The Ballad of Ted Williams
Mar. 2nd, 2011 11:49 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
hwrnmnbsolAttention: baseball season is here. That is all.
He stirred in his freezer in Scottsdale, the greatest hitter baseball had ever known. Nobody knew what it was that caused him to come back to life. Perhaps it was Barry Bonds’ case advancing, or disharmony in the Universal Sports Vibrations related to the looming NFL work stoppage, or a stray comet. But come back to life he did, and with a mission.
The door to the freezer in ALCOR shook as he fumbled and jiggered with the handle. Finally his frozen fingers traced out the window in the door, and with a balled fist he smashed the glass. He cleared the glass out of the frame, caring nothing for the sharp edges, and reached through to release the door latch from the outside. He stepped through into the lab – Ted Williams, baseball legend, left fielder for the Boston Red Sox, and the most recent man to bat over .400 in a season. He raised his fists, released from his frozen slumber and prison.
But something was wrong. He couldn’t see anything. Ted Williams groped for his face, but his numb fingers couldn’t feel anything. It took him a few minutes to figure out the problem - he didn’t have a head. Some say a clumsy ALCOR employee broke it off while moving his body. Others whisper of conspiracy, saying scientists wanted to dissect his brain to find out what made him such a hitting prodigy. But regardless of why it might have been, Ted Williams had no head – and he wasn’t happy. He roared with rage, although in the absence of his head it came out of his jagged neck-stump as a kind of whistling sound.
Ted Williams smashed laboratory equipment, threw a lab worker aside, and broke down the back door to the ALCOR cryogenic unit. He stormed into the streets of Scottsdale, creating a general panic as a frost-coated headless apparition raged blindly through downtown, staggering across streets and upsetting hot dog carts.
Now, Scottsdale Stadium in downtown Scottsdale is the site of spring training for the San Francisco Giants. Some sort of baseball sixth sense drew Ted Williams there; still in the grip of a mindless rage, he broke in some service doors and stormed onto the field. There he felt grass on his feet; he bumped into a backstop; his fingers traced trails through clay and chalk, and felt the outlines of a home plate. He knew he was on a baseball diamond.
The Giants players were terrified, of course, but they suspended their practice and watched carefully as headless, naked Ted Williams groped around for the bat rack. When he found it and began fondling the grips, Tim Flannery became agitated.
“We gotta do something; he’ll wreck the gear,” he said.
“Nah,” said Bruce Bochy, the manager. “I wanna see this. Let him hold a bat.”
Ted Williams carefully selected a bat. It was the lightest bat in the rack, and one none of the team power hitters would ever use. Miguel Tejada shook his head, but Hensley Meulens nodded approvingly. “Just what Ted would have done when he was alive,” he said. “He always took a light bat; said he could bring it around quicker.”
Williams held the bat in his hands. He was beginning to thaw, and the moisture was making his grip slick. He edged his hands along the bat, choking up, letting out, trying to sample the feel of the bat in his hands. Suddenly he pivoted his body, bringing the bat around in a heavy pull, his wrists flexing. A few of the Giants hitters applauded.
Ted Williams didn’t need eyes to find his way back to home plate. He walked there, the soles of his feet telling him when he had crossed into the batter’s box, his big toe measuring the distance to the side of the plate. He tapped his bat on the plate a few times, drew himself into his batting stance, and waited.
The Giants looked and him and at each other. Finally Tim Lincecum picked up his glove. “Yeah, I’ll throw a few ropes to Ted Frickin’ Williams,” he said. He trotted out to the mound, and Buster Posey warily went to crouch behind the plate.
Lincecum dusted his hand and massaged the ball in his grip, sizing Ted Williams up. “How am I supposed to read a guy who has no eyes?” he muttered to himself. Buster pointed to his inner thigh: fastball.
“Hey, Buster,” Lincecum called, “I don’t think this guy is gonna steal our signals.”
“Fine, then whip it over here,” Posey shot back.
