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THWACK
The blaseball hit the chain link gate in back of the batting cage deep in Choux stadium. Dickson Games adjusted his grip and looked back at the pitching machine, steadying himself for another pitch. He didn’t think about how his hands were still covered in sweat and dirt and blood. He didn’t think about the euphoria of winning the internet series only for everything to immediately go to–
THWACK
Another ball zipped past him. He was distracted, that’s all, it had been a fucking eventful night and he must be distracted because there’s no other reason why he should have been standing here for the last ten minutes unable to swing at a single pitch. He couldn’t count the number of late nights he had spent down here over the last season, how many blaseballs he had swung at and hit into the netting. It had started for lack of anything better to do, he hated the way quiet seasons had become increasingly more foreboding. He needed to clear his mind and not think about the peanut god who had ominously declared them out with four strikes and was coming to–
THWACK
His arms shook but he still couldn’t swing. Why couldn’t he swing he had been down here so many times he needed to be better he needed to not think about the new blessing on the election page that could kill him if no one’s stats changed this season. The Shoe Thieves weren’t going for it, of course, but it was a game of chance he had won and lost before and he wasn’t particularly fond of gambling with his own life, not anymore. He knew there was a risk any time he stepped out onto the field during an eclipse but something about the possibility of being incinerated in an election felt different. Worse. Getting killed in a game was one thing but the thought of dying alone in his apartment he wondered if he would see the ump coming he wondered what it felt like maybe he should ask Paula if–
THWACK
His knuckles tightened around the bat, arms flexing for the phantom movement that never came. Dead weight. Sure he technically had the fewest batting stars but he wasn’t fucking dead weight. Although now that he apparently couldn’t even swing a bat maybe he was, maybe they would be better off. Maybe the grappling hook would be left behind, or they would find someone new already fast, already able to catch, someone who could physically bring themselves to hit a blaseball who wasn’t broken who wasn’t–
THWACK
He remembered coming down here after the Moist Talkers game, after the feedback, after fighting with Esme. “If anyone needs me I'll be in the batting cage,” his constant refrain all season. “Why would we need you?” Esme’s reply still echoed in his mind, following after him as he stormed off. He knew she hadn’t meant it, he was being an ass and they were both lashing out in the only way they knew how but he had come down here all the same. It was easier to focus on his anger than think about the fact that the woman who had marked his friends for death was now his teammate. Easier to think about nothing and hit blaseballs until the bat broke than to remember how only a few nights earlier Beasley had come barrelling down the hallway chasing his food delivery guy and they had sat on the floor together and now Beasley was–
THWACK
The gate rattled as another ball slammed against it. Games knew he could hit. He knew what it should feel like, the satisfying impact as the bat hit the ball. They had just won the Internet Series championship, he’d gotten hits, he knew how to hit. He had squared off against the best pitchers in the league and more than held his own. The sound of the bat hitting the was ball drowned out by the crowd, sheer adrenaline taking him all the way to third and then Vel batting him in. He had never really lost hope, even down two runs in the bottom of the ninth he knew they were stealing ascension. Velasquez hit a single, Comet drew a walk, and Tosser threw a perfect pitch it was like time slowed down he knew they had won it before Stu even made contact the pure ecstasy of watching her run the bases they had shamed the Crabs but then even before they’d gotten the final three outs the sky started to blacken and the sirens came and the noise was like nothing he had ever–
THWACK
He was distracted again. He squared up and looked down at the machine but all he could see was Axel, it wasn’t really Axel but it was and he stepped up to the plate amid the dark and the loud and he hit a triple. The skies shifted. A deafening noise rang. Vel hit a sacrifice fly. He tagged up and scored. They were losing. They were up 1-0 but they were losing somehow. He didn’t understand how but he knew that they weren’t just playing blaseball they were fighting and they weren’t going to win. York batted in Pothos to tie it up. PATHETIC, the peanut called them. YOU ARE NOTHING, it bellowed as he hit a flyout to Jess. None of this should be happening none of them should be there they should be reveling in victory and not fighting for their lives and losing while the shelled one was saying something about being benevolent and–
THWACK
Something was happening. Somehow he didn’t feel like he had just played a game and a half of blaseball he felt like he could run for miles he could fight this peanut with his bare hands except the Shoe Thieves kept getting outs and the pods kept getting hits and runs and they were losing again, both the game and the fight. The energy drained from him as quickly as it had come and more. They were flagging and he could tell the pods were too but the Thieves were definitely worse off he didn’t know the inning or the score anymore only that he was terrified but he was alive and peanuts began to fly as Jessica Telephone hit a solo home run and suddenly it was over the game wasn’t over but they had lost. He collapsed onto the field either from exhaustion or something else but it was over he pulled out his phone and–
THWACK
The sound brought him back to the present again, standing alone in the batting cage. It was over and they were all alive and relatively unharmed, on their side. He still didn’t understand how the pod team had been there or where they had gone but he was okay. He was supposed to be okay. His arms ached as he stood gripping the bat. He had no idea how long he had been standing there. He wondered if anyone was looking for him, it had seemed like everyone had found their people, no one should need him for a little while he could stay here and figure out what was wrong with him. He had worked so hard he had the best average on the team, the best of his career except for the season the Millennials had fourth strike. He had spent so much time standing in that exact spot except now they had won the championships and he couldn’t hit the fucking ball. He couldn’t even bring himself to swing after everything he–
THWACK
He lowered the bat as suddenly exhaustion hit him like a wave. He should go home, even if he didn’t expect to sleep much before the election he suddenly couldn’t bear any more of this. He wasn’t giving up; he had won a championship and fought a god, surely that was enough. His phone buzzed as he walked over and turned off the machine. Esme. Slumber party in the left field lounge. He stopped for a minute and tried to steady his breathing. They didn’t need to know that he had spent the last gods-know-how-long just standing in a batting stance, unable to swing at a pitch. His hands were still shaking. He didn’t know what to do about that. He didn’t know what to do about any of it.
Tomorrow he would practice, if he was still alive then. Tomorrow maybe things would be better. He wasn’t sure he believed it, but it was all he had. He turned to go find his friends and closed the door to the batting cage behind him.