KHT
Prelude
October 14th 1981 was the date.
Like so much kismet. Robert Baird Ingraham was "born" (in the sense that he'd been two weeks past due leading to induced labor) and came into the world with a howl. Nurses at the hospital laughed when they saw that young R.B.I. tipped the scales at a healthy fourteen pounds plus some odd ounces.
Immediately, they proclaimed RBI the biggest baby ever born on the fifth anniversary of Chris Chambliss' game winning home run in the 1976 American League Championship Series. Robert B.I.'s father laughed and clapped the doctor on the shoulder; the day may have been unseasonably cold in Covina but the sweat on his forehead was that of an honest man. A father whom had been given a great gift of a wide blue yonder where the only limits were the curvature of the earth itself.
R.B. Ingraham was born for greatness and God help anything that got in the way.
A year and change earlier, a similar birth for greatness began in trauma. July 11th 1980 was hot, humid, and uncomfortable in the San Fernando Valley. Evan Ricardo Alderson couldn't wait to be born that night, emerging cold and blue from his mother. His skin delicate and his fingers so tiny, ERA had made his debut after only twenty four weeks in the maternal bullpen. Even with the hospital air flowing, the room was tense and hot. Evan R. Alderson's mother wept, not sure if the baby she'd waited so long to see would live long enough to see her. Evan's fight began in the summer heat of The Valley and the chain hung around his neck; seemingly from the moment he took his first breath. A first breath which had waited an agonizingly long time, five minutes and twelve seconds to be exact. 5-12-7-11-19-80 became the six numbers played in superstition by Evan's father every time the lottery climbed to nine figures.
E. Ricardo Alderson was born with a flair for the dramatic and a tendency to whiten even the hardiest of knuckles.
RBI: strong, strapping, loud. Every move made as if drawn up by da Vinci himself.
ERA: small, gangly, the runt. Herky and jerky and no good reason to succeed but always finding a way.
They were The Phoenicians. They would be pumped full of hot air, they would deflate. They would fall, they would rise. They would become two titans of storybook stature within their sport, they would insist on being human despite their mythos demanding perfection.
ERA, The Gatling Gun For An Arm & The Glutton For The Spotlight. The Cannon. Lights out, ladies and gentleman.
RBI, The Golden Eye With The Platinum Swing. The Five Star Phenom. Countdown to The BALCO Purge, sportsfans.
Except... it didn't happen quite the way it was supposed to.