By Jon Moray
This story first appeared in an online baseball magazine called The Twin Bill in April 2022 and is about a pitcher that needed a nudge when to quit the game.
Spring training was well underway in the balmy South Florida sun as 43-year old Jake Skowron, in the twilight of his career, gathered his worn body in preparation of another season in the big leagues. He sported a hall-of-fame resume, and over the years won several league awards for his pitching excellence and was also the winning pitcher of the deciding game of the World Series ten years ago. Last season, he labored through a barrage of struggling performances with a rubbery, tired arm that has been hurling fastballs since early childhood.
Signed to a modest contract, Jake trained hard over the winter and discovered yoga in hopes of youthful rejuvenation. Because he was a fan favorite, management thought releasing him would be a public relations nightmare.
He gingerly stepped out of the dugout amid a smattering of applause from appreciative fans. A gentle breeze carried an aroma of fresh cut infield grass that greeted him as he strolled toward the pitcher‘s mound.
“It’s time, Jake,” came a voice echoing from the stands. The words bounced in the air like a confused balloon. Jake spun around and saw a aged, relic of a man with gray hair that seemed pasted to his head. He sported a white handlebar mustache and his dress was a cross between an old time accountant and a singing barber.
The man wore a wrinkled smile and olive green eyes that bore down on Jake, who was struggling to regain his focus back on the mound.
“You’re taking a job that belongs to a younger, more able player,” whispered the mysterious man, whose words projected across the third base line, to the mound and into Jake‘s ear like a sonar wave. Jake shook off the metaphysics and went into his windup. He threw a chest high fastball to the waiting catcher and exhaled a satisfied sigh at how well his arm felt. It’s going to be a great season, he lamented, as he caught the return throw from his battery mate. His warm-up session lasted a half hour and after signing autographs for devoted fans he made a beeline towards the clubhouse for a well deserved shower and ice treatment for his prized commodity, his right arm.
“It’s time, Jake,” repeated the man, now standing in front of the dugout, blocking the entrance to the clubhouse.
“Who are you and why isn’t field security detaining you?” asked Jake.
“Security can’t see me, you and only you can.”
“Are you a ghost?” stammered Jake, mentally questioning his sanity.
“Not exactly. I have been around a long time. Let’s just say I help transition a way past prime professional into retirement…or to do other things.”
“I don’t quite follow. Enough with the cryptic clues, who are you?”
“I am Father Time,” the man announced, with a hand gesture as if he just pulled a bird from a handkerchief.
“Father Time? What do you want with me? There is still plenty of wins left in this body,” said Jake, flexing his pitching arm.
“That’s what I’m here to determine. You still think you have something left, do you?”
“Of course! Did you see my fastball humming just now?”
“It looked more like you were playing catch with your teammate. I didn’t see a hitter taking swings.”
“Well, trust me, I have plenty left. You just see what kind of season I have.”
“I’m afraid I can’t allow you that kind of time. Besides, I have other engagements. But I am a fair man. I will give you an opportunity to prove to me whether you are worthy of one more glorious season.”
“I wished I knew what you’re talking about” yelled Jake, now capturing the attention of skeptical bystanders.
“I’ll make you deal. I will grab a bat. If you strike me out, I will give you one more season. If I hit the ball out of the infield, you will abruptly announce your retirement. Does that sound like a fair proposition?”
“It sounds like I am hallucinating. I must be going crazy, even to entertain a proposition from someone who claims to be Father Time.”
Suddenly, Father Time disappeared and reappeared at home plate.
Jake looked around with unbelieving eyes until he finally located the aged magician. “How did you do that? I’m really losing it now.”
“I simply froze time and walked over to home plate,” Father time said, flatly.
“It doesn’t appear that I have a choice in this matter.”
“Of course you do. You can save me the trouble and retire.”
“No way. Batter up,” Jake sang, as he punched the ball into his mitt and headed toward the mound. He summoned the perplexed catcher back out to home plate to field more fastballs.
“Strike you out and I play another season, right?”
“Those are the terms,” Father Time confirmed, tapping the plate with a thirty ounce, Louisville Slugger.
Jake cleared away dirt from the pitching rubber as Father Time dug in to the batter’s box with long black buckled boots. Jake rocked into his windup and fired toward the plate. Father Time was much too late with his swing and whiffed at Jake’s first offering. Strike one.
“All too easy,” Jake snickered under his breath.
The next pitch was more of the same, a fastball that Father Time was again too late to make contact.
“That’s strike two, Father Time. One more strike, means one more season and what a great season it is going to be.” The catcher inquired the nature of Jake’s rants, only to be told it was all part of preparation for the season.
“One more strike. I have you right where I want you. I‘m undefeated, you understand,” said Father time, eagerly countering Jake’s war of words.
Jake huffed at the reply and peered over his glove with burning eyes bearing down on the trash-talking old man. This next pitch he would put something extra on to punctuate his claim that his playing career was far from over. He would show this ‘Father Time,’ it would be him to determine when to quit, not some aged wizard from who knows where. He called out, “Ready?”
“Ready,” Father Time answered, with a grin that revealed cream colored, wooden teeth, as he gripped the bat a third of the way up the handle. His movements in the batter’s box sounded like a creaking rocking chair.
Jake wound up as if he was trying to break the sound barrier and fired toward the plate. His whirlwind momentum sent him to the dirt mound and landing awkwardly on his pitching shoulder. The ball bounced several times in front of home plate and stopped harmlessly at Father Time’s feet.
Jake exerted a bellowing yell as he rolled around in the dirt, reeling in agonizing pain. “My shoulder…it’s damaged for good. I will never be able to pitch again,” he screamed, as tears filled his eyes. “My career…it’s over. You ruined me, old man,” he barked, and looked for Father Time, but the undefeated master of retirement was nowhere to be found.
Moray Writes 