Jimmy Keane had learned early on that the safest place in the world wasn’t his bed, his room, or even behind his mom in the kitchen when the shouting started. It was somewhere away from the arguing, the slamming doors, the raised voices that carved holes through the walls of their modest rowhouse in South Philadelphia. At fifteen, he had perfected the art of disappearing without being noticed, of listening without reacting, of keeping his heart and mind tucked inside himself like a glove. Baseball had become his sanctuary, and when the Phillies offered him a batboy spot through his uncle’s connections, it felt like stepping into another life entirely.
The ballpark smelled like summer, sweat, and varnished wood. Even before the first inning started, he could feel the pulse of the stadium—the collective rhythm of thousands of fans, the creak of dugout benches, the low hum of expectation. Here, the noise at home didn’t exist, or at least it couldn’t reach him.
Except for Mark Grossman.
Grossman was all sinew and arrogance, a towering first baseman with the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes. He carried his superiority like a badge, and he wielded it with surgical precision. If Jimmy took an extra second to clear a bat or fumbled a ball, Grossman’s voice would slice through the dugout air.
“Move it, kid. Chop-chop.”
“Careful with that one—you don’t want to crack your fingers again.”
It wasn’t just the words. It was the tone: condescending, relentless, like Jimmy’s failures were meant to entertain him. And worse, it reminded him of home. His father’s voice, booming and cruel, always seemed to echo in Grossman’s insults. Jimmy would freeze under it, wishing for invisibility.
By midseason, resentment had hardened into something darker, a simmering tension that made every interaction a minefield. He hated Grossman, but he hated himself for thinking about it so often.
The Juan Paolo Bat
The first time the bat came into play, it was a routine foul ball. Grossman was at bat during a humid Tuesday night game against the Mets. The crack of the bat sounded sharp, and then—splintering. A jagged snap echoed across the stadium, and the foul ball clattered into the stands. Jimmy ran to retrieve it, scanning the rack for a replacement.
It was then that he saw it: the Juan Paolo bat, lying in the corner, black with a streak of crimson running along the grain. Its handle looked worn but ominously precise, like it had been waiting.
He had been warned about this bat countless times. Old stories, murmured in locker rooms, told of Juan Paolo, a promising rookie whose career was derailed after he swung this very bat. From the moment Juan held it, he struck out repeatedly, made errors in the field, and eventually tore his knee on a routine play. No one knew why the bat seemed to carry misfortune, but everyone respected the warning: do not hand it to a player unless you are ready to watch disaster unfold.
Jimmy hesitated. He knew Grossman didn’t believe in bad juju; he scoffed at superstition. He wouldn’t hesitate. He wouldn’t hesitate at all.
And Jimmy wanted, just this once, to see him stumble.
“Here,” Jimmy said, holding the bat out. His hand shook slightly, though he tried to hide it. “You can use this one.”
Grossman laughed, a sharp bark of amusement. “This? Seriously?” He snatched the bat without hesitation, swinging it in a quick arc. “Superstitious nonsense. Can’t be worse than my broken bat.”
Jimmy stepped back, heart hammering. Grossman adjusted his grip, tapped the plate, and swung at the first pitch—a lazy pop fly to center. The inning ended, and Jimmy felt an unfamiliar thrill. He had done something, finally.
Misfortune Strikes
The next days were strange. Grossman’s hitting slump grew. He struck out repeatedly, misjudged routine grounders, and grimaced at every mistake. Jimmy couldn’t help but feel a mix of satisfaction and unease. The bat had worked—or had it?
Home was no relief. His mother’s cough had worsened, and she spent days in bed, fragile and pale. His father’s temper had escalated; arguments erupted over the smallest things.
