Battle Innings

By Philip V. Stephens

In the future the outcome of baseball games means everything... Mysterious aliens have visited human worlds and now they too request to play. The rules have changed, the stakes have increased. Americans have but one last hope to save their country from falling.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Oct 5, 2010
• ISBN: 9781453573099

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Copyright © 2010 by Philip V. Stephens.

Library of Congress Control Number: 2010913275

ISBN: Hardcover 978-1-4535-7308-2

ISBN: Softcover 978-1-4535-7307-5

ISBN: Ebook 978-1-4535-7309-9

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted

in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying,

recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system,

without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the

product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance

to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

This book was printed in the United States of America.

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DEDICATION

To my loving father:

A survivor of many battles, who occupies a special place in my heart.

CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Epilogue

CHAPTER 1

It was a sultry July evening when the air was nearly fluid with humidity in Summerville, Illinois. It was a quaint city of old trees and outdated shops and stores; not a typical place where big league scouts would be observing a game of players so young. But these were desperate times, where government psychologists were screaming for younger, emotionally stronger players. More was expected of them and acquiring them early was a crucial key in the long and arduous developmental process. It was a new process, tested and retested over the past two decades. For the first time in their long and glorious history, Team USA was losing more than winning. To make things even more unsettling, the game of baseball was changing dramatically to suit the needs of the participating governments. The U.S. mandate was to aggressively acquire the new talent that would lead the team for the next two decades. This was Team USA’s opportunity to show the known worlds that the new era of baseball, appropriately called the Battle Era, would be ushered in with welcome arms. No team would make the transition to playing by the new rules better than the Americans.

Jarrett Atkins wiped the sweat from his nearly bald forehead as he sat in his suit of finely blended cotton and wool. His shirt had soaked through to his tie with only a few minutes of exposure to the heat. He took a seat on the uninviting metal bleachers behind the first base dugout. How thankful he was to find the ball field! Even in the small town of Summerfield, the GPS navigation system would clearly show the existence of Little League baseball. If it were not for his satellite imagery of the town, he would have been lost. As most baseball fields were, this one was situated near a city park, surrounded by massive oak trees and bounded on one side by a muddied creek past the outfield area. The infield was entirely dirt and sand. However, the upkeep of it was better than most amateur ball fields he had seen. The outfield grass looked weedy, spotted with dandelions, but was well trimmed and bordered by a sturdy chain-link fence. As this was his first time in this town, he had no choice but to fall in love with the older brick houses surrounding the park and the laid-back lifestyle this section of the world brought with it. He had driven some four hours from Chicago to get there, and as it turned out, the game was already in the third inning when he arrived. It was a welcome feeling to finally be able to stretch his legs in the bleachers and watch the game his entire life revolved around.

Typically, when he made his appearance at a ballpark, many locals would eye him carefully and rightfully so. He was required to wear only the best of clothing since he was representing the most highly scrutinized organization in all the known worlds; Team USA. Those crazed government officials could not possibly know what it was like to wear formal clothing to an early evening game in central Illinois during July. They could not possibly know how awkward it would be to sit next to hometown folks, making brief notes on a miniature computer resting on his thigh. He typed with his left hand only, his right being prosthetic. In his ear was a phone piece that occasionally barked to life when someone wanted something. His life as a professional team scout was truly demanding, not as glamorous as most would believe it to be.

He could feel the presence of several inquisitive people leaning over to have a look on his screen, but images were only visible with special contact lenses surgically implanted in his corneas. Being who he was entitled him to the latest technology, and he ostentatiously used everything he was given to perform his highly confidential job. It was plainly obvious to the twenty or so individuals sitting in the stands with him—he was a big league scout. Jarrett was not concerned in the least what the locals thought of him. He had a job to do, no matter how unpleasant or uncomfortable it made him feel. He was paid well, compensated to be away from his family for the better part of the spring and summer months, and he made the most of his inconveniences.

What brought him to this small, picturesque town was the reportedly superior play of two brothers; the grandchildren of a baseball legend. Their heroics in this youth system, reported by the local news service, had attracted Jarrett’s organization. When the potential of the siblings was realized and their genetic background confirmed, a contract to secure their services was prepared. Oh, how the scouts had their insidious ways to find these gifted players, perhaps even before these young children themselves knew they were gifted! It was the scout’s job to know where the games were played and when, so that their observations and research could be accurately reported. During this period of evaluation and investigation, the prospect’s every move would be watched with every painstaking detail. Thankfully, he was about ready to close the book on these two individuals in his final visit.

They were the best of brothers, with common likes and dislikes, spending as much of their free time together as humanly possible. They grew up in a fairly wealthy neighborhood. Their mother and father were both well respected in the community as they were active in town gatherings and events. The boys were loved, well raised, and respected among their peers, especially in the youth baseball world. These were important criteria in the selection process. The organization required a good upbringing with no issues; nothing to cause psychological tribulations in the future. Both boys were extremely gifted baseball players and athletes. This too was important. Of course, the health of the boys was also highly scrutinized. For the sake of the U.S. government, secret access to their medical records was a necessity. It was carefully confirmed that both boys were healthy in mind and body. They would serve their country well.

On the field, it was not hard for Jarrett to single out his two candidates from the descriptions and photos he had on his screen. The boys looked taller than the picture he was given. They grow so fast at this age. Carl Casbock stood on the mound like a tall giant, slightly over six feet tall and thin, but by no means frail. He had this deceptive power in his pitches that was uncharacteristic of many other kids his age. His form and his style of pitching was well ahead of his time, which was obviously the result of superior training from his coaches, and possibly from another known source who knew the game well. Perhaps that influence was his father, Jed, who may have had personal instruction from his father, the great Cecil Casbock, an outstanding knuckleball pitcher of many years ago.

