A Dust Storm for Daisy Gilbert
A little baseball story with a dust storm thrown in, plus some independent writer promos at the end of the newsletter
Many of you saw this fiction short when I originally wrote it for a little lit mag dedicated to baseball, which I’ve always loved. The post included part of the story, then a link to the mag. Spring training baseball has begun, so I’m including the story in full here. You can still view it on the lit mag site if you want to show some support and/or love for lit mags.
Also, if you’re in the mood for supporting indie writers, check out the promos at the end of this post after the story. I receive no affiliate fees or anything like that for clicks. It’s just part of a cooperative venture between writers through StoryOrigin, an indie writer stop. Full disclosure: I don’t vet these, so I can’t guarantee no AI.
I think it’s awesome that, as messed up as our world is right now, we have lit mags for baseball. Without further ado…
A Dust Storm for Daisy Gilbert
by Charles Bastille
“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.
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.
Most of the fans were too paralyzed to do much, but a few were jumping onto the field to seek shelter with the players, all of whom were making their way hastily to the clubhouse.
“This way,” said Diaz as he continued pulling Daisy by the arm. Most of the players appeared headed toward the clubhouse, but Diaz seemed to have something else in mind. Daisy felt herself stiffen in resistance.
“It’s okay, ump, come on.” He let go of her arm and instead ushered her along with a hand signal. She looked around, then followed him as he opened a small metal door. He stepped in. When she didn’t follow, he stuck one hand out and curled his finger in a motion to follow him through the doorway.
By now, the roof above them was a cacophony of thunder and grit and dry loam whipping with a frenzy against metal. Daisy scooted inside the door and was greeted by the deep smell of leather and linseed oil.
Diaz moved in front of her and slammed the metal door shut, then locked its deadbolt. “Sucks, but gotta keep out any fans that find this place, or there’ll be hundreds more.”
Daisy nodded her head. She was beyond confused. She had no idea what was happening outside. Was it a tornado?
As if reading her mind, Diaz said, “It’s okay, ump. It’s a dust storm. It’ll pass soon. I hope everyone took cover somehow.” He seemed out of breath. She noticed that he had dropped his catcher’s mask somewhere before their arrival to this tiny room.
“You have your own… closet? Or, what?” She had to speak over the din of furious winds against metal.
“Just a place to keep my catcher’s gear.”
Clatter, bang, whomp, said the dust storm.
Daisy thought that some of the old gear must have been in the closet for twenty years or more. “How long have you been here, Diaz?”
“I’m Crash Davis without the hit tool,” he replied.
“Oh, shit,” she said.
“Yeah. But I wouldn’t trade it for nothin’. Going to work every morning hearing… well, it’s not just the ball off the bat. It’s all of it. The pop of the mitts and gloves. The popcorn guy yelling in the stands. The ‘Everybody clap your hands’ song…”
“I love that,” interrupted Daisy. He inched closer to her, but Daisy was pretty sure that it was only so he could hear her better.
“Just, all of it,” he continued. “When I knew I wasn’t gonna make it to the show, I thought, well, I could go into the construction business maybe with my brother’s company. He’s pretty successful. I woulda done okay. But, nah. This is it, man.”
“Yeah,” said Daisy. “I feel ya. I mean, what are my chances getting to the bigs? It isn’t because I’m a woman, either. It’s just, well, you know. The numbers aren’t on our side when we start out.”
“I got respect for that, ump. I do,” said Diaz. “Mad respect, fact is. Just don’t tell none of my boys. But I tell you something. You got a chance. I ain’t seen much of you yet, but you seem to get it.”
“Thanks, Diaz.” She looked around the dank room, which had more humidity within its walls than any other room in Midland, Texas, she thought. “I think we’re all here for that, you know? Even your pitcher out there today.”
“Sterling Mason,” said Diaz. “First choice in last year’s draft. But yeah, you don’t get that good not lovin’ the game.”
The storm began to subside. Soon, all the clattering fell silent.
“We had three of these last year,” said Diaz as he gingerly opened the closet door.
“So, this closet. It’s your own personal shelter?”
“Hey, I deserve somethin’ for all those years I’ve given this league,” Diaz said through a laugh. He looked at Daisy, then shrugged his shoulders as he stepped furtively into the clubhouse gangway as if hoping to keep the secret forever.
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Notes
The baseball story uses some baseball lingo. It was written for a baseball magazine! For example, the catcher being a good “framer” means he is proficient at setting up his catchers mitt when he receives the pitch that it’s more convincing to the umpire that the ball is a strike.
Every baseball fan knows who Crash Davis is. If you’re not a baseball fan, you can learn more about him here:
Thanks for reading!
I enjoy your short stories and am going to see about your book. I imagine it’s available in Canada?
One question: does Daisy make it to the big leagues?
I hope you like it!