[Westheim]

I have this dream.

I have this dream where I am standing at the edge of a bottomless pit. It’s not day, neither is it completely dark. There’s a greenly glimming band of light on the horizon, 360 degrees around. There is noise coming out of the bottomless pit, and also the same faint green light as on the horizon. The noise is that of a crowd. In irregular intervals, the noise of a bat meeting the ball is heard, but the crowd noise never changes. Must be one uninspiring game going on down there. It is also windy, and a bit cold to be outside without a jacket.

Then Daniel Hall walks up to my right side. He carries a translucent bag over his back, containing all the bones he broke and ligaments he tore when he was with the Raccoons, and a cap dirty brown cap reading “Franchise Hits Leader”.

“I miss you”, I tell him. “I know”, Daniel replies. “We could use you”, I tell him. He politely shakes his head. “My time is over”, he says, before he drops the bag, calmly steps forward and drops into the bottomless pit.

Then Kisho Saito walks up to my other side. He holds his Hall of Fame plaque with his likeness in gold, wearing a Raccoons hat. The plaque reads “Didn’t win 250 games”.

“I miss you”, I tell him. “I know”, Kisho replies. “We could use you”, I tell him. He politely shakes his head. “My time is over”, he says, then hands me the plaque. Now I realize an edge has broken off. He says a few words in Japanese, then steps forwards and drops into the bottomless pit.

I look at the plaque until Neil Reece walks up to the side Daniel Hall turned up at. He’s 40 years old, and wearing a high school team’s uniform, having been demoted there by his club. He walks with the help of a crutch.

“I miss you”, I tell him. “I know”, Neil replies. “We could use you”, I tell him. He politely shakes his head. “I have to go to bed early. There’ll be a test in Trigonometry tomorrow”, he says, then takes out his dental prosthetics. “Take care of these”, he says before limping forward and dropping into the bottomless pit.

I stand alone for a while, in the not-quite-darkness. I listen to the sounds of bats meeting balls. Nobody ever hits a home run in that game in the pit.

Then suddenly Nick Brown turns up on my left. An overpowering pitcher in his best years.

“I miss you already”, I tell him. “I know”, Nick replies. “When will you be back”, I ask him. Nick looks down, then up. “I don’t know. How long until it grows back?”

Then he turns fully towards me, and only now I see that his left arm has been amputated through the shoulder. The zig-zag scar over where is shoulder blade used to be is just barely glowing green. I cautiously touch the scar. It is cold.

“You think”, Nick asks, pointing with his remaining index finger, “there’s something in Daniel’s bag I can use?”

That’s where my dream ends, and everybody else’s in my neighborhood as well, as my horrified, high-pitched cartoon girl screams wake up every living being in a 6-block square at 2pm, every night.