Thread: Short Story: O'Reilly's Sacrifice (LANGUAGE)

(6400 words)

Posting here, though this does have a mild fantasy element. An over-the-edge Boston Red Sox fan attempts to lift the curse that had been plaguing the team since its 1919 sale of Babe Ruth to the rival Yankees.

O'Reilly's Sacrifice

Charlie O'Reilly's spectacular death on October 17, 2004 would have led off the late-evening news for all the local Boston media outlets--if it hadn't happened on the same memorable night the Red Sox clawed back from a deficit against the Yankees and started that magical run to their first World Series title in 86 years. The O'Reilly story was a close second; most of the nationals picked it up too.
Charlie wasn't rich, or powerful, or a famous actor or athlete; in fact, I'm pretty sure the entire circle of people who knew him then would fit comfortably in my Mini Cooper. Charlie was dirt-poor, borderline literate, and completely unknown. What caught everyone’s attention back then was not anything he accomplished in life, but rather, his messy death.
I was there, and I have to say: it was pretty goddamn spectacular.
They buried what was left of Charlie in a potter's field south of the city. I wasn't there when he was laid to rest; I was still in the hospital. If he had friends or acquaintances they never spoke up or came forward. I knew Charlie for less than an hour, so I have a hard time thinking of him as a friend; on the other hand, if he were alive today I'm pretty sure he would introduce me as "my friend Mr. Hawkins. He writes about the Sawks for the Globe," in a reverent tone most people reserve for iconic figures like Mother Theresa.
Charlie’s specter usually only haunted me on a few October days each year, memories triggered by falling leaves and the bright lights of post-season baseball. But in recent months persistent whispers about what O'Reilly did began to reach my ears, and my thoughts turned to him more and more. This morning I paid him a long-overdue visit.

* * *

It took me half-dozen years to get around to it. I have excuses. When I was discharged from the hospital, the Sox were busy dismembering the Cardinals in the World Series. Afterward, as someone fairly close to the team, I was caught up with the parades and banquet circuit commitments that followed on the heels of that title. Then came football season, the holidays, spring training, the new baseball season, and that year's ignominious early exit from the postseason. Lather, rinse, repeat--it just flew by.
I probably wouldn't be slip-shuffling down a packed snow path (in a poor choice of shoes) toward Charlie’s grave today if I hadn't spent the morning furiously housecleaning in anticipation of my first date in months. I found something of Charlie's under my couch cushions--something that reminded me of a promise I made to him on the day he died.
I crested a slight rise and slid to an astonished stop.
The buzz about Charlie’s growing legend hadn't really prepared me for what came into view:paths in the snow converged on Charlie's tiny headstone from all points of the compass, like the streets of Paris radiating from the Arc de Triomphe.
I picked my way cautiously down the incline. From a distance the snow near his grave appeared dark, speckled; as I moved in closer in it began to resemble Ground Zero of a collision between a sports-souvenir stand and an FTD Florist truck. Caps, gloves, bats, trading cards and other baseball memorabilia were scattered about the grave, mixed with generous helping of flowers and wreaths, all converging on the small headstone.
Charlie O'Reilly's elevation to the Pantheon of New England Gods is relatively recent, but his ascension began--
I knelt in the crusty snow and ran gloved fingers over the date carved on his bone-white headstone: October 17 2004.
A shadow swept over me, as if I had invoked his specter from the tomb. I glanced up. The morning's deep clear skies were gone; clouds were rolling in from the north and east and the first ones were eclipsing the sun. Temperatures dropped with the retreat of sunlight and a few icy granules of snow thrown by a sudden gust stung my face. My eyes watered, and I shut them.
I kept them closed. I leaned against the cold headstone and went back to the night Charlie O'Reilly died.

* * *

[PM me for the rest of the story; I want to retain it as unpublished.]

This was absolutely amazing. I mean this has to be one of the best unpublished works I've read. I mean...I'm like speechless (though not wordless, obviously). I don't see any major flaw....ANYWHERE. The only thing that would stop this from getting published (as a standalone story that is) would probably be it's length otherwise I don't see why you couldn't find someone (possibly a publisher with a Sox fetish like Charlie) to publish this. Brav-the-effing-O sir., well done.

To take a non-baseball fan like me and get him interested in baseball - and baseball folklore- like you have done here is simply astounding. All the characters are impeccably unique, the dialog is fluid -as well as the overall prose- ; I mean you are a true author.

Thank you...thank you for blessing me with such a well put together story. Hell, you might have just turned me into a Red Sox fan to boot.

Simply AMAZING...what talent. Long live Charlie O' Reilly!

Originally Posted by ravensty

This was absolutely amazing. I mean this has to be one of the best unpublished works I've read. I mean...I'm like speechless (though not wordless, obviously). I don't see any major flaw....ANYWHERE. The only thing that would stop this from getting published (as a standalone story that is) would probably be it's length otherwise I don't see why you couldn't find someone (possibly a publisher with a Sox fetish like Charlie) to publish this. Brav-the-effing-O sir., well done.

To take a non-baseball fan like me and get him interested in baseball - and baseball folklore- like you have done here is simply astounding. All the characters are impeccably unique, the dialog is fluid -as well as the overall prose- ; I mean you are a true author.

Thank you...thank you for blessing me with such a well put together story. Hell, you might have just turned me into a Red Sox fan to boot.

Simply AMAZING...what talent. Long live Charlie O' Reilly!

I'm overwhelmed by your praise, and need to carefully look through that -- but thank you. No story is perfect.

To be honest, my concern is length also, but I'm struggling with the market. It has less fantasy than most fantasy-market stories, but a tinge of unreality that might move it out of mainstream short story fiction. Film at 11. Thank you again for your kind words, and a special thanks for reading through the whole thing.

Regards
Steve

(and PS-and-BTW, I'm a rabid . . . *Phillies* fan, so writing this felt . . . unclean . . . at times.)

You are right no story is perfect and therefore none should be held to such esteem or labeled as such. Your story is by no means flawless but those flaws are negligible in my eyes; I mean, Strunk and White might have some beefs with your punctuation but other than that your in the clear .
Your story to me is better than most of the stuff these jokers are calling "novels" -- they're what I wouldn't even call decent toilet paper -- that's why I gave it such praise; it's sad to see something like this stuck on a website while sh#t (for lack of a better word) sits on bookshelf (call me a purist...with a temper...lol just kidding). I hear what your saying though that "magic" powder might get in the way a bit if your looking for mainstream short story fiction. To call this a fantasy though would be discrediting it to some degree I feel. I mean thankfully you never say what it is in that bag and I'm almost certain a chemist could name a few "unstable combustibles" that could very well have the potential to cause such a grand explosion.

If it matters this anonymous guy here is rooting for ya.

(P.S So your a rabid Phillies fan....here in Philadelphia I'm surrounded by guys like you...small world)