This well-known grandfather played the game at the beginning of the age of ownership, where a player played and worked for the team his entire life. Once signed on as a player, the team would then have full rights, extending beyond the completion of their playing days. Following retirement from the game, players would then be required to perform other tasks for the organization as assigned. Such things as coaching, broadcasting, administrative duties, ticketing, stadium maintenance, groundskeeping, and scouting were among the opportunities for a ballplayer.

Jarrett was a product of that arrangement. His career as a player was a good one, lasting the better part of ten years as a professional in the world leagues. Not everyone was chosen to become a team scout. The organization appreciated those with a knack to identify talent and then they required time to evaluate trust and competence. Jarrett, too, had been taken at the early age of sixteen, seized away from his parents, and had completely no contact with them whatsoever. He completed his playing years at thirty-three with the team, and three years later, he was on the road, scouting players all over the country. Of course, he was given time to reunite himself with his mother and father, which was a big incentive as to why he took the job as a scout. He was given that special allowance all scouts were entitled to: freedom to travel. Most players would not have ever been able to see their parents or other relatives again. Jarrett was fortunate the team comprehended his uncanny ability to recognize talent. Otherwise, he may have found himself in charge of the team laundry.

Jarrett felt his artificial arm begin to spasm, a common occurrence with such an old piece of technology. The doctors told him he required surgery on the nerve endings in his shoulder, but he had seen enough surgeons in his lifetime to know it was better to live with the small temporary convulsions. He tried to settle the tremor by rubbing his shoulder with his good hand. Sometimes it worked and sometimes it didn’t. In this case, his arm stopped convulsing. He sighed, as it was something more to grab the curiosity of the fans sitting with him on the bleachers. He doubted that they would know about his prosthetic arm, since those kinds of things were no longer detectable by the naked eye. Unless you actually touched the arm itself, one would never be able to tell he had one. His hand had normal movement and some feeling, creating a near-perfect simulation of the real thing. Still, he could not manipulate a keyboard with much proficiency using the prosthetic, one of the few limitations. He lost his real arm long ago at an early age, when technology was introduced to improve his pitching performance. The team spared no expense and no limb for the sake of the game. Jarrett had ceased complaining about the team’s decision to take his arm long ago. It was a bad memory with emotional distress wound all over it. Time had mended the heartache a decade ago. Right now, he was content with his life and his responsibilities. It was a satisfactory consolation to end up as a scout, satisfied with his career as a ballplayer. Occasionally, he longed for the look, sound, smell, and the feel of the everyday grind of the game, but the rewards of his current job masked his longing to continue playing. Today, he desired to find a talent that would lead the team to success for many years to come. And then sometime tomorrow, he would enjoy the normal American life of living and loving a family. How much he loved his wife and his children (something he was not allowed to have as a ballplayer)! His two daughters were his most precious possessions, next to his loving wife, who looked forward to the long summer’s end, when they could spend more time together in the off-season. Yes, he appreciated his life, and yet today, this day, there was something he had to do that he regretted more than ever.

Jarrett preferred to use voice commands on his computer but was concerned about those who would be listening in to his observations. So he typed what he saw and finalized the document of acquisition. The young lad on the mound had created more of a stir than any player before him at this age. Carl Casbock was his name, pretty catchy name at that. Jarrett reflected on a time when that name would be the talk of many in the known worlds. How he would rant and rave that he was the one who had found him searching through hundreds of local Enews, visiting many ballparks, talking to more locals than he cared to admit! Jarrett had mulled over thousands of player files for hours and sometimes days, looking for the perfect prospect. His scouting efficiency was critical to his organization. He was required to choose players who were very young and very raw. A wrong choice would mean the ruination of a young boy’s life and a family’s dream. He compiled Carl’s portfolio carefully and thoroughly, factoring in the pros and cons, weighing all attributes cautiously. Before he submitted it to his general manager, he knew he would be making this trip back to Summerville to acquire him. It was the most impressive file he had ever produced. The report was on the verge of appearing unbelievable even. The one thing that stood out the most with Carl was his ability to throw a type of pitch not seen for over twenty-five years, that being the knuckleball. It was extremely odd for a young child to not only be able to throw the pitch with fairly good control, but also to be able to use it with great effectiveness. When Carl delivered the pitch, it would seemingly float in toward the plate and then at the last minute break enough that the batter could not adjust. So elusive was his knuckle pitches, more often than not, the catcher would be unable to track it until it rolled harmlessly to the backstop.

Carl was on the mound, throwing his knuckleball and wowing the crowd in his usual fashion. Jarrett had watched him once before on video. His assistant scouts had clocked him from behind the backstop using their mini wrist speed gun. The results were startling coming from a twelve-year-old. His better-than-average fastball, used in conjunction with his knuckleball, was the most deadly combination of pitches he had ever seen at this level. Carl was indeed a specimen unlike most young pitchers, and watching him pitch a live game was truly a treat for him. Casbock was also an above average hitter, but it was likely that his training would not focus on hitting, since the days of a pitcher hitting for himself in the big league lineup had ended long ago with the permanent emergence of the designated hitter. Carl had a keen sense of the game, acute to the strategic side of pitching. He knew when to throw his special pitch and when not to. His battery mate, the catcher, was not involved in the pitch decision-making process. Carl wore an earpiece that allowed him to hear the commands from his coach, pacing in the chain-linked dugout. Even the youth baseball system had electronics these days. In the years to come, this young man would certainly have his fill of electronic technology, the only difference being that those electronics would be of the permanent variety.

