Flash Fiction Monday: The Man in the Stands

A father’s fury sits in the stands like a coiled snake 

The Man in the Stands

“The boy stepped up to the plate, shoulders tight beneath a jersey a size too big. He blinked against the sun, lifted the bat, and whispered to himself, Don’t miss this time.

From the stands, his father, Alex Kinsela, watched every twitch and flinch. Ten years in special forces had trained him to notice movement—the shift of an enemy, the flutter of fear—but nothing rattled him like seeing his own son afraid to swing.

“That kid is pitiful. Look at him. He closes his eyes when he swings. The coach should kick him off the team,” Max Waters said, loud enough for half the bleachers to hear.

Alex gripped the bench with both hands as if each hand were wrapped around Max Water’s neck.  He had to do something with his hands or he’d break Water’s neck. 

“The kid is only ten years old,” Alex said.

“Doesn’t matter. He’s a loser and belongs on the bench.” 

Alex turned toward Waters. He knew he could snap Water’s neck as easily as he could snap a twig. 

Alex’s kid  fouled off two pitches. He took two balls and watched a strike sail over the middle of the plate.

“You’re out,” the umpire called.

“He’s a bum,” Waters yelled and added a Bronx cheer with extra venom. 

“Give the kid a break. You think he wanted to strike out?” Alex said.

“The punk didn’t even swing. His father doesn’t have the time to teach his kid how to play ball,” Max Waters said it loud enough for people sitting around him to hear. 

Alex Kinsela closed his eyes and thought, “You need to be taught a lesson and I’m going to be your teacher.”

For the next week Alex was closer to Max Waters than his shadow. Where Max Waters went, Alex was not far behind.

A week later, Waters was back in the stands this time picking on a different kid. “Take him out. He doesn’t know how to pitch. He’s a loser.” Waters yelled. 

Alex watched and smiled. He knew Waters would take his son home and then head out to a bar to have a few beers. 

Alex followed Waters to the bar and pulled next to Waters’  pickup truck. He made himself comfortable and waited the way a rattlesnake waits for an unsuspecting field mouse.  

The difference between Alex and a rattlesnake is that the rattlesnake will give you a warning if you come too close.

Two hours later, Waters came out arguing with a drinking buddy, “The guy’s a bum. He should never be in the major leagues. I could play better with one arm tied around my back.”

Water’s walked to his truck. He opened the door and felt an arm around his neck squeezing the air out of him the way a boa kills its prey.

He heard the words, “Resist and I’ll snap your neck.”

Alex slipped a black bag over Water’s head, secured his hands behind with flex cuffs.

Thirty minutes later, they were in an abandoned warehouse. 

“Is this a kidnapping? How much do you want?” Water asked. “ Don’t kill me.”

“It’s lesson time. I’m going to take the bag off your head. I’m standing behind you. If you turn around before I tell you and you see me, I’m going to kill you. Understand?” Alex said from his baclava.

“Yes, yes, please don’t kill me.”

A large screen tv turned on. A five-minute loop began to play. There was Waters drinking beer, holding a woman ten years his junior on his lap. There was Water tossing dollar bills at strippers. There were Waters’ emails trashing his boss. 

“Where’d you get this?” Waters  shouted.

“It doesn’t matter. The question is, ‘Will this go online?’

“No. Please don’t.”

“If you ever trash another kid in your life, this goes public.”

“Please—whatever you want—just don’t tell my wife.”

From the corner, a new voice answered—not Alex’s.

“Oh, I already know,” she said.

Waters froze.

Alex slipped out the side door as the woman approached, her heels clicking against the concrete.

Some lessons, he thought, are better taught by those we’ve betrayed.

Two hours later, a voice from a mechanical box said, “Your wife is on her way. She should be here  in ten minutes. Have fun.”