Falling by T.J. Newman
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
A CRACK OF THE BAT.
Foul ball.
Center fielder Bobby Adelson popped up from his ready position, blowing a bubble with his gum. Taking a few restless steps, he kicked a divot of grass.
Stay focused, Bobby It’s just another game. Just another out.
It wasn’t. It was game seven of the World Series. The Yankees were up, 2-1. Top of the ninth. The Dodgers had runners on the corners and their cleanup hitter was at bat. Two outs. The count was 2-2. The Yankees were one strike away from being world champions, the only accolade Bobby’s long career couldn’t claim.
The pitcher shook off a sign from the catcher. He nodded to the next.
Movement out of the corner of Bobby’s eye distracted him.
Focus, Bobby.
More movement from the other side. Something was out of place. He looked to the left-field stands.
The fans were leaving. He turned to right field and saw the same thing. They weren’t just leaving, they were fleeing, pushing each other up the stairs to the main corridor. He looked at the upper deck and watched fans stream down the rows, disappearing into the stadium’s interior. The chorus of cheering was quickly giving way to angry yelling and terrified screams.
Panic swelled in Bobby’s chest as he looked to the other outfielders who were equally confused. The right fielder pointed in front of him and started running in. Bobby did the same, seeing all of the players from both teams congregating on the mound.
A prerecorded voice came over the loudspeaker.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please remain calm. For your safety, we are evacuating Yankee Stadium. Please find your closest exit and secondary exit, and walk up or down the aisle toward it now. Once outside, move away from the stadium. Exit ramps and exit stairs will guide you out. Escalators and elevators will not be used during…”
Bobby turned to the jumbotron and jogged backward. The screen showed a video of the stadium’s evacuation plan, with cartoon figures of event staff guiding and assisting fans.
When he got to the mound, he caught the tail end of the explanation from the home plate umpire. It sounded like they were supposed to exit the field through the clubhouse and head to the team buses.
Bobby turned to the Dodgers shortstop. “What’s happening?” he whispered.
“That plane? I guess the stadium’s the target.”
Bobby’s eyes widened. They all knew about Flight 416. Equipment guys in the clubhouse had told the coaches, who told the players, and all game long they’d gotten updates. In a social media world, news this big didn’t go unnoticed. Even if you were playing in the World Series.
All around them, fans scrambled in retreat. Clogged aisles lined each section of the stadium as spectators clambered over the chairs and jumped over railings. Traffic at the exits bottlenecked and the wide corridors became a sweltering mess of humanity. Bobby could only imagine how bad the mob scene would be outside the stadium.
A man in a Dodgers hat ran up an aisle, pushing people aside as he went. A woman clutching her sobbing child stepped in front of him and he didn’t hesitate to shove them both out of the way. As they fell to the ground, another man pulled the fan back by the neck of his hoodie and began to pummel his face. A third man rushed over to help the woman and child to their feet.
Bobby pulled off his glove and tucked it under his arm as he watched humanity at its worst. And best. Adjusting his hat, he looked around the stands and the palpable atmosphere of fear and panic began to eat at him too—and that’s when he noticed the elderly couple.
Coming down the aisle, they moved closer to the field. Stopping about five rows up from the home team dugout, they turned in, the man watching his wife’s feet as she stepped over discarded cups and wrappers. They sat down and looked around, soaking up the incredible view from their new seats. It was a significant upgrade. The old man wrapped an arm around his bride and she popped a piece of popcorn into her mouth with a laugh. She wore a Yankees cap that was probably older than any of the players on either team and probably half the front office too. He had his mitt, the leather aged and worn.
“Okay, let’s move,” the umpire said, slapping his hands together.
“Wait!” Bobby hollered. Everyone turned to him. He was the captain. His voice had weight. “How long do we have?”
The umpire looked at him quizzically. “Five minutes? Ten?”
Bobby shook his head. “You know damn well that’s not enough time to evacuate.”
The umpire blinked at him.
“C’mon,” Bobby said. “Top of the ninth, game seven of the World Series? At Yankee Stadium? A terrorist attack? That’s not a coincidence. That’s a message.” He looked around at the bedlam. “You’re telling me you want this to be our message?”
The players looked at each other, at the stadium. Bobby smiled.
“I don’t know about you boys, but I always prefer to go out swinging.”