The other player Jarrett was watching carefully was his younger brother, Cinid Casbock, who played first base. At first, he hesitated to hype up this boy. Cinid was a year younger than Carl and quite a bit shorter than him by six inches. Even if he miraculously had an incredible year of growth, it would not be likely that he would be more than six feet tall. Growth projections had him at five feet eleven inches when fully developed. On the plus side, Cinid had amazing hand–eye coordination, playing with the reflexes of a cat, gathering up ground balls as if they were magnetized to his glove. But his bat was the real gift. The first home run Jarrett had witnessed did not get his attention, but when Cinid stroked two more in the same game, one of them at least 320 feet into left center field, he was determined to research Cinid with the same vigilance he did his brother. His report said he was an unbelievable contact hitter, with a batting average of over .700! Jarrett was not expecting the general manager to want this young man as well as Carl, but when he received his orders two days ago, the mandate was to acquire them both. This was the main reason why he was here at the ballpark on this steamy, humid evening.

One last look at the boys before acquisition was the final important step of the process. Carl was an automatic selection with his near-perfect pitching. The only base runner was one that he had walked, very typical of the unpredictable knuckleball pitcher. When Cinid came to bat in the fourth inning, he launched a shot into the creek over the left-field fence more than 275 feet away from home plate. One comment from a bystander was, There goes another one.

Another mentioned, He didn’t get all of it this time. The evidence was overwhelming on this humid evening. Both boys had great value to his organization.

While Cinid was running the bases, a short, pudgy man stood up and waved his handkerchief over his head in a circular motion, shouting Take it around! Take it around! Afterward, he turned to draw a sip of his soda, noticing Jarrett eyeing him curiously. Jarrett quickly focused back onto his laptop, wondering why the man had caught his attention so. He found his little display amusing. Disappointingly, as he was plugging away at the finishing touches of his report, the man was suddenly standing next to him in the bleachers.

You must be one of those fancy scouts, he said with a smile, exposing a mouthful of crooked teeth.

Yes, I am, Jarrett replied, continuing to complete the document which consumed the majority of his attention. Scouts were told to have as little contact with the locals as possible, and he had little time and patience to be explaining his business at the ball diamond today.

You looking at the Casbocks? the pudgy man insisted.

I’m on business, was the standard answer he had found to be the best conversation stopper. Please, let me work.

Well, all right, but I know the boys very well. They sure are good, aren’t they?

Jarrett finally turned to the persistent, smiling man. He was dressed in a Team USA jersey, probably washed too many times with harsh chemicals, frayed slightly near the collar. Who’s the father of these boys? he asked the stranger.

Oh, so you are after the Casbocks. All you gotta say is, ‘Yes, I’m scouting the Casbocks,’ and we’re both on the right page, he said in a louder-than-normal voice. At this time, they had the attention of the half a dozen parents seated around him. Jarrett looked at him, embarrassed by the attention.

Well? the man asked again defiantly. Are you a scout?

You yourself said it, Jarrett responded sarcastically, still not willing to give him a straight answer.

The man touched the shoulder of his suit with his moist hand, wet from the condensation of the drink he was holding. Jarrett could feel the liquid seep through to his skin. You see that tall man in the dugout, the coach? he said, pointing in the direction. That’s their papa.

Thank you, Jarrett said, hoping the man would remove his hand. He finally had to pulled away slightly to let it slide off.

His name is Jed. Jed Casbock, the pudgy man said.

Jarrett already knew the Casbocks’ father’s name. The coach in the dugout seemed to be a decent man. He would not try to confront him on the baseball field, but would visit him at his home later in the evening. The one thing he was careful not to do in his experience as a scout was to attract a scene at the ballpark. He could feel the pudgy man leaning over to get a closer look at his screen. Even though it would be impossible for him to see anything, Jarrett turned the monitor away from him, making a statement about his privacy. The man pushed away from Jarrett, obviously offended from his unfriendliness, his chin pointed upward, but he did not leave.

Listen, whoever you are, let me make it perfectly clear, Mr. Scout, he began rudely. Jarrett did not look up and wasn’t about to give him that decency. If you have plans on taking these boys, think again. I know the father, and he will not agree to it.

Jarrett snapped his computer shut in a disgusted manner and stood up from his bleacher seat. This was not the first time he was given rude treatment. It appeared to be happening more often as the years went by. Looking down at the short man, he said, I’m done here anyway.

He proceeded to get up and walk away to his car, but not before noting the score. The Casbocks were very good at winning games. This game was no different; they were winning nine to nothing with less than an inning to go. His plan for the remainder of the evening would be to leave briefly to have dinner at a local diner and then conclude his evening at the Casbocks’ where he was sure to lay claim to the largest pool of talent in the solar system. He left the bleachers, thankful to be away from the rude patron and found himself at a quaint diner near the edge of town, widely known for their chicken fried steak and potatoes.

His partner, Frank Biettermier, met him at the restaurant a half hour later. He had been sent to a neighboring town for a scouting assignment about fifty miles away. It was not uncommon for them to cross paths during their assignments. During acquisition, it was a requirement to be with a partner should anything go wrong. Of course, they always had the assistance of the local police if resistance became threatening. Several cases had escalated to that extreme, the last time being when someone was threatened at gunpoint to leave the premises. To some parents, losing a child, even to the U.S. government, was not an option. In these times when the government sports teams meant everything, opposing a team scout was nearly as bad as resisting arrest. Those that opposed could find themselves going to prison or possibly worse.

