Without checking the clock in my vision, I’d guessed my invisibility lasted about ten minutes before wearing off. Neither Proctor nor I walked anywhere while the magic held its effect. It was more his idea than mine to remain in place while we assessed whether the power would last hours or mere minutes.

  How long would we have waited there, near the soda machine, before deciding I was going to invisible for the long haul? Hard to say, but Proctor wanted to err on the side of caution.

  He had a deep wrinkle in his forehead. True stress.

  “Too dangerous,” Proctor said. “I’m dismayed.”

  “Clearly,” I said. “Dismayed is a good word for it. You’re more stressed than ever. But… dangerous? I don’t know.”

  “Powerful magic, too powerful,” Proctor said. “Ponder the possibilities. Half the village could roam among us, completely out of sight, and we’re unaware.”

  Had to admit, I hadn’t thought of that.

  “What would you have me do? Try and destroy the soda machine?” I said. “I don’t think it’s possible. The System put it here, they want it accessible to all. Whatever their reasons.”

  “They wish to sow chaos,” Proctor said. “More entertaining for their intrusive eyes.”

  It was the most revolutionary I’d ever heard the man. He always came across as a bit of a company man, to be honest, almost as if he were part of the System itself. It was surprising to hear him speak this way.

  “Invisibility is a step too far. It could bring everything down,” Proctor said. “All of this.”

  Anyway, the power wore off before either of us thought it would. I could see the relief return to Proctor’s face as my body faded back into view.

  “Perhaps avoid that flavor for the foreseeable future,” Proctor said.

  “I’ll do my best.”

  We retired to our respective living quarters at dusk. I’d expected a sleepless night with my new friend the parrot choosing to squawk for hours on end. But, nope, he was strangely serene. Though, this might’ve been customary for African Gray Parrots, I had no idea.

  When I woke the next morning, I don’t know if I’d just been having a bad dream or not, but my eyes were automatically drawn to the bird perched near my feet. He blinked his little eyes at me, and lifted one of his feet as if giving me a wave.

  “Yours,” he said.

  “Mine,” I muttered, and I rolled off my pile of furs.

  Barkley arrived at my doorstep a half hour later. There was still frost on the dead grass. It was early.

  “We’ll run our drills again today,” Barkley said. “Your friends demand it.”

  Time was running out before we’d be thrust into the tournament playing actual games against other villages’ teams. No doubt, the System wanted more practice time, and shortly would want the roster cut down to its final size (i.e. 26 players, as opposed to 40).

  “Fine,” I said. “Set it up.”

  Barkley retrieved the men from their underground lair. He had them running all over, assisting the Groundskeeper Lorne Franks, and his minions with readying the field for practice drills.

  In my mind, this would likely be the last - or maybe second to last - time we’d run drill sessions before moving into full blown inter squad games where we’d split the team roster into two teams who’d play ball games against one another.

  It was crucial to get these guys used to playing actual baseball before getting into playing in the tournament itself.

  We had the artificial mounds set up once again in the outfield, but this time Barkley ordered his Pitching Coach, Hag, to run the starting pitchers through their throwing sessions first, before the relievers. This drew howls of protest from Bullpen Coach, Hammy, but he could ‘meow’ all he wanted, Barkley wasn’t going to budge.

  “Meow meow,” Hammy protested to me.

  “He’s the Manager,” I said to the cute little cat. “Ultimately, it’s his decision. You’ll get your turn soon enough.”

  Honestly, I didn’t know what the cat’s big rush happened to be. They’d run his pitchers, which included me, second after the starters were done. Why was he being so impatient?

  Then again, in the time I’d known this suddenly speaking cat, he hadn’t exactly been a beacon of composure.

  Four starters took their places on the mounds in right field. I decided to watch Proctor’s session, and took up a spot on the grass behind him. Hag matched him up with Wulf Stanston who was catching behind a temporary home plate the regulation distance away.

  Both Proctor, and Wulf appeared agitated. Hard to put my finger on it exactly, but I observed Wulf continually scratching, and pulling on his uniform pants’ legs. It was as though he had an insatiable itch inside his knees. Odd.

  Proctor’s face, sunk in a deep frown, couldn’t seem to relax at all. He paced behind the mound before Hag called a start to the session. He kept blowing out gobs of air as if commanding himself to calm down.

  “Are you alright?” I said to my friend. “You seem a bit outside of yourself.”

  Proctor exhaled hard again. “I don’t know,” he said. “I suppose I am feeling a bit off.”

  “Anything I should know?” I said. “Something troubling you? Is it the invisibility thing from yesterday?”

  “No,” Proctor said. But, he didn’t really make eye contact with me. Instead he kept pacing, and staring at the ground.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “Just an overall feeling of angst. I cannot express its origin.”

  Hag shouted for the first four starting pitchers to begin their throwing sessions. Once again she would have each of them throw fifty pitches to their respective catchers, before running the other four starting pitchers on the roster through the same drill.

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  “You’ve got this,” I said to Proctor. “Relax. Take your time. Try to enjoy it.”

  “Right,” Proctor said. But, I could tell my words were passing right over him.

  I was unsettled, but I did my best to put it out of my mind, and sat back with my weight on my hands watching Proctor pitch.

  It didn’t go well. I suppose this would’ve been predictable given how agitated Proctor appeared prior to throwing.

  More than half of his pitches missed the mark. Hag stood and watched him throw for a while, and she didn’t say much. Instead, she clicked her tongue a few times like a disappointed school teacher. At times, I’d had it in mind to give him some words of encouragement, but I’d opted to stay quiet, because I’d worried saying anything might instead cause him greater stress.

  “That didn’t go my way,” Proctor said. We sat in the grass together to watch the next flight of starting pitchers take to the four artificial mounds.

  “Try not to over think it,” I said.

