The Ghost Runner

One spring afternoon, grammar school flame thrower Grant Lee’s class, closed their history texts, citing break time needed from the American Revolution lesson, when European pride fell into some deadly traps, due to egotistical mistakes, feeding a hungry raggy image opponent.

When the school bell rang commanding, ‘sprint towards the playground’, Grant Lee grabbed a whiffle bat and ball, promptly arriving, at the provided dusty athletic ground, suited for elementary recess activity.

“Hit one out of the park for me, Grant,” Virginia Carolina yelled, and the fifth grader acknowledged her request performing a friendly hand wave. Nearly fifty minutes passed and when the right time came, the growing young boy approached the plate, seeing the winning run, patiently waiting, foot planted safely on bag number three.

“Hit one out of the park for me, Grant,” the little leaguer digested the shouting dialogue, knowing small things can grow into giant victories.

Only a few seconds were left until the group had to revisit the air-condition, cooling down over a mandatory discussion comparing differences between Breeds and Bunker Hills. Taking his time Grant laid down the perfect suicide sacrifice squeeze play bunt, lowering his competitive average but ensuring a recreation victory, when his classmate, Trenton Dover turned into a lunch hour star.

“Trenton Dover, you scored the winning run for me,” Grant Lee listened, figuring the strategy worked perfectly.

Not even a decade flipped off the calendar, Grant Lee was called up, drafted, handed a uniform, expecting the same win at all cost game strategy. But this time permanent losses were counted, leaving only buried ashes delivered home next to statistical accomplishments, which the cemetery gravestone markers clearly noted.

Today, following Independence Day holiday picnic food festivities and an entertaining pyrotechnic event display, Virginia Carolina took her traditional bleacher spot where she had a clear view of second base, the position Grant Lee guarded, studying baseball in high school.

Legion American outpost #365 sponsored the annual traditional classic challenge match, pitting two county area squads, one representing the north and the other south. Both boasting same goal intentions, receiving Civil War Cup hoisting honors. Suddenly, a disturbance occurred when affluent wealthy Diamond Don, the grand ole leader who loved partying, entered the facility, finding the VIP box section, taking a seat.

“Diamond Don,” Virginia Carolina expressed, “in his prime he was such a golden glover, and by golly, he salutes the crowd just like Grant Lee used to, forge on, Diamond Don, forge on.”

Opening three innings allowed the pitcher catcher relationship, capture the audience’s attention, as the participants felt out the situation, imitating the damsel courting the distress character traits unveiled during the first act.

After everybody used their next nine outs, they each drew blood, and the midway point red wine toasts continued, providing an entertaining outing. Visitors from the north, went very quietly, letting three more outs slip away, relinquishing the batter’s box to the south, signaling Diamond Don, rise, stretch legs, keep alive a tradition.

“Everybody follows, Diamond Don,” Virginia Carolina applauded, “we truly have a united front.”

Scoreboard applied a few more goose eggs sold by a local farmer, and everything stood still, realizing neither the north nor the south had any ammunition left.

“Twenty-seven, up and twenty-seven down, only a couple measly umpire dish cleanings,” commentated a spectator.

“Put in a ghost runner, he will decide who wins our rivalry conflict,”

A magical genie heard the wish and granted the request, sending a northerner to second base. Giving a quizzical look, the pitcher shrugged off the offensive sign, throwing six straight strikes.

Feeling confident, Ace Sidewinder checked the runner and tossed another softball right down Broadway. Ready for the luring throw the batter swung, making serious contact watching the wrapped twine, go right through the infielder’s legs.

Knowing this could be a steppingstone towards defeat, Virginia Carolina felt a heavenly warming haunting trend, observing the ghost runner trip, falling flat on his face.

Alertly, the outfielder secured the ball, carefully inserted the object into the shortstop's hands and the Southern gentlemen showed mercy rendering a soft simple tag.

Quietly all the participants returned to their respected resting areas, “that was a close one,” Virginia Carolina mumbled under her breath, “we need a ghost runner to end this crisis.”

Making a quick decision Virginia Carolina, shut her eyes and recited, “if you ask him, he will run,” and a magical phenomenon revealed, second baseman, fifth grader Grant Lee, “score a run for me Grant and win the Civil War Cup!”

Without any prompting a mystical wind gusted, blowing sand all over, and when the scene settled the scoreboard sent the message, South 2 North 1, conjuring an electrical force leaning forward, “Yes, Virginia,” the youthful apple pie interrupted, “if the scoreboard puts the results in bright lights, it must be true.”

“Grant,” Virginia Carolina paused seeing his innocent childish face, one final time, “Grant Lee, we won the Civil War Cup!”