Gatewood Returns: A Love and Death Mystery & Political Espionage Novel

By Hal Graff

Welcome to the twenty-seventh exciting episode of the Love and Death Mystery and Political Espionage Series. 

     After retiring from official duty with the CIO, Harold Gatewood is coaxed back into service after living a peacefu

• Language: English
• Publisher: Harold Graff II Publishing
• Release date: Dec 18, 2023
• ISBN: 9781962730822

Hal Graff

Dr. Hal Graff holds a doctorate in business administration. He is a native of Gibson City, Illinois. Hal is a proud father and grandfather. To date, he has published 104 books, including 96 novels. He has published over 6 million 900,000, words.

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Prologue

THE COLD, NORTH WIND chilled the bones of a trimly-built, athletic, handsome, man dressed in clothes warm enough to warm off Winter’s brutal March first weather. He took a deep breath, exhaled, and breath hang in the air, and then evaporate.

The man then started to jog North on the country road that led past his beautiful home perched on a hill a mile outside his small, quaint, Norman- Rockwell-like, hometown. As he clicked off the first mile, the thought about the past of his life.

He had been a professional baseball player, successful businessman, a farm owner, a best-selling author, and had then become, through a series of miraculous events, an accidental hero. What had followed was another miracle. He had become America’s best covert agent.

After reaching the mid-point of his jog, he turned around and headed South, back toward his home. He was thankful, as he was now jogging with the brutal, cold, wind at his back. As the man continued to head home, thoughts about his past life, and his multitude of sins, stabbed his mind, and heart, with sorrow.

When the man reached the driveway that led up the lane to his home, he was breathing heavily. He’d jogged his regular, daily, five-mile, round-trip, punishing, route, but today, he’d labored, as he was trying to fight off a cold, or worse.

After reaching his home, he peeled off his sweat clothes, went to the refrigerator, took out a pitcher, poured himself a glass of cold water, and drank it down slowly, in order to avoid a head rush of pain.

He then headed to the shower. While the stream of hot water attacked his face, he continued to think about his two lives, the one before he became a covert agent, and the one after,

After finishing his shower, he toweled off, and started to ready himself for the day. When he looked in the mirror, he saw the physical medals of the second half of his life.

There were scars from the bullet fired from AIO National Commander Ekain Koldo that entered his upper back, and exited his upper chest.

There was also scar tissue from the one-hundred-fifty-four stiches he’d endured after being bit by a shark while trying to save a woman he’d loved, a North Korean spy.

There were also numerous scars from errant knives thrust in his direction, broken bones that had healed, a once-handsome pug nose that was now slightly, off-center, due to it being broken three times during physical battles to save his life.

Those scars, and many others, were on display, and able to be seen. The most damaging scars were invisible, and resided in his mind, and his heart. They were the worse, and they couldn’t be stitched up, or mended back in place. They were his constant reminders, and his regular visitors, in the nightmares he suffered about his life as a covert agent.

The man then thought of the warnings he’d received in his first life, that of a professional baseball player, and in his second life, after his escape from death near the end first mission, at the Festival of San Fermin, and the Running of the Bulls, in Pamplona, Spain.

He then laughed, as he remembered the first time a doctor had told him that his baseball career was over. As he had rubbed his sore arm, his doctor’s words had echoed in his head: You need to find a new profession.

And then, after a nine-year career in the major leagues, another doctor had said them again. The man had always proved the doctors wrong, and had always done whatever was needed: rest, rehabilitation, surgery, pain, effort, courage, or dedication. He had always come back, usually smarter, and better, in many respects.

At that time, before he’d left for Pamplona, he’d know two things. One, his arm was the worst it had ever been. Everything he had tried had been a total failure. Two, he’d vowed he would prove them wrong again.

And, he had done so,

The trip to the San Fermin festival, in Pamplona, had led him in a new direction, and a life. Now, he was retired, and out of government service. He no longer had to face danger, dodge bullets, kill evil villains, play the spy verses spy game, or be a lethal weapon in the deadly world of political espionage.

