In the Hole

Before the game started that night, I looked out at Turner Field with tears in my eyes. I couldn't believe I was actually here. After five years of knocking around the minor leagues, I got the call. The Braves flew me in just in time for me to catch a little batting practice before a game against the San Diego Padres.

In the locker room, I put on the uniform and donned my cleats with a lump in my throat. Around me were guys I had grown up idolizing: Chipper Jones, Brian McCann, Tim Hudson, and of course our ageless manager, Bobby Cox. I felt like I was floating in a wonderful dream. Chipper was sitting next to me lacing up his own cleats and I was struck by the fact that I could reach out and touch him if I wanted to.

"Welcome to the big leagues, kid!" he said to me as he smiled and popped his gum. "If I know Bobby, he'll find a way to get you in there tonight. He likes to see what his rookies are made of right off the bat."

"I'll be ready!" I said. My voice seemed to be coming from another mouth as I spoke. It all seemed completely surreal to me. If this was in fact a dream, I hoped I would never wake up.

"Just keep your eye on the ball, rook!" Chipper continued. "Just like little league."

"Just like little league," I repeated. "Sounds simple."

"Baseball's a simple game," he said. He stood up, slapped me on the back and walked away, leaving me to my musings.


Almost every kid dreams of being a major league baseball player, but almost none of them actually make it. I had somehow, just through sheer desire. At least that's what I'd told myself.

All of my life I've been obsessed with the game. I know the lifetime stats of almost any player you can think of. I know its history from Abner Doubleday to Alex Rodriguez. I'm a walking encyclopedia of baseball knowledge and I play the game as passionately as I study it. The first thing coaches have noticed about me at every level that I've played is my hustle: my desire, my willingness to do whatever it takes to win. I know I'm not the most talented player to ever put on a uniform, but I make it my business to use every ounce of God-given talent I was blessed with. My teammates, coaches, and fans have always appreciated that about me. I don't know any other way to play the game. I had a teammate once that liked to say I'd run over my own mother at the plate to try to score a run. I was always uncomfortable with that comment even though I didn't doubt the truth of it.


That evening, I sat on the bench and watched until the bottom of the ninth inning. We were trailing three to one when Jason Heyward, who was batting sixth, hit a double down the third base line. Yunel Escobar strode to the plate next and Matt Diaz stepped out to the on-deck circle. Bobby Cox was sitting at the end of the bench casually chewing and spitting sunflower seeds.

"Swanson!" he yelled. "You're in the hole."

In the hole.

The expression spooked me. "Take it easy, rook," somebody said. "Just go out there and get a base knock."

I laughed it off but knew my face was burning red. I certainly wasn't winning any cool points in my big league debut.

In the hole.

Those words certainly touched a nerve. In the hole triggered memories I wished I could wipe away from my mind forever. Yet here they were in their vicious clarity at this most inopportune of moments. I had no choice but to let them have their way with me.


The day that changed me forever occurred when I was twelve years old, and already in love with baseball. I was a scrawny, uncoordinated kid and always the last to be picked for every game. The unfortunate side that was stuck with me always sent me to right field, instructing me to play far enough back so no one was likely to hit it my way. I couldn't catch a cold, and my throwing technique was so spastic that it inspired laughter in teammates and opponents alike. Their laughter angered and embarrassed me, but it did not kill my love for the game. I could not have said why I loved this game I played so poorly in those days, but when I was on a baseball field, I wished to be no other place on Earth.

That fateful day was hot and cloudless. School had been out for the summer for only two weeks. To think of all the baseball games that stretched out before me filled my heart with a perfect joy. I was very happy to be standing in my place in right-field two steps in front of the chain link fence that separated our field from the thick woods behind us.

There were stories about those woods that kept kids away from them at night. People believed those woods were haunted by miners who had lost their lives in cave-ins back in the 1920s and 30s when my hometown’s chief industry was coal. I never gave the fate of those old miners or the possibility that they haunted the woods behind our field much thought. I was too concerned with playing baseball to pay attention to such matters.