  “You’re not wrong,” Proctor said.

  Torag Gill had pitched on the mound next to Proctor, and I couldn’t help but notice, he’d struggled too. But, I was happy to see it.

  “These guys would have to do something pretty spectacular today to stick around,” I said to Proctor quietly.

  “Who? Torag?” Proctor said.

  I nodded. “Yes,” I said. “The dirt eater’s been under performing since he got here. You already know I’m not a fan of the guy.”

  “And, who else? The Quallons, I suppose,” Proctor said.

  “Right. Bad enough what they did, but now to hear they’re causing trouble in the players’ residence as well? Yeah, looking forward to sending my parrot off with an offer,” I said.

  “You might be looking to trade me too,” Proctor said. “I’m rubbish.”

  “You’re definitely down,” I said. “I’m concerned about you.”

  “Nah, don’t be.”

  The diminutive Alfie Alvin took the mound in front of us where Proctor had pitched during the first session. Wulf Stanston remained at the catching position across from Alvin.

  “Here we go, Alfie! Here we go,” I cheered the man on, and he gave Proctor and I a smile before beginning.

  Overall, we both agreed, Alvin’s session was largely a success. I could hear snap in Wulf Stanston’s catcher’s mitt on a bunch of his throws. And, even to my untrained eye, his ball looked like it had movement on most of his pitches.

  I happened to glance over at Dalen Edwardstone pitching next to Alvin, and I was impressed with what I saw from him as well.

  “These guys are going pretty good,” I said.

  Proctor nodded in agreement.

  “Certainly better than me,” Proctor said. “Not that you could get much worse.”

  “Stop it.”

  Then it was my turn.

  Hag barked for the end of the starting pitching session, and Hammy the cat pounced from the shadows to call us relievers to attention.

  “Meow meow meow,” Hammy said.

  I was in the first flight of relief pitchers, and also throwing to Wulf Stanston. I took to the same mound Proctor had used, and kicked my cleat into the rubbery dirt pebbles in preparation.

  Proctor chose not to stick around, which I thought was strange. He didn’t hang out to watch me pitch. I figured he would as he’d want to give me some notes on my performance, but no, he left the area, and retreated into his house. Weird.

  I have to say, I was a lot less nervous this time around for my pitching session. Hammy again had us throw thirty times as opposed to the fifty pitches the starters threw. And, I performed better. The time was a bit of a blur as I worked through my session, so I couldn’t tell you off the top of my head how many good versus poor pitches I threw, but I’m thinking overall the session was a success. The System would obviously be the ultimate arbiter in this, so we’d have to see when the numbers were posted in my vision afterward.

  Not being able to watch Ulrich Farrowhill pitch, as he was going at the same time as me, he kind of hinted at a poor session when we chatted after we’d finished.

  “Disappointing,” Ulrich said to me. “I know I can be better.”

  “Don’t let it get you down,” I said. “It’s a process. This is why we practice, right?”

  I watched the rest of the relief pitchers in the second and third flights, and I was so distracted, worried about Proctor, I couldn’t really concentrate on what I was watching. It was all mostly a mish mash of decent throws, and truly bad pitches. I couldn’t begin to tell you who excelled, and who made fools of themselves, if any.

  As expected, while I stood near the infield bleachers craving Boop Soda caffeine, the System came through with its pitching drills report.

  [ATTENTION!

  SYSTEM UPDATE…

  Pitching sessions are complete.

  The following is an update reflective of pitching performances, i.e. Experience Points rewarded.

  Starting Pitchers:

  Proctor Smythe +10 XP

  Torag Gill +5

  Landyn Barnette +15

  Auden Hale +5

  Alfie Alvin +40

  Dalen Edwardstone +50

  Allis Derry +50

  Wyer Denman +25

  Please wait for update on relief pitchers…

  Loading…

  Relief Pitchers:

  Adam Bridger +35 XP

  Ulrich Farrowhill +5

  Bern Kinley -5

  Leonard Weaves +30

  Aston Bale +15

  Grinth Done +5

  Smith Reeve +25

  Wynn Willowby 0

  Emerson Iler +30

  Dyer Thickenburg +15

  Stuart Manetten +40

  Monty Holt -10

  Further updates to come, thank you.]

  Immediately, I wanted to share the good news with Proctor. He hadn’t pitched as poorly as either of us perhaps had thought. I admit, it didn’t look great as I watched him, but I’d had it mind he’d wind up losing Experience Points. The fact he actually gained points counted as a win in my mind.

  And, Monty Holt, ouch. He wasn’t exactly making a strong case to make the final 26 man roster. Same could be said for Bern Kinley.

  My caffeine urge took over, and I rushed to the machine with a coin burning a hole in my pocket. Then I was eager to check on Proctor.

  The machine dropped a can of Cola Drip flavor. If memory served that was a rain spell. I held off on drinking it, even though it pained me to do so.

  When I’d reached Proctor’s container house, I had to give his big door a few solid pounds before he finally said anything. His voice was muffled, as if he’d had his head buried in a pillow.

  “Yes?” I heard him say.

  “Proctor, can you come to the door?” I said. “I have good news for you.”

  In actuality, I was more concerned with just checking on the man’s well being, and his mental state, than I was telling him he’d pitched better than he or I had thought.

  “Not right now,” Proctor said. “Bit of a headache. Can you come back later?”

  “You didn’t pitch poorly,” I said through the door. “You hear me? You gained ten points.”

  “Yes,” Proctor said, flatly. His voice still barely audible. “Thank you.”

  “You’re not coming to the door?”

  “No,” Proctor said. “I think I need to sleep.”

  Guilt bit me in the gut. I was selfishly bothering Proctor when he wasn’t feeling well. But, still, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something deeper was happening. Something was truly wrong.