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Chapter Seven

“This sucks if we have to forfeit,” Patrick said.

He and David had gotten to the field early. They wanted some extra time to scope the area for any pets. David even brought a collar and leash with him. They had belonged to his dog, Bartie. Bartie, a super cool Labrador that lived to hang around the boys, had been hit by a car last year. He had to be put to sleep. David didn’t cry, but he wasn’t himself for weeks after.

Unfortunately, Coach Clay arrived early, too. He saw them walking the outfield and made them unload the gear from his trunk. Instead of searching for reward money, they got to take grounders and extra batting practice. Joy.

“We’ll lose anyway. The Bobcats are undefeated,” David said, eyeing the full team from the next town over.

“Yeah, but I’d rather lose playing than just going home. Where’s Alan and Chris?”

David looked around. The parents of the kids on the Bobcats were in full force on their side of the field.

Alan and Chris’s parents never missed a game. They were kind of cheesy that way. But they were nowhere to be found today.

“No clue,” Patrick said.

The umpire was talking with Coach. Patrick didn’t like the body language.

“That’s a forfeit,” the ump, Mr. Preston, who worked in the hardware store, announced.

“Damn,” Patrick said, tossing his mitt to the ground, kicking up a plume of dirt.

“At least now we have more time to look for dogs,” David reminded him. “And then there’s Godzilla.”

Patrick brightened a tad. “I heard they’re gonna give out free Godzilla comics in the theater.”

“The ones Marvel puts out?”

“No, a special one by the movie studio. Could end up being a big-time collectible.”

David punched Patrick’s arm. “See, who needs baseball when you have Godzilla and comics?”

“Boys, help me get everything loaded up,” Coach Clay called out to the five members of the team that had showed up.

He wasn’t happy with the forfeit, either. He’d gone as far as AA ball for the Cleveland Indians and was still insanely competitive. Since the boys who didn’t show weren’t around to bear the brunt of his tirade, he took his frustrations out on David, Patrick and the other three boys, triplets who manned every outfield position.

“Why the hell do I even bother?” he shouted once all of the parents were gone. The field had cleared out pretty quick, the Bobcats calling them chickens for not playing. “You know how many forfeits I was a part of when I played? And I’m talking from Little League all the way to double A. None. Zero. That’s right. It never happened. And you know why? Because we gave a shit. We knew what it meant to be a team.”

He threw an olive-colored bag of bats at the backstop. The boys flinched. It looked like every bulging vein in his red neck was going to pop like water balloons. The thought of it almost made David chuckle, but he was smart enough to keep a poker face.

“This is the most humiliating moment of my baseball career.”

One of the triplets, a tow-headed kid named Samson, dared to say, “I thought coaching was voluntary, not a career.”

Coach Clay turned a venomous glare his way.

“What did you say?”

Samson stammered. “I…I…I’ll g-g-get that bag and put it in the trunk.” He ran like lightning, lugging the heavy bag into the car and taking off on foot, leaving his brothers behind.

“Tell him he has ten laps waiting for him next practice,” Coach Clay told Samson’s brothers. They nodded, keeping their eyes on the ground.

After a few more choice words, he told them to get the hell home and show up for an extra night of practice on Monday.

David and Patrick walked home with their bats over their shoulders, gloves hanging off the knobs.

“That was total bullshit,” David said. “Why was he ragging on us? At least we showed up.”

“He can be a real hammer,” Patrick replied. “Maybe we should go to Alan and Chris’s house and find out what happened to them.”

“Yeah. And then I can chew their butts out like Coach.”

* * * *

Coach Clay stood on the pitcher’s mound, staring at the empty outfield, fuming.

A fucking forfeit!

He felt bad for taking it out on the boys, but he could have been so much worse. You didn’t know what it was like to get your ass handed to you until you screwed up for a minor league coach. Now that was a pro level beat down.

“Hey, Coach!”

It was Samson. He trotted over from the third base side of the field, a ring of keys on his finger.

“I took your car keys by accident.”

“Thanks.” He wanted to say more, to sound more appreciative, but he was just too wound up.

The smell of garbage—rotted fish and dirty diapers—floated on the breeze. He crinkled his nose.

Who opened the lid on their filthy garbage cans?

He turned to look at the row of houses behind home plate. Someone must have had a fish fry two weeks ago and forgot to bring the pail to the curb.

Samson screamed.

When Coach Clay saw the trio of onyx-colored creatures galloping his way, he joined the boy.

He watched in horror as one of the beasts leaped onto Samson. The boy’s shouts were cut short as the thing bit his face off as if it were an overripe apple. The coach saw one of the kid’s eyes roll out of the mess of gore in the monster’s mouth. It hit the dirt, rolling hard and fast until it stopped at his feet. The graying eye looked up at him, as if to say, Why couldn’t you save me?

There was barely time to look up before he was tackled by the remaining two. He flailed, a wild punch ending with his fist in one of their mouths, bear-trap jaws severing it from his wrist with a horrendous crunch.

The other bit right into his balls. Blood exploded from his punctured groin.

Coach Clay tried to scream, but no sound would come out.

Two seconds later, he didn’t have a mouth or throat anyway.