How a Legend was Born - and Torn… | Previous Challenge Entry

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TITLE: How a Legend was Born - and Torn… | Previous Challenge Entry
By Noel Mitaxa
05/05/22
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Baseball had been a passion for Harvey since he was a kid, and though the level of his performance never quite matched the level of his passion, he was always picked for his ability to encourage every one of his teammates when they slipped up.

He was a one-man cheer squad, which was just as well, because he was built for comfort rather than speed. This lack of ability to move much faster than a walking pace never him or the team too much, because he could easily manage the short trip from the dugout to the catcher’s box - and back again as each third out arrived.

Other players found a catcher’s apron, face mask, shin guards, and the extra weight of a catcher’s mitt so cumbersome – and a clear impediment to their fleet-footedness, so they were happy to let Harvey drape himself in all that gear. Besides, his eye had been sharpened by seeing so many pitches come his way from the mound to cross the plate and split the strike zone, that he rarely had to swing at any that came his way when he was at bat.

He could easily manage to pick out four balls and achieve a walk to first base, or he somehow seemed to trigger such deep levels of malice among opposing pitchers that his trip to first arrived prematurely.
These arrivals entered the scorebook as ‘HPB’ – hit by pitched ball – and as he raised a relaxed trot or limp towards first base, he had to endure the good-natured ribbing of teammates, coaches, and spectators alike. “You’re a big target Harvey!” “Don’t worry Harvey, you won’t feel a thing when the pain goes away!”

But things began turning sour one season, when Harvey developed an unwanted skill. He started missing low pitches, with each one crashing into the fence behind him and allowing runners to advance one base – or worse – across the home plate to score without any effort. His ability to encourage his team was starting to sound just a little hollow; and rival fans jumped on his back.

As that season finished, more statistically minded rival fans had kept score. Harvey had let sixty-five pass balls through - effectively donating forty runs to other teams – which gave them a nasty idea for a trophy to commemorate such a dubious record.

Imagine Harvey’s excitement at receiving a letter which looked like it came from Cooperstown, New York – the home of Baseball’s Hall of Fame. The letter described plans to honor him at a ceremony to be held in the carpark at the entrance; and included an offer of free travel and accommodation. All he needed to do was to phone his acceptance through.

The big day came, and Harvey arrived at the Hall of Fame to see a crowd of opposition fans waiting; all disguising their smirks with wild cheers as their emcee invited him to stpe up to a small podium.

Then he saw the trophy – inscribed “The World’s Worst Catcher,” with his name prominently beneath.

Suddenly, their malice hit home. With deep dismay, he snatched the trophy and left the car park with previously unsuspected speed, where the crowd watched in horror as he threw himself in front of a bus that was hurtling towards him.

Everyone rushed out onto the street, suddenly amazed to see him get up completely unscathed.

The bus had driven straight through underneath his leap!

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