Tim Lincecum wound up and released, throwing a nice easy eighty-four mile an hour pitch down the middle. It sailed right past Ted Williams, who didn’t so much as twitch. He felt its passage, though – air shockwaves buffeted his chest; he felt the breeze on his arms and legs. He reached out a hand and felt the air over the plate, wiggling his fingers through the exact space where the ball had passed.
Buster threw the ball back to Lincecum. “Strike one,” he said, grinning. “Hey, if you can strike out Ted Williams, that would be something to talk about – head or no head.”
Hensley Meulens nudged Bruce Bochy. “He ain’t gonna strike out no Ted Williams,” he whispered.
Ted Williams stepped back from the plate. He tapped the bat against his feet, an instinct to clear the cleats that weren’t there, and turned to spit. A thin foam wheezed out of his neck-stump, causing the Giants to cringe, and it dripped on the ground. Embarrassed, Ted wiped it clear and returned to the plate. He tapped his bat on the plate once more and assumed his crouch.
“’Nother fastball,” called Buster.
“Low in the zone,” echoed Lincecum. He wound up and threw.
The ball whipped out and down, landing in Posey’s glove just above Ted’s knees. Again Ted Williams didn’t budge. “Strike two!” shouted the catcher jubilantly.
Ted reached out with a hand and mimed feeling a plane just below his knee. BALL, he seemed to be saying.
“No ball!” shouted Buster. “What are you, blind? Oh, wait.”
“Tim?” asked Lincecum, pointing to the third base coach for appeal.
“Definitely a strike,” said Tim Flannery.
Ted Williams stepped back from the plate again. He reached down and took up a handful of dirt and rubbed it over his hands to mop up the condensation of his thawing. He stretched his arms and legs, cracked his knuckles, and took up the bat again. Tim Lincecum eyed him from the mound.
“I’m bringing the heat!” he announced.
“Don’t be waving off my signals when you’re throwing against a guy with no head!” protested Buster.
“The heat,” repeated Lincecum. He wound up and fired.
From the batter’s box, Ted William’s skin picked up on microscopic air pressure changes as the fastball bore down on the plate. Working entirely on instinct, his entire body uncoiled and whipped around, bringing the bat to bear in a blur. There was a crack that sang through the bleachers, and the ball arced up and down to disappear behind the left field wall. Lincecum watched it go out.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“We gotta get that guy a uniform,” said Tim Flannery.
“We gotta get that guy a new head,” said Hensley Meulens.
“We’ll need to clear some roster space, too,” said Bruce Bochy. “Peguero! Back down to the minors, kid!”
“Hey!” said Francisco Peguero.
“Wait!” said Tim Lincecum. “What’s happening?”
The wrist of Ted Williams’ left hand had cracked, and the bat was now hanging crazily. Ted felt that something was wrong and reached out with his right hand to probe his damaged arm. As he was feeling it the entire left hand came off, the fingers twitching like a dying insect. Then Ted’s entire right arm dropped off. With a disgusting tearing sound, Ted Williams’ body disintegrated and slid to the ground in a dozen quivering chunks.
“He couldn’t handle the strain of thawing,” wondered Hensley Meulens.
“Peguero! You’re back in, my boy!” shouted Bochy.
“Nice to know where I stand,” grumbled Francisco.
Tim Flannery stood over the pile of chunks that had formerly been the body of the greatest hitter in baseball. “Well, I guess the grounds crew is going to have to take care of this,” he mused.
Miguel Tejada reached down and plucked the very light bat from Ted Williams' rapidly warming fingers. “Huh,” he said contemplatively, giving the bat a few swings.
And that was that. I’m not sure what it all meant in any cosmic sense. But for one brief moment on a bright spring morning, one of baseball’s greats showed everybody why they were a legend, hitting a home run off a great pitcher on an oh-and-two pitch.
Inside the ALCOR freezer, a head stirred inside a mostly-fogged jar. “Shoulda been one-and-one,” it said thickly, its tongue coated with frost.
