A Dust Storm for Daisy Gilbert

A little baseball story with a dust storm thrown in

I wrote this short story for a little lit mag dedicated to baseball, which I’ve always loved. I’m including the beginning of the story here, along with a button at the end for you to click/tap if you want to read the whole thing. It’s all free.

I think it’s awesome that, as messed up as our world is right now, we have lit mags for baseball. Without further ado…

Illustration by Jason David Córdova; Jason David Córdova lives in Puerto Rico as an illustrator and painter. Some of his art can be seen on Instagram at @jasoni72. You can visit his shop on Red Bubble.

A Dust Storm for Daisy Gilbert

“I want you to keep an eye on that shortstop. His name is Humberto Peña Sobreviela. Best shortstop you’ll ever see. But he can’t hit a lick. So you’ll never see him in the majors.”

Daisy adjusted her face mask and squinted through the late afternoon Midland sun.

She nodded as she stooped behind the catcher who had provided the quick scouting report.

She was about to evaluate the first pitch of her Double A career. She hadn’t been this nervous since that day she sat across from Father Grimes in his office after ditching catechism class.

The dry heat reminded her of sitting at the dentist’s office with tubes sucking the moisture out of her throat. It was a different world from the Carolina League and its withering humidity. Normally, Midland games were scheduled for the evening, but this was the first game of the year, and it was still early spring.

The starting pitcher was Sterling Mason. His participation in this game was almost a polite formality because his arrival to the major leagues was a foregone conclusion. Mason was a long, lanky fireballer who turned baseballs into small, spinning sphere-shaped jets that tailed up just as a hitter swung helplessly at the smoking embers, missing by inches. Daisy, though, had never seen his well-publicized feats up close.

“He’ll clock in at one hundred,” said the catcher, name of Diaz, who spoke with a slight Spanish accent that reminded her of a movie star whose name escaped her in the moment. “Be ready,” he warned.

“Thanks,” she said.

“Happy to help,” he said. “Remember. He only throws strikes.”

She chuckled at that. Mason reared back, and, with a tall forward kick, hurled the ball her way. It arrived instantly, but it was low and away. “That’s outside!” she yelled, thrusting her left hand across her waist. If this first pitch was any indication, Diaz was an excellent framer, she thought. His catcher’s mitt was in the zone, but the pitch was not.

“Shit, ump,” said Diaz.

“Doesn’t look like he needs my help,” she replied.

He didn’t. The next two were clean strikes just at the shoulders and almost, but not quite, inside. The batter, Montrose Stallings, watched them both.

“You’re in trouble, Stallings,” said Diaz.

Montrose Stallings had the highest on base percentage in all professional baseball, including the majors. He wasn’t a home run hitter, but he sprayed line drives across all three fields like he was trying to generally be a fair distributor of baseballs. He had the sprint speed of a jaguar and led all the minor leagues in stolen bases.

Daisy didn’t know any of this. She hadn’t done the prep work she should have done the previous night because she spent too much time reading scary weather reports about the Midland area and let herself lose focus.

“She’s gonna call the next one right,” said Stallings with the slightest wry smile as he dug into the batter’s box. Daisy had umpired enough in Single A ball to know that almost every pitch was challenged by the one who lost a call. No big deal.

Stallings tapped the plate with the fat end of his bat. Mason’s leg kicked high into the air, and the ball whistled past Stallings’ abdomen, just barely grazing his uniform before it smacked into Diaz’s mitt.

“That’s first base!” Daisy yelled.

“Oh, come on, ump,” said Diaz. “Maybe it caught the uni, but damn, just barely. He coulda moved a little, too, no?”

Stallings had remained almost motionless with his bat in the air above his shoulder as the fireball grazed his uniform, so Diaz had a point. But it was too late. She had made her call. And the league insisted on calling these kinds of brushbacks to protect future stars.

Daisy turned away from Diaz as she took two steps toward first. “Take first,” she ordered.

Stallings yelled out, “That’s trouble,” as he jogged to first base.

“Pendejo,” said Diaz in Stalling’s direction.

Diaz crouched down as the next batter, Alonso Estévez, stepped to the plate. Estévez was another budding star, a power hitter with, Daisy noticed, tattooed, burled arms that looked like they were created in a rope factory and stamped with a dozen stories.

“This manager likes his best hitter hitting number two,” said Diaz. “But you kinda gotta be ready cuz he hits lots of foul tips. Watch that head of yours.”

This was a good guy, Daisy thought. And she loved his accent.

Then, Diaz said, “I’m gonna get that pendejo when he tries to steal. You watch.”

There was no time to watch. Daisy thought a herd of elephants was charging the mound. She spied Rocky Rockhound, the Midland team mascot who had been shooting balled-up shirts from a t-shirt cannon just before the first pitch, jumping from the left field stands into foul territory, then into the clubhouse gangway.

She saw fans standing up, peering toward the same elephant noise she heard, but Daisy could see nothing. Diaz stood up. Alonso Estévez leaned against his bat, staring in the same direction as the fans.

Diaz pushed Estévez, saying, “Get in your dugout, bro!” But Estévez merely stood there as if frozen by an ancient spell. Diaz turned around as he yanked his catcher’s mask off and looked at Daisy, who was his height and near his weight. “Come on,” he said, pulling her by the arm.

The stadium’s fans ushered forth a blurred amalgam of voices that produced a sound she’d never heard as the rumbling approached with its heavy footfall. “What about…?” she tried to ask as she watched the people in the stands show more interest in whatever was happening than the fear that they should be experiencing.

Estévez looked at Diaz, then Daisy, before running toward the visitor dugout as Daisy reluctantly let Diaz guide her toward the gangway.

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Notes

Writing tip: Hey kids, you don't need to write, “she nodded her head,” like I do in this story. If the story was on my Substack, I'd edit to “she nodded.”