Chavez glanced at Parsons, giving him a thoughtful smile. Parsons, like most players, had a passion for baseball and a sincere enjoyment of the game. Others, like Sullivan were fanatical about being the best, and many, including Sullivan, had massive egos and difficult personalities. Chavez looked out toward Sullivan who had to be furious, waiting for him.
Sullivan has never met anybody that can hit like me. And I won’t duck for any man.
Chavez had been fortunate. His father was a doctor and his mother a nurse, so even in the Dominican Republic they had a decent standard of living. Early on his parents recognized his passion and aptitude for the game. They told endless stories about how he would pick up toys as a toddler and try and hit them with a stick. Eventually he started connecting with the small cars, legos, balls, stones, and anything else he could toss in the air. He had broken a few windows.
At nine years old he started haunting schoolyards and ballparks, begging to play, and when other boys saw him hit the ball he was always invited back. He grew stronger and faster, playing ball from early in the morning until the sun went down and the stars came out, year after year. He played with the sun in his eyes, in high wind, and in the rain. He hit balls long after everyone else went home and he ran everywhere.
When it was too dark to play, he watched baseball on satellite television and read endless books about the subject. He studied all the powerful hitters in his country. He tried every baseball bat he could get his hands on, and eventually started making his own, learning to read a block of maple wood as well as he could read a pitcher.
When his parents let him, he joined the city league, worked his way up to the Dominican National team, and was quickly recruited into the Chicago Cubs farm system. He drove the manager crazy, asking endless questions about how to move up in the league.
At the end of his first season, he was transferred to the Boise Hawks. He learned how the Major League system worked, and started studying the top ten pitchers, unconcerned about the rest. He knew their backgrounds, habits, strengths, and weaknesses. He knew what pitches they favored, and when they were tired, what their tricks were, and if they were suspected of using performance enhancing drugs.
This game was going to get very interesting, and he felt empathy for what was about to happen over the next few innings. But Sullivan needed a lesson, in need of some wood so to speak, and Chavez was going to give it to him.
Chavez stepped into the batter’s box with one of his hand chosen bats; one he knew was stiff and controllable, and again pointed at the left outfield wall.
“This is a dangerous game you’re playing, Chavez!” snapped Parsons, as the Umpire started swearing. “You’re going to get your brains scrambled!”
“Your buddy tries to hit me in the head, and I’m dangerous?”
“Knock it off, both of you! PLAY BALL!” yelled the Umpire.
The crowd was howling.
Parson settled in, set his glove, and gave the sign for a high inside fast ball, easily able to see the mottled appearance on Bill’s face.
Chavez knew Sullivan would bring heat, and shifted his body slightly to the left, then hit the ball square, knowing he was lined up perfectly. Sullivan’s reflexes saved him from taking the line drive in his chest, but it did graze the left side of his ribs, deflecting the ball enough to be missed by the short stop. After easily making first base Chavez turned to watch Sullivan’s expression change from shock to rage.
That had to be a fluke, thought Sullivan.
The Dodgers bench was standing.
The Cubs bench was ready to mix it up, but nobody made the next move.
There was no next move, at least for Sullivan.