The Game

by Palomino Pone

Rating: teen
Tags: My Little Pony: Friendship is Magic, Sad, Big Macintosh, Slice of Life
Length: 1721

Big Macintosh has always loved baseball--from the feel of the bat against his hooves to the adrenaline rush following a good hit, everything about the sport appeals to him. But what's the point in playing if the one fan he cares about never shows up?

Big Macintosh has always loved baseball—from the feel of the bat against his hooves to the adrenaline rush following a good hit, everything about the sport appeals to him. But what's the point in playing if the one fan he cares about never shows up?

Published 2016-01-03 08:10:02 UTC
Last updated 2016-01-03 08:10:02 UTC

Chapter 01 – A Promise Made and Broken

The moment I stepped out onto the field, I knew that today would be the day. The day that I finally proved myself and showed everyone what I could do. I looked out across the baseball diamond to see thousands of ponies filling the stands, the delicious smells of their carrot dogs and buttered popcorn wafting down towards my nostrils. Squinting upwards, I could make out the noonday sun raining brilliant rays of sunshine from above the crowd. Its warmth comforted me as I made my way over to the batter’s box, taking a couple practice swings before settling down into a comfortable stance.

Suddenly, the intercom blared to life, announcing to everypony the name of the newest player to step up to the plate. I dimly wondered whether they could even hear the metallic squawking over their own cheers and animated chatter. It was nice to know that they were as passionate as I was about the sport but, at the same time, it could be a bit distracting. Tuning out the crowd for now, I glanced down at my flank, where my cutie mark was visible for all to see: a pair of crossed baseball bats embossed over the image of a baseball, all of it outlined by my crimson coat. I brought my attention back to the pitcher, who was staring intently at the catcher behind me, still deliberating over what to throw first.

Apparently coming to a decision, he wound up and let the ball sail from his hooves. It started out low and fast but seemed to be curving away from the strike zone. Letting it slide past me, I was pleased to hear the umpire call out: “Ball one!” It didn’t take long for the next pitch to fly past, but it was a bit too high for my liking. My muscles were screaming at me to swing hard and try to smack it over the fence anyway, but I quieted them, figuring I should wait to see if I could get a better opportunity on the next pitch. That was strike one. I absentmindedly placed a hoof over my cutie mark briefly, its mere existence reassuring me that I could and would succeed.

As the next pitch came hurtling towards me, I could tell that this was the one I’d been waiting for. I swung forward with all my might, sending the baseball high and to the left. With a satisfying crack, I felt my bat snap in half under the impact, and I smiled at the thought that I had given the swing my all. Letting the bat’s severed handle fall into the dirt, I dropped down onto all fours and started galloping towards first base, wanting to ensure a double at the very least if my hit didn’t manage to clear the outfield.

As the sound of the crowd’s disappointment filled the stadium, I glanced over towards left field at the spot where I figured the ball would be, guessing that the outfielder had caught it, only to catch a glimpse of the ball going outside the foul pole. Damn, I thought to myself. That’s strike two. Slowing my gait down to a stop, I turned around and trotted back to home plate, only to remember that my bat still adorned the ground, in pieces.

Panicked, I ran over to my team’s dugout: empty save for some discarded water bottles and the usual sunflower seeds littering the floor. Undeterred, I ran around frantically, searching every inch of the space for a baseball bat that I could use to finish out my at-bat. One good hit—that was all I needed.

It was no use. Finding nothing, I was just about to call it quits when my search was interrupted by somepony clearing their throat behind me. The sound startled me, and I quickly turned around to identify its source, only to find myself staring at the face of the one pony I’d least expected to see here: my father. “H-hey, Pop,” I croaked out, shocked that he had actually shown up to one of my games.

“Hello,” he replied simply. “Don’t worry, son; it’s all going to be alright.”

“Dad, I-I broke my bat. I can’t finish the game—I failed you—I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t worry, son; it’s all going to be alright. I’m here now; it’s okay.”

“But, Dad, I can’t play without a bat!” I exclaimed sadly, trying to wipe the tears off my face.

“I’m here now; it’s okay. I’m going to fix this. Stay here, I’ll be right back.”

“But where are you going?”