He was free, safe, rich, and able to live a comfortable life. He never wanted, or had, to go back to his prior life of danger.

After he finished readying himself for the rest of his day, he walked to the living room of his spacious home, sat down in his favorite, living room chair, relaxed, and looked out the window at the beautiful, fluffy, white, apron of snow that covered the ground.

His reflective, peaceful, mood was interrupted when his cell phone sounded.

He answered, This is Harold Gatewood. How can I help you?

Hi Harold. This is Rick Owens. How have you been?

I’ve been wonderful. How about you?

I’ve been doing great as well. Thanks for asking.

What’s on your mind, Rick?

Gatewood then listened as Rick Owens informed him why he had called. The retired agent then said, Are you serious? I’m officially retired, and forever out of the spy business.

Harold, it’s serious.

Gatewood laughed, and then said, It always is, isn’t it, Rick?

It is serious this time. And, you’re the only man who can do what is needed.

After listening to Owens’ sales pitch, Gatewood humored him, and said, Go back to Japan? I don’t think so. The Yakuza almost killed me each time when I was there.

The Yakuza has ramped up their gun sales. Their actions are now creating a blood bath on the streets of most of our country’s bigger cities. We need you to go to Tokyo, and help us reduce the massive flow of forearms into America.

Rick, how am I going to do that?

You can gain entry into the leadership of their organization. The woman still runs the organization. You can use your relationship with her to help us reduce, or hopefully, eliminate this problem. Yua Hayato still loves you, Harold.

I know she does. She tells me that every time we’re together. She’s coming here soon, to be with me for a week.

Will you at least think about it?

I’ll need some time. What’s your timetable for the mission?

It depends on if you’ll take the mission. You can take as long as you want to decide. Ideally, if we could know if you’re interested within a couple weeks, we would appreciate it.

I’ll think about it.

Thanks. If you chose not to help us, I’ll understand.

I appreciate that.

After ending the conversation, Gatewood thought about Rick Owens’ offer.

I’ve done my duty. Plus, the Yakuza still wants to kill me. Yua Hayato does love me, and that’s why she’s stopped her soldiers from coming after me. We’ve been lovers for years. I do love her, as far as that ever goes. But I don’t want to rock the boat. I like things the way there are now.

He then thought, But, I do owe them one for what they’ve done to me. Maybe I’ll take the mission if I can figure out how to reduce the flow of firearms into the America, and still keep Yua in my bed. I’ll think about it.

Chapter 1

My First Life – Baseball, Part One

March 1

AFTER SPEAKING WITH Director Rick Owens about coming out of retirement to again work for the CIO, Harold Gatewood thought about his life. His first life had been his time in baseball.

That life had been divided into two parts. The first part was the time up to when he was told that his career was over, and he had gone to the Festival of San Fermin in Pamplona, Spain. The second part of his baseball life had been after he’d gone to Pamplona.

When Harold had headed to Pamplona, he was experiencing his first summer away from baseball since he was eight years old. The empty time away from the game, the competition, his teammates, the clubhouse, and being a ballplayer had been depressing.

He had come from a baseball family, and his time as a boy had been spent thinking about, learning about, and formulating dreams of becoming a major league player. It had been the natural state of his existence.

His biggest, and most important, influence had always been his dad, Dean Gatewood. The elder Gatewood had been a former all-American, and professional, catcher who had been injured the day before he was to report to the parent club in the major leagues. The knee injury had ended his climb to the majors. Harold’s dad had always been his hero, and had taught him what he needed to know about the game from the time of his birth.

Most of all, his dad had been his hero because of the type of man he had always been. Blessed with character, personality, drive, and confidence, his dad had instilled those qualities in Harold.

The son had also been blessed with a wonderful mother, a former athlete herself. The father had been a respected high school and college coach before entering the business world as a salesman and land developer.