The reunion was business as usual. They were always enamored to see each other and enjoy a meal together. After all, they had been teammates for near ten years. Jarrett pitched early in his career and later played second base. Frank was the first baseman. Together they had blanketed the right side of the infield for the better part of six years, and now they were working closely together once again as major league scouts. Frank was nearly a head taller than Jarrett; first baseman were supposed to be tall, able to get to those errant throws and stretch for those balls for the added fraction of a second necessary to beat the runner to the bag. The years away from the gym had softened both players, but Frank was showing signs of busting out another loop in his belt buckle. Being on the road for the better part of six months meant more than their share of fast food and greasy spoons. Together they joked about the weight gain. Frank had plans to lose weight in the winter, but he had made the same comment last fall and came back another ten pounds heavier. Professionally, as scouts, it was noted throughout the organization, Atkins and Biettermier made a great tandem when it came to finding talent in the Midwest, known everywhere as the heart of baseball. The organization had five other scouting duos, but no other team working today could boast a better success rate than these two.

After the meal, Jarrett belched and regrettably glanced at his watch. Ready to go get them?

Yep, said Frank, time to ruin another family.

Jarrett didn’t bother checking his partner’s expression after making such a negative statement. He did not have to, because it was the truth. Hopefully, it would all be over in an hour, and they would be seeing the prospects off to their new lives before it got too late. You know, Frank, you sound like a broken record sometimes, Jarrett said annoyed, his joy of their time together now fleeting.

I have got to get you in the right kick-ass mode, you know. Frank nudged him playfully.

They drove their cars to the rental dealer, dropped one of them off, and then proceeded to the Casbock home. It was about 9:00 p.m. when they arrived, slightly later than normal, but in Jarrett’s eyes, he thought it was a nice gesture to be giving the household at least one more meal together, if that was what they routinely did. It was somewhat similar to giving a cigarette to a prisoner standing before a firing squad.

Jarrett clicked the trunk of the car open to grab his briefcase, and Frank lumbered to the doorstep like a man who had just eaten a huge meal.

Frank, just once, I wish you would wait for me, Jarrett complained, slamming the trunk closed.

I don’t want to be here all night, Atkins, he said, belching. He rang the doorbell.

The house itself was a well-kept, southern-style-looking home, likely built eighty years ago. It was well trimmed and freshly painted with the enchanted molding, typical of an old-fashioned dwelling of long ago. The enormous, covered front porch provided definite curb appeal, giving the house warm character. Jarrett could not help but reflect on how difficult it was going to be to replace this wonderful home in these young boys’ lives. Where they were going would not even come close to the comfort a house like this would bring.

The front door swung open wildly just as Jarrett had caught up to his partner, stepping up onto the last step of the porch.

Good evening, sir. My name is Frank Biettermier, he said, smiling and flashing his organizational government badge. And this here is my partner, Jarrett Atkins. Jarrett got his first glimpse of the man standing in the doorway, expecting to see the coach he remembered in the dugout, but then eyeing the pudgy man who rudely insulted him in the bleachers. He, too, showed him his badge.

The man in the doorway suddenly became flushed with fear. W . . . w . . . w . . . what do you want here? he asked nervously. In his hand was a glass of lemonade, and it began to shake profusely.

Confused, Jarrett asked, Are you Jed Casbock?

Nope, and I demand that you leave my property immediately.

He was about ready to close the door when Jarrett boldly slid past Frank and placed his body in the doorway. You are Mr. Casbock, aren’t you? he repeated.

I demand that you step out of my house or I’m calling the police. His unshaven upper lip was beginning to quiver.

Sir, you can call them and likely they will confirm who you really are. Jarrett began smiling. But they will also gladly tell you that we have every right to be here. You already know who I am, since we met briefly at the ball field, and you know why we are here.

Frank stood back baffled, watching the scene unfold before his eyes, knowing very well he had missed something that had transpired between them earlier. He was content to watch how this would play out.

Now you listen to me, Mr. Scout, my boys are not going to play for you. I told you before. I will never give permission for you to take them from me.

A female voice from within the house called out, Dear, who are you talking to?

Jarrett looked him fiercely in the eye. You are Mr. Casbock, then.

Yes, of course I am. What do you want me to do? Show you my ID?

His sarcastic tone pushed Jarrett’s patience. His voice was beginning to elevate, and it was slightly disconcerting that the neighbors could hear. Jarrett noticed an older man walking his dog in front of the house turning to see what was going on.

Sir, Mr. Casbock, we need to talk. Can we just step inside, please? Jarrett pleaded.

What do you want?

Please! Jarrett insisted. He could not conduct his business on the front porch.

The two men looked at each other for a long five seconds, and finally, the screen door opened for them both to enter. They were met by Mrs. Casbock, who was busily wiping her hands with a towel. She was a tall woman, nearly six feet in height and in her fifties. It struck Jarrett right away; likely her genes gave the boys the height they savored today as team scouts. What is it, dear? she asked.

Mrs. Casbock, pardon the intrusion. My name is Jarrett Atkins, and this is my partner, Frank Biettermier. He held out his hand but she did not take it readily.

Is there something wrong? she asked, looking at her husband.

No, there is nothing wrong, Jarrett confirmed. Can we sit down and talk?

Let’s go into the dining room, Mr. Casbock suggested, "so we can all sit down and talk."

