The Mystery of the Phantom Ballplayer (2)

Have you ever been in a Floridian swamp after sunset?

I haven’t, but from looking at photos, it seems to be pretty unsettling – the inhospitable terrain, the fact that you wouldn’t be able to see anything except the light reflected from the amber eyes of the reptilian inhabitants, you name it. It would, I imagine, be enough to make even a brave man shiver.

But then again, the dark made everything scarier. There was no place in the world whose eeriness factor could not be exacerbated by the presence of darkness – a countryside cottage, congenial in the sunlight, is easily mistaken for a thieves’ den after the sun goes down; so, can you imagine how anxious I felt roaming the hallway of Kamijousaki High, a terrifying place even in the daytime, at night?

“At least you can see the crocodiles in the swamp, even in the dark. If there was a Florida Man in the swamp too, you wouldn’t know he’s there until it was too late.”

The Brobdingnagian eyes of Pokomaru-kun stared back at me, unresponsive. It was amusing to think that Haruhi had such childish taste, but I knew that this was no time to be ruminating on something so trivial. I decided to direct my mental faculties towards solving the mystery at hand.

According to Kazami, the sounds of a baseball game happening on the school field could be heard late at night, along with bits of conversation. The only hitch? The conversation was apparently in some demonic tongue, which led to the promulgation of a rumour that the baseball field was haunted by phantoms.

The use of the word ‘phantom’ is appropriate. They hear the voices, allegedly demonic, the cracks of the baseball bat, and the sound of a baseball hitting a glove, but they don’t actually see anything. That’s why they’re called phantoms, meaning a figment of one’s imagination. Illusory, in other words, or a delusion; one that has been propagated by the masses.

After all, ghosts couldn’t possibly exist.

I believe I already have the key to solving the mystery. Just this year, a minor league affiliate of one of Japan’s professional teams relocated here from Kawagoe City. Additionally, the stadium where they took up residence is directly behind our own baseball field, separated only by a two-way road.

Owing to the close proximity between them, a game being played in Zeiko Stadium could likely be heard from the grounds of Kamijousaki High. Students just assumed the sounds came from our own humble baseball field as the stadium was located in the same general direction. The ‘demonic voices’ could be the names of foreign players being announced over the PA system or something.

A stretch, but much more plausible than the idea that our school was a gateway to the underworld. Some people have unironically suggested this.

This theory had begun to germinate within my mind as soon as I left the clubroom and it slowly gestated during the walk from the vending machine on the ground floor to the baseball field where Haruhi and Kazami were waiting.

All in all, it came about as a result of six minutes of intense concentration, but it took less than six seconds for it to be proved wrong; in an amusing twist of fate, it was Kazami, and not the self-proclaimed great detective, who debunked it.

“Actually, the minor league season hasn’t even started yet. The team trains at another facility, so the sounds couldn’t have been coming from Zeiko Stadium,” Kazami informed me when I announced my theory.

“Plus, Watson, the floodlights in the stadium would have to be turned on and that’d be visible from here. Nobody would make the mistake of thinking the sounds came from a pitch-dark field, and not a lighted stadium,” Haruhi added another nail to the coffin of my hypothesis.

“I was just throwing out some suggestions,” I tried to save some face.

“More importantly, Tanizaki, there was some elementary school kid here the other day who said he saw the phantoms, so it’s not true that nobody has seen anything,” Kazami said.

“You never told us this before,” Haruhi looked somewhat startled.

“Heh, I just remembered,” Kazami rubbed the nape of his neck sheepishly before explaining, “Yesterday, I saw this little kid sprinting in the courtyard, so I stopped him and asked what he was doing. He told me he was taking a shortcut through the baseball field and noticed that there were people there already. Over there, by the home dugout,” he indicated with a nod.

“He actually saw them?” I asked.

“It was dark so he couldn’t actually make them out; but he said that the dugout looked like the mouth of Hell itself. The people spoke in tongues, so he had no idea what they were saying, and there was a chthonic haze all around them. These were his words exactly, by the way. I’m not too sure what half that even means,” he replied.

I looked over at Haruhi whose face had become visibly pale. “Was he wearing an Isokawa Elementary uniform?” she asked.

“Hm? Oh yeah, I guess he was,” Kazami said after a moment’s thought.

“That must have been Shota. He came to the clubroom yesterday to get my magnifying glass,” Haruhi said to me before turning back to Kazami. “He didn’t get hurt or anything, did he?”

Kazami shook his head. “Nah, he hightailed it out of there as soon as he was spotted. When I talked to him, he was muttering something about fire and brimstone. What, Tsukishima, that was your little brother?”

“A friend,” she corrected him. “If Shota said it, then it’s probably true. He’s excitable, but he’s not a liar.”

A second mystery – why did Haruhi have friends who were still in elementary school?

“There’s nobody here now anyway,” I said, careening my neck to look into the home dugout. “And I can’t hear anything either. No disembodied voices, no baseball game.”

