Flying Bats and Cracker Jacks

Chapter 1 (The Crime)

She sat amidst the players and was engulfed in the familiar, musty scent of male pheromones and lemon-lime Gatorade. She certainly didn't enjoy the scent but had learned to tolerate it after 23 years of being the head EMT for the Atlanta Braves.

In all of the years she had worked at Turner Field, the biggest catastrophe was an outfielder fainting from dehydration. That was 14 years ago. Her services were hardly ever needed and at this rate, she'd need medical attention before the players.

Most EMTs live an exciting, stressful, and traumatizing life that forces them into early retirement. And she could work at the stadium until she was ready to retire because of monotonous boredom rather than stress.

However, her job wasn't without benefits. She had free health insurance and was practically paid to attend every home baseball game. Too bad that the Braves were a lousy team who hadn't won a world series in all of her 23 years stationed at the stadium.

The last great talent that she had seen was Chipper Jones who walked out the door in 2007 and left one world series behind him. Since then, the Braves have had a bit of a dry spill. Yet on this hot August day, she saw rain at the end of their drought in the form of Harrison "Ender"  Anderson, the closer for the Braves.

So far this season, his save percentage was an unbeatable 96.4% with the opposing team batting .152 against him. He was the handsome devil, hotshot pitcher that everyone was talking about and she could see why.

When he sauntered onto the mound at the bottom of the ninth, she saw fans at ease to watch the master at work. The Braves are winning the game by three runs so they felt they can comfortably move away from the edge of their seats.

He was up against Ralph Romaniro, the star hitter for the Houston Astros. Most closers wouldn't take the risk and pitch against him because of Romaniro's striking .452 batting average. Not Ender. No, Ender was cool and confident enough in his abilities that he wouldn't give the star hitter an easy walk.

She watched as he took a deep breath, got into his windup stance, and then released the ball from his hand. Strike 1.

He moved with the smooth grace of a well-oiled machine. Programmed to repeat the same motion again and again with agility of a ballerina and the strength of an ox. These days teams wanted left-handed pitchers or those with a fastball speed of over 100 miles per hour. Ender doesn't have a powerful fastball and he's not left-handed.

Yet, he's wildly successful and a respected professional on the team. She had a brief conversation with him once and she had enjoyed his demeanor. He was a calm man, not easily shaken. In other words, he was the perfect man to be a closer.

He pushed his sunglasses up on his nose, assumed his stance, and then released the ball from his hand. Strike 2.

The crowd cheered and the music signaling the iconic tomahawk chorused throughout the stadium. The rowdy fans wanted an out and he wanted to give it to them.

He took a deep breath, assumed his stance, and then released the ball from his hand. This time the ball sailed too high over the strike zone resulting in Ball 1.

She anxiously fiddled with her faded #10 jersey and drank a sip of her water from her bottle stored under the bench.

He took a deep breath, got into his windup stance, tripped, and then released the ball from his hand.

Wait.

That wasn't supposed to happen.

Instead of the ball thwacking against the glove, it knocked the cap right off of Romaniro's head resulting in him falling backwards into the grass with alarming force.

At first, the aging EMT didn't process what was happening. Her reflexes had become rusty from years of no use. Then, she snapped out of it and started shouting orders to get a gurney to lift the injured man off the field.

She ran with the vigilance of a stallion onto the field and organized her rusty workers into a well-oiled machine that would rival Anderson's pitching.

Pandemonium broke out around them and it was all she could do to stay calm. It was her job to be the eye of the storm and not show her team of assistants how shaken she really was.

On the count of three, they lifted the body. Just as the young, pimple-faced intern lifted the head, she screamed and dropped it back on the ground.

"What's the problem? Why'd you drop him? He's just knocked out! There's nothing to be scared or freaked out by," said Ed, the opinionated thorn in her side.

She sighed, "What's the problem Savannah?"

Savannah trembled and pointed her painted finger at the head. The head EMT moved from her position at the feet and walked to the head. She lifted it up and gasped.

There was blood dripping from a gaping wound in his skull that couldn't have been caused by a baseball. Because of how hard he fell, it temporarily stopped the bleeding but now, the scarlet river trickled into a crimson moat surrounding the spot where his head previously lay.

No one had ever been murdered on the field. There was no precedent to follow and suddenly, she wanted to revoke her wish for a little more excitement on the field. This wasn't the excitement she was looking for. She would have much preferred heat stroke.