The inside of the house was just as impressive as the outside. The foyer was a grand entrance with wooden floors polished sparkling bright. Crown molding outlined every entrance to the room and along a ten-foot ceiling. A very exquisite crystal chandelier sent sparkling hues throughout the room. The tapestries on the windows and the tabletops were a delicate touch to the décor. Down the foyer and to the right was the dining room. This, too, was a beautiful room with more than beautiful mahogany furniture. The long table was neatly polished; the high-backed chairs had elegant, curved leaf carvings. On the far wall was a china cabinet, nearly eight feet in length and eight feet high with the same leaf pattern carved in the wood surrounding several glass cabinet doors. The four sat around the near end of the table; the Casbocks on one side and Jarrett and Frank on the other.

You have a lovely home, Frank commented politely.

Thank you, but can we just get to the point of why you are here? Mr. Casbock snapped.

Certainly, Jarrett said. He reached down into his briefcase, unclipped the latches, and grabbed a manila folder he had prepared for the meeting. Then he placed it in front of him. He gave them both a serious stare swallowing hard and began with his hands folded in front of him. Mr. and Mrs. Casbock, your sons have some amazing talents on the baseball field. We have been scouting their play for the better part of a year now. And as scouts for Team USA, we have recognized that they are exactly what we need for our organization.

I told you already, Mr. Casbock blurted. "You can’t have them for your organization."

Jarrett sighed. I honestly wish this was optional, but in accordance with federal regulations in the World League Baseball Act, section 9.5.41, this is not a request. He slowly pushed the envelope toward Mr. Casbock across the table. In this folder, you will find the documentation for our right to acquisition.

Oh my god! Mrs. Casbock exclaimed, while bringing a towel to her mouth.

Mr. Casbock’s hand slammed down on the table. You can’t do this!

Jarrett nodded. It’s already been approved by your government to take the boys.

Both of them? Mr. Casbock asked.

Yes, sir, both have impressed my organization, and both will make fine professional baseball players.

What about their schooling? Mrs. Casbock spoke between sobs.

I want you to read carefully the paperwork in the envelope. It explains a number of things, including the continuance of their schooling. They will receive the finest level of education and training your government can offer.

No! I won’t let you take them! Mr. Casbock demanded.

In addition to their training, Jarrett was finished trying to overcome the objection, they will be housed in a luxury apartment and given the best medical attention money can buy.

You are not hearing me, boy, Mr. Casbock ranted. I said—

I know what you said, Mr. Casbock, but I guess what I’m trying to get across to you is, this is already a done deal. Arrangements have been made for Mr. Biettermier and me to take the boys to the Team USA Medical Center for an in-depth physical and psychological examination this evening. From there, they will begin their training to become the next-generation baseball players in the World Leagues.

You mean you are going to take them now? Mrs. Casbock asked, wiping the tears from her face.

With all due respect, yes, Mrs. Casbock. We need to take them tonight, right now, as a matter of fact.

Mr. Casbock’s hand came down on the folder and he disgustedly shoved it off the table. The papers scattered over the floor. Jarrett stood up and Frank did likewise.

Mr. Casbock, I would like to warn you that I can have the police here within a matter of minutes to assist us in our acquisition of the boys. You certainly do not want a scene with the neighbors, do you?

He sat there, staring them in the eyes for a minute, and humbly bowed his head to hide his own tears. I should have never let them play that game, he murmured. Jeannie, go get the boys.

She broke down into more tears, pushing away from the table to call her only two children, who were likely within earshot of their conversation anyway. She returned faster than she should have, confirming that the boys were undoubtedly listening to the heated conversation. Carl and Cinid both obediently followed her, still wearing their dirtied uniforms.

Jarrett smiled at them brightly. Welcome, gentlemen. Then he pulled a contract out from his briefcase. This is the documentation of what has actually taken place, Mr. Casbock. You can be assured your sons will be in the best of care the U.S. government can provide. He was ready to be interrupted again, but surprisingly the fight had dispersed from Jed Casbock. These papers show how you will be compensated for your loss. Your boys are now the property of the U.S. government, and they will be our property for the remaining part of their lives, or unless we terminate the agreement.

When can we see them? Mr. Casbock asked in a more controlled voice this time. Jarrett could see him making an attempt to restrain himself.

You are not allowed contact with them until it is permissible by the U.S. government.

And when will that be?

It’s all in the documentation that I gave you, Mr. Casbock, Jarrett said, glancing at the scattered paper on the floor. There is a number you can call to answer all your questions. I need you to sign my contract so that we can begin your compensation effective immediately. Jarrett kindly held out his gold pen.

Casbock stared at him coldly. It was a coldness that could have frozen warm water within minutes. He took the pen, signed the document, and then dropped the pen defiantly on the contract. You better believe you will compensate us, you damn asshole!

Jarrett continued, seemingly unaffected by the last comment, This is a confidential matter. Under no circumstances are you to speak with anyone concerning this incident other than the fact that the boys have been drafted into baseball service. Failure to adhere to this restriction will result in your immediate arrest and imprisonment. This includes any discussion with the news media, neighbors, and relatives. You are not to speak about this in a negative fashion to anyone. Are we clear on this?

The room was quiet for an eternity, or so it seemed. We are, Mr. Casbock finally mumbled, cowering like a beaten puppy. Tears streamed steadily down his cheeks now, but his icy stare continued. Long ago, you took a young man from this family to play this game of baseball. You took him before I was born, and he was my father. Casbock swallowed and took a deep breath. I never saw my father again, outside watching the television until I was forty-two, and by then, he was a stranger to me and I to him. He had strange scars on his head and arms and legs, but he told me those were battle wounds from the game. He wouldn’t say how they happened. He warned me about getting the boys involved in playing baseball. But I didn’t listen. He hesitated only because he was short of breath. My father’s dead, and now you are taking my boys, and I will not be able to talk to them again. He swallowed. My daddy was right.

