Music Welcome to Snewscast, the podcast designed to help you fall asleep. Find us at snoozecast.com and if you enjoy our show, please share us with a friend. This episode is brought to you by TaggingUp. Tonight, for our 901st episode, we'll read a snooze cast original titled, Centerfield. In this story, the neighborhood boys play pickup ball games during the dog days of summer. Cole Brooks spends most of his time in centerfield daydreaming. A shift occurs when new slugger, Rollo Flores, wakes up the outfield with action at every play. In this story, Rolo hits a dinger far beyond the boundaries of the field, launching a mysterious adventure. A pickup game is one spontaneously started. like exhibition games, there is no sense of obligation or commitment to play. Pick-up games usually lack officials and referees, which makes them more disorganized and less structured than regular games. Without formal rules and regulations, pick-up games are often played with a less rigid set of rules.

Let's get cozy.

Close your eyes.

Relax your body into the softness of your bed. Now take a few deep breaths. July was a sigh, but August had arrived like a bad fever, hot and mad. Of course, even in the dog days we still played. We always played. It was a great club. Those guys would have played through anything. Rain, snow, hail, it didn't matter. But that, August, well, each inning felt like a battle. And every second you got in the Cinder block dug out was a brief escape from the heat. You didn't even mind when you were last in the batting order. Anything just to have a couple more minutes in the shade. It's funny how your early days always seem to remain the clearest. I couldn't tell you what I had for lunch last week, but I can remember every crack of the bat that cut through the thick August air that summer. We had 12 of us in total, a perfect amount for 6 on 6, which meant the short stop usually covered for third base, and we had just one outfielder typically, but that was enough for us. I mean, none of us were hitting like, can Griffey Jr. that year? Well, not yet at least. We'd mix up the team sometimes, trying out different matchups just for fun. But most of the time, we stuck to the same two lineups that balanced out our strengths pretty evenly. Leading off with the first team there was Chris C.J. Jackson, solid first baseman who had a pension for Big League 2. Eddie Sticks Franklin, who was usually pounding the skins of his Ludwig V. Peece when he wasn't Manning II.

Malcolm,ff Carter Clever shortstop, whose mom was always packing homemade snacks for the team. Adam Quickmath Wilkins Fast as lightning catcher and resident smarty pants. Sean, Shawnee Boy Reynolds, Jokester, Charmer, and by quick math's account the second best pitcher in her club. Jared Joe O'Neill, who preferred playing a little closer to left when he was in the outfield in his lonesome. Meanwhile, over on my team there was Marcus McReed covering the first bag and a strong switch hitter. Zachary Zap Powell quirky but versatile second soccer. Evan Big E. Turner, the tallest short man in town, so don't even think about looping one over on him. Cato, catfish, fisher, a brick wall behind the plate, and one heck of an angler. Rolex rocket graves, lefty picture with a no-nonsense attitude, and serious fastball. And of course me, your scrappy center-fielder, Cole Brooks, please to meet you of course. I suppose I should mention the gang settled upon calling me Brooksy a couple of summers ago, although I never quite understood how they considered Brooksy a nickname. I mean, it was just my last name with i.e. tacked on the end. That's the thing about nicknames, though they aren't yours to choose, and once one sticks, there's no shaking it. Unless you do something big enough, something legendary to force them to call you something else entirely. And just catching pop flies wasn't going to do that. But all that was about to shift when CJ arrived late one Monday morning in mid-August. Rocket was annoyed. What time is it? He said, kicking the dirt near the dugout. Quick math studied his watch.

1026, he said, almost half an hour late now. No biggie. Sticks chimed in, tapping out a rhythm absent-mindedly. We can just play some home-run Derby till it gets here. I second, Joe said.

Third, Mac called out while he practiced bunny hops on his BMX.

What is this, the UN?

Shawnee Boy said.

Give the guy a couple more minutes.

We'll start at 10.30.

Everyone agreed. I kept my eye on the horizon. Our regular diamond was at Pilsudsky Park off the site of a former day camp behind us up the hill. A long dirt road led back up into town. Alongside the road near the crest of the hill was the old wooden pavilion where all the campers would meet in the morning. The field itself was nestled between tall pine trees whose shadows never actually cast upon the diamond during the daytime.

The infield dirt was rough and patchy, with more rocks than you'd like,

and the grass of the outfield had a few stubborn bear spots that didn't even seem to like weeds.

The chain-link fence surrounding the outfield was bent in places. Behind home plate there were the two weathered dugouts chipped and faded from years of sun and rain. The bleachers were small, just a few rows of worn wood planks. Not that we ever had a crowd. So yeah, all in all, it was a pretty spectacular ballpark. You could arrive by the dirt path, or you could take the bike trail near the edge of the pines. I'd been looking

over by that spot when I noticed CJ cycling fast towards us. Hey look, I said. CJ wasn't wearing his ball cap. His hair was slicked back. He had his nice shirt on. He did a little flourish as he stopped before us on his mountain bike. "'You're late,'' Rocket said. "'No, doi,'' CJ retorted. "'What's with the get up?' Sheffast. "'It's my dad. He won this trip at work.

