Chapter 1

      Everyone assumes that baseball is a simple game. You throw the ball, you hit the ball, and you run. The people who assume that the sport is that simple have probably never watched a full game in their life. To those who watched, and especially to those who have played, baseball is far more complicated than that, and always has been. When you walk up to that mound, and prepare to throw the ball that is when battle commences. When you watch the batter step into the box, with that wooden stick in their hand, he's a gladiator stepping up to do battle. Yet each at bat is even more complicated, because the batter is playing a game of chess with the pitcher and his catcher. Standing up there isn't just swinging a stick and hoping for the best. That would be like trying to hit a ball blindfolded. When you step up to the plate, you're taking part in a battle of wits and you must outsmart your opponent to get on base. The number of possibilities is astronomical, which is why guessing only spells failure for the batter. Will the pitcher throw a fastball and try to smoke it by you or will be toss a breaking ball. Which breaking ball will it be? Change up? A bender? Will be toss that pitch with all his strength or shave off a few miles per hour to mess with your timing and make you swing too early? Will he toss the ball high and tight into your kitchen, or away from you and force you to reach over the plate for it? Will he challenge you with a pitch over the plate or try to get you to fish for something outside the zone? Will he toss it high or low? Will the pitcher even throw something your way at all or test your patience by firing the ball over to first to keep the runners honest?

     So many decisions, and every time you come to the plate the numbers are against you as the catch and pitcher conspire together to trick you. Your decision has to be made in seconds and once you commit to a plan there is no turning back or you'll look like a cave man swinging a club and everyone will laugh at you. There might be even more people in on the decision as the catcher could even be getting signals from the manager on the bench, which expands the conspiracy against you. While the pitcher has veto power and the right to shake off signals he's not comfortable tossing over, chances are he will not shake much off depending on how long he's been working with his catcher. If the pitcher doesn't shake off his catcher at all, then you're in serious trouble because they've got a plan and have done their homework. And the more pitches the guy on the mound has to pick from increases the probabilities skyrocket, all which increase the odds that when the at bat is done that your a*s will be grabbing some pine on the bench.

     This is why a three hundred average, which is only thirty percent success rate is considered above average. Thirty-five percent could be enough ti win a batting title. To give you an idea of how tough baseball is, only thirty-five players in over a hundred and twenty years have ever hit more than forty percent in a full season, and it hasn't happened since 1941. No one has ever hit five hundred, which would be fifty percent. Has never happened and never will.

     In this game, strategy's a two way street every time the batter comes to the plate with his own options. When there's a runner, will he get the green light to swing away or will he lay down a bunt to move the runner into scoring position? He also takes signals from the third base coach who is taking signs from the bench, so everyone is conspiring against everyone on the field. When they're all done taking their signals, the ball is finally tossed over. After the result, which could be a hit, ball, strike or an out, the process is repeated over and over and over again until three outs are recorded. That is just one half of a single inning out of nine in the game of baseball.

     Sounds a little more complicated than just throwing a ball and hitting a ball, doesn't it?

     Does any of this sound easy to you?

     For Gabe Harrison, it was the game that he lived for, and what made the day worth waking up to. It was a battle he craved and every time he took to the mound, Gabe was ready and eager for combat with every hitter that came to the plate. This night was no different. The opposing team knew him well, as did he them. As he stood on the mound, Gabe waited for the batter to take his place and stand there like a statue, bat raised in the air and ready to swat. Gabe took his signals from the catcher, agreed to the pitch called and then wound up for the toss. The first pitch was a fastball, fired inside and knee high. The batter took the first pitch, which was called for a strike. Gabe got the ball back from the catcher and then returned to the mound to take another signal. The next pitch was another fastball, but this one was chest high and deep inside. Had the batter not backed away and fallen to the ground, the ball might have hit him, which of course was the point. The batter was hanging over the plate far too much for Gabe's liking, and this pitch known as the 'brush off' which was not meant to injure anyone, but let the batter know his place and stay in it. Gabe took the ball again, and the process repeated until the gridlock was broken when the batter made contact, cracking the ball up into the air.

     One might assume the batter has won, but there are still four infielders and three outfielders the batter has to beat in order to win a hit. This time out the grounder was snared up by the second baseman, who threw the ball over to first for the out. It was the last out of the inning, and Gabe shook a fist and walked off the mound to take a seat on the bench. He took a towel and rubbed the sweat off his face, and had a glass of water. Chances were it was his last inning of the night for Gabe. Eight innings was more than enough for him, and his arm was starting to ache. This late in the game, the manager would usually send in a fresh arm to close out the game and preserve the win. When the game was over, it was just one of many games to be played out over the course of a summer. They would be back the next night to try again. Sometimes they were going to win their fair share but they were also going to lose their fair share.

     Despite the formality, it was a very informal league, but one that Gabe enjoyed playing in. But rarely did he ever expect to be anything more than just a small grass roots pitcher from the small Canadian weekend league. He didn't get paid to play this game; he did it merely for the fun of it and had a real job to report to when Monday rolled around. This was a game he played for the thrill that came with it. While not as popular as hockey, he took in as much of the American game as he could.