We had about half an hour of daylight left when big Frank Sullivan stepped to the plate. Frank was a big boy with a nasty disposition. He was also left-handed and the only kid in my neighborhood who was likely to hit a ball to my distant place in the field. I always got extra ready when Big Franky came to bat.
As the pitcher released the ball, I bent my knees slightly and stood on the balls of my feet, ready to move in any direction.

Franky swung and connected solidly, and in spite of my readiness, I was horrified to see the ball flying in my direction. It was hit very far and very high. I moved to the edge of the fence, finding it with my hand, as I kept my eye on the ball just like I’d watched the pros do. I wasn't sure if the ball was going over the fence or not. It was going to be a close thing. If I could catch that ball, I'd gain instant respect from the neighborhood boys and Franky would be humiliated. I wanted that respect and I wanted to see that look of disbelief on Franky's face.

I timed my leap perfectly, but my glove reached only inches over the fence. For the briefest of moments, I thought I would make the catch. I rejoiced in that moment, imagining the cheers of my teammates and groans from my opponents. They would slap me on the back, give me high fives and say, 'Great catch, Timmy. I'm picking you first next time. I didn't know you could play like that!'

In the next moment, however, I knew only despair. My dream was not to be. I watched the ball tick the top of my outstretched glove and roll away into the woods.

Franky trotted slowly around the bases carrying his bat.

He smirked at me as he rounded first. "Nice try, fartface!" he yelled.

The pitcher looked toward me with disgust.

""You could have caught that ball, man!" he yelled in frustration.

"Sorry," I said. "I'll catch it next time!"

"Next time?" he said. "There won't be a next time today. That was our only baseball and now it's lost in the woods. We can't play any more because you're such a spaz!"

That was something I hadn't considered. I looked forlornly into the woods where the ball had been hit. The game would be over and it was all my fault. It was more than I could bear.

"I know where it went," I lied. "I'll go get it." I scaled the fence and jumped across into the woods beyond. It did not occur to me to be afraid when a baseball game was at stake.

"He's crazy, man!" someone said. "Those woods are haunted!" said someone else.

I ignored them. I knew the ball couldn't have rolled too far beyond the field. It had just barely cleared the fence. The ground was on a decline, so it may have traveled a bit farther than one would expect. I followed its probable path with my eyes peeled for any glint of white under a bush or rock. I searched without success, until I was sure I had gone further than it could have traveled. I turned around to discover I was beyond the sight of the ball field and dusk was fast approaching. Even if I found the ball at this point, some of the less die-hard players would likely judge the day too dark to play. But this hardly mattered to me. I was on a mission to find the baseball and wouldn't quit until I had. It’s a quality I've always possessed.

I turned back, searching further to my left, scouring the ground once more. I had only taken about five steps when I saw the hole. It was partially covered with a rock, but there was plenty of room for a baseball to have rolled in. I got on my hands and knees and peered inside. I was surprised to see that it was very deep, and much wider than I had first thought; not at all a gopher hole as had been my initial instinct. Continuing to inspect it, I was shocked to discover the hole was lit by some inside source. Intrigued, I put my mouth next to the opening.

"Hellooo!" I yelled as loudly as I could.

"Helllo!" my voice echoed back. I stood and gathered my thoughts. For some reason, there was no doubt in my mind that the missing baseball had found its way inside this strange hole.

I put my hands on the rock that partially covered it, attempting to shift it. To my amazement, it moved easily in my hands, as if it were made of lighter material than it appeared. The rock concealed a ladder that appeared to lead to the hole’s bottom. I only hesitated a moment to consider that I might be doing something rash and foolish before climbing down the ladder.

I meant to find that baseball.

I descended so far that the top was no longer visible when my feet finally touched the ground again. Looking around me, it seemed I was standing in an old mine. It should have been abandoned, but I was surprised to notice that street lamps hanging from thick, round wooden posts lit the area in front of me, illuminating a pair of railroad tracks that disappeared beneath a dark tunnel about fifty yards to my left. I turned that way, and walked cautiously along the track, taking the place in with wonder until I reached the entrance of the narrow tunnel. Not willing to enter it, I peered inside to see what I could. To my surprise, my eyes spied the shape of the missing baseball resting against the tunnel wall.