He stirred in his freezer in Scottsdale, the greatest hitter baseball had ever known. Nobody knew what it was that caused him to come back to life. Perhaps it was Barry Bonds’ case advancing, or disharmony in the Universal Sports Vibrations related to the looming NFL work stoppage, or a stray comet. But come back to life he did, and with a mission.
The door to the freezer in ALCOR shook as he fumbled and jiggered with the handle. Finally his frozen fingers traced out the window in the door, and with a balled fist he smashed the glass. He cleared the glass out of the frame, caring nothing for the sharp edges, and reached through to release the door latch from the outside. He stepped through into the lab – Ted Williams, baseball legend, left fielder for the Boston Red Sox, and the most recent man to bat over .400 in a season. He raised his fists, released from his frozen slumber and prison.
But something was wrong. He couldn’t see anything. Ted Williams groped for his face, but his numb fingers couldn’t feel anything. It took him a few minutes to figure out the problem - he didn’t have a head. Some say a clumsy ALCOR employee broke it off while moving his body. Others whisper of conspiracy, saying scientists wanted to dissect his brain to find out what made him such a hitting prodigy. But regardless of why it might have been, Ted Williams had no head – and he wasn’t happy. He roared with rage, although in the absence of his head it came out of his jagged neck-stump as a kind of whistling sound.
Ted Williams smashed laboratory equipment, threw a lab worker aside, and broke down the back door to the ALCOR cryogenic unit. He stormed into the streets of Scottsdale, creating a general panic as a frost-coated headless apparition raged blindly through downtown, staggering across streets and upsetting hot dog carts.
Now, Scottsdale Stadium in downtown Scottsdale is the site of spring training for the San Francisco Giants. Some sort of baseball sixth sense drew Ted Williams there; still in the grip of a mindless rage, he broke in some service doors and stormed onto the field. There he felt grass on his feet; he bumped into a backstop; his fingers traced trails through clay and chalk, and felt the outlines of a home plate. He knew he was on a baseball diamond.
The Giants players were terrified, of course, but they suspended their practice and watched carefully as headless, naked Ted Williams groped around for the bat rack. When he found it and began fondling the grips, Tim Flannery became agitated.
“We gotta do something; he’ll wreck the gear,” he said.
“Nah,” said Bruce Bochy, the manager. “I wanna see this. Let him hold a bat.”
Ted Williams carefully selected a bat. It was the lightest bat in the rack, and one none of the team power hitters would ever use. Miguel Tejada shook his head, but Hensley Meulens nodded approvingly. “Just what Ted would have done when he was alive,” he said. “He always took a light bat; said he could bring it around quicker.”
Williams held the bat in his hands. He was beginning to thaw, and the moisture was making his grip slick. He edged his hands along the bat, choking up, letting out, trying to sample the feel of the bat in his hands. Suddenly he pivoted his body, bringing the bat around in a heavy pull, his wrists flexing. A few of the Giants hitters applauded.
Ted Williams didn’t need eyes to find his way back to home plate. He walked there, the soles of his feet telling him when he had crossed into the batter’s box, his big toe measuring the distance to the side of the plate. He tapped his bat on the plate a few times, drew himself into his batting stance, and waited.
The Giants looked and him and at each other. Finally Tim Lincecum picked up his glove. “Yeah, I’ll throw a few ropes to Ted Frickin’ Williams,” he said. He trotted out to the mound, and Buster Posey warily went to crouch behind the plate.
Lincecum dusted his hand and massaged the ball in his grip, sizing Ted Williams up. “How am I supposed to read a guy who has no eyes?” he muttered to himself. Buster pointed to his inner thigh: fastball.
“Hey, Buster,” Lincecum called, “I don’t think this guy is gonna steal our signals.”
“Fine, then whip it over here,” Posey shot back.