     This day however was much different. Gabe was sitting on the bench after his game, relaxing his arm and chatting with the guys about the game that had just transpired. Normally the teams would socialize and talk game for an hour or so while there was still some daylight left. Some guys would take to the field and practice, while others like Gabe would rest and not risk hurting themselves and ruining their chance to play again next week.

     Things seemed normal that day until a man walked over to the bench. He wore a white suit, and had a hat that matched. As he came over, he took the hat off and seemed modest with his approach, "Hi there, I'd like to speak with Gabriel Harrison?"

     Gabe sat up, but gingerly. He wasn't used to having people look for him after the game and wondered if he was in trouble, "Is there something wrong?"

     "Only if you play for the other team," the old man joked as he snorted out a rather annoying laugh. "That was one hell of a game you pitched out there today. Very impressive arm you have there, Gabriel."

     Gabe seemed to relax when he realized that it was just someone coming over to pay him a compliment, "Thanks mister, and you can call me Gabe. Everyone else does."

     "Okay Gabe," the old man said with a smile. Even though he had made his complement, he still stood there with a look on his face that usually meant he had more to say. After a few moments he mustered up the courage to finally spit it out. "My name is Willie Jones."

     "Pleased to meet you," Gabe replied, trying to be polite.

     "You just might be," Jones said, "Especially when you hear the reason why I came out here to watch this game."

     "And what reason would that be?" Gabe inquired.

     "I'm here to see if you're interested in doing something else this week besides going back to the farm tomorrow." Jones answered.

     "I don't understand," Gabe said, confused with what the man was trying to say, "Are you trying to offer me a job?"

     "Yes, and a good one at that." Jones said as he tried hard to not get ahead of himself, "You see, I'm a scout for..."

     The moment he said scout, a groan came from the other players as they all turned away and went back to their normal post game activities.

     "Did I say something wrong?" Jones asked.

     "Well, you're not the first scout to come our way. We've been teased too many times to believe the dream." Gabe said, taking another sip of his drink, "I was offered a chance to try out for the White Sox last year."

     "The White Sox?" the scout seemed impressed, "And yet you're still here? Why didn't you take them up on their offer?"

     "I didn't go because Charles Comiskey is still the cheapest b*****d in the history of this game," Gabe responded with a bit of bitterness, "Two years ago, his own players turned on him because he was too cheap to give them a decent wage or even pay any of their day by day expenses. Do you know the real reason why they were called the Black Sox?"

     Willie knew this was a test and quickly spit out the answer, "Because Comiskey refused to pay for laundry services. He expected his players to clean their own uniforms and take that service out of their own pockets. The players refused to do that and played day in and day out in the same filthy uniforms. That much sweat and dirt took their toll on the wool, and it turned every uniform into a very dark shade. They were called them the Black Sox long before the scandal broke out."

     Gabe smiled when he realized he was in the presence of a man who really knew the game, "That's right. That old fart wanted me to pay my own way down there for the chance to try out for his team. I refused to go because if that cheap bum wasn't will to invest anything in my future, so I wasn't willing to invest my time into his team."

     "That is a fair reason and it's his loss," Jones said, "Not all owners are like Comiskey. If a team was willing to step up and make an effort to get you down to our park, you'd be willing to come down and show our manager and owner what you got?"

     Gabe seemed to realize this was a legitimate offer, "What team do you represent?"

     "I represent a team in Atlanta, Georgia." Jones quickly answered.

     "There is no team in Atlanta." Gabe quickly countered.

    "Well, our team isn't a part of that league." Jones replied, "We're a member of the Southern Association, an alternate league that we've been a part of since 1902. If you include our time in Class B, we've been in operation since 1892, which is exactly thirty years. We're a competitive league and we offer a decent wage for good players. We even cover expenses, so our players only have to worry about the game."

     "I'm listening," Gabe said, liking what he heard so far.

     Mr. Jones seemed to be turning on the charm as he was in full recruitment mode, "Our team is we're dire need of a new pitcher. Lefties are especially hard to come by, so you can understand why I'm here. Not only do you throw with your left hand, but you throw with power and have a presence on the mound that I think would impress any manager in our ranks. I think you'd be able to secure a place in the starting rotation very quickly with our organization."

     "You're quite serious about this." Gabe observed.

     "I am," Jones confirmed, "And unlike Mr. Comisky, I'm willing to put my money where my mouth is. I'll foot the bill for your transport to and from Atlanta and you can stay in my guest room while trying out. That way you can save the money the team gives you for expenses and have fun. If things don't work out with the team, we'll give you a hundred dollars for taking up your time. You have nothing to lose here Gabe and everything to gain."

     "So if I refuse, I get a ride back and a hundred dollars?" Gabe repeated.

     "Yes," Jones said as he was confident he was winning the young man over. "So what do you think son: would you be interested in playing ball for the Crackers?"