Jarrett nonchalantly put his prosthetic arm behind his back as it was beginning to spasm. The last thing he wanted was a discussion about his arm. Your father was a great ballplayer, Mr. Casbock, he said. "I have watched and analyzed many young ballplayers in my scouting career, but I think it is safe to say your sons, the boys you trained in the game, will be just as good if not better than your father, thanks to your training and diligence in raising them. They will be great someday. They will be revered and honored by this country."

The cold stares continued. I hope you are right, Casbock said pointing his finger. "You better be right, Mr. Scout, because they were doing fine in becoming great and highly revered without baseball."

Should we pack a suitcase for the boys? Mrs. Casbock said, her voice cracking.

They don’t need anything where they are going, Frank assured them, shaking his head. They will be provided clothing and gear.

Should we at least put on clean clothes? she asked.

Not necessary, Jarrett said smiling. We’ll clean them up and take care of them just fine.

I’m not going with you, Cinid said defiantly.

Mr. Casbock turned to him and grabbed both his thin arms by the wrist. Son, listen to me, he said, tears running down his face. You must go with these men, and you must behave. That goes for you too, Carl. He looked up at Carl, locked in a hug with his mother. Carl, you are his elder brother. You need to take care of him. You both need to take care of each other now. You promise me you’ll do that?

Carl nodded. Cinid was still not satisfied with the decision. But, Dad, I don’t want to go. I don’t want to go with these men.

You go with them! Mr. Casbock ordered. If you don’t go, something very bad will happen. Do you understand?

Finally Cinid nodded, wrenching free from his father’s grip to hug him tightly. It was a scene Jarrett and Frank had seen often, making their jobs difficult. Jarrett had never admitted to any parent that their son would be great, but somehow he was confident about these two. The good-byes lasted another drawn-out twenty minutes before Jarrett, Frank, and the two boys were confidently pulling away from the house in the car. The boys made every effort not to break eye contact with their parents until they could see them no more. Cinid turned around on his seat and began crying profusely. Carl felt equally hurt, but his words of comfort brought little relief. His arm wrapped around his brother in a motherly effort to comfort him. Anger and confusion burned inside him all the way to the Champaign, Illinois airport. They were told there that they would catch a plane to the team medical center. Carl asked several questions concerning the medical center, but Jarrett and Frank did not have much to say about it, obviously holding back the precious details. The boys sensed that they would not enjoy the experience.

CHAPTER 2

The Champaign airport was a smaller version of what most considered an airport. The private plane commissioned to take them to the medical/training facility was yet to arrive, obviously delayed. The main terminal was nothing more than a few padded benches, vending machines, some computer network terminals, and an older model television, supported in the upper corner of the room with some obvious electronic issues involving the clarity of the picture. The four waited quietly in the small concourse just off one of the only two runways. The boys curiously watched the planes take off and land with expert precision. They were able to pinpoint a few of the bulkier designs destined for deep-space flight. The airport had few passengers at this time of the late night. Those passing by in the terminal were a few airport attendants desiring to purchase something from a vending machine. Nobody said anything to anybody. It was a welcome hour to allow things to settle.

The boys were asked if they were hungry, and they refused to answer. The larger man, Frank Biettermier, did not hold back from buying a large candy bar and proceeded to gorge himself as if it was his last meal. He took a couple of bites from the candy bar and meandered over to break the boredom and the silence. You know, he said between chews, we’ve had our eye on you guys for some time, he said.

What would happen if we decide to run away? Cinid asked. Obviously you could not catch us.

Jarrett laughed, overhearing the remark from a couple of seats over. You may be right about that, Cinid, but why would you run away from an opportunity like this? Why would you run from your dream to play in the bigs?

That’s not my dream, Cinid admitted. I like playing baseball, but I don’t want to play in the big leagues. So take me home now.

Frank looked at him with all seriousness. You don’t mean that.

Of course I mean it. I won’t play for you or anybody else except the Rolling Reds.

Frank supposed the Rolling Reds to be known as his youth league team. Son, obviously you can’t play for that team the rest of your life. At some point, you want to improve your skills and become a star.

I don’t want to be a star! Cinid snapped. So take me back!

Jarrett was typing something on his computer when he stopped to focus his attention on the conversation. I said the same thing when they picked me up to play the game many years ago, he said, stretching the truth. He did have reservations about leaving his family, but eventually those feelings disappeared. But I played anyway. For many years, I played, and I wouldn’t take back any of it. I’m glad they forced me to play.

Cinid thought a minute about Jarrett’s comment. Jarrett considered it a minor victory to get the young mind to contemplate the situation instead of wanting a short-term solution to his existing feelings.

What did you say your name was? Carl asked, also listening intently to their conversation.

My name is Jarrett Atkins and this is Frank Biettermier.

Carl could vaguely recall a Jarrett Atkins who played for Team USA years ago. He wasn’t much of a second baseman, but his friend eating the candy bar was a force to be reckoned with at first base. He remembered Frank’s strong suit was his long ball, his ability to hit home runs, and anchor the lineup in the cleanup position. Frank was a multiple all-star and maybe even a future Hall-of-Fame-caliber player.

I think I remember you, but why should we believe you? Carl asked cynically.

I don’t expect you to, Jarrett said. But when we get to your new home, feel free to ask anyone about the possibility of a dream come true, playing in the big leagues.

I’m not going, Cinid repeated.

Jarrett eyed him, frowning. Cinid, the arrangements have already been made. We brought you all the way to this airport, and we are not going back now, are we?

I’ll find my way back.

No, Cinid, you are going with us on that plane. You and your brother are going on that plane and will be playing for Team USA. And fifteen years down the road, you are going to come up to me and say, ‘Mr. Atkins, thanks for giving me this opportunity. I love being a baseball star.’

