Challenge 77

The Iron Writer Challenge 77

Grudge Match #9

The Authors:

Jordan Bell and E. Chris Garrison

vs.

Mathew W. Weaver and Maureen Larter

The Elements:

A Suit of Armor

A Pitcher’s Mound

Gluten Free

Locke’s Socks

Fragile Allie

E. Chris Garrison

Allie stood on the mound. He could feel all the eyes in the Little League field on him. The game stretched into extra innings. He needed a break. Already a laughingstock for having to wear protective “storm trooper” plastic armor for his brittle bone syndrome, he needed a win to be accepted by the other kids. His parents pulled him out of the league after his left arm had been put in a cast weeks ago from that dinger Scotty Temple knocked back at him. Allie insisted, he’d finish the season, just like a normal kid. Allie’d had so many ailments in his lifetime that his doctors seemed like part of the family. Each meal had to be scrutinized for nuts and gluten. He kept an EpiPen on his person at all times. Hemophilia made him bleed profusely at the slightest cut. Now his bones betrayed him, brittle decades before their time. “Fragile Allie” the kids on the bus would chant at him. His parents took pity on him and found a loophole that allowed for “protective gear” to be worn in games. He practiced an hour a day in the hot plastic armor, throwing pitches to Dad until his joints ached. He kept it quiet; he didn’t want to know if he had childhood arthritis, too. The practice paid off. He’d earned some respect from his peers as the game went on and on. Just one more strike-out, oh please… Scotty Temple grinned at him from home plate again. Even this far away, Allie could see him mouth his hated nickname. Allie put his anger into a fastball, launching the baseball like a missile. Scotty’s swung the bat flat and true, but the ball didn’t arc out over the field, it returned to shatter the breastplate of Allie’s protective suit. That could have been my ribs! Dad called a time out and conferred with the Umpire. They shouted, and his father condemned the umpire and his rules. The umpire brought the rulebook out, and both men pored over its contents. Allie’s dad grinned and pointed at the book. The umpire shook his head and walked off. Dad walked up to Allie with a replacement breastplate. “The ump said you couldn’t change uniforms in the middle of a game. This isn’t a uniform change, just a repair. He said it’s still a change, but the rules didn’t say changing a piece of your gear wasn’t allowed.” He strapped on the breastplate and the game resumed. Allie glared at Scotty, then threw a curve right at the sneering bully. It should have been a foul, but Scotty stepped back and swung at it anyway. Strike one! Scotty’s face turned red. Allie pitched a slow ball, and Scotty swung too soon. Strike two! Then Allie dared another fastball. Another crack as the ball struck his chest, but the ball flew up and Allie fell down. Allie caught the ball before it hit the ground. His team carried him from the field, cheering.

Bobby Sox

Maureen Larter 

Bobby sat on the bench and sighed. Watching the ball skim like a bullet passed the batter’s upraised bat made him cringe. Davy was pitcher today, and he kicked at the mound, looked ferocious, and let another ball rip. “Strike three and OUT,” yelled the guy behind the catcher. Chuck dropped the bat, glared at Davy and walked over to the bleachers, where his mum gave him a conciliatory pat on the shoulder. He came over and plonked down next to Bobby. “God! Davy’s pitchin’ like there’s no tomorrow,” he complained. Bobby nodded. His heart wasn’t in the game today. Ever since his Mum had put him on a gluten-free diet he hadn’t wanted to join in with anyone, let alone the baseball team. They all laughed at him most of the time and now he knew they’d just think he was a sissy. After the game he couldn’t go to Maccers and have a celebratory or consolatory burger. “Bobby,” the coach called.” You’re up.” Bobby hefted his heavy frame off the bench, and Chuck nearly fell off the tipping bench. With a slow and steady shuffle, he arrived at the plate and picked up the bat. “Shit,” sniggered Greg, the catcher. “Put your fat between me and the ball. That way I won’t have to call mum and get her to buy me a suit of armor. Davy’s vicious today!” Bobby sighed again. Every eye out there in the crowd seemed to be watching him. He took the opportunity to glance over – everyone was laughing. He nearly put the bat down then and there, but something in his own mother’s face told him he had to play this out. He readied himself. Whoosh! “Strike one!” Whoosh! “Strike two.” Whoosh. Whack! Bobby watched in astonishment as the ball arced it’s way over the boundary and bounced several times before it lay still. “Run! Run! Run!” Screamed the crowd. Bobby came out of his trance and began to waddle towards first base. As he reached it, so did the ball, and so did the guy on first base. The collision didn’t hurt, but one shoe went flying up in the air, and Bobby landed with a gasp of outgoing air. “Hey,” Rick clapped him on the back. “Well done, man!” then he started to laugh. Bobby looked down and blushed. His sock was so patched it looked like Locke’s Socks, and he curled his feet under himself, hiding it away. It didn’t matter though. A grin creased his face. He was safe!!

The Story of My Life?