Tim Lincecum wound up and released, throwing a nice easy eighty-four mile an hour pitch down the middle. It sailed right past Ted Williams, who didn’t so much as twitch. He felt its passage, though – air shockwaves buffeted his chest; he felt the breeze on his arms and legs. He reached out a hand and felt the air over the plate, wiggling his fingers through the exact space where the ball had passed.
Buster threw the ball back to Lincecum. “Strike one,” he said, grinning. “Hey, if you can strike out Ted Williams, that would be something to talk about – head or no head.”
Hensley Meulens nudged Bruce Bochy. “He ain’t gonna strike out no Ted Williams,” he whispered.
Ted Williams stepped back from the plate. He tapped the bat against his feet, an instinct to clear the cleats that weren’t there, and turned to spit. A thin foam wheezed out of his neck-stump, causing the Giants to cringe, and it dripped on the ground. Embarrassed, Ted wiped it clear and returned to the plate. He tapped his bat on the plate once more and assumed his crouch.
“’Nother fastball,” called Buster.
“Low in the zone,” echoed Lincecum. He wound up and threw.
The ball whipped out and down, landing in Posey’s glove just above Ted’s knees. Again Ted Williams didn’t budge. “Strike two!” shouted the catcher jubilantly.
Ted reached out with a hand and mimed feeling a plane just below his knee. BALL, he seemed to be saying.
“No ball!” shouted Buster. “What are you, blind? Oh, wait.”
“Tim?” asked Lincecum, pointing to the third base coach for appeal.
“Definitely a strike,” said Tim Flannery.
Ted Williams stepped back from the plate again. He reached down and took up a handful of dirt and rubbed it over his hands to mop up the condensation of his thawing. He stretched his arms and legs, cracked his knuckles, and took up the bat again. Tim Lincecum eyed him from the mound.
“I’m bringing the heat!” he announced.
“Don’t be waving off my signals when you’re throwing against a guy with no head!” protested Buster.
“The heat,” repeated Lincecum. He wound up and fired.
From the batter’s box, Ted William’s skin picked up on microscopic air pressure changes as the fastball bore down on the plate. Working entirely on instinct, his entire body uncoiled and whipped around, bringing the bat to bear in a blur. There was a crack that sang through the bleachers, and the ball arced up and down to disappear behind the left field wall. Lincecum watched it go out.
“I’ll be damned,” he said.
“We gotta get that guy a uniform,” said Tim Flannery.
“We gotta get that guy a new head,” said Hensley Meulens.
“We’ll need to clear some roster space, too,” said Bruce Bochy. “Peguero! Back down to the minors, kid!”
“Hey!” said Francisco Peguero.
“Wait!” said Tim Lincecum. “What’s happening?”
The wrist of Ted Williams’ left hand had cracked, and the bat was now hanging crazily. Ted felt that something was wrong and reached out with his right hand to probe his damaged arm. As he was feeling it the entire left hand came off, the fingers twitching like a dying insect. Then Ted’s entire right arm dropped off. With a disgusting tearing sound, Ted Williams’ body disintegrated and slid to the ground in a dozen quivering chunks.
“He couldn’t handle the strain of thawing,” wondered Hensley Meulens.
“Peguero! You’re back in, my boy!” shouted Bochy.
“Nice to know where I stand,” grumbled Francisco.
Tim Flannery stood over the pile of chunks that had formerly been the body of the greatest hitter in baseball. “Well, I guess the grounds crew is going to have to take care of this,” he mused.
Miguel Tejada reached down and plucked the very light bat from Ted Williams' rapidly warming fingers. “Huh,” he said contemplatively, giving the bat a few swings.
And that was that. I’m not sure what it all meant in any cosmic sense. But for one brief moment on a bright spring morning, one of baseball’s greats showed everybody why they were a legend, hitting a home run off a great pitcher on an oh-and-two pitch.
Inside the ALCOR freezer, a head stirred inside a mostly-fogged jar. “Shoulda been one-and-one,” it said thickly, its tongue coated with frost.