Gatewood’s baseball schooling was based on learning the age old tried and true, basic fundamentals and enjoying the game. The father had written a book about winning baseball through percentage coaching, fundamentals, and positive player motivation. The prize student had been the son. Harold’s father had been the model for the son’s career.

When Harold had arrived at the family home after his birth, a baseball uniform had been waiting for him. His mother had made the gray and red uniform top. The back of the jersey had his last name, and the fraction one-half, as his number.

Almost every second of his boyhood had been related to baseball—playing ball with the neighborhood kids at the diamonds they made in their yards, or at the town ball field by the swimming pool, near the North park. He had always been mad when everyone else would have to quit and go home. He had then practiced on his own, and had dreamed of being a professional player.

After high school graduation, Harold had been chosen in the early rounds of the draft. Signing a professional contract had been temping. His father knew that a year or two of growth would allow the son to put more muscle on his one-hundred-seventy-pound, athletic, frame, get more exposure from professional scouts, and help him become a first-round choice, and enjoy all the money and advantages that came with it.

Harold’s college years were excellent when they were not marred by the injuries, much like his father’s own injuries, that would dog him the rest of his career. He had always played hard, and he had the sore arms, stitches, concussions, and a broken nose, fingers, and foot to prove it.

The foot injury, which had never fully healed, had delayed his signing a professional contract by two years. Other injuries would delay the start of his career for another two years. He ended up spending four years in college, at Union University.

He had been drafted four times, but he didn’t’ sign because his injuries always come at the wrong time. They had negatively affected his timing and weight transfer when hitting, and the ability to mow down base runners trying to steal bases, which was his strong suit.

His college coach had been a fine gentleman, and one of the top baseball men in the country. His coach had helped him in the area of player development during the college seasons, and in the best college league in the country, for three years.

In the seasons, when he was not injured, he was an all-star catcher and the number one, catching prospect in the country. Harold’s skills, the best hands in the country, the ability to think and manage catching a baseball game, the ability to catch and block the low balls thrown in the dirt, and the ability to hit with power, had become sharper as he’d matured.

His main failing had been a hot, German-like, temper he had inherited from his grandfather, which needed to be kept under control. No one could say he was not competitive, but his temper needed to be tempered.

Finally, he’d graduated, signed a contract, and had started his pro career. He’d been slated to go up to the parent club at the end of the second year, but a vote was taken and the injuries had implemented the swing vote, and had delayed his arrival to the majors two years later than had been planned.

His career, in the first part of his baseball life, had lasted nine years, including contributions as a starting catcher, a platooning catcher against left-handed pitchers, and a late-inning defensive replacement. The last two years had also included pinch-hitting duties against left-handed pitching.

In nine years, embarrassing mistakes had caused Gatewood to seek asylum in a hole, out of sight, with the earth pulled on top of him. Despite those instances, there had been two all-star selections, one by the fans, and one by his manager.

For coaching the winning World Series team, his manager had been rewarded with the honor of managing the game. Harold had played in one World Series, hitting a single to center field to clinch the series-winning game, in the exact manner his dad had taught him. The hit had the apex of Harold’s career to that point in time.

At the time he’d gone to Pamplona, Spain, he had become thirty-five, going on thirty-six, his body had been beat up physically, and he had again been dealing with severe pain in his arm. His constant suffering caused by a prior arm injury, had made the doctors advise him that he would probably require surgery and rehabilitation.

He’d been released by the major league club, was out of baseball, and had become washed up in many, people’s eyes, but not in his own. Being a person no grata, and unable to cut the mustard as a big leaguer anymore had been hard to take.

There had been many prior comebacks from injuries, and he had been confident that his arm would again be what it was in its prime. The ability to catch at a high level was still there, and there were still left-handed pitchers to terrorize.

