Chapter Text
Before Chicago had the Sears Tower to dominate her skyline, before the first deep dish pizza was ever crafted in a kitchen on Ohio Street, before millions of visitors flocked to Jackson Park near the turn of the century to marvel at a ferris wheel, before the whole city made a scapegoat out of a poor Irish woman and her cow, and long before anyone ever put celery salt on a hot dog, Chicago had baseball.
The city’s earliest game on record was played in the south suburbs in August 1851. By 1867 the city was home to 45 different amateur teams, and by 1870 the papers were starting to report on them. These teams evolved rapidly into an organized bush league, followed by a smattering of semiprofessional teams, until eventually, two professional powerhouses emerged.
The Chicago Metros have long ruled the city’s North Side from Marshall Field, their ivy-covered red brick palace at the corner of Addison and Clark. As the Metros solidified themselves in the National League rankings, the locals responded in kind with open arms and wallets. Today, if you ever come see a home game—when you finally find a godforsaken parking spot a half-mile away from the ballpark—you’ll be right in the heart of the shops, restaurants, and Metros-themed bars of the historic (and historically overpriced) neighborhood known as Marshallville.
The Chicago Raiders, over time, became the black sheep in this tale of two cities. Though both stadiums are just an elevated train trip apart on the red line, the wealthy suburbanites and city yuppies aren’t flocking to Armour Park in droves. Raiders fans reside almost exclusively south of the Stevenson Expressway, their diehard devotion seemingly passed down genetically from generation to generation of working-class Chicago natives. Sure, the Raiders lose more often than they win, but what are you gonna do? Root for the fucking Metros? Didn’t think so.
In the Baseball Major League, the Raiders and Metros occupy different conferences, the American League and National League respectively. They only meet on the same diamond for two series of heated games a year known as the Crosstown Classic. It’s a city-wide onslaught; opposing fans throw scowls at each other in the concessions line, get into alcohol-fueled fistfights in the streets outside the stadium, send off braggadocious texts to their different-minded loved ones if their guys win and strings of expletives if they lose.
A wealth of baseball lore and legend rests between these two franchises. So much history, so much family tradition, so much hometown pride personified in each and every member of both ballclubs.
So how might a young aspiring baseball player try to get in on all this action?
You make it to the Youth World Championship.
⚾
SEPTEMBER 2008
Shane knew this pitcher was going to be a problem as soon as Grender struck out.
He kind of sensed it initially, while he was watching Russia warm up before the first pitch. The other players on the field were no cause for concern, their passes mostly connecting save for a few dropped or overthrown balls, their relay speed from the outfield not raising any alarms. Maybe he expected a Russian team to look…bigger? Scarier? He’s not sure. But watching their pitcher…
“This guy’s got a fuckin’ bazooka,” Baker curses under his breath, seated to Shane’s left on the dugout bench. Their eyes are both glued to the mound, mesmerized and terrified in equal measure with every cannonball he fires right into the catcher’s glove.
Shane notes the mechanics of his windup every time. He takes a stumble-like drop step and then he almost curves in on himself, letting his chest come down to meet his raised left knee. Just before the throw, he gives the ball a little shake. But his follow-through looks like a different pitcher entirely: strong, defined, the forefingers of his throwing hand extended straight as an arrow.
He holds out his glove to receive the return throw from the catcher and turns clockwise to reset, turning the ball over in his hand. A mess of blond curls poke out below the brim of his cap, striking against the red fabric in the warm midday sunlight. He doesn’t speak, doesn’t smile.
Canada’s dugout is on the first base line, so every time he winds up, everyone on the bench gets a good view of the name and number on the back of his jersey: Rozanov, 81.
A sunflower seed shell catapults past Shane. “If anyone else was wondering how Russia got this far,” Anderson remarks around a mouthful more, “now we know.”
“He’s their best youth pitcher.” Shane’s already checked out the stats and footage from yesterday’s play-in match. The online forums had been whispering Ilya Rozanov’s name in weeks prior, but Shane needed to see for himself. “Their best ever. And his OPS is like nine-fifty.”
Another fastball flies over home plate, and Myers scoffs and starts unwrapping a stick of gum.
