Drew exhaled as if it would be his last.

He placed his right foot into the batter’s box and kicked it back and forth to dig a toehold. Settling in, he waggled his bat as he had done thousands of times before. Every movement, though, felt like slow motion. Time stood still. He began to doubt if he should even be here but it was too late. Drew pulled down on his cap, took another deep breath, and held it in. He coiled back as the pitcher went into his windup.

A loud pop followed the whistling of a fastball striking the catcher’s mitt. It reminded Drew of his .38 caliber gun going off and it broke his concentration.

The umpire pointed to his right and yelled, Steerike.

The three men at the plate were the only ones that heard the call. The clapping and cheering continued unabated.

Drew jettisoned spit to the ground and stepped out of the box. He twisted his gloved hands on the handle of the bat—not that it would improve his grip, but it helped to release the tension. What was an unconscious habit now seemed unreal—so dreamlike. He stepped back into the box and steeled himself, readying for the next pitch.

His opponent on the mound shook off signs.

Time! The catcher shouted, lifting his mask up and trotting to the mound. Approaching the pitcher, he said in his thick Latin accent, Herc, why are you shaking me off?

Herc was short for Hercules. The nickname given to the hurler early in his career came hours later after he pitched a ten-inning game only to lose. He then rounded up a few teammates to tie one on at a popular watering hole. A dozen shots later, he crawled under a pool table and lifted it off the floor on his back. The stunt earned him the nickname and a $500 bet.

After what Tanner’s been through, I want to give him something he can make contact with. I’ll give him a four-seamer but take a little off and keep it down, Herc said.

The catcher squinted as if he had stared into the sun. You’re crazy taking this kind of chance with Tanner, he argued. Herc ignored him, turned his head to one side, and spat. The catcher left the mound and jerked his mask down in frustration. He did not want Drew to see the worried look on his face.

Herc had been in the majors almost as long as Drew and the two had faced each other plenty of times. The six-foot-four-inch pitcher had six strikeouts going into the bottom of the third, but no one would dare utter the words working on a no-hitter. His emotions were at odds on how to deal with the man at the plate. Never give-in to a hitter. A win was more important, Herc told himself. Nevertheless, something deep inside him would not let go. For the first time in his life, he felt empathy for another human being.

***

Rick and Erin stood during the conference on the mound but kept a watchful eye on their child. A pepperoni slice dangling from a cheese thread distracted her. They laughed when Maddy rolled out her tongue just in time to snatch the runaway morsel before it fell onto her lap.

Nice catch, Rick said.

Maddy teased her father into grabbing for the pepperoni clenched in her teeth. When he tried to snatch it, she retracted the greasy disc back into her mouth and then yawned to show him it had disappeared.

Rick leaned over and whispered to Erin, Priceless.

Except my little angel looks like a slob, Erin grumbled. She dabbed a napkin on her tongue and removed the red tomato stains decorating Maddy’s cheeks since her first bite. She then adjusted Maddy’s baseball cap, making sure the brim pointed forward, and dropped extra napkins onto her daughter’s lap.

***

Drew anticipated the next pitch to be a fastball on the outside corner. He inched his way closer to home plate, hoping Herc wouldn’t notice. Instead, an easy-to-read changeup sending a message of solidarity sailed by. It left him flat-footed, too late even to take a swing.

Steerike!

Drew was baffled. This was not like the Herc he knew for the past six years, who would just as soon drill someone in the ribs with a ninety-eight mile per hour fastball than give up a hit.

Fans clamored the changeup was low and out of the strike zone. They delivered a chorus of boos to the umpire.

Drew worried the jeers were directed at him for him taking the pitch. He looked over his shoulder at the dugout, and saw Nate mouthing the words, Come on—you can do it.

But his manager’s angry expression spoke volumes. Drew thought about what the skipper said to players not giving one-hundred percent—get your head in the game or get your ass out. Down 0–2 in the count, Herc would likely put an end to this humiliation. Hank might do something even worse.

Herc stomped to the back of the mound and hacked out a stream of tobacco juice. He picked up the rosin bag, wanting to fling it into the next county. The chalk dust formed a small cloud from gripping it so hard. He knew if he delivered another change-up like the last one, everyone would realize he was giving Tanner pitches to hit. That would not be good for either of them. Sports writers would be merciless tomorrow, even if he had an ulterior motive. Herc slammed the rosin bag to the ground and stormed back up the mound. There would be no shaking off signs this time.

Drew settled into the box again, his fingers moved up and down in synchronization off the handle of his Louisville Slugger. This might be his last at bat, ever, as a ballplayer. Herc’s angry glare, as if he wanted to kill someone, meant another mercy pitch was out of the question.

He tried to clear his mind of what everyone must be thinking when a ghostly hand rested on his shoulder. It was a hand he’d felt before. Gentle. Caring. Loving. Tranquility washed over him as a current of air blew in from behind home plate. It seemed to carry haunting words, "Okay, Drew honey. Knock it out of the park!"

The curveball spun to its target. Drew swung late. A shock wave from the barrel of the bat stung his hands and reverberated into his forearms. The ball rose up from the end of the bat, streaking toward the outfield on a divine gust of wind. Half way to first base, he looked over to see Herc mouthing every cuss word in his vocabulary.

Fans in the right field bleachers piled on one another as the leather orb rolled around on the beer-soaked concrete. A young boy crawled out from under the sea of bodies, and his face lit up as he thrust his hand into the air. He now owned a legendary baseball.

A broadcaster screamed into his microphone, You have just witnessed what everyone thought would be impossible given the circumstances! The noise from the crowd drowned out the audio of the televised game as Drew crossed home plate and into the scrum of teammates.

Nate slapped Drew’s open hand the hardest, his face wreathed in relief. The ruse he had played on the skipper paid off better than expected. Hank wouldn’t nail his ass to the dugout wall, especially with a homerun on the scoreboard. Nate only wanted to help his best friend climb out of depression.

After a second round of backslapping and high-fives inside the dugout, Drew tossed a jacket to the side, collapsed onto the bench, and closed his eyes. The corners of his mouth turned upward ever so slightly–and it was not from the homerun.

Chapter 3

June 1973  (Seven years earlier—Larma, Triple-A Farm club)

Grease from a half-pound hamburger patty oozed into the French fries once again. The size of the plate grew this past week, almost to the size of a turkey platter. Drew did not want to embarrass the waitress by suggesting she use separate plates for the burger and fries.

Barbara had waited on him for a month now and knew his routine. He liked the same corner booth next to the window, always ordered hamburger and fries, and only selected something different when she told him they were out of hamburger. So confident of his habits, she skipped the menu and brought him an icy mug filled with Dr. Pepper.

Two months and thirty-two hamburgers later, she asked, So what’s it like being a ballplayer in Triple-A? Is it a job, or are you just getting paid to have fun?

A greasy spud slid down his throat before replying. Guess you can say it’s both. You have to perform or you’re cut from the team. So, in a way, it’s a job. On the other hand, I like going to work every day, so you can say I’m having fun.

Looks like me and you have something in common, she chortled. If I spilled Dr. Pepper in your lap every time I served you, I’d probably get fired. On the other hand, I would enjoy doing that, so you could say I was having fun. The plucky waitress reached over and cherry-picked a fry that wasn’t soggy, popped it in