Cinid folded his arms and pouted in his chair as he turned away from Jarrett. How much he wanted to sleep in his own bed tonight and wake up the next morning to his summer vacation, away from school, enjoying the lazy evenings in the backyard with his brother and father, playing catch with them until the ball was difficult to see in the fading evening light! His father made a halfhearted attempt to discourage them from playing baseball, but when the boys kept insisting, like all good fathers, he eventually gave in to allow them to play the game of their dreams. Now he realized the reason behind his father’s initial malcontent with the game. He had to admit, the thought of playing baseball at the world-class level appealed to him so, but as a little boy, it was difficult for him to grasp the concept of being taken away from his life and his parents. He felt as though they were being kidnapped and could sense the pain and anguish his parents were most likely feeling right now. He yawned deeply, closing his eyes, seriously wishing he’d wake up from this bad dream.

Carl decided to join in the conversation. What happens if we decide not to play? They can’t make us play, you know.

Let’s just put it this way, Carl, Jarrett explained. If you don’t play or even if you don’t perform up to the high level that we’ve witnessed, you will be doing something a lot less desirable than playing baseball.

Why not just take us back home?

Not one ballplayer goes home once chosen. You will play baseball or will serve some other function in the organization. You do as you are told or you will be punished. Those are your choices. To be very blunt, if you refuse, you will suffer confinement, jail, or worse.

I choose jail, Cinid blurted.

Carl peered at him disappointedly. We are not going to jail, Cinid. We will play ball.

Good decision, young Casbock, Frank said, still chewing his large chocolate bar.

I’m not afraid of these goons, Cinid snapped at his brother.

Carl grabbed his arm. We will work together and we will stick together, you understand?

Cinid ripped his arm away from his grasp and began to cry. It pained Carl to see his younger brother under so much distress. He thought about something to say to comfort him, but nothing came up in his mind except thoughts of feeling sorry for himself. Finally, the plane arrived, and the boys boarded the small, eight-passenger jet. Within no time, they were airborne and headed to an unknown destination. Cinid’s tears did not stop until he finally fell asleep on the plane.

Carl tried to sleep, but found his nerves to be too overwhelmed. He had a plethora of thoughts spinning through his head, and nearly everything seemed unsettling. Carl complained about the late flight to Frank, but he could only sympathize, I was told to escort you to the baseball compound as quickly as possible. I don’t make the itineraries, he said.

The Sampsonville airport was another one of those very small and quaint airports. Carl wondered if there was a good reason why they could not fly a big commercial plane into an international airport. So much secrecy was going into their capture, he thought. He wondered about the legalities of being drafted into service. He wondered why Atkins’s right arm would shake uncontrollably now and then. Carl had several hours of a sleepless night to contemplate why things were the way they were. His reasoning took him to places that made him feel nauseated. Once landed, a bus was waiting for them outside the terminal. They walked to the parked shuttle, not expecting what was about to happen. An old, decrepit figure of a man suddenly came out from the shadows of the tall trees lining the streets. He rolled up to him in a powered wheelchair, nearly running them over on their way to the bus. Carl’s first thought was that this man was homeless. Funny how the beggars were even around at three in the morning, but this old man was not a beggar. Both his legs were amputated, as his jeans hung limply from his seat. His gray hair was greasy and unkempt. His clothing appeared tattered and musty. On the left side of his head was a large, two-inch square of scar tissue and baldness, his bloodshot eyes had this look of fear in them.

His voice cracked loudly. Son, run! he said, gulping for air as if he had wheeled his chair a great distance. Get away from them!

Someone in a dark suit came out from behind them to grab the handles of the wheelchair to pull him away. The man in the chair lunged at Carl, grabbing his shirt. I was once a ballplayer!

Carl was wrestled away from the clutches of the crippled man. The rankness of his breath was enough to make his eyes water. The legless body dropped to the pavement with a thud, and the man gave out a short yelp in pain.

Don’t go! They will turn you into a machine! he screamed, stretching his hand out, still trying to stop them from getting on the bus.

It was then that Carl realized he was being escorted by more than just Jarrett Atkins and Frank Biettermier. Men in dark suits hovered over the old man within seconds. They brusquely grabbed him from the floor and literally dropped him back into his chair nearly tipping it over backward. Carl could suddenly feel the large men pushing him from behind, coaxing him to move faster toward the bus. He graciously complied, watching his brother next to him being directed to do the same. The last twenty feet to the bus was covered in a trot.

With curiosity, Carl turned just before boarding to see a flash of one of the dark-suited men clubbing the cripple on the side of the head, or at least that is what he thought he saw. His view of the old man was partially blocked by one of his large escorts.

Get on the bus! yelled the security guard.

Although shaken, Carl obeyed. He sensed that the old man knew something. Such secrecy, the scars, the admonition, something was painfully wrong about this entire episode. If an escape plan was necessary, they must be ready. They must be ready to flee at the first hint of danger.

Frank and Jarrett stood there on the concourse, watching the two boys being escorted to the bus. They commented briefly about the crazed old man. Frank offered to begin the flight back to Chicago. Jarrett stood watching the boys nearly being carried onto the bus. What’s the matter with you? Let’s go home, Frank said, yawning.

I just wanted to see them leave is all, Jarrett replied.

"What you think, they’re your sons, or what?"

Jarrett smiled. Sure, don’t you?

I don’t need any more kids.

Not even kids who are going to set this league on fire in about five years? Jarrett replied, playfully punching his partner in his round stomach.

How can you be so sure?

