IT’S JUST BASEBALL

IT’S JUST BASEBALL

Hazel Kipps

Sam’s eyes shot open. She was sitting in some sort of office with slightly off-white walls, peeling paint, spartan wooden furniture, and several banged-up filing cabinets. She was seated in front of a desk, behind which sat a middle-aged man with a receding hairline and small, round glasses that gave him an owlish sort of look. He was dressed in a pinstriped suit and a red tie, and was sorting a pile of papers in one of the desk drawers. Either he didn’t notice Sam, or he was ignoring her.

“Where am I?” Sam asked, looking around in confusion. “Who are you?”

The man looked up. “Ah! Hello, Samantha. My name is Greg, and I’ll be getting you started today. Here’s your bat.”

He grabbed something from behind the desk, and then reached out, setting a wooden baseball bat down on the desk.

“…What?” Sam frowned. “No, I—where am I? Last thing I remember, I was walking to work, and—the light was red, but that truck

didn’t stop. It was barreling towards me, and… Oh god. Is this some sort of hospital?”

Greg laughed, a series of big, nasally guffaws rolling out of him. “A hospital! Funny!” He took a second to adjust himself, waving a hand in the air. “No, no, Samantha; you’re in the afterlife.”

“Oh.” Sam let that sink in. She hadn’t even made it to thirty. That was kind of sad, but she supposed it fit with the general vibe of her life so far. Or, well—the general vibe of her entire life, she supposed. “You know, um. I can’t say this is exactly like I expected. They don’t give you, like, better offices in purgatory? Or wherever we are?”

“The Office of Admissions isn’t very high on management’s priority, unfortunately,” Greg explained. “Anyway, here’s your mitt.”

He reached under the desk again, this time producing a leather catcher’s mitt. He set it down next to the bat.

“I’m—okay. Um.” Sam blinked. “What’s with the baseball stuff?”

“You’re in the afterlife,” Greg said simply.

Sam raised an eyebrow. “…And?”

Greg titled his head slightly to the side. “And what?”

“Okay, nevermind.” Sam brought a hand up to her temple, letting out a sigh. “So, like… is this a heaven and hell situation? Where am I going from here?”

“Oh, well, that depends on your division,” Greg explained. “If you’re in the lower division, say with the Tartarus Hellhounds or Sheol Succubi, you’re going to take the elevator down. But if you’re in the upper division, maybe on the Eden Owls, or the Valhalla Dragons, then you’ll take the escalator up to the higher planes.”

Sam squinted at him. “Are those… sports teams?”

“Baseball teams,” Greg confirmed. “We’ll sort you onto one in just a moment. Season 63,720,573,027 is just around the corner, so you won’t have to wait very long before seeing play. Exciting, right?”

“What? What? No. What?” Sam’s mind reeled. “Why am I playing baseball?”

“It’s the afterlife,” Greg said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Everyone joins one of the teams.”

“So… is this like a moral thing, then?” Sam asked. “Like, I go to one of the hell teams if I was a bad person?”

“Hm? Oh, no, we don’t really care about any of that,” Greg said, waving a hand. “We put you on the team we think you’d fit into best. Team cohesion is very important!”

“I think this is the absolute stupidest way my eternal soul could be judged,” Sam grumbled. “So, what, if I get arbitrarily sorted into the lower division or whatever, I just get tortured and there’s nothing I can do about it?”

“Torture? Absolutely not!” Greg exclaimed, eyebrows shooting up. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

“But isn’t that what you do in Tartarus and stuff?” Sam protested. “Torture people?”

“No, no, no! We would never. It’s just baseball.”

Sam stared at him. “It’s just baseball,” she repeated.

“Yep! You’ll have practice every day, and a few games a week, usually.” Greg reached under the desk and put a baseball cap down next to the bat and the mitt. “Here’s your cap, by the

way.”

“Wait, no. We’re not done talking about this,” Sam said. “Why is the afterlife themed around baseball? That doesn’t make any sense!”

Greg shrugged. “I don’t know what to tell you, Samantha. It’s always been this way.” He chuckled. “Heh, I remember when we first realized you humans were recreating baseball—that was a hoot! Crazy coincidence. I mean, there’s five bases, not four, and games are thirteen innings, but, hey, you got most of it right! Oh, and eating peanuts while watching the games? Ingenious. We totally stole that one from you guys after you started doing it.”

“This is insane. You’re insane,” Sam said, pointing a finger at him. “You just condemn all of humanity to, what, play baseball for all eternity? Why? I mean, baseball isn’t even good! My Dad dragged me to some games when I was a kid and they were all so boring!”