One evening, Jimmy’s father got into a car accident. He had driven to pick up groceries, distracted and tired after a long day of work. A delivery truck turned too sharply at the intersection, and the collision sent his father’s car spinning. Jimmy’s mother called in hysterics, and Jimmy ran outside, heart hammering, to see the twisted metal. His father was conscious but limping badly, blood streaking his temple and arm. Jimmy helped steady him as paramedics arrived. The sight shook him to his core—an event that felt both random and yet heavy with the weight of everything that had been building in his life.
Jimmy began to notice a rash first on his arms, then climbing up his neck. It itched constantly, spreading in jagged, unpredictable patterns. The dreams followed, every night: the stadium, empty seats, blinding lights, and Juan Paolo’s shadowed figure holding the bat, whispering words Jimmy couldn’t catch.
The Breaking Point
Meanwhile, Grossman’s slump worsened. He muttered about the bat, his tone more annoyed than frightened, but sometimes, when he thought no one was listening, a hint of worry would flicker across his face. Jimmy wanted to believe it was just coincidence, that he was imagining the connections, but he couldn’t shake the pattern.
One night after a particularly tense game, Jimmy stayed behind in the empty stadium. He wanted to see the bat for himself, to understand if it carried its own malevolence or if he was imagining it all. The lights cast long, distorted shadows, and the silence was thick, almost tactile. He found the Juan Paolo bat leaning against the dugout wall, black streaked with faint red lines that looked almost like veins.
He picked it up. The handle was warm in his hand, unnaturally so, as if the wood itself breathed. A faint sound tickled his ears—a crowd cheering, then gasping, then silence. He shook his head, trying to convince himself it was a trick of imagination. Yet he felt a prickle crawling up his spine, a certainty that the bat had chosen him as much as he had chosen Grossman.
Stevie Knox
Jimmy could no longer bear the chain of events—the rash, the misfortunes, the tension in the clubhouse. He went straight to Stevie Knox, the equipment manager, hoping for guidance.
“Stevie, I… I can’t take it anymore,” Jimmy said, showing the rash and describing everything that had happened—his mother’s illness, his father’s accident, Grossman’s slump. Stevie’s eyes grew serious, and he listened without interrupting.
Finally, he said, “Jimmy… now that you’ve touched it, you’re the only one who can remove it. That bat… it’s not meant to be destroyed. You bury it after the last game, in the other team’s bullpen when no one’s there. You understand? You don’t burn it. That just makes it worse. What you bury, you contain… maybe.”
Jimmy swallowed hard. “I… I can do that?”
“You can,” Stevie said, voice low. “But be careful. It’s yours now.”
Burying the Bat
After the final game, Jimmy waited until the stadium emptied. Under the dim lights, he carried the bat across the field, each step heavy, measured. At the visitors’ bullpen, he dug a hole in the soft, damp soil, lowered the bat carefully, and covered it completely. He said nothing, whispered nothing.
The Phillies won their last two games. Grossman was let go at the end of the season. Jimmy’s mother’s health improved steadily, her fragile recovery leaving her cautious but alive. His father, slowed and weakened by the accident, no longer had the strength or energy to fight. The rash faded gradually, leaving faint scars, a quiet reminder of what had passed.
Jimmy stared out over the field from his bedroom window that night, the empty stadium quiet and still. Had the bat truly carried misfortune? Had his act of vengeance altered the balance of events? Or had his mind—shaped by years of fear, resentment, and helplessness—simply connected threads that were never meant to be connected?
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The Epilogue
Months later, the stadium was quiet again, empty except for a few construction workers repairing the bullpens. One of them, crouching in the dirt, uncovered a familiar shape.
“Hey… what’s this?” he said, brushing the soil away. The bat was there, perfectly intact. “Wow… wonder how this could’ve been buried here.”
He noticed something else—the bat now had several signatures along its barrel, faint but visible, markings that hadn’t been there before. His eyes widened. “No way… signed bat? Lucky day!”
He picked it up, swinging it experimentally, smiling. Jimmy’s name, the stories, the curse—everything became just a whisper in the wind.
The End