“I’m going to fix this. Stay here, I’m going to get Ol’ Faithful. I promise I’ll be right back. Don’t worry, son; it’s all going to be alright.” Without another word, he turned around and vanished into the fog that had settled over the stadium.

I couldn’t believe it, Dad was giving me Ol’ Faithful—his prized baseball bat. I would finally be able to make him proud, and with his bat no less! I could hardly sit still, my anticipation for his return growing with each passing moment. I fixed my gaze on the spot where he had disappeared, waiting for him to show up again—expecting him to arrive at any second—but to no avail. Eventually, the fog began to clear, revealing the beginnings of pink tinges tinting the newly sunset sky. And still, I waited for him to return. A new player came up to the plate after a while, but I was no longer paying attention to how the game was going; I was too busy focusing on the spot where I had last seen my father. “He’ll come back,” I tried to tell myself. “I just know it.”

It wasn’t until the intercom sounded again, proclaiming the game’s end, that I finally admitted to myself that it was over. He wouldn’t come back—not now, not ever. Ol’ Faithful, the game, everything—it had all been a lie; he had been a lie. What was there for me to do now?

I slowly made my way back to the diamond, spying the broken halves of what used to be my baseball bat still scattered on the ground. Looking up, I could see the darkness of the night sky threatening to rain down on me, but it was unable to advance past the harsh lights of the baseball stadium still lighting the diamond as if it were high noon. I looked down at my bat again, kicking the handle away in frustration. Not long afterwards, a heavy rain started to fall onto me and the uncovered field, quickly soaking us both.

I watched through the thick sheet of rainfall as the part of the bat I’d kicked skittered off into the distance, the gleaming metal lid of a trashcan catching my eye as the bat rolled past it. I looked between the trashcan and the remaining piece of my bat, wondering whether I should just throw it away and be done with it all.

Eventually, I made my way to the stadium’s exit, the two splintered halves of my baseball bat firmly clenched in my hoof. Not wanting to waste any more time, I continued to walk away from the rain, the darkness, and the words of my father.

And then I woke up.

Sitting up in my bed, I could feel something wet making its way down my cheek, but I made no attempt to wipe it away. All I could think about was the dream I’d just had, and what it might have meant. Sitting up a little straighter, I glanced over at my nightstand, empty save for a lamp and an old photograph. I switched the lamp on, giving my eyes a little time to adjust, then gingerly took the photo into my hooves. It was a simple picture: one of me, my little sisters, and our parents, all giving great big smiles to the camera as we posed in front of the barn. Everyone had been having a wonderful time.

All of a sudden, I felt a fresh wave of tears begin streaming down my face, and I carefully set the photo back on the nightstand, not wanting to leave any splotches on it. Glancing around my bedroom, I noticed a familiar shape in the corner and got out of bed to give it a closer look. There, leaning against the wall and underneath a coating of spider webs and dust, lay an old baseball bat—one that I hadn’t touched in years. Resting next to it was an old letter where the otherwise pristine dust covering had been more recently disturbed. Slowly kneeling down, I picked up the folded letter and opened it, revealing its contents to the light of my bedside lamp.

Looking once again over the words I had long since committed to memory, I softly read the note aloud in my rumbling baritone, choking back a couple of sobs as I began: “Son, I’m sorry that you’re mother and I have been so busy lately—it really couldn’t be helped—but I promise that we’ll be at your big game today, cheering you on from the stands. We know how important this game is to you, and we wouldn’t miss it for the world. I can’t wait to see you and Ol’ Faithful in action! Love, Dad.”

As my recitation of the short note concluded, a heavy silence began, filling my room for a few moments until I let out a deep sigh. I gently returned the letter to its resting place, matching it to its dusty outline as best I could before standing up and walking over to my bedroom window as I thought about my dream and the words of my father. Blinking back a few final tears, I looked out past the many rows of apple trees waiting patiently for a well-placed kick to release their fruit and over towards the beginnings of a pink-tinged sunrise coming into view as the sun crowned the hill overlooking all of Sweet Apple Acres.

Not wanting to waste any more time, I walked away from the window and slipped on my work harness, giving the abandoned baseball bat a final look before exiting the room, preparing myself to meet the new day.