As Victor silently battles the two distinct, but not all together separate, halves of his life, the sun shines down upon the baseball field of Transylvania High, where jocks of the highest caliber are allowed to demonstrate their prowess on the field while the other, less coordinated individuals, duck and cover with such astonishing speed that, should it be properly harnessed, would give such an individual a mastery of running away from said incoming objects. A fast, intelligent brain that can calculate air\speed ratios of objects in flight in proportion to gravity at certain distances can be exceptionally beneficial in, say, today's sport of dishonor: baseball. Take that same, perceptive gray matter and lock it into the body of a klutz, and you'll see why neurons, firing in such an elegant manner that would cause the envy of certain Las Vegas water based choreography, can't make up for the fact said dance is lead by a young man with all the grace of a panda missing one leg and a stick of bamboo stuck in its ass.
Through the clear, still air an organist pounded her keys to fill the time as Igor von Igor was ushered from the dugout by his constantly bewildered, yet hopeful, athletic instructor who was hell bent on capturing the raw potential that was in the hunchback's head. Up in the stands, behind the chain link fence that formed a perimeter around the infield, sat Igor's parents, Momma and Poppa Igor. She looked as beautiful as a train derailment in slow motion with her elegant, powder blue dress and matching hand bag that looked, should it be wielded properly, to be an exceptionally deadly weapon. Poppa Igor, though, wore an average white t-shirt and well worn blue jeans. All the von Igor's, of course, had somewhat sickly blue flesh that was curiously lumpy with arms, nose, ears and such that just didn't seem to properly fit their body structure. It was almost as if they were a hodgepodge of similarly themed pieces and appendages which more or less hid the fact that there had to have been some modern day equivalent of being organ donors while said organs were passed down from generation to generation as one would an old pair of pants or the odd liver that Grandpa Igor didn't need any more as he was now long since past any hopes of further reanimation or, worse yet, quickly becoming devoid of any useful parts. It is safe to say the von Igor's believed in a form of reincarnation, and that a bit of them remained in the hearts and minds (not to mention the chest cavity) of succeeding generations.*
**Think of it as a type of inbreeding, only without the creepy, Oedipal bits. The standard creepiness of organ harvesting will suffice.
Young Igor von Igor stepped and dragged his way to the pitcher's mound. A soft moan of knowing anguish escaped his not entirely red lips as his coach called out "Strike him out, Igor!"
"Igor should be home. Igor got new science journal and what Igor doing? Igor playing baseball. Humph." Igor continued to grumble to himself in the third person as he quickly calculated the distance from him to the batter and the absolute likelihood that his swing of the bat would send the ball back to the pitcher's mound and would certainly connect with Igor's skull and quickly drop him, hard, down to the ground. Throwing himself to the ground and covering his melon were the only options Igor had as, let's face it, running away just wasn't a viable option. Not when you've got two left feet and the one on the right was fractured and reshaped into the position of a right foot with almost absolutely no drawbacks after such procedure.
From the dugout of the opposing team a voice cried out "Pitcher's got no game!
Pitcher's got no game!" in an effort to further destroy Igor's attitude. Igor's coach chimed in as well with a well rehearsed "Don't let them rattle you, son!"
Yeah, that kind of motivation helps every time. To prove it Igor looked to where
the sounds of positive reinforcement came from and sincerely asked "Can Igor go home?"
"Later, Igor, later! Just pitch the ball!"
"Okay."
Watch carefully, because once its all over, you'll be able to tell your friends you saw it live and in person, which is much, much more interesting than buying the DVD from a television commercial and watching it repeatedly.
The windup was disastrous, as it shifted young Igor's center of gravity to his hump, and caused him to fall over backwards. The second baseman was kind enough to run out to Igor's assistance, and helped him back up. Then Igor's second windup came, an odd sideways sort of motion, and the ball was set loose upon its trajectory into the aluminum bat of a young man with an exceptional swing that sent the ball hurtling back towards him and beaned Igor straight between the eyes and sent the hunchback rolling head over hump. Charlie Brown himself had never experienced such a public display of humiliation.
Up in the stands, the worried maternal cry of "My baby! He hit my baby!" was met with parting crowds as, it seemed, getting in the way of this woman was tantamount of having a kick in the groin by a racehorse. The motherly figure in powder blue attire had already grasped the straps of her handbag in such a way that indicated someone was about to receive it upside the head. Poppa Igor simply followed behind Momma as she parted the crowds and headed for the field.
The coach called "Time!" and headed out to the pitchers mound hoping that medical attention would not be required because, let's face it, rumors of sickly procedures can get around when whispered in the locker rooms and, lifetime jock or not, some guys just have low tolerance levels for icky things. He reached the fallen form that had ended up face down and hurriedly asked "Son, are you okay?"
"Igor guess so. Can Igor go home now?"
"Here, let's get you...oh god." The coach quickly dropped Igor when he realized that a set of eyes had rolled along the ground. There's only one place they could've come from. "We need a doctor here!"
"Give me sewing kit, Momma. Igor lose eyes again." She opened her handbag and tossed it to Poppa Igor as he made a direct line for the Igor and his coach. Momma Igor, confident the situation would be handled properly, had other things to attend to, and it was becoming apparent the young man with the baseball bat would soon be forced to apologize to Momma Igor's baby boy, whether he wanted to or not.
"Well, what have you got to say for yourself?"
Somewhat uncertain of this, the young man with the bat could only respond with a
timid "I'm sorry?"