Harold’s batting average had seen a rapid rise in the last three years, which had been due to the platooning system where he played only against left-handed pitchers, and a change in his hitting style. The decision to go back to his natural stance, swing, and mental approach had paid dividends. His natural power to right-center field had returned when he had renewed his journey back to his hitting roots.

Over his career, his coaches had advised him to change himself into a pull hitter to left field, in order to increase his home run production. His college coach had also put Harold on the path. Harold had then been thrilled to return to his original hitting style, and he felt it could get him back into the majors, or Japan, China, or South Korea to work his way back to the big leagues.

If his career had reached its end, and no comeback was possible, he had wondered what would he do next?

He had invested in twenty-one-hundred, rich, black, dirt acres of central Illinois farmland. His grandfather, one of his biggest fans and an important part of his life, and his dad, had invested in farmland. They had successfully buying, selling, and trading up in value for many years.

No better businessman existed than his dad, and Harold had hired him to manage the farms, which had always raised corn and soybeans. His plan was to continue in the farming business and add other ventures.

He had many other options as well. He had earned a master’s degree in finance before starting his professional baseball career. His thesis had compared the preferential choice of insurance marketing systems. His findings had identified interesting, relevant, relationships in the comparison between captive agents, and independent brokers for financial salespeople.

Three years prior to his injury and resulting trip to Spain, he had earned a doctoral degree. The dissertation hade addressed the career-related training behaviors, and motivation, of professional baseball players. For Gatewood, learning had always been easy.

He also had other choices, in and out of baseball, if being a player had no longer existed. Many had people thought that he had the qualities to become an excellent manager at the highest level in the professional ranks, which had been very appealing option.

He had thought about becoming a sports agent, announcing, finding more endorsements, and had also found other business opportunities that would offer good possibilities. It he was through as a player, he had decided to considered them, as the time was possibly right.

He had also considered the romantic, fantasy, career options, such as fishing during the summers in Canada, becoming a trout bum for several months in Montana, hiding out in Florida to fish the months of the tarpon run, spending November and December in South Dakota taking a toll on the pheasant population, and hiding out in Chile to escape the winter months and battle more trout.

Gatewood had also owned a hunting and fishing booking agency, and he’d sold trips to many terrific locations around the world. Harold’s love for the outdoors had grasped his spirit long ago, and it had long ago decided that the outdoors would always be part of his life.

There were more things that could pique his interest and efforts. There would always be the addition of more farms. Becoming an author had been part of his DNA since boyhood, and many topics had become cataloged in his mind, ready to be unlocked and put on paper.

Inventions of products were also floating around in his head. He’d even done stand-up comedy, which had sometimes created a problem. The crowds had laughed at how he played ball at times, but they were silent during his comedy routine.

Thoughts of what Gatewood would do next could be addressed in the future. Now, the goal was a baseball comeback. His goal was three or four more years in the major leagues, if he regained his good health, and past skills. His immediate plans had included a few days in Spain at the Festival of San Toro de Lidia, which had always been on his to-do list.

Harold had decided that he would make a phone call, book the ticket, and start the adventure in Pamplona, Spain. He hadn’t known the details of the journey, but he had been looking forward to an interesting trip.

As he had headed to the Festival of San Toro de Lidia in Spain to watch the Running of the Bulls, he’d wanted to get away from the haunting fact that his baseball career might be over.

Once he’d arrived in Pamplona, the excitement and pageantry of the festival had made him enthusiastic once again. What had followed had been a whirlwind, danger-packed series of events that had been waiting for him. Love had blossomed with a beautiful model, who’d been living with a mysterious past, and a dangerous present lifestyle.

Gatewood had then been thrust into the middle of the San Toro de Lidia Murder Spree investigation, personal encounters with a sociopathic serial killer, threats from his female companion’s former lover, involvement in political espionage, and battles with an international terrorist organization.

Operation Ice Chest had attempted to create death and panic at a cultural landmark, the bullring, during the festival. Tussles and combined efforts with local authorities and the Agence de Renseignement had led to a series of surprise endings and events that had forever changed Harold’s life.