“So he’s hot shit at home, so what? Check out these basemen, they can’t throw for shit.” He pops the gum in his mouth and gets up to grab his helmet. “Looks like a one-man show out there to me.”
Rozanov freezes just then, mid-windup, and the whole dugout nearly shits a brick when he turns and glares at them.
Then just as quickly, he turns away, flashes the umpire a stoic thumbs-up, and it’s play ball!
Dieujuste, who had been taking some distracted half-hearted practice swings in the on-deck circle, is in no hurry to get up to the plate.
The silence from the bench is way too loud. “Let’s go, DJ!” Shane whoops before Coach can say anything about it.
Something tells him he might not be waiting long for his at-bat, so he leans forward to get to his bag under the bench and fishes out his helmet and batting gloves.
Thmp.
He looks up to see what he just missed. Dieujuste is still following through on his swing by the time the catcher is throwing it back to the mound.
“Strike!” calls the ump.
A murmur from the modest crowd in the stands, almost all of them Canada fans, here to cheer on their hometown heroes. Shane looks around the dugout; the guys are all staring at Rozanov, expressions ranging from awe to dejection to horror.
“Shake it off, DJ, shake it off!” he tries. Not a peep; this is ridiculous. “C’mon boys, let him hear you, let’s go.”
The half-hearted attempts that follow are quickly silenced by a second pitch that practically leaves smoke in the air behind it. Dieujuste doesn’t even have time to think about swinging at that one, or the one after that. And just like that, his at-bat is over as quickly as it started.
Stunned, Shane throws a look over at his head coach. His wraparound sunglasses betray his full expression as usual, but he’s chewing on his toothpick awfully hard.
As Dieujuste takes his slow, sad walk of shame back to the dugout, Grender steps up to the plate, and a glimmer of hope shines through into the dugout. Here we go, Grender! Knock one out, Grender! Get some good wood on it!
He’s got the best OBP on the whole team, but Grender’s finest trait is staying cool under pressure. Shane’s seen him eke out countless two-out base hits against pitchers who were way ahead in the count.
The sun feels good on Shane’s skin after being in the shade of the dugout for so long. He makes his way to the on-deck circle as Grender gets set for his first pitch, but Shane’s eyes are on Rozanov.
Even Grender is no match for him. Three strikes come and go in a matter of a minute. Two outs, nobody on.
“Shit,” Shane mutters under his breath, gripping the handle of his bat a little tighter.
Grender takes off his helmet and spits on the ground as he walks past, looking like murder, and somehow that’s scarier to Shane than his own possibility of striking out. “Get a hit off this prick for me, would you?”
“I was planning on it.”
The white powder of the base lines stretching out from home plate are still pristine. Shane goes through his batting routine: he sets his stance, taps the butt of his bat twice against the plate, does two half-swings, then brings the bat up above his right shoulder to set for the pitch.
When he looks out at the pitching mound, Rozanov is stone-faced, brow creased, basically staring into his soul.
He starts the windup, and Shane is already prepping his hands, engaging his forearms, gathering the potential energy he’s going to need to connect with the ball.
It’s a fucking fade.
Thank God he still gets a piece of it—the ball clangs into the fence behind them as the crowd applauds—but the damage is already done.
“Foul ball!” calls the ump.
Shane’s face burns from the embarrassment of such an early swing, and Rozanov’s expression breaks for the first time with the smallest smirk in Shane’s direction.
Yeah, fuck this guy. Shane’s getting on base if it kills him.
Over in Canada’s dugout, the boys are getting rowdy. Get him, Cap! Hollander, Hollander, let’s go, Hollander!
Shane resets and takes another look down the grass at Rozanov. He’s slower to the windup this time. It’s gonna be a center cut.
Bingo. Shane hits a line drive along the third base line that just barely stays fair, but it’s not like he took the time to check before taking off for first. The left fielder retrieves it fairly quickly and lobs it back to Rozanov, so Shane doesn’t go for the double.
Both the dugout and the stands are going crazy. Shane high-fives his first base coach and takes his position on the bag. Rozanov has an evil eye trained on Shane, finally breaking to pitch to Myers.
Shane leads off a good distance. Rozanov looks back at him. Shane doesn’t go. Then Rozanov turns and throws a perfect four-seamer right down the barrel.