Beyond the ball lay a total and forbidding darkness I had no wish to challenge. The cold draft from the tunnel sent chills through my body, and it was then that I heard a low and distant moan of pain from somewhere deep inside. Goosebumps ran up and down my spine. I held my breath, listening for the sound again, but heard nothing. The ball rested only three steps away, but I could not bring myself to cross the tunnel’s threshold. There was something wrong there, something innately evil.

For another moment, paralyzed with fear, I tried to convince myself the sound had been only my imagination, but something deep in my soul knew better, and did not dare to take those three steps into the darkness to retrieve the baseball. It might as well have been a thousand miles away.

Then I caught the glimpse of a shape passing across the tunnel. It crossed as quickly as a lightning flash, and I knew in the next moment that the tunnel was much too dark for me too have seen such a thing, but I had seen it just as I had heard the moan of a tortured soul moments before. Stifling a scream, my paralysis broke, and I ran, sprinting for the ladder, hearing my footsteps echoing throughout the mine. I scrambled up the rungs, not daring to look down, and without pausing for a moment until I had reached the top.

Night had fallen in earnest since I’d first descended, and I realized my mother was probably panicked with worry. I knew from experience that her worry would quickly turn to anger upon my safe arrival. Tomorrow I would be grounded and my hopes of another carefree day of baseball would be dashed. Desperately, I wracked my brain for a plausible explanation for my tardiness, but knew in the end I would tell her the truth.

The door was unlocked when I arrived. I opened it as quietly as possible only to discover my mother waiting for me at the kitchen table reading her Bible. She closed the book and regarded me with a stern expression.

"Where have you been, Timothy Swanson?" she demanded. "Do you realize it's nearly nine o’clock? I was worried sick."

"I was hunting for a baseball, Mom. It went over the fence and rolled into a hole out in the woods. I went down to get it and it turned out the hole was really a mine. You should have seen it! It had lights and a railroad track that led off into this dark tunnel. The ball had gone down the tunnel, but when I went to get it...."

I hesitated, not knowing how to explain what prevented me from retrieving the baseball from the tunnel.

"When I went to get it, I couldn't quite reach it, so I had to leave it. I came out and found out I'd been in there longer than I'd thought. I knew you'd be worried so I rushed home as fast as I could and here I am."

She searched my face, searching for signs of a lie, and finally saw that my words were true.

"Timmy, that was dangerous,” she said. “Don't ever go down into a mine like that again. They're scattered around the woods here from when this used to be a mining town. You never know when one of them might cave in. And besides..." She hesitated to add something else. Then she made up her mind that she should. "And besides, there are bad things in those mines that are best left alone."

I knew what she meant and intended to obey her. I thought of telling her of the strange things I’d heard and seen, but decided that these would either cause her to worry or disbelieve me.

"Don't worry, Mom. That mine was pretty scary. I don't want to ever go down in one of those things again."

"That's good to hear," she said. "Now why don't you go on and get ready for bed."

"Okay.”


I dreamed.

I was standing at the edge of the tunnel once more as a freezing wind blew from its mouth. The wind carried an unspeakable stench, like the stink of a thousand corpses rotting in the sun. I wanted to hold my nose, but found myself paralyzed, forced to endure the horrible smell. The wind moaned and echoed through the tunnel with so much force that it should have forced me to my knees. Instead, the deafening gale barely stirred my hair.

In the next moment, the wind was gone and a deep and mournful voice spoke my name from the depths of the tunnel.

"Timmy," it spoke. “What do you want most?”

I did not answer, only gazing into the depths of the tunnel, mesmerized by the voice.

"Timmy! What do you desire most in all the world?” the voice repeated.

The voice was terrifying, but also fascinating. It made me want to walk into the tunnel and join whatever malevolent creature uttered the words. I steeled my fear and answered` its question.

