KHT
Chapter One
Only one thing made Bobby Ingraham laugh more than an elderly person falling down was a crazy comedy called Major League. The hijinx of Tom Berenger, Wesley Snipes, Corbin Bernsen, and Charlie Sheen could plaster a stupid smile on RBI's face like a magic trick done for a child of lesser mental acuity. The trials and tribulations of the Cleveland Indians were nothing short of a riot and Bobby was living proof that some things can be too funny.
Being born as a gigantic freak of nature, Robert Baird I. had been blessed with all the skill one could ask for from the baseball gods. Lighting fast reflexes, a cannon for an arm, two long legs that could taken center stage at the Olympics, a swing sweeter than southern iced tea, and most importantly... the eye of the tiger.
Robby had a sixth sense when it came to pitchers. He could almost preternaturally guess what pitch they'd be delivering on a silver platter, ready for his ravenous appetite to eat the pitch alive. One might think that RBI might notice a certain parallel between his own style and that of one of the lovable, ragtag rogues in Major League. R.B. Ingraham saw himself as the heir to Ted Williams, The Man With The Swing Sweet as Sugar. No pitch would get by him.
Just like the famous moment in Major League when Pedro Serrano, a fearsome santeria worshiping slugger punished fastball after fastball, sending them screaming home for mama over the outfield fences. But then the other pitcher began throwing... non-fastballs. Serrano wasn't nearly so fearsome flailing at curveballs out of the zone. Once the opposition learns where the hole in your swing is, you become The Paper Tiger
RBI could hit fastballs. He could crush them 400+ feet. He could spray them through the gap with surgical precision. Fastballs were like big juicy kisses from the ladies of ill-refute that camped outside the ballpark after the game. Bobby loved fastballs and he loved 'em like he loved his women: cock high and full of energy.
When it came to fastballs, RBI was in hog heaven.
For about two weeks into spring training.
Sure, he'd hot dogged it during BP, calling his home runs and pointing over the right field wall. But that was a joke. He was only kind of kidding (he wasn't) and didn't intend to call attention to is antics (he did). All Bobby B. Ingraham had done was plunk a few fastballs out into right field. They paid him to do it, for Christ's sake! They paid him a shitload of money to do it! If he could smack a few dingers in spring training, imagine what he could do when they game was on the line. Just give Caldera, RBI thought hungrily of the aging closer for the Yankees, just give me one pitch over the plate and I'll put Old Man Jesus in the ground for good.
RBI, at 19 years old was a little cocky, a little full of himself, a little presumptuous. Could you blame him? Back in Covina, he'd been a celebrity. High school was paradise, his batting stats got him on the front page of the sports section, and his dear old dad had been so proud. Alpha Romeo proud. RBI thought the Italian sports car was nice enough but even through the thick abestos padding lent him by his physical gifts, Big Bob knew his dad wanted the car. His dad dreamt of an Alpha Romeo but couldn't in a century justify spending his 401k on something so self indulgent.
The Elder Ingraham was a child of poverty. The only way he could look in the mirror was by his dream car for his son; the light of his life and the proud torchbearer of the family crest. Bobby didn't seem that touched by the gift but it wasn't a big deal. Being able to give his dream to his son was all RBI's dad needed.
When Robert B. Ingraham totaled the car two weeks letter while sending a text, Dad's dream ended. The light flickered out and there was no longer a candle in the window. Father Ingraham knew before anyone else that his son was a fuck up. The hype meant nothing because RBI bought into it and believed it. The fastballs would dissipate when RBI climbed the ranks of MLB, leaving him stymied by curves, sliders, sinkers, slurves, and wicked knuckleballs.
RBI would be a bust. His dad was the first to know.
His dad showed him Major League. Bobby liked fastballs and his dad knew that if he got too comfy with them, they'd eat a hole in his swing. Spoiler alert: they did. Bobby's dad didn't like to see it happen, however. When he passed of a heart attack behind the engine gauge of an LA County hydroelectric valve, his last sensation was relief. His only regret was that his son wouldn't be spared the agony of the hole in his bat.
RBI stood tall at his father's funeral. He swore to only swing at fast balls. His dad wanted a slugger and his dad would get a slugger. But not a slugger of women. Not an intoxicated monster who slugged anything that moved. But RBI was young. Such distinctions weren't clear to him. Not yet.