Father Time
(a short story)
The mound was wet; puddles of water surrounded the deep groove where the pitchers landed as they tossed the ball toward home plate. It sure seemed like the last of the rain had cleared out, at least that is what the local weatherman claimed. If the Iroquois Iroquoian management showed a little patience, the game would play.
People from both teams were milling about, constantly checking the sky in search of any blue. A few fans were in the stands, a handful covered in garbage bags, one huddling under an oversize umbrella. The umpires were in a circle with an intern for the team, a young woman named Karen. The group broke up, and the umpires pointed to the players. “Alright, let’s go.”
The game was on. I felt my stomach knot up as I realized they were actually going to play. This assignment was an easy one…on paper. All I had to do is watch the game and write an article for tomorrow’s paper. My problem was of a different sort. I was anticipating something unusual.
Twenty-five years ago, I witnessed a perfect game at a small minor league field in a one-stoplight town in Pennsylvania. The pitcher was a lefthanded knuckleballer named Cyrus Free. He appeared to be much older than the youngsters he was pitching to. A lot older. Rumor had it that Free was going to take the bump tonight for the Iroquois Iroquoians.
I could get no information from the team. They weren’t required to announce starting lineups; after all, this was low-level minor league baseball. As an independent team, the Iroquoians weren’t bound by any league rules or protocols.
I needed a normal day, an uneventful game. I didn’t like hearing about Cyrus Free; I didn’t want to stay up late, struggling to meet my deadline. And I knew if Free were pitching, he would be the story regardless of what happened on the field.
I tracked down Karen and, after the unusual pleasantries, I asked her if the rumors were true; I asked if Cyrus Free was pitching. She smiled and nodded a quick yes and then disappeared into the team’s trailer.
I don’t know what else I can tell you as background to my tale. The following ran in The Iroquois Iroquoian the next morning.
BYLINE: Thomas Pepperidge
Father Time Impossibly Masterful
Cyrus Free, known henceforth to this reporter as Father Time, did something last night no reasonable person could ever have imagined. He pitched an Immaculate Game. Yes, you heard right. He threw 81 pitches to 27 batters. Of course, this was also a perfect game, but that is beside the point. Father Time struck out every batter he faced on three pitches.
You will often hear baseball people say that one of the great things about going to the ballpark is that you can see something you have never seen before. While most games are mundane, outs made, hits recorded, popcorn sold, there are those rare exceptions. Last night at Iroquoin Field, I witnessed something I thought impossible. I still can’t believe what I saw.
Father Time took the mound at the top of the first inning. He dug around the rubber with his left foot, looking for the perfect launch point. His large belly hung over his belt, his long white hair tucked behind his ears, forming a tangle that went halfway down his back.
As the first batter approached the plate, Father Time rolled his head about his neck and adjusted his glove. His windup was peculiar; his arm movements exaggerated as his back turned toward the batter, his eyes directed to dead center. He gesticulated in random ways as he turned to release a knuckleball.
The ball traveled slowly, much slower than I thought possible. Its arc inconceivable. The batter produced a mighty swing. He spun around and landed on home plate. His face turned red as his teammates razzed him from their dugout. Eight more pitches, all exacting with the same result, and the inning was over.
An Immaculate Inning. I had never dreamed of such a thing. Sure, it has happened a handful of times in big league history, but it is much rarer than a perfect game. In other words, good luck trying to see it in person.
The second inning was the same, as was the third. Something unexpected (as if any of this is normal) happened in the fourth inning. The most exciting play of the game occurred with two outs in the fourth. The batter, hysterically overmatched, swung and missed for strike three. The ball bounced off the catcher’s chest and rolled down the third baseline. The runner took off for first base. The catcher lunged for the ball, flipping it toward the third baseman. A faster runner would have made it to first, but this one did not. David Whitman, as good a third baseman as you will find in independent ball, threw a pill to first base. He beat the runner by a quarter step.
Let’s step back and appreciate what I have written. Father Time threw an Immaculate Game. He struck out every batter he faced on three pitches. Foul balls? None. Not a single batter managed to nick a pitch. Wood never touched horsehide. Unbelievable. If I hadn’t been there, I wouldn’t believe it either.
The final score was Iroquois Iroqouoians 3, Battle Park Fighting Battlers 0, but who cares. Father Time showed up last night and pitched. He was sinister (and not just because he is left-handed), sublime, otherworldly. I remain undone. I am not the type to make appeals to the supernatural, but…
After the story ran, people from all over the world contacted the paper for more information. Of course, all were skeptical. No one could conceive that an old man, or any man, could do such a thing. They thought the story was an April Fools’ joke even though it ran in July. I didn’t bother to tell anyone about the perfect game I saw the same man throw 25 years earlier. And yes, I thought he was old then.
I was faced with a dilemma. There were only a handful of people in the stands that day. The radio announcers, such as they were, didn’t bother to show up. Consequently, there was no broadcast. They simply assumed the game was rained out (At least, that is what they told me). What about Battle Park? They denied that the game was ever played. Immaculate Game? What are you talking about? We didn’t even play that day.
Sure, the Iroquoian management and players all stood behind me. They knew what happened. The question became one of veracity. The tale being told was so extraordinary that no one wanted to believe that the realm of the possible could include an Immaculate Game pitched by a mysterious old man.
As the story goes, my professional reputation took a big hit. I was (and still am) accused of unimaginable things. I pay little attention to the hatred. I walk with my head high; all I did was tell the truth.
You may be wondering about Father Time. Of course, I tried to find him; all I found were rumors about a band of superior humans that all came from Iroquois County. Some called them genetic mutants; others said their DNA was not human to begin with. One person mentioned over and over was a tennis player people knew as The Cheetah. I had serious people tell me he was the greatest player ever. A few said he was the most outstanding athlete they ever laid eyes on.
Then, of course, is Buford Lister, perhaps the greatest poker player ever to sit at a felt table. The list went on and on. A handful of physicists, a couple dozen mathematicians, too many musicians to mention, poets, novelists, you get the idea. I was reminded of what I already knew, Iroquois County has more than its fair share of world-class overachievers. That I knew, I think everyone knows there is something in the water in Iroquois County, Ohio.
As for Father Time, one guy from South County told me he went to high school with a fellow who had magical baseball skills. He told me he has never seen a knuckleball dance like that. He swore I must have been talking about this man when I described the pitcher I saw. Santos McClelland played 12 years in the big leagues. Santos McClelland is 85 years old…
I don’t know what to think. I don’t believe in mass delusions, nor do I believe in supernatural beings who manifest themselves to determine the outcome of minor league baseball games. What do I believe in? I believe in Father Time, and it doesn’t surprise me that he remains dominant, untouched, and undefeated.