Mathew W. Weaver

“The question, Matt, is whether or not it’s the same suit of armor.” “Sure, great, go away. I’m busy.” “No, you’re not. Stop surfing the net, this is important.” “Would you please…?” “It’s the same as that Locke’s Socks effect, isn’t it? See, you take this suit of armor, change the breastplate after a while, and then the greaves in a couple of months, get a new visor for the helm, and then a new helm for the visor…” “It was sock. Singular. Locke’s sock.” “Good, you’re paying attention.” “No, I’m not.” “Sure you’re not. Look, you know this is more important than regretting your lunch. Cupcakes, gluten free or otherwise, were never meant to replace meals.” “Just go away and leave me to barf in peace, darn you.” “Look, Matt, it’s the principle of the matter. Is it the same suit of armor, or isn’t it?” “How in the world would I know? I only wear the suits, I don’t theorize their very existence on a molecular level or whatever. Jeez.” “Yeah right, of course you wear them.” “Even less likely that I’ll have an answer to your paradox, then, isn’t it?” “THINK about it, Matt! It’s a conundrum that’s existed since the ancient times! You do know where it began…” “(Sigh) No, but something tells me I’m about to find out. I am, aren’t I?” “You already did when you read it on Wikipedia a week ago.” “Yadda yadda.” “It started with Theseus’s ship that was meant to be preserved, and kept having to have its parts replaced every few decades or so…” “Seriously, why are you still pestering me with this?” “You know why. You’ve been avoiding it all week.” “And you’ve been nagging me all week.” “Don’t act surprised. It’s about commitment, Matt. Dedication to the cause. When you step up to the plate, the pitcher on that mound isn’t going to take it easy on you.” “I don’t play baseball.” “Okay, imagine some obscure basketball reference instead. Now let’s get to work.” “Look, there’s still plenty of time left. All I need is an hour or less. If you would let me enjoy what time I have left before…” “All you’ve got is just a few hours to both come up with and then write something. You’re out of time.” “And what do you expect me to do about it? Discuss the Locke’s Sock whatchamacallit on a suit of armor?” “Well, we started that…” “You know what? I’ve had it with you. I’m going to go have a nap. Get lost, already.” “Matt. Hey, Matt.” “……….” “Matt. Look. Just look, Matt,” “What now?!” “You’ve done it,” “Done what?” “The Grudge. You finished your submission to the Grudge. And with just a few hours left, too” “………” “Say thank you,” “Go away,” “Say it with me. ‘Thank you, Conscience…’” “I could have done it without you.” “Sure, you would have, buddy. Sure, you would.” “I wasn’t procrastinating. I was going to do it. ” “Yeah, yeah. Sure you were,” “Oh, just go away.” “Matt. Hey, Matt.” “NOW WHAT?!” “There’s that blog post due Saturday morning…”

Junkball

Jordan Bell

In October of 1973, I was catching for a ragtag team of immigrant teens from the Chinatown part of Queens, New York. My parents had put all their money toward moving to America four years earlier, so they didn’t have a lot of money for baseball gear. We kids were poor, so we scrounged what we could and improvised. The other kids around Queens got to calling us The Junkers, having nothing to do with our pitching. In fact, our pitcher couldn’t throw a junkball to save his life. “Hey Jimi, I am going to try another slider,” said Paul, originally Ping. It is common for Orientals to choose western names after arriving to better fit in. I chose my name after experiencing Hendrix for the first time. “Just don’t hit me in the shins again,” I said. “I don’t think my gear can take another hit.” Earlier, Paul nailed my left shin guard so hard with a botched pitch that it fell apart. My catcher’s armor was a beat up mishmash of salvaged gear and homespun ingenuity. It had once started out as a real catcher’s set up, but like Locke’s Socks, it ended up becoming something entirely my own. Paul looked rueful. “Sorry Jimi.” “Yeah, no sweat man. I fixed it up with some shoe-lace, just be careful,” I offered. On top of the mound of debris-laden dirt Paul stood on, a piece of white picket fence mashed into the ground acted as the pitcher’s plate. He adjusted his ragged Mets cap and threw hard. The ball blazed towards me. At the last moment the ball dipped, hitting the dirt and bouncing up into my mask, nearly knocking me over. Paul could pitch fastballs all day but failed to master curves, sliders, and other breaking balls collectively termed junkball. “Dammit. Sorry.” Re-situating, I tossed the ball back. “Keep pitching like this and the Mets aren’t gonna sign you,” I lectured him. “Piss off Jimi,” Paul growled as he walked over from the mound. “How long ‘til the game starts?” I stood up and took off my mitt, looking at my watch. “Twenty minutes, we better meet the guys at Eddie’s so we can tune in.” The team from Queens barely made it into the Series that year. The New York Mets were down by one heading into game four. They would win games four and five, but ultimately lose to Oakland that year. Paul never did learn to throw a slider. He did, however, end up becoming the sports editor for the Post. I kept playing and eventually made it to the minors where I played for a few seasons before becoming a club manager. We met again years later. “Long time, no see,” I said as I unwrapped a gluten-free energy bar. “Tiring flight?” Paul said. “Yeah, I’m flagging,” I said while devouring the bar. “So when are you doing my interview?” He looked at me sidelong for a moment. “Soon, but first, do you think you got some spare time to coach your old neighborhood pal on his pitching?” I cocked an eyebrow. “As long as it isn’t junkball,” I laughed.