Those experiences in Spain had then led him to his next adventure, and then many more, as he had then traveled a path that had led to his recognition as America’s greatest secret agent.

Now, as he had sat in his living room in Gibson City, Illinois, watching the snow fall, Harold had remembered his first meeting with the woman who would had become a driving force in his metamorphosis from baseball player into an accidental hero, and then into his career with the CIO.

In Pamplona, Spain, his friend, Gabriel Domeka, had parked his car in front of the hotel, had slid out of the front seat, had walked into the lobby, and had headed to the front desk. He had been smiling to himself and had been wondering how the evening would play out. He had walked to the front desk and had asked them to call Harold Gatewood. Room one hundred please.

Very good, Sir. I will dial it for you.

Gabriel had been delighted to hear Harold’s voice, and had asked him to come down to the lobby so they could leave for the Domeka condo. Gabriel had been looking forward to the dinner party, and had been excited to watch Gatewood’s reactions to the other dinner guest. The evening had offered a nice opportunity to catch up again on old times.

Gabriel was a tall, husky, mustachioed, dark-haired gentleman in his upper fifties. He had always held a cigar in his right hand, and he had greeted Gatewood in that manner as he entered the lobby.

Domeka said, Let’s go, my friend. Adventure waits.

You’re on. Let’s go.

During the fifteen-minute drive to the condo, their conversation had covered much ground.

I must ask you, Harold. Reports of your injuries and release from baseball have caused my wife and me much concern. How are you?

Many people say I am washed up, Gabriel. If I can rehab my arm after surgery, I can come back.

Well, Harold, let’s all celebrate that tonight. I have a little surprise for you tonight, my friend.

Gabriel had measured his words carefully. He had gotten a rush of pleasure from the fact that Gatewood had heard his comments, but they had not totally registered in his mind. Yes, the evening had promised to be an interesting one.

At the condo, the hosts had conducted a grand tour of their home, which had reflected their taste and success. Gabriel had discussed this year’s wine quality, which had been good despite the drought and water shortage. The vines had to work harder and reach deeper into the soil to create a premium vintage. The three people had relaxed, and had waited for the last dinner guest to arrive.

When the last dinner guest arrived, Harold had thought, Oh my. This is going to be trouble. Things are going to happen to me now.

She had dark, inviting, brown eyes, long eyelashes, a beautiful mouth, a devastating smile, and shoulder-length chestnut hair with traces of red bursting forth at irregular intervals.

Her olive dark skin held a healthy glow, and her soft, broad shoulders allowed well-placed curves to flow from her upper body down to her, thin, beautiful, waist, hips, and legs. She was five foot one and weighed 101 pounds.

She was slender and fit. Harold had guessed she was a tennis player or a serious swimmer. Her eyes had dilated when they first looked at each other.

Miss Lore Maitea Lehoi, I would like to introduce you to Mr. Harold Gatewood. He is from the United States.

When Harold had taken her hand, its shape had fit perfectly into his. Her soft, long fingers and firm grip had added to the excitement of the moment. He had guessed her dress size was a zero.

The four dinner companions had then enjoyed cocktails, and a catered dinner. Everyone had been having fun, and the conversation had been interesting and light. Lore had displayed a relaxed, laid-back manner. Her personality had matched his when he was away from a ball field. She had talked of many things, including her passions, which had flashed looks of steel-like determination and confidence. Those aspects had led to her success in the modeling industry.

For the past twelve years, she had excelled in every segment of her industry, including magazines, commercials, runway, and acting. She had also lived a jet-setting lifestyle. Yet, despite her sophistication, she had a down-to-earth, quirky sense of humor, much like Harold’s.

Several times, she laughed so hard at his comments that she had softly snorted through her nose, which had led to his uproarious response. He had sensed a touch of tomboy in her, which had been very appealing.