Myers is a great slugger, but a hothead. He manages to hang in there with a couple foul tips over the next few pitches, but a well-timed breaking ball from Rozanov sends Team Russia back to their dugout for the bottom of the inning and sends Myers into a cussing tirade that earns him a sportsmanship warning from the ump.
While Coach tells off Myers for his smart mouth, Shane puts his batting helmet away and neatly folds up his gloves before throwing on his catching gear. He hates being on base at the end of an inning, hates making Baker wait on him, but soon enough he’s trudging to home plate. Russia’s leadoff hitter is already on deck taking swings.
He makes sure Baker gets some good practice pitches in, mostly different fastballs with a couple changeups thrown in the mix. He’s been throwing pretty strong today, thank God. They’re gonna need it.
Baker gets the count to 2-2 with the first batter before he hits a grounder right to Anderson on first base for an easy out. It’s only the 1st inning, so Shane didn’t call any of the pitches.
Then who should step up to the plate other than Ilya Rozanov.
His presence is just as imposing here as it is on the mound, especially when Shane’s crouched down in position. His biceps are the size of grapefruits—maybe they got nothing else better to do in Russia than throw around cinder blocks. He’s got a wide-set nose and his eyes are slightly hooded, kind of like Shane’s own, but it’s hard to see him fully with his head turned towards the mound.
Rozanov’s get-set routine is quick; he just holds the bat up in position and waves it around a little bit before letting it come to rest.
Shane waves Baker to attention before he can throw a pitch, then gives him the signal. Breaking ball.
Baker’s eyebrows come together in confusion, but he winds up anyway and delivers a beautiful slider to the plate. Luckily it stays in the zone before it hits Shane’s mitt.
“Strike!”
He tosses it back to Baker. Rozanov exhales loudly through his nose and shakes it off, resetting without so much as a thought of a look in Shane’s direction.
Another signal to Baker, Shane flashes two numbers with his left hand. Sinker.
Baker goes. It’s low, under the zone, and Rozanov knows better than to swing.
“Ball,” the ump confirms.
Two-seam, Shane signals as he adjusts his stance.
Baker winds up, lets it go, it’s looking like a beaut, but then Rozanov swings.
The crack! of the bat is unmistakable, and everybody in the park knows that the ball is headed out of there before it’s hardly left the infield.
There are, like, eight Russia fans in the stands to help their players cheer for that big fly.
As Rozanov turns to toss his bat aside, he finally looks Shane in the eye. He grins, showing off a row of crooked teeth, and winks at him before he takes off for his victory lap around the bases. The asshole actually fucking winked.
Shane jogs over to Baker with a fresh ball from the umpire. “Look, I’m sorry. I thought I had a good read on him.”
Baker just shrugs. “Whatcha gonna do?”
⚾
It had to be one of the quickest games in U18 World Championship history. Ilya Rozanov not only pitched a shutout against Canada, but was solely responsible for the 3 runs scored by Russia.
The Canada crowd’s enthusiasm has long since died by the time both teams line up to shake hands, but they still applaud politely, because, well, they’re Canadian.
Shane spots Rozanov at the very end of Russia’s line, the pit in his stomach growing wider and wider as they get closer and closer.
Finally, when Rozanov grips his hand tight, he leans in close and says just loud enough for Shane to hear: “See you at the draft.”
What the fuck?
Shane stews on it all the way through the evening match, Russia vs. Panama. In a way, Myers was right: Rozanov tried his best, but he and his team didn’t stand a chance against the depth of Panama’s bench. Once Rozanov reached his daily pitch limit at the bottom of the 4th, it was all over but the crying. It’s not enough to have one good pitcher or one good hitter. Everyone needs to pull their weight.
But…the draft?
“You really want to stay through the end?” Shane’s mom pulls the emergency brake on his train of thought, standing up to stretch. The sun set about an hour ago, leaving everything bathed in stadium lights. “I bet you’re getting hungry.”
“I’m good, I just…I want to talk to him.”
“Fine, have it your way, but your mother needs to eat. You want to meet me back at the hotel?”
It’s just across the street, so no big deal. “Yeah, sure. See you later.”