"I want to be a baseball player," I said. "I want to be good enough to play in the major leagues."

"What would you give to have this wish granted?"

I thought of the glory and the sheer joy that surely must belong to anyone who never had to do a thing but play baseball his whole life.

"Anything!" I said. "Anything at all!"

For a moment there was no response, as the voice considered my answer. Then rather than words, a vision appeared to me. I saw my mother standing beside me. She was smiling and unafraid and her presence gave me so much courage, my fear of the voice melted away.

"There's the ball," I said to her, pointing into the tunnel. "Can you get it for me?"

"Timmy!" she exclaimed. "You didn't need me. You could have reached it yourself."

"I know," I said. "But I was too afraid."

"There's nothing to be afraid of!" She stepped boldly into the tunnel and picked the ball from its place against the wall. "Here you go!" she said, tossing it in my hands. "Nothing to it!"

"Nothing to it!" I heard myself say aloud. I woke with my heart pounding and soaking wet with sweat. I lay awake for the rest of the night pondering the dream. I would do anything to be a baseball player, I had told the voice. Was it true? The more I thought about it, the more I believed it was.

The next morning, wicked flashes of lightning startled me as they flickered outside my window. The lightning was accompanied by booming thunder and pouring rain. 'No baseball today,' I thought, disappointed. Tired from lying awake through the night, and lulled by the rain, I fell asleep again. It was almost noon when my mother came to wake me, the rain still beating against the roof.

"Get up, Timmy!" she said. "You don't want to sleep away your whole summer vacation do you? I made you some brownies for your rainy day!"

Brownies! Now I could smell them cooking. There was no better smell in the entire world. Brownies were almost as good as baseball. In a moment, I was seated in the kitchen. She brought me two brownie squares, a glass of milk and sat across from me at the table. Watching her smile as she ate her own brownie, the dream passed through my mind like an evil shadow, but I exorcised it from my memory. Of course I loved my mother more than baseball. I was a good son worthy of her love.

My father was at work and she and I were alone. It was a rare day and we made the most of it. We spent the day playing board games and watching TV. We laughed and enjoyed ourselves.

"We've had a good time today," she said as the day moved toward the late afternoon. "I'm glad it rained or you'd be out there with your friends playing baseball, and I'd be here stuck with house work."

"It's been fun," I admitted. "But not quite as fun as baseball."

She laughed and tousled my hair. I smiled as I ate another brownie. The rain had quit and the sun was shining, but the field would be much too wet for baseball.

"Want to go outside?" I asked her.

"Okay. Sure."

"What do you want to do?"

"I don't know. Just go outside and look at all the puddles."

We went out and I led her to the baseball field. I had more in mind than looking at puddles. She followed me to the field and we walked on the outside of the fence that surrounded it.

"Want to see where the baseball went yesterday?"

She hesitated, but I could tell she was curious. My mother was a naturally curious person.

"Well...okay. As long as it's not too far out in the woods."

"It's not. Not far at all."

I walked unerringly to the hole and got on my hands and knees to yell into it as I had yesterday.

"My name is Timmy!" I bellowed.

"Timmy…immy…immy," the hole echoed back.

Mom was young at heart and couldn't resist following my example.

"I’m Timmy’s mom!" she yelled.

"Mom, Mom, om, om," came the echo.

She was in the spirit so I made my play.

"Want to climb inside?" I asked.

She hesitated longer than before, but I knew her curiosity would trump her caution.

"Okay," she said at last. "But only for a minute. I need to get home to make supper for tonight. Your dad's looking forward to pork chops."

Descending the ladder again, I thought I should have been afraid, but instead was only thrilled. I went down the steps eagerly as she followed me. At the bottom, the lights were still shining and the passage where the baseball lay was just as dark. But unlike yesterday, there seemed nothing here to fear. It was just an ordinary mine. Mom was fascinated.

"This is amazing, Timmy!" she said as she looked around. "It looks almost like it's still operational."

"Yeah," I said. "Want to see where the baseball went?"