“I had a quick glance at the field while I was waiting for you two. There are no footprints on the grass or dirt, but then again, my shoes don’t seem to make much of an imprint on the grass either,” Haruhi updated us on her own activities while I was at the vending machine and Kazami was turning on the floodlights.

“It’s ryegrass,” Kazami addressed both of us. “It’s pretty thick. Unless you were sliding around the place in cleats or if it was raining, it’s not likely that you’ll leave any footprints. The dirt is a different story though.”

Haruhi acknowledged this information with a languid “I see.”

Evidently, she was still worried about her young friend’s ordeal the previous night. Or maybe it was the magnifying glass that she had loaned him which disconcerted her mind. Knowing Haruhi, it was difficult to say.

Since clues on the field and in the dugout were not forthcoming, Kazami suggested that we should investigate the locker room. Being the most familiar with the terrain, he led the way into the tunnel located between the dugouts of the home and visiting team – this tunnel fed into a surprisingly large passage which, according to Kazami, went around the perimeter of the field itself.

“If the passage goes around the field, why did we have to go inside? We could have just cut through the field itself,” I murmured.

“There’s a door by the bullpen which would bring us directly outside the locker rooms, but it’s probably locked. We wouldn’t have been able to get inside,” he explained.

The passageway was far from bare – we passed a cabinet case displaying the trophies and accolades won by the school team, some framed newspaper clippings of significant events, and even signed jerseys previously worn by famous alumni. The latter were also handsomely framed.

I was vaguely aware that our school was a powerhouse in the sport, but it was still surprising that they were able to find enough relevant memorabilia with which to adorn the passageway walls. A particular newspaper clipping, written in English, had captured Haruhi’s attention and she stopped to read it.

“Ah, an article about Shigeyuki Fujioka’s Major League debut. That one’s from the Big Apple Register. He went to school here, you know? Only Kamijousaki High graduate to play in America,” Kazami said, beaming.

“He also had 308 home runs, 2004 hits, a batting average of .296 and finished top three in MVP voting twice in his 11 seasons,” Haruhi stated – it was only when Kazami and I turned to face her, mouths agape, that she added, “I read it in today’s edition of the Kamijousaki-zaka.”

“Ah, was it about those training camps that he’s been running? He’s trying to promote the game, see?” Kazami said to me, as though I was the only one not in the know. “He’s got promising players from all over the world participating – China, Dominican Republic, Venezuela, Mexico, and whatnot. There’s even a shortstop from Scotland, and a pitcher from Algeria.”

My baseball-obsessed friend delighted in regaling me, as Haruhi seemed to be deep in thought and was not listening, with facts about Shigeyuki Fujioka’s storied career. By the time we reached the locker rooms, I felt as though I had enough information to write a biography on Kamijousaki High’s most famous alumnus.

The two locker rooms were located on the left side of the passageway; directly opposite, on the right, was another door which was slightly larger. The visitors’ room was locked, but we were able to enter the home locker room without any issue. A curious stench greeted us, and Kazami immediately apologised for it.

“We had a morning practice, and I guess nobody aired the place out. It still stinks a bit, huh?” he floundered, face slightly red.

Haruhi ignored this and walked over to one of the corner benches. She had found something and brought it over to show us - a crumpled packet of cigarettes with ‘EL TESORO DEL PIRATA’ marked on it in large, silver lettering.

Kazami looked grave. “Some of the guys on the team have bad habits. I tell them to take care of their bodies, but hey, what can you do?” he shrugged.

The tiled floors and open lockers meant that there was a slim chance of anything being hidden. Indeed, a perfunctory search of the place turned up nothing and we soon found ourselves standing in the passageway again. I took this opportunity to ask about the large door on the opposite wall.

“It leads to the bullpen area. If we cut across the field, we could’ve come in through that door. It’s locked though. See…” Kazami attempted to demonstrate that it was locked but used a bit more force than was necessary – the door flung open, and we were greeted by the glare of the floodlights.

“I guess it wasn’t locked after all. But the longer walk wasn’t wasted, since we managed to learn something very important,” Haruhi said cryptically, as the three of us headed outside.

On the left was another door and on the right was an ingress to a sizable bullpen area for the relief pitchers. In front of us was the

field, which was separated from the bullpen area by a low railing. We were somewhere in the outer infield on the third base side.

“Where does this lead to, then?” I asked, pointing at the door on the left.

“The new sports complex. That door is definitely locked,” he replied.

I opted to make sure and, just as Kazami anticipated, the door did not budge. From the corner of my eye, I could see Haruhi leaping over the railing onto the baseball field. “Hey, where are you going?” I called after her.

“Home,” she turned back to face us. “The phantoms, or demons, or whatever you want to call them have gone home already too; but, if you come back tomorrow, I can introduce you to them.”

Kazami and I exchanged glances and followed after her.