Greg gasped, staring at her like she’d just insulted his mother. “Samantha. Don’t say that.”

Sam stood up, slamming a hand on his desk. “No, I will say it! Baseball is a stupid sport! It’s way too complicated—it’s, like, a nerd sport

for nerds who couldn’t make it in a real sport!”

Greg scoffed, rolling his eyes. “Oh, please. That’s rich coming from a varsity volleyball player. I read your file.”

“Volleyball is a great sport! It’s simple, it’s fast-paced, it’s competitive—way better than baseball.”

“I can’t believe this,” Greg grumbled, furiously scribbling on one of his many papers. “You are being so disrespectful right now. Maybe I should put you in with the Elysium Archers, those holier-than-thou jerks. You seem like their type. Or, or, yeah, or the Gehenna Devils—bunch of weird little freaks. You’d fit right in, what with your stupid hair and bad attitude.”

“What’s wrong with my hair?” Sam muttered, brushing it back self-consciously. “Look, dude, I don’t want to play baseball. Can’t I just, like, chill?”

Greg ignored her. “Stygian Snakes, maybe? No, they’re far too classy for you… Netherworld Imps would do, though.”

“Hey! Are you even listening to me?” Sam snapped her fingers in front of his face. “I’m not

playing baseball for the rest of my existence, and I’m not going to join any of your weirdo teams!”

“I’m afraid that’s not your decision, Samantha,” Greg said curtly. “Everyone plays, no exceptions.”

“Oh yeah? Well, I’d like to speak to your manager.”

Greg froze, his eyes drifting away from the forms he was scribbling on and locking with hers. “Are you sure about that?”

“I—” Sam felt a brief wave of hesitation, but shrugged it off. “Yes. I’m sure.”

“Alright, then. Fine.” Greg reached for the rotary phone at the edge of his desk and entered in a number, bringing the receiver up to his head. It rang once, then twice, then picked up.

“Hey Christine,” Greg greeted, voice monotone. “Got a new player here who wants to talk to you. Yeah. No. No, yeah. Alright, thanks. Great. See you.” He set the receiver down. “She’ll be with us in just a second.”

Sam let out a breath. “Good. Hopefully she’ll—AH!” She screamed and threw her arms over her eyes as there was an explosion of bril-

liant, blinding light in the corner of the room. “What the—”

“I told you she’d be here in a second,” Greg said matter-of-factly.

When Sam was able to open her eyes again, she was stunned to see a vaguely human-shaped mass of swirling light and color standing to Greg’s side, iridescent and ever-changing in a way that made it hard to focus on. It was also, somehow, paradoxically, wearing a baseball cap with a penguin on it, and a jersey that read, ‘Go Paradise Penguins!’ How a being of seemingly pure light was able to wear baseball merch, Sam couldn’t even begin to guess.

Samantha, a voice spoke directly into her head. We are Christine, Director of Admissions for the League. What is your concern?

“Okay, that’s creepy,” Sam said, pointing a finger at ‘Christine’. “How are you doing that?”

You are not capable of understanding, Samantha. Your human mind is too limited. Now. What is your concern?

“Um. Well, um.” Sam swallowed, her confidence from earlier seemingly nowhere in sight. “I don’t want to play baseball?”

Why, child?

“Because it’s… not… fun?”

Christine’s body began to swirl, various lights of different colors cascading around each other like a supernova. Blasphemy. The insolence of this one. What is her assignment, Greg?

“I think the Gehenna Devils would be best for her, ma’am.”

Then as it is written, so it shall be. Christine began to shine brighter and brighter, until Sam was forced to shield her eyes again. Play ball, Samantha.

Samantha screamed as the light reached a crescendo, and she briefly felt like she was burning alive, until everything cleared. Hesitantly, she opened her eyes; she was now sitting in a dugout, looking out onto a baseball field surrounded by a giant stadium of cheering spectators. The game was in session, with two teams of players throwing balls, swinging bats, and running around the five bases.

Sam slowly backed up on the bench. “Wha… what?”

“Hey. You new?”

Sam turned to see a woman sitting next

to her, with curly black hair pulled through an ash-gray baseball cap with a red pitchfork logo. She was loudly chewing on a stick of gum, and was wearing a gray and red jersey that read, ‘Gehenna Devils’, along with a big ‘18’.

“I… yeah,” Sam muttered. “I’m sam.”

“Mackenzie. You doin’ alright? Didn’t look like you came here from the elevator, exactly.”

“I’m—I’m okay,” Sam breathed. “I just… Why is it baseball?”

“No one knows, girl,” Mackenzie said, blowing a bubble. It exploded with a soft pop, and she let out a sigh, staring out towards the field. “No one knows.”