Without waiting for an answer, I led her down the railroad track until we reached the narrow passage.

"It's in there."

She peered in cautiously until she spotted it lying against the wall as I had left it the night before.

"Well why didn't you get it?" she asked me. "It can't be more than three steps. You'd barely have to even bend over."

"I know. Last night it seemed scary though. I couldn't bring myself to take a single step inside of there."

"I guess it would be scary if you were here all alone at night," she admitted. "Doesn't seem so bad now though."

"Nope.”

"I'll get it for you."

Before I could respond, she made her way into the tunnel and retrieved the ball.

"No, Mom!" I yelled in horror. When her hand touched the ball, I saw a black shadow pass silently over her body. I nearly screamed.

"What?" she said, smiling. She stepped out of the tunnel and tossed the ball to me. "Scared of the boogeyman or something?"

I held the baseball, studying it. 'Is that all I had to do?' a dark part of my mind asked. I shut the question out and told myself it was nothing. I had only had a bad dream. Lots of kids have bad dreams just like lots of kids got spooked when they went down an abandoned mine to look for a baseball.

"Yeah, I guess so." I smiled to show I wasn't scared anymore.

"No boogeyman in here," she said as she held her arms out and spun around. "NO BOOGEYMAN IN HERE!"

We listened for the echo.

"HERE, HERE, ERE...ERE," it came. Before the echo faded away, I heard another voice: the groaning man, barely audible but distinct.

From the look in Mom's eyes, I knew she heard it too, but neither of us ever spoke of it. She led the way up the ladder and I had to rush to keep up with her.

"Don't ever go back there," she told me before I went to sleep that night.

"Don't worry," I said. "I won't." The baseball sat on the table beside my bed.


The following day, the sun shone brightly, and the boys were gathered on the field. I brought my ball to the game and was picked last as always. In the third inning, I came to bat. Big Franky was pitching.

"Easy out!" he announced to his team. I dug in my cleats like a pro, taking my stance, and waggling the bat, staring at the pitcher grimly, a study in concentration.

"Hit this, puke for brains," he said, serving up his hardest fastball. I watched it come over the plate as if it were in slow motion. I swung from my heels and hit the ball harder than I had ever struck a baseball before. I watched as it sailed over the centerfield fence with plenty of room to spare. The boys watched it go in shocked and silent disbelief. I rounded the bases as if I hit homeruns every day. The ball landed somewhere in the woods and no one tried to find it.

I was never picked last again.


A month later, my mother was diagnosed with the breast cancer that eventually killed her.


"You're on deck, kid," Chipper Jones told me. I jumped at his voice and shook my thoughts away. I grabbed my bat and moved to the on-deck circle. My mind was calm and focused. I was ready to play. Matt Diaz rapped a base hit and I stepped up to the plate.

"PINCH HITTER...TIMOTHY SWANSON!" the public address announcer said as I dug in my cleats. The Padres’ ace was on the mound, and I knew he had a heater that moved even quicker than ole' Big Franky's. He looked in for the sign, stretched, and threw. It was down the middle and I hit it on a line. I watched as it sailed toward centerfield. I knew I'd hit it hard enough. It was only a question of height. The outfielder leaped, but the ball flew just above his outstretched glove into the stands. I watched in horror as it landed in the arms of a cloaked dark figure. As I rounded first and headed for second, it stared out at me and I felt its evil gaze against me. I nearly cried out in terror, but instead I blinked and looked again. This time I saw a proud kid holding the ball up in celebration. The crowd cheered wildly and I realized my homerun was a game winner.

I kept my head down and circled the bases. I thought of my mother as I ran. I wasn't a bad kid, I told myself.

My teammates mobbed me with congratulations as I stepped on home plate.

"Told you it's a simple game!" Chipper told me as he clapped me on the back.

"Wow, kid," said Bobby Cox. "I bet your mom is awful proud of you!"

For a moment, I fought the desire to run as fast as I could away from the stadium I had worked so hard to reach…and then I tried to smile, and acceptd my teammates adulation as best I could.