first and third, base hit, go two! [trigger #9]

**continuation of trigger #8**

Emily and I try to make our way toward the nearest hallway away from the field, but so many people are pressing to see what’s happening on the field that the way is completely jammed.

Idiots!

An idea suddenly strikes me that’s absolutely terrible, but might be our only option. I go with it, leading Emily down to the field. We jump onto the grass. She asks where we’re going and I tell her that if the zombies are only coming from the Sox clubhouse, then the new private player’s entrance from player parking to the Yankees clubhouse might be our best way out of danger, or at least farther from it.

We move toward the infield, and even during Z-Day the absurdity of me walking on Yankee Stadium grass isn’t lost on me. I can’t enjoy it long though, shit’s getting worse over by the Sox dugout. We reach the infield in time to see Adrian Gonzalez save Jeter’s life by beating Youkilis’ head in with a bat. Jeter arms himself by ripping third base out of the ground.

Just as I’m wondering if that will be any use I see him jam the metal post into a zombified Yankee fan’s eye. It gives new meaning to the phrase ‘base hit.’

Two more undead Yankee fans are closing in on Jeter when he uses the base to quickly dispatch each, as if he’s been fighting off zombies with bases his entire life. He brings the base post crushing down on zombie #3’s head with impressive finality. Already, his count has gone from one kill to three. Then again, Jeter always did go from first to third as well as anyone in the game.

yankees. [trigger #8]

I walk through the open concourse of the new Yankee Stadium. It’s beautiful, far more beautiful than the old, closed, dirty concourse of the stadium of old. Yet, there is still a part of me that misses the way you would emerge from the shadow of that old tunnel into the sunlight, from complete obstruction into a perfect afternoon view of the most storied ballpark in the history of the game. It took my breath away every time.

The atmosphere here in the new stadium is electric, as it always is for games against the Red Sox, even this early in the year. Word is starting to pass through the grapevine between fans that Pedroia won’t be playing in today’s game. Something about flu-like symptoms. Another fan says he saw Youkilis throwing up on the field before batting practice. It looks like this is going to be a strange game, especially if the Sox keep losing players this quickly.

This is frustrating. I hate when injury or illness tampers with the game. Don’t get me wrong, I find Youkilis and Pedroia as arrogant and irritating as the next rational person, but I can’t stand it when a team isn’t at full strength.

Emily and I make the customary rounds along the circular route of the concourse, getting every view of the field I can, basking in the spring glow of baseball goodness. With first pitch approaching, it’s time to find the way to our seats.

The start of the game is approaching in earnest now. The fielders have taken the field, Sabathia is warming up, Crawford is taking his final cuts before the umpire kicks things off. Ellsbury is in the hole, having been moved up to take Pedroia’s spot in the two slot. The game is about to begin, and all is as it should be.

Then there is a strange commotion in the Sox dugout. Crawford and Ellsbury don’t seem to notice, but everyone else on the Red Sox seem to be interrupted by some sort of commotion. That’s when I notice Pedroia stumbling his way out onto the field. Something is wrong, his gait is halted and confused. Pedroia is many things, neither of which are confused, hesitation isn’t in his nature.

Before Ellsbury notices, Pedroia is on him, he’s grabbed him from behind. Suddenly Pedroia bites Ellsbury’s neck hard enough to take off a chunk of flesh. There is commotion on the field. I grip Emily’s hand and get ready to make a move. Most people don’t seem to realize what’s going on, but being a huge nerd doesn’t come without its advantages. I know exactly what’s happening, the zombie apocalypse has begun, and we are in one of the two or three worst possible environments one can find himself in at this moment in history. The bleacher creatures are minutes away from getting a whole lot nastier. Shit is definitely about to hit the fan.

Of course Pedroia would be patient zero. Douche.

We weave our way through our row while everyone else is still craning to see what’s happening on the field. By the time we reach the end of our section, I take another look at the field to see Pedroia has moved on toward Crawford. Carl must do some movie watching in that multi-million dollar Florida condo of his, because he seems to have figured out what’s up as fast as I did. He lets Pedroia get almost within reaching distance when he uses that trademark speed of his to slip to left and around Pedroia’s back before using his bat to crush former middle infielder’s head. One zombie down. Not bad Carl Crawford, not bad at all.

For a moment, Crawford is dazed by having to kill a teammate, he doesn’t see that Ellsbury has reanimated behind him. Ellsbury is about to get his teeth into Crawford when a blistering Sabathia fastball hits Ellsbury right between the eyes, it hits him hard enough to make Ellsbury’s life as a zombie a very short one.

I need to stop watching, fans will start turning soon, if they haven’t already, and things are going to get very ugly, very quickly once that happens. We need to get the hell out of the Bronx, fast.

appalachian mountains. [trigger #6.]

Ochuna expertly kicked the small ball of buckskin and dried mud. He hoped he had kicked it gently enough, and with enough arc, to land safely in the nest, but he knew the moment it left his foot that at least it would hit the goal post. One point was assured, but he was hoping for two. His village was winning 6-2, he could taste victory. He knew that being up 8-2, since they only played until 11, would be a nearly insurmountable lead, especially with one such as him on the team.

The ball floated through the air, and even though only fractions of a second were passing, it seemed he had all the time in the world to contemplate this moment. Time seemed to slow down when he played. He had always been the best player in his village. Even as a boy he was better than many of the men who’d been playing all their lives.

Ochuna, a nickname given to him for the god of thunder, truly felt like a god when he was able to run free, to kick his opponents hard enough to force the ball away, to expertly avoid the feet and fists and nails of the other village’s players. He had always loved this game, but it was even more important since the Spanish had come.

Much had changed since these men with their strange way of speech and action had come from across the ocean. Yet, this game was still sacred. All other life stopped when villages played each other in this game that has existed for as long as there have been men.

Ochuna was given a house, his crops were tended by other villagers, he was fawned over and celebrated; all because no one had feet as gifted as his, because no one could make or take a hit like him, because no one else played with thunder like Ochuna did.

He had a sick feeling in his gut much of the time now. The way the priests gazed with scorn over this wonderful game. They always had one hand gambling on the game’s outcome, with the other wagging in disapproval; saying the game is savage and immoral and godless. What do they know of godlessness? Didn’t they know of the connection with the gods one felt when he wasdoing the thing he was created to do?

Ochuna knew that nothing this beautiful, nothing that filled him with this much joy, could be godless. This game was beautiful, and as long as he was playing all other worries faded away.

It was always after the game that Ochuna felt the sickness in his gut. When he heard them giving a new name to his people… ‘Apalachee.’ The Spanish were even starting to call other villages, even the the land itself Apalachee. He’d heard stories of the Spanish exploring far to the north and calling the distant mountains Apalachee as well. These stories were most likely exaggerations by traders hoping to confound and impress, but they were troubling stories just the same.

He knew for sure that the Spanish had even killed those of neighboring villages in the past. They were not to be trusted.

Everything was changing. Everything but this game.

The ball landed in the nest. Two glorious points! He noticed as his many opponents gave him that familiar look of awe and contempt. 8-2. It won’t be long now until he can celebrate another impressive domination.

Forget the Spanish. What do they know of this beautiful game? This game of the gods themselves. What do they know of the beauty and power that is Ochuna. Nothing can touch him once they erect these sacred goal posts. He is Ochuna the proud. He is Ochuna the victorious. For these few, wonderful, exhausting hours Ochuna truly is overcome by the spirit of the god of thunder.

Ochuna smiles with untouched joy and takes off to inflict his thunder on another sorry ballcarrier.