"You better be!"
With surprising reflexes, Momma Igor grabbed the young man in a headlock and
started beating him with her purse. Not willing to let such an injustice go unmet, the
dugout for the entire opposing team emptied and several fit young men freed their friend
and the entire team encircled the manic woman. Knuckles were cracked, faces glared, and
amidst all the unspoken threats, Momma Igor laughed.
"You want piece of Mrs. Igor? Huh? Well come get a dish of momma's home
cooking!" The circle of guys grew tighter around Momma Igor, and the purse took flight.
Having more important things to deal with, the coach attempted to reason with
Poppa Igor, insisting they call an ambulance, but Poppa Igor refused.
"Ambulance not necessary. Igor just pansy. Pick up your eyes, boy."
"Yes, poppa." Igor knelt to the ground, felt around the grass for a moment, and
found both ocular organs. He then proceeded to wipe them off on his uniform and slowly
stuck each one back into their empty sockets.
"Good Igor. Now hold still."
"Yes, poppa."
Having taken a sideways glance at Momma Igor's handling of the opposing team,
the coach turned back just in time to see Poppa Igor open up the sewing kit complete with
surgical needles and medical stitching.
"Sir, what are you...oh god..."
The precision of Poppa Igor's hand was well practiced and laser accurate, but
ultimately stomach wrenching and in his brief time as a witness to this procedure the
coach doubled over and muttered "Oh god in heaven..." before passing out completely.
Poppa Igor took one look at the crumpled authority figure and reasoned "Coach
pansy too. Me should known. Grown men playing with bats only interested in other bats."
The echoing thuds of bodies falling against each other, along with a few more kicks to the
shins filled the brief silence as Poppa Igor finished restitching Igor's eyes into his head.
"Done! Let's go home, Momma. Momma?"
He and Igor turned on the spot to see Momma Igor, breathless and smiling, headed
their way as she leaves the circle of destruction involving the entire opposing team now
bleeding and sobbing, some on all fours and another in the fetal position, around what
remained of third base.
"Oh hell."
"That teach them hurt my baby."
And with that, the von Igor's departed.
* * * * *
The brief ride home was a quiet one. Poppa Igor's shining Prius turning into their suburban driveway and up to the garage of their picture perfect example of affordable modern living as Igor just silently stared outside the rear passenger side window. Sparky, his mutt dog, ran up to the car as it came to a stop while Igor stepped and dragged his way out of the automobile. A brief "Good game, son," came from Poppa Igor as the youth continued to focus all his concentration on anything but baseball.
"Whatever," was Igor's only reply. Unknown to him, Momma Igor gave her husband a good whack on the back of the head with her purse as Igor stepped and dragged away with Sparky leading the way.
"What was that for, woman? Stitching might come loose!"
"Humph! Poppa, you only care for yourself! He doesn't want to play baseball! You made him and now he's embarrassed!"
"Embarrassed? von Igor's do not become embarrassed! Igor just stupid!"
WHACK!
"That no way to talk about your son!"
"What that for?"
"You'll get another if you don't figure it out! Leave Igor alone! He doesn't have your notions of fun!"
"He should! Science not fun!"
The next resounding WHACK! was met with a dull THUMP! as the stitching in Poppa Igor's neck finally broke apart, sending his head tumbling into his lap. "Now you've done it, woman. Sew my head back on!"
"Maybe I should, if only to make sure you've got it on straight!"
"What's that supposed to mean? Huh?"
As continued the tradition of Momma Igor being constantly frustrated with her inept husband, she kicked open the door, got out, and slammed it shut with her husband in two pieces behind the steering wheel.
* * * * *
In the sitting room of the von Igor residence is a fireplace. It's mostly for show, and only used in the odd special occasion, but its main purpose is to serve as a place to hold up the many family photographs and the large mirror that is centered above it. The mirror has recently served as a means for Poppa Igor to make sure his head was centered perfectly upon his neck, and that all loose stitches were replaced while the bonds holding the two pieces together were being applied. This unusual sort of medical procedure is among the first in which a laser level has ever been used, though the manufacturers of such a device would rather not be made aware this particular instance of use.
As the final bonds were set, Poppa Igor found himself looking at the many photographs detailing his family over the last twenty some odd years. The ones of Igor in his little league uniform were the hardest to look at, and sentimental thoughts of yesteryear threatened to bring tears that would threaten to dissolve all the stitches at shoulder level and above.
"Where did I go wrong?"
Momma Igor, who'd been silently watching from an adjacent hallway, stepped into the room. "You've done nothing wrong. You just act like every other father who ever had a son: you take the hopes, dreams, and failures of your life and place them on poor Igor's. You want him to pick up the mantle and live the life you never found. Igor good boy, just like you are a good man, albeit thick headed at times."
"I like baseball. Igor used to like baseball.
"You're not Igor, just like Igor's not you."
"I failed him."
Momma Igor, upon hearing this, took her husband's hand in hers. "You haven't failed him, you just think you've failed at guiding him. And neither is true."
For a brief moment, Momma Igor's hopes of finally getting through to her numbskull husband lit up like a match on a cold night, and one of two things were now going to happen. Either, A), said flaming matchstick would ignite the pleasing light and warmth of reason in Poppa Igor's head or, B) the winds that prevented change would sneak in and snuff the flames out before they spread.
For even amateur observers, it wouldn't be difficult to see which would happen.
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