FanPost

Hack

His name was Hack and you would know it by looking at him.

His forearms were thicker than tree trunks and he stood with malice. Sunglasses covered half his face with stubble layered over the rest. He spoke like a robotic cowboy, "What’s doin?"

"We were playing and I-I just thought I’d tell ya", a nobody said.

"Playin what?", Hack said.

"B-baseball"

"I’m just playin."

"So are you in?"

"I just said that."

Hack strutted away and shed his jacket like a butterfly from a cocoon, leaving it on the ground. He wore a jersey under it that had no name, but featured the number 1.

He walked a mile to Salmon Field in 8 minutes. He greeted no one and stepped towards the plate. Someone was batting, but Hack moved him aside with his eyes.

"Throw me somethin", Hack said.

Reggae was tall, black, and sweaty: a summer candy bar. He threw a fastball 15 feet too high, sticking it in the chain link fence. This was a common occurrence made clear by the graveyard of baseballs next to the last one. Without hesitation he drew another ball from his afro. His hands held the ball like they were more than friends. It started high and away then danced towards home plate, landing on the inside corner.

"Strike", Hack said. Most batters would’ve argued it, but in no way was he most.

Reggae coiled back, with even more of a swagger this time, spinning in another breaking ball; this one he called a slider. It was middle-in and an unspoken strike.

The pitch-man dug his hands in his glove then wiped his forehead with the ball. He marinated the ball, let out a breath, and flicked it into the air.

It started at Hack’s eyes before running into his bat. Hack turned on it and struck it harder than gravity could comprehend. It has never been agreed upon as to whether the ball ever landed on the ground. Instead of circling the bases, Hack walked off the field and went home. He never picked up a bat again.