Sophomore Campaign by Frank; Nappi

they were enemies for sure. And with Boxcar laboring under the weight of this undisclosed illness, Danvers remained the only legitimate power threat in the Brewers’ lineup.
    Danvers cut the tension with a few practice swings before stepping in to take his hacks. Lefty stewed, glaring at Danvers with intolerant eyes, gray and ominous. He felt the urgent need to carry out this furious, unflagging will for retribution as Danvers cocked and waved his bat by his ear, settling down only after Lefty had delivered his first pitch, a high hard one up and in that backed Danvers off the plate. The second and third pitches were exactly the same—more chin music. Danvers stepped out, tapped his spikes and grinned. It was obvious Lefty wanted no part of him right now. A fourth pitch, up and away, sent the Brewers’ slugger to first with a base on balls.
    The crowd began to stir now, intoxicated with the idyllic scenario that was unfolding before them. Mickey notwithstanding, Boxcar was the fan favorite. He had been with the team for years, and was the heart and soul of the club. The face of the franchise. He hadspoiled them time and again with many a spectacular feat, so much so that the locals viewed him as a baseball deity. A man imbued with the ability to will his team to victory. They roared and chanted his name even louder now, for all of them had heard of the mysterious physical malady that had afflicted their hero and were thrilled to see him, as improbable as it seemed, in his familiar cleanup spot.
    Boxcar! Boxcar! Boxcar!
    He smiled, and tipped his hat to the adoring crowd, but there was something shadowy and vacant about the man. Ghostlike. He was thinking of years past as he stepped to the plate. And of friends and teammates from those years and how they knew him and his ways and how they had come to rely on and appreciate all that he could accomplish on the field. Of course, his mind also wandered to those moments of exhilaration, when his exploits, now legendary in their own right, led to victory for the Brewers and celebration for the entire city of Milwaukee.
    Lefty grinned behind his glove. He too saw what they all saw. Boxcar was just a shell of his former self. The Rangers’ ace wasted no time attacking, letting fly a rising fastball right down the center of the plate. Boxcar saw the ball okay, but his bat was late and sagged, and struggled to move through the hitting zone. The swing was awkward and spastic. He lost his footing and crumbled to the ground. A collective gasp swirled through the ballpark, as if the air from twenty thousand balloons had suddenly been released. It was painful to watch. They could not speak; all they could do was look on, silenced by the increasing drama, and pray silently that what they were seeing was not really happening.
    Boxcar struggled to his feet, dusted off his jersey and readied himself for the next delivery. This time Lefty came inside, but the ball ran too far off the plate and was called a ball. The crowd began to shake itself from its stupor, trying to energize theirexanimate hero with applause and cheers. Boxcar heard the tribute, like a sweet melody from days long since past, but could do little more than wave at the next pitch. Lefty sensed the desperation and went right for the kill, unleashing yet another tracer that whizzed through the still air, boring in on Boxcar’s knuckles. The enervated catcher clenched his teeth and whipped the bat head through the zone with every ounce of strength he had. The crack of the bat was loud but deceiving. The ball struck the bat on the trademark, sawing it off in two. The handle remained in Boxcar’s hands and the other half, jagged and splintered, rolled helplessly, along with the baseball, back to the Lefty who quickly scooped up the latter and fired it to second base to begin a nifty 1–6–3 twin killing. The inning expired before Boxcar even had the chance to run to first.
    On the way in to the dugout,