Brock the Great. His Era: yes, yes, it was. It had hurt Sycamore to say so in front of all those people — like he'd been tricked or something, and it had made him sore, sore at McCaffree, sore at Bancroft, and sore at Brock Rutherford. But it was true. Sycamore Flynn, age 57, Hall of Fame, all-star Bridegroom shortstop Years XIX through XXX, Most Valuable Player in XXVIII, Knickerbocker manager since LIII and twice a boss of champions, knew it was. He was there. He'd come up with Brock in XIX, and his one personal triumph had been his selection — over Brock and all the others — as Rookie of the Year. Brock had got back at him. Oh yes, many times over. Like at the end of the season three years later when Sycamore and Brock's teammate Willie O'Leary were fighting it out for the batting title. The Pioneers were taking the pennant in a walk that year, and they even got a little sloppy in the final games, but not when Sycamore Flynn came to the plate. Brock personally struck him out seven straight times in the final series — and once when there was a man on second, no outs, and first base open, when he should at least have passed him, but no, it was Get-Flynn-Year, and get him they did. Finally, he finished up fourth. Brock the Great Oh yes, damn it, damn him, he was!
The train pulled in. Sycamore was alone; his players had returned ahead of him. The depot was only a block from Pioneer Park, the hotel where the Knicks were staying just another block or so beyond that, so he decided to walk. Loosen up. Anyway, he wasn't all that confident about getting in a cab here in Damon's hometown: he might be recognized and that might not be so good. Though it was a warm night, he turned up his collar, chose the dark sides of the streets. What was hounding him? That he didn't feel guilty enough?
He passed under the stadium. It bulked, unlit in the dark night, like a massive ruin, exuding a black odor of death and corruption — no, no, just that modest stink of sweat and garbage all old buildings had, and ball parks especially. It caused an unreasonable dread in him, a stupid dread; to purge it, he crossed over, touched it, felt the solid stone, just plain ordinary lifeless matter. A ball park. Like any other. The arched entranceways, he noticed, had no gates. How did they keep the crashers out? Just a passageway, maybe; other doors and gates inside. He peered in. Couldn't see anything. It was pitch black in there.
Inwardly, he laughed at himself. Crossing a street to see if a building was real! Funny what funerals could do to the mind. If anybody saw him, they'd take him for a complete nut. He glanced about furtively, but he seemed to be alone. He rapped a wall, skinning a knuckle, as a kind of self-punishment, and set off for the hotel. But then he hesitated. Silly thing, but those gateless entrances bothered him. Forget it. What you need is a night's sleep. Or a night's rest anyway — he wasn't sure he could get to sleep with tomorrow's game to wake up to. Well, that's right, so what's the hurry? He turned back.
No, no gates. Not even the hinges for one. And inside: it shouldn't be that black in there. Was it the streetlight out here, dim as it was, that made it look that way? He stepped inside. Still couldn't see anything, but once inside, he realized it was more like a tunnel than the entrance to a ball park. He edged to his right, hand outstretched. Yes, a wall. Rough and damp. He traced it a few paces. Peculiar. Construction work maybe. Excavations. Have to come look at this in the daytime. He turned, half afraid that — but, no, there it was, the dimly lit street. But something new now. Voices. Indistinct, but not far away. Better wait. They'd take him for a thief.
As time passed, he grew impatient. A couple guys standing on a street corner describing conquests, no doubt. Of course, they could also be cops. Better stay put. To take up the time, he explored a little further, left hand stretched out in front of him, right hand tracing the contours of the wall. Earthen. Sweating. It seemed endless. Finally, he gave it up, turned hack. Now, in fact, there was no street! Moment of panic, hut he made himself think. The wall he was tracing must have been curving. He stepped out away from it. Still couldn't see a thing. Better go back the same way you came. He reached out for the wall, but couldn't find it. Then he did panic. Wheeled around, scrambling in every direction at once, not afraid of the voices now, but afraid to cry out. Why? he didn't know — ah! the wall! But which one? He was breathing heavily, ashamed. He'd lost his head there for a minute. And now what, right or left? He decided to gamble on its being the same wall, so followed it now with his left hand. But after a hundred paces or so with no sight of the street, he realized he'd guessed wrong, was just getting deeper. Turned back. Keep calm. It'd be easy to break. Count. At one hundred, he paused. Must've started about here. Another fifty or a hundred paces, and he ought to see the street. But after twenty, the wall curved suddenly to the right. He swallowed, licked his lips. Keep thinking, keep cool. Could put your back to the wall, then strike straight out on the perpendicular — have to find the opposite wall sooner or later. But he had a grip on this wall and didn't want to let go. And when he did find that other wall, which way would he go? Besides, if these were excavations, there might be drops: he could fall, hurt himself, have to spend all night here. No, consider. This tunnel must go somewhere. Some other exit probably. Better stick with it, keep moving. He was afraid of the right turn he'd come on, so he went back over the same ground again, right hand out in front, left hand tracing the rough passage wall. Hundred paces and that wall curved, too, sharply to the left. Too soon. But maybe he was taking bigger steps now. No point in going back. Better keep moving. Don't think. Just lead to panic. Move, just move, hustle. In his mind, he kept up a little pepper. That's it. Lotta action. Hup, two, three. Every hundred paces or so, the wall again bent left. Going around in circles. Or maybe a spiral. What kind of a goddamn ball park was this anyway? Don't question it. Keep going. Seemed to be climbing now. Lift those knees. Come on, Sic'em baby, cover ground! He was sweating now, his clothes feh sticky on him, the air heavy— heart going too fast! He dropped his right hand to feel its beating and smacked up solid against a sudden right turn in the wall.
Face stung. Felt dizzy. Greasy. He paused there, in the corner, half ready to quit, getting his breath. Then he saw where he was. In his own dugout. Visitors' dugout near first base. Still dark, no shape to things, but no longer pitch black. He stepped through the dugout, out onto the field, to get his bearings, get some fresh air. As he did, as he passed through the dugout, he saw them there, but he looked away. No, that would be too much. Even out on the field, the night air was oppressive. He stared off toward where, more or less, home plate was, must be; but his back tingled. Another trick of the shadows, he supposed. Night. Always did that. Irrational. But he was pretty sure they were there, pretty sure he'd seen them. Sitting on the bench. Didn't know who. But they were there behind him. Imagination. Go back and check. No, don't be an idiot, that's how you've ended up here in the first place, remember? He recalled an exit behind home plate. Head for that. Get outa here. Yeah, boy. Walk, don't run. Control. But speed, too. He sighted on the bag at first, only thing he could see out there. Finally he was running.
But at first base, he pulled up short. Figure lurking there. No turning away from that. Flynn was all alone out on a darkened ballfield, behind him that dugout with its goddamn spooky benchwarmers, the tunnel back of that — and something even worse ahead. The figure stood about six paces off first base, down the baseline toward second. Flynn's baseball habits made him think instinctively: he's playing too close to the bag. Or maybe he was moving toward first. Someone coming up from home? Base on balls? Or…? aha. Oh no.
Damp dank wind curled around his ankles, crept down his back. Made his clothes tug and tremble on him, and the first baseman's pants fluttered around his motionless knees. Flynn felt rooted to the spot. "Matt?" he whispered. No answer. His mouth was dry, tongue thick. Almost didn't hear himself. "Matt, is that you?" Face in shadows, no features visible, but the body, the shape, looked like Matt Garrison. Cap tipped forward like he always wore it, jaw out-thrust. Just fixed there. Flynn, keeping his eye on the immobile first baseman, circled, then backed away. Toward home. Toward the exit. Oh man. You gotta get outa here. This is something awful.