Her face, blessed with perfect symmetry and captivating allure, had fueled her initial modeling career, and it had also captured Gatewood’s attention immediately. He had felt weak in the knees from the first instant he had looked at her.

He was a handsome man who had had the honor of being with many of the world’s most beautiful women, and he had been pursued by hordes of female, baseball groupies over his career. He had then felt like a groupie, and he had become very interested in learning more about this beautiful, interesting woman.

Even though he had a doctoral degree, he hadn’t needed that knowledge to enjoy how beautiful she looked. She was radiant and oozed confidence. While her beauty had opened the doors for her success, her actions in the modeling industry were a testimony to her talent, dedication, and hard work.

The evening had been very enjoyable, and the longer it had continued, the more it seemed like she and he had been the only ones talking and laughing. Several times, he was sure they had neglected to answer questions from their hosts. It had been a series of errors not rooted in rudeness but in a mutual interest.

He had wondered what the hosts thought, and he had decided they were probably laughing on the inside. She had asked how long his visit would last. He had joyfully mentioned that he was flexible in terms of a departure date, but that he had plans to stay at least through the end of the festival. She mentioned she had a commitment or two in the next week, but she would also be around. She had suggested that they should get together again.

After trading phone numbers with Harold, she had thanked the hosts and had mentioned that she needed to see her parents tomorrow.

When it was his turn to leave, he had thanked his hosts. They had asked if he had enjoyed the evening, and he had smiled like the cat that ate the canary. He had added that he hoped he had not upset them by unintentionally ignoring some of their questions.

Oh no. We are so happy that you two were getting along so well. We had thought you might make a nice couple. We were matchmaking tonight, and based on what we saw, we might have found a new career.

After saying a final thank you to Gabriel and Nahia, Harold had asked for a ride back to his hotel. As the car had headed to his home away from home, Gabriel had told him how he had grown up with Lore’s father. He had seen the country changing through the political strife and terrorism.

As the car had pulled up to the hotel, Gabriel had mentioned that Lore had told Nahia that she thought Harold was a charming, interesting gentleman.

See where it goes. Enjoy the hunt, and keep us posted. Don’t worry about the ex-boyfriend, the bullfighter. He’s out of the picture.

Harold had relied, Thanks. I owe you for this one.

Once in his room, with good thoughts swimming in his head, he’d sat down on his bed, and had thought about the dinner party. He’d met many wonderful women over the years, but this one was very different and unique. He couldn’t wait to be with her again.

From the night on, Harold Gatewood’s life had never been the same. He was no long just a great baseball player facing the end of his career. He was a man whose life was going to take a new, exciting, dangerous, deadly, direction.

Chapter 2

My First Life – Baseball, Part Two

- The First Comeback

March 1

AS HAROLD GATEWOOD sat in his living room, he watched the snow start to fall on his front lawn. It was the soft, powdery, kind of snow that the folks who’re hooked on skiing love, and the reason why many people move to Colorado.

He then thought about his baseball life, the one after he’d gone to Pamplona, Spain, and become the Accidental hero of the San Toro de Lidia Festival, the Running of the Bulls, the city, and the country of Spain.

He’d even been awarded the Legion of Distinguished Honor, Order of Bravery, by the King of Spain, Alfonso IV, for his actions in stopping Operation Ice Chest and helping his friends, Pamplona Police Detectives Estebe Jakome and Joseba Iker, solve the San Toro de Lidia murder spree killings.

After his experiences in Pamplona, Harold had then moved on to Cuba to scout the Universal Baseball Games in Havana for the Major League Scouting Bureau. He had wanted to stay connected to the people in baseball, as unknown to any of them, he had continued his comeback attempt.

After saving the life of Cuban President Alberto Alvaro Bertalina at the Universal games, and preventing the president from being assassinated on another occasion, he then helped prevent a coup designed to topple the Bertalina’s Cuban government. His fame had grown once again.