I know because I scouted them. That’s how I know.

What’s that big chip on your shoulder, Atkins? Tell you what, I’ll bet you dinner that they won’t even make the team. Did you see the scrawny arms on those kids?

Jarrett smiled. Deal! Scrawny or not, they are going to turn this franchise around.

*************************

While on the bus, Carl’s focus changed to the other passengers. There were two dozen other boys his age. Some were sleeping, others were chatting. Some were dressed in their players’ uniform like Carl and Cinid. Others were wearing their everyday clothing. Another young boy sitting near the back of the bus was crying, his face glistening in the low cabin lighting. Carl took the seat opposite him and Cinid followed. He tried to make eye contact with the crying boy, but he was too distraught to even want to look at him.

In the pocket in front of him were displays of some e-magazines. At least they were an option to alleviating the boredom and terror being spread around throughout the cabin. Carl took the display and punched in for the latest sports magazine. Baseball was definitely his number one interest. Ever since he was able to throw a baseball, he lived baseball. His father taught him almost everything about the game, but his grandfather’s videos fine-tuned his skills as he learned from one who experienced nearly fourteen years of professional baseball. Carl remembered watching a recorded interview of his distant relative. He called the current game of baseball a new game of technology. He had mentioned that the game and the stakes were changing. Whatever was meant by those words was a mystery, but he did notice that rule changes were becoming more apparent than they once were for the once-stable historical game of baseball.

Years ago, even before his grandfather had experienced greatness, the league had become financially troubled. The players’ salaries had inflated to the point that the price of attending a game was out of reach for the avid baseball fan. Franchise after franchise folded to the extent that only a handful of teams existed. Ratings plummeted. Something had to be done to save the game of baseball. And then World War III entered the scene, a bloodshed that lasted eighteen cruel months. It was the most destructive war ever known to humans, killing over two billion people, nearly 25 percent of the world’s population. Baseball and all sporting events came to a complete standstill. It was a war that drove humanity nearly to extinction. Crime proliferated throughout every corner of man’s existence. Unemployment and poverty abounded. Another 30 percent of the world’s population died of starvation and disease, until somehow, someway, the planet survived, slowly recovering from the backlash of war. What was left of governments assembled and became committed to get people’s minds off the horrors of the aftermath and get them thinking about everyday life. Corruption had led them to the brink of disaster and there was only one solution to gain world trust. All governments agreed, adopting a resolution that prohibited war. If a country would even attempt a military act against another, the other nations of the world would mass together to impose an all-out attack to completely annihilate the instigator. The idea being adopted was that violence would not be tolerated anymore.

A solution to remedy national arguments was the game of baseball. Baseball was reinstated as the number one game throughout the known worlds, supplanting soccer as the most popular sport. All professional players living in America, still living after the war, were asked to try out for Team USA. Those not selected either agreed to play in the National Farm system or were eligible to find a team elsewhere. Three corporate franchises evolved from those players. Some thirty or so other teams sprang up from other various corners throughout the worlds. Each of those teams were supported either by nations or by corporations.

Carl’s grandfather played thirty years ago, when the new league was still in its infancy. He wished he was able to watch his grandfather play in a live game. He was a great pitcher, winning over 250 games in his career. Carl remembered him, admiring him so from the hundreds of hours of videos of the old games. He, too, had a very peculiar pitch that no one else used, the knuckleball. Carl became fascinated by the pitch which he found difficult to control, requiring many hours of practice, but he was up to the challenge to master it. When thrown correctly, the ball seemed to dance its way to the plate, having the appearance of a slow change-up, but without the rotation, unlike most pitches. The knuckleball was propelled with an awkward grip, allowing an odd break and unpredictable movement before reaching the plate, all dependent upon the pressure of the fingertips on the ball at the release point. It was nearly an impossible pitch to predict, if thrown correctly.

He wished he could show his grandfather what he had learned. He wished he could demonstrate his ability to throw this specialty pitch. Tragically, his grandfather was killed in a plane crash following the very last game of his career. Carl never spoke to him, nor did he even meet him. Once you were recruited to the national team, you were given very little opportunity to communicate with friends or relatives. This he knew from the stories his father used to tell. His father spoke very little of the crash and how it occurred, and very few of his grandfather’s possessions were recovered.

As Carl manipulated the various buttons on the touch pad, he began looking up the latest standings on the display. He called up the latest baseball results, and Team USA popped up onto his screen with full-blown videos and other informative displays. The standings appeared, listing Team USA fourth in the Western Continental standings, losing many more games than winning. Several years ago, U.S. teams were continually at the bottom of the division. With the acquiring of a few brilliant new players, the team had regenerated itself to a mediocre competitor once again. Such players were Mats Gene, a great new pitcher with a 100-mph fastball, and Stub Brown, a super fast outfielder with the legs of a kangaroo. Then there was Gants Selvester, a seven-foot first baseman with the power to launch a ball regularly over a four hundred-and-fifty-foot fence. Team USA was undoubtedly on the rebound after nearly a decade of losing. They had an unprecedented amount of youth, earning jobs within the organization, forcing the veteran stars to go to other teams in trade or free agency. Never did he dream he would be going to play for the big team, meeting some of the players, and playing with them on the same field. It all seemed like a far-fetched dream, so distant, so impossible.

Did you see that cripple? Cinid asked, checking the seat pocket in front of him.

Carl nodded and leaned toward him. Cinid, pretend like you’re not talking to me, Carl whispered over the subdued cabin noise.

Huh?

Just listen, he whispered. Throughout the entire thirty-minute bus ride, he had reflected on the crippled man and what he had said. "I want you to