“Bye, sweetheart.” She rumples up his hair before beginning her descent down the steps of the stands. “Don’t stay out too late. 6:00am wakeup call tomorrow.”
“I know, I won’t.”
His patience pays off, and the game concludes about an hour later. Feeling a little bit like a stalker, Shane moves across the deck, following Russia’s players out toward the home plate exit.
When he gets down to street level, he sees a charter bus printed with a weird name he can’t pronounce stalling in the turnaround, but doesn’t see any players. That is, until he catches a whiff of nearby cigarette smoke.
Loud laughter leads him around the corner, down an alleyway meant for the dumpsters. Shane would really hate to be murdered back here, especially before he could break 60 career homers.
He sees Rozanov in front of the dumpsters, smoking with two other guys—he recognizes them from the batting order. They all have jackets thrown over their uniforms, huddled together to share the same lighter. This may prove to be a very stupid move on Shane's part, but he can’t pass up this chance.
“Ilya Rozanov?”
All three of them stop what they’re doing to look at him. Shane feels like a bug under a microscope.
“Uh…Sorry if I’m, you know, if I’m interrupting. I just, I wanted to…”
He’s not proud of this performance, but thankfully Rozanov seems to catch his drift and waves the other guys away. They bump into Shane’s shoulder unapologetically as they walk past him and back out the alley.
The end of Rozanov’s cigarette glows hot red as he inhales. Shane watches the resulting smoke leak out of his nose, dissolving into the chilly evening air.
He sticks his hands in his pockets—nervous habit—before coming to his senses and reaching his right hand out to Rozanov. “I, uh, I wanted to introduce myself. Shane Hollander.”
Rozanov takes it, the same firm handshake he gave this afternoon. “Yes. I know you.”
“You do?”
“Yes.” He takes another drag from the cigarette. “They say you are best all-around catcher in Canada.”
Shane feels the flush creep up under his skin. Not the first time Rozanov’s done that to him today. “I don’t know if I’d say that.”
“It’s true. Except you have uneven swing. Fix that.”
“No I—shut up.” Asshole.
After hours of waiting and thinking it over, Shane finally has the nerve to ask what he really wants to know.
“When you said earlier that you would see me at the draft… What did you mean by that?”
Rozanov gives him a look. “What, you don’t know English? I mean I will see you at the draft.”
“But you’re from Russia.” Rozanov doesn’t seem to want to dignify that Captain Obvious statement with a response. “Sorry, I just—Don’t you have to live in the US or Canada to get drafted?”
“Yes. I go to prep school in Massachusetts.”
“Oh. Cool.” Guess that answers that. “How did you know I wanted to enter the draft?”
“Because you’re catcher that can hit. You are—what is the word—valuable.”
Shane pulls the beanie off his head, runs a hand through his hair. “I don’t know. I’ve had some scouts reach out, but I don’t know if I’ll actually make it all the way. Maybe I could play college ball in the States or something.”
Rozanov offers him the last of his cigarette. Shane shakes it off. “You shouldn’t smoke,” he admonishes, putting his hat back on.
Rozanov doesn’t answer, just lets it fall to the ground, and the ember slowly fades out.
“What about you? You’re entering the draft?”
“I want to.” He takes a step back to lean against the brick wall, arms folded. “I don’t want to play at American university, don’t want to go back to Russia. Russia is shit for baseball. I am only here to get noticed.”
Shane laughs. Maybe it’s the language barrier, but when people just come out and say whatever they’re really thinking, he respects that. It speaks to him. “Well, people here definitely noticed you. I would expect some calls pretty soon.”
Rozanov nods absently. He glances down the alley. “I have to go. The team is waiting.”
“Okay.” Shane reaches out to him again. “Good talking with you. Hopefully I see you at the draft.”
When Rozanov shakes his hand, Shane swears he imagines feeling his thumb running over his knuckle. “Yes.”
As he walks down the narrow passageway, he calls back to Shane with that same smirk he gave him earlier on the mound: “Don’t be mad when they pick me first.”
Shane shakes his head, can’t help a smile. “That’s not gonna happen.”
He looks down at the ground and grinds the remains of Rozanov’s cigarette down with his heel before heading back to the hotel.