“…And Home, With Joy.” (Roll Call)

Posted on Fri Jan 12th, 2024 @ 9:24pm by Lieutenant Kurt "Berlin" Vogel

Mission: MISSION 0 - History Speaks
Location: Holodeck Two
644 words - 1.3 OF Standard Post Measure

Kurt Vogel twirled the white sphere behind his back, feeling for the slightly raised seams along its axis. He positioned his fingers this way and that, trying to decide where they would end up. Even the most minute difference in finger placement could alter the path of the ball when he eventually threw it.

And he WOULD have to throw it eventually. The rules didn’t allow him to hold onto it indefinitely. Kurt stood on a mound of tightly packed earth. Sixty feet and six inches from him, a man stood with a stick about 34 inches long. The man stood near a white pentagon about 12 inches across. Behind that pentagon was a man in protective gear wearing the same uniform as Kurt. That armored man gave Vogel several hand signals under his large mitt.

Kurt was trying to play baseball, and not doing very well at it. The man behind the pentagon, home plate, was the catcher. That man gave a signal.

Curve ball.

Vogel shook his head grimly. No way was he throwing the curve when he was behind in the count; he just could not “feel it” today. Kurt had already missed twice outside the plate. Or at least that’s what the masked man dressed in black behind the catcher said. That man was the umpire, and as far as Vogel was concerned, that guy could suffer a case of Bolian dysentery.

The umpire’s strike zone, the area in which a ball crossing the plate is regarded as a strike, seemed unusually tight today, forcing Kurt to throw further over the plate to compensate.

He paid the price for it too. He had been smacked around for four runs so far, and it was still the sixth inning. That meant there was still over a third of the game remaining. Time for still more damage.

The catcher gave another signal: change up. He was asking Kurt to throw a ball that would suddenly change speed, disrupting the batter’s timing.

Vogel nodded assent to the pitch. He brought the ball to his glove and his feet closer together. Inside the glove, he maneuvered his fingers so that his index and middle fingers sat on top and parallel to the seams, while his ring and pinky finger gently laid alongside the seams on the out edge of the ball.

Kurt looked at the ban with the stick, the batter, trying to gauge the man’s intent. Would he swing away, or be patient. But his foe gave no indication one way or another. Only a stare of concentration.

Vogel finally kicked up his left keg to gain momentum before swinging it forward towards home plate. Once landed, he rotated his body so that his torso now faced the batter, before flinging his arm across his body, releasing the ball. His right leg flew upward from the effort as he but his body weight into the throw.

A change up, to be effective, must do one if two things: either dive or alter speed. This one did neither. But it lived up to half its babe: it was up.

The batter saw it too; he uncorked a swing that collided with the white irb with a resounding crash. The ball became very small very quickly as it sailed over the wall about 350 feet away in right field. The batter started his jig around the bases, pumping his fist in celebration.

Kurt threw his glove in frustration. This was not a good night. He would need to ice his arm afterwards, and get a check up to ensure he didn’t damage the homer ligament. The coach slowly walked to Kurt, to get a relief pitcher in his place.

Kurt loved the game, but it seemed like it was designed to break your heart.

“God bless baseball.” Vogel muttered under his breath.