He had then returned home, and in the Spring of the next year, he’d continued his strength conditioning and workouts, and had then signed a contract with an independent team, the Central Illinois Magicians, located in Bloomington, Illinois.

After making the All-Star team, his manager, Pat Sullivan, had called him into his office. Harold had thought he was going to be released but had been pleasantly surprised when Sullivan had different news for him.

He vividly remembered that experience, as it had thrilled him immensely.

On his first day with the Magicians, Gatewood had walked into the clubhouse of the Central Illinois Magicians with a smile on his face. He was back in baseball after two years and eight months of banishment due to injuries on and off the field. He had a new lease on life, and he appreciated the return, one in which he would make the most of his opportunity.

He had been picked up by the Magicians at the request of his friend from their prior years together in the major leagues, Pat Sullivan. Sullivan was in his first year of managing in organized baseball, after a twelve-year big-league career.

Harold hadn’t been sure if he was signed because he could contribute to the team’s success, or if it had been an attempt to boost attendance, as his father and he had both played baseball in college in the same city as his new club, the Magicians.

The Frontier League had fourteen teams, seven in each of two divisions. Travel was by bus, as the distances between franchises were close. In Illinois the teams in the Northern Division, besides his club, were the Rockford Pilots, Elk Grove Elks, Mount Prospect Rangers, Freeport Giants, the Madison, Wisconsin Bearcats, and the Holland, Michigan wooden Shoes.

The Southern Division teams were the Herrin Cardinals, Effingham Guardians, Edwardsville Orchards, and three Indiana teams, the Kokomo Commodores, Booneville Distillers, Terre Haute Falcons, and the Muncie Mustangs.

The schedule was comprised of ninety-five games, with an All-Star game and a best of seven World Series. Counting the World Series, should his team make it, the season would go from mid-May to October first.

Rosters were made up of twenty-three players, eleven of which had no previous professional baseball experience, and twelve players who could be any age, and have any length of service in organized baseball.

Many of the players were young, making Harold feel like a true senior citizen. He had been tagged with the nickname Methuselah, of Biblical fame. Although he was not nine-hundred, sixty-nine, years old, he had felt like most of the young players’ older brother, or father, due to the age difference.

Some of his other teammates were working their way down, and out of baseball, a story with which he was way too familiar.

He had empathized with them about what words they might be told one day, You need to look for a new profession, which he had heard before, and hoped he would not hear ever again.

Harold had signed for an amount barely above the minimum league salary, but money wasn’t why he was playing. The opportunity was the reason why he had worked hard to make his return. His agent, Randle Quinn, had told him that it was a good opportunity for his comeback, and that if he produced, the Magicians would sell his contract to an interested team. It was the way back, if he could regain his skills, and produce.

Harold’s home in Gibson City was forty-five miles from the ballpark, but he would stay in the city, so he could be at the ballpark early every day to work on his strength and skills. He still did his Tai chi and Taekwondo workouts in addition to his pregame drills.

His arm and shoulder were great, without any stiffness. He had religiously stuck to a running program during his comeback period, with the result of a reduction in body fat and an increase in stamina and endurance. He felt great.

In his first game, against the Madison Bearcats, he was asked to pinch hit, and was called out on a high breaking ball out of the strike zone, but a called strike no less. Harold realized he would have to be more aggressive when certain umpires were working behind the plate, as they also had a goal of working their way up the ladder of professional baseball.

In May, Harold had enjoyed respectable production, with a .280 batting average, three home runs, and nine runs batted in. He had been used as he thought he would be, as a pinch hitter against left-handed pitchers, and in the outfield, third base, and first base when he was starting, again against left-handed pitching.

In June, Harold had caught fire, and was hitting as he had done in the best years of his career. He had found his skill for hitting to right center field, with power. His strength conditioning had brought back his power. For June, Harold had hit .437, with 14 homers, and a whopping total of thirty-seven runs-batted in.

The first week of July had featured a continuation of the hot streak with six more homeruns, and eleven runs batted in. He