Strait to Hell (#2)

Chapter 1

The crack of the baseball ricocheting off a bat alerted those fans not paying attention to stand and cheer. Not needing the additional cue, Samuel Roy Strait jumped to his feet and hollered in excitement.

The ball bounced once on the ground before it zinged past the pitcher’s right foot. This required the man on the mound to spin backward in hopes of snagging it. If he didn’t make this especially wild attempt, the ball might end up in the middle of the outfield. The pitcher missed grabbing it with his gloved hand, but he deflected its path, nonetheless. It slowed the ball’s trajectory and kept it in the infield.

The shortstop rushed toward the ball, scooped it up, but did not throw it. The runner sprinted safely across first base.

As the crowd murmured in fading excitement, Sam settled back into his hard, plastic seat.

Next to him, Bennie Gutierrez dropped into his own chair and lifted his nearly empty beer in salute. “Helluva dinger to be stopped by a blind stab of the glove.”

Bennie was several years younger than Sam and wore a tan baseball hat with a muted American flag of the same color. Much like Sam’s longish hair, Bennie’s curled from underneath the cap.

At the bottom of the ninth, the game was tied between the Glendale Desert Dogs and the Salt River Rafters. They were at Camelback Ranch ballpark, the home of the Desert Dogs. The River Rafters coach casually jogged out from the team’s dugout to confer with his pitcher.

The sun was down now, and powerful lights illuminated the ballpark. The bright green outfield stood in stark contrast to the muted surroundings of the stadium.
Sam wished the guy schlepping the hot dogs would wander by again, but it was too late in the game. He was hungry and could go for something to eat.

Bennie glanced at him. “So, you’ll come?”

“To?”

“My family’s house. The party.”

Sam shook his head. “After this, I’m calling it.”

Bennie frowned.

“What?”

“What else do you do besides this?”

By this, Bennie meant the Arizona Fall League, a six-week tournament that ran from mid-September through early November. The league was formed in 1992 and consisted of six teams, each affiliated with five Major League Baseball clubs. Many notable names had come through the system on the way to the show. A couple of celebrity-level players—Michael Jordan and Tim Tebow, for example—had spent time in the league.

It was a hair-brained idea Sam had at the end of summer—to spend the winter in Arizona. He’d been in town for three weeks and attended twelve games so far.

Sam eyed Bennie. “I work.”

“Pfft,” Bennie’s lips rattled. “Work. We move furniture, and you go to baseball games.”

The coach trotted off the field, and a batter for the Desert Dogs stepped into the box.

“It’s a goal,” Sam said.

“You told me.” Bennie returned his attention to the game. “Some goal. To see as many games as possible. Big whoop. They’re here every year.”

Sam put his feet on the back of the chair in front of him—the guy who had been seated there left during the seventh inning stretch. He wiggled his toes and considered his flip-flops. They were the reason he was in Arizona. He had a set of rules he lived by, and the first was simple.

Only be where flip-flops can be worn.

All five of his rules were simple, and each was selected to support the previous one.

Sam noticed a couple of people further down the row wearing flip-flops. He smiled.

“Strike!” the umpire called. Paying attention to footwear, Sam had missed the pitch and the batter’s swing. The crowd booed in response.

“Not sure how he didn’t connect with that one,” Bennie grumbled. “Left it fat over the plate. Guy gets another like that, and it’s going yard.”

Sam sipped what was left of his beer and considered Bennie, the new friend he’d met through work. Sam took a job moving furniture for the winter. He did that whenever he snowbirded—took a job, that was, not move furniture. It was essential for him to control his expenses. Not only did a job allow him to earn a little money, but if he occupied his time by doing something, he was less likely to spend. It also allowed him to meet people.

Like Bennie.

“Strike!” the umpire called, and the crowd hollered its displeasure.

Sam missed yet another pitch.

“This guy,” Bennie said, shaking his head and waggling a hand in the general direction of the batter. “Two fatties and he missed ’em both. Guy is going to strand a runner on base.” Bennie checked his watch. “Man, if this goes long, I’m heading home. I don’t care about extra innings. We’ve got tacos, tequila, beer.” His voice trailed off.

Bennie wasn’t giving Sam the hard sale. In fact, he was watching a couple of women in shorts and tight T-shirts strolling toward the exit. “Maybe I should go now.”

Wasn’t this why Sam chose to travel to new places in the winter? Wasn’t this why he worked odd jobs while away? Didn’t he want to meet new people and experience a life he couldn’t get back home? He countered those questions with another.

Hadn’t he come down to Arizona expressly to watch the Fall League?

But he was hungry, and a taco sounded good.

Sam noticed the pitcher and catcher trade signals. “I’ll tell you what.”

After the two women disappeared into a tunnel, Bennie turned to him and lifted his eyebrows.

“If the game goes long,” Sam said, “I’m staying to watch. I like extra innings.”

Bennie shrugged. “Have it your way.”

“But if they score—”

The crack of the bat caused both men to jerk their heads toward the field. The crowd erupted in cheers as the ball sailed high in the air and out of the park. The two men leaped to their feet and joined in the ruckus. While he repeatedly jumped up and down, Bennie shook Sam’s shoulder. Triumphant music pumped over the speakers as the runners circled the bases.

Sam chuckled to himself. So, he was going to a party.