Well, actually, he came in second, but the first guy couldn't go,

so we just found out this morning that we have to leave today.

We're going to be in Europe for the next three weeks.

I would have called, but I knew you'd all just be here.

Europe? Like a million miles away,? Zapast dumbfounded. France, Italy, Germany. Yeah, CJ said. Do they even play baseball in those countries? Zap continued. I don't think so. CJ shrugged. Well, what do they do? Catfish followed up. Sarkar, I guess. But they call it football. We groaned collectively. CJ put his foot back on his pedals and started to shove off. All'll write, I'm out. See a knuckleheads later. He reached out his hand for a fist bump, and since Shawnee boy was closest, he returned it on behalf of the group. And like that, CJ was gone until the school year started in September. Chef said more and fully, I hope he still likes baseball when he gets back. Big E said, he's worried about him, he gets a free trip to fancy pants Europe. What are we supposed to do now? Six on five? That doesn't work. Sticks responded. So we just determined a designated picture, easy. Shawnee boy and Rocket stared hard at one another. Rocket's stare was intense and focused. Shawnee boys was confident, but with a small spark of laughter in his eye. Neither were interested in not pitching anymore. Neither was interested in not also being able to bat. Sticks, noticing this said, okay, so you switch every ining. Quick math started to do some calculations. I'm not sure if that's the best idea. One of you could be pitching against the weaker part of the batting order every time. That to make a big difference in your stats. Here's what I think we should do. Who's that? I had said, not meaning to cut off quick math, but considering my query was highly pertinent to the conversation at hand, I didn't think anyone would mind. Where you talking about Bruxy? Max said. I pointed up the hill. There was a kid watching our argument play out on his bike. He hadn't moved. He was just sitting there. Like was waiting for something. His bike's front tire was turned slightly, and his hands were gripping the handlebars tight. Shawnee boy squinted, shading his eyes with his hand. Who is that? Do we know him? Rocket shrugged. Never seen him before. Chef leaned in. Maybe he's lost or something. Quick math stopped his calculations and stared up at the hill too. Nah, he's been there a while, been watching us for at least the last nine minutes. Who didn't say nothing? Big E asked. It wasn't relevant at the moment. I could feel a prickle on the back of my neck.

Think he wants to play? No way, Shiny Boy said, if he wanted to play, he'd have come down by now. But something about the way he was watching us made me feel like he was sizing us up. Carp day! I yelled out to the kid. The others glanced at me puzzled. It means seize the day I informed them, you know, like, get on down here. I think you mean Carp A. D. M. Brooksie. Quick math said, rolling his eyes. Yeah, that, exactly. I said, not wanting to lose momentum. I shouted back at the guy up on the hill. You want to play ball? This of course he understood, no problem. And in a gif came flying down the hill. His bike rattling as he tore across the grass like he'd been waiting for the invite all along. He skidded to a stop right in front of us, kicking up, cloud of dust. The bike wobbled as he hopped off and with a quick swipe of his hand, he pushed his hair out of his eyes. Rocket stepped forward first. You play ball? Yeah. You've got a glove. Mac asked. The kid pulled one out of his backpack. What position can't fish prodded? First base. We all looked at each other, stunned. It's fate. Stick said. The kid shrugged, not sure what to make of our faces. So what's your name, slick? Shawnee Boy asked. Rolando. Rolando Flores. We looked at one another. Bit long in it, Shawnee Boy smiled. Excited he wouldn't have to be sharing pitching duties with rocket. He got a nickname, he said, patting the kid on the back as my team took our positions on the field and team won headed to the dugout. The kids smiled. Rollo. They thought we were good, but Rolo was next level. He had this effortless swing, like he was born with a bat in his hands. Every time he stepped up to the plate, you could feel it. Something was going to happen. He could crank out a Homer without breaking a sweat, but he wasn't just about the power. He kept us on our toes with his bunts, his stolen bases, his unexpected sprints from first to third. Kids of beast, rocket muttered one day after Roll Rollo sent yet another fastball deep into left field. Does he ever miss? It was true. Rollo's arrival had changed the game for all of us. He pushed us harder, made us dig in deeper. Suddenly, every game felt more like a real battle, and no one wanted to be the guy to strike out or let a ball slip by. It wasn't just about playing for fun anymore. Now, it was about keeping up with Rollo. We were sweating through August, and it was the best kind of exhaustion, the kind where you couldn't wait to get back on the field the next day. But then came the hit, the change, everything. It was late afternoon, and the air had that golden glow. The kind that makes you nostalgic for something you don't quite know. We were playing a tight game tied in the bottom of the sixth, five-five. Rolo stepped up to bat, his usual confidence stands, and the whole team braced for impact. Rocket sent a fastball screaming toward the plate. Bolo swung hard, and the crack of the bat echoed through the park. Catfish stood up, took off his mask and audibly said, not again. We all turned, squinting as the ball soared over the fence, disappearing into the pine trees beyond left field. I immediately bolted after it, hopping the fence like I always did when we lost one deep. I ducked into the trees, the cool shade hitting my skin like a relief. The ball had bounced past the edge of the tree line and rolled down into a little culvert by the road.

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