Prologue: Igniting St. Elmo’s Fire

The mighty hand of Uranus came down with avenging brand and lashed out with a thunderbolt of lightning unleashing the bell’s toll heard throughout the realm of Gaia. From the deep eastern waters of the incarnate embodiment of the encompassing ocean stream that floats all inhabitable land, Oceanus, came forth Helios son of Hyperion to summons the day. Cold cut through the dawn on the edge of Cronos’s Scythe as the first glimmer of light refracted from the icy harbor where The Titan Brothership docked amongst the ice burgs. North of the Orange Triangle, in the small asylum harbor of Fullerton is where the cry of the sea had brought them. Men with ice in their veins beholden to neither spouse nor god but slaves to the call of the wild unknown, signed on without concern for mortality. One by one they breeched the ships plank that sat port side to the dock, each one hand chosen by the captain and his crew for the specific tasks they were about to complete. Would the Winds of Mayhem propel their sails straight over the edge of the earth damning them to plummet for all eternity for their insolence, would the land of the midnight sun evaporate the sea and run them aground in Hades, will the hand of Poseidon, nemesis of The Titans, turn the seas violent, dragging them so deep below the ocean that they become eternal prisoners within the primordial clutches of Tartarus or would victory await them like a mistress at the edge of the earth beckoning them into the grove of Glasir, outside the very gates of Valhalla on their quest for destiny.
These men are the Last In Line. They have been battle tested upon the high seas and have borne the chains of stockades from around the circuit in order to prove worthy. They have withstood the morning ice that burned as fire when attached to exposed flesh and braved cold Nordic winds that sliced to the bone awaiting a call to ships deck, they have battled not enemies but legions of hell armed with demon swords for a coveted spot on the roster of Captain Hook’s brazen band of brothers. They are not the next in line but the last because they have turned and faced the harshness of the seas and the unknown that lies beyond the horizon and have been amongst the few to return separating them from mortal players of the game. The Last because uncertainty enshrouds every commission of the Titan Baseball Brothership for the waters they sail alas, are never charted, the lands they seek seen only by a handful of God’s creatures and if destiny should fail them they would be prepared to sail from the edge of the earth for all eternity. Despite decades of conquer, plight and victorious return by Titan seamen tales of yarn spun across the NCAA trade lanes spewed from the mouths of scallywags never expecting The Titan Baseball Brothership to return but rather leave all manner of life upon the ocean floor damning the next in line to be the last in line and where the next are ordinary the last are of the rarest breed.
The brothership sat prominently in the Big West harbor, moored ominously to the dock slip in the silence of the early February ice in the year of our lord 2016. The Fullerton Ensigns flew proudly from jackstaffs off the stern and bowsprit snapping and popping in stereo with the gusts of wind that whipped through the harbor. The sound grew louder as the men approached to board. The hearts of those that were making their maiden voyage on the Titan Brothership pounded so hard they joined in chorus with the flags and they could scarcely hear the call to board from the boatswain pipe. From the edge of the dock the ship appeared larger than the legacy that tracked her day and night and stood testament upon the Quarter deck while in port.
The flags and regalia flown from the quarter deck while in port created a daunting majesty to her mystique and to the teams that manned the ship over the decades. Even those sea faring men that were veterans of other Titan commissions began to feel the weight of something larger than them about to take place. The banners and standards that illuminated the quarter deck represented both crew and individual commendations. The 4 National Championship Pennants flew the highest slightly above the 28 Pennants declaring conference domination. Banners strewn to the left and right of them, cascade down like a bottomless waterfall of College World Series and NCAA Regional appearances. Opposing the pennants and banners that resembled a massive migration of fowl were large marble tablets making known in stone the names of those men that demonstrated exemplary skill and valor in the upper echelon of Conference and NCAA play garnering them the distinction of the best in their station. In the center driven up from the deck, stands a golden spike of three sides and emblazoned upon each side are the names of the 3 men called out by the gods to adorn the spike in a Titan cause. At the base of the spike is a harlequin banderol of Titan insignia and hand written on it is every Titan to ever board the golden wing ship to the Major League halls of Valhalla. Hand adorned standards woven of the finest silk and embroidered with spun gold, encircled the meritorious display and listed the names of every crewman to ever be named All-American and All-Conference and men started to feel the strain of the size shoe they would be filling. Although the names were many the sound of Beetle and graver on marble announced the arrival of three more to stone, six hand written additions upon the banderol, thirteen to silk; four All-American and 9 All-Conference. Banners were being added to each, NCAA and CWS appearances, another conference Pennant went up for the ’15 campaign and the perennial steady hand of R.D. Vanderhook amassed a 3rd Big West Coach of the Year and an ABCA West Region Coach of the Year accommodation to compliment his 4th commission as master of the bridge. Also being chiseled into stone for uncommon valor in the ’15 season were Eshel-Sketch and Acroman who swash buckled their way to a Big West Pitcher and Co-Player of the Year commendations.
Evidence of the battles waged during the ’15 campaign were still being patched, repaired and adjusted as they were after every season of voyage comes to an end and a new one is plotted. The elements cast down upon their path from vengeful gods, the mythical creatures that seemed hell bent on reducing the Titan Brothership to driftwood and the disease and ailments that crept in and out of the of the ship’s hull still permeated the air about the vessel. The sound of every piece of stemson and deadwood spar, chain plates and moulding timber being stressed to their very limitations, creaking and cracking in resilient resistance accompanying a chorus of war cries that escaped the ghost of voyages past could be heard as the men approached the gang plank to come aboard and seemed to vibrate the dock. The stains of mutiny that seemed to envelope the entire ship were upon closer inspection, superficial and inflicted by small outside separatist groups determined to cast shade upon the crew from the high and mighty cliff shores of Spectatorville.
As the crew of ’16 began to ascend the gang plank iridescent, translucent beings stood sentinel on either side of the brow. The magical Ashrays were colorless, shapeless beings that exuded knowledge and experience in a vapor that traveled in the ocean mist touching the ears of those that passed in an exhibition game of passing the torch. As each able seaman passed an Ashray, they melted in his peripheral vison and became water marks of their human names and numbers along the slope of the gangplank thus revealing the source of the wisdom.
Once topside the assembled crew of mission ’16 crowded the gangways of the upper deck and could now clearly see the scars of the previous voyage that screamed for vengeance, challenging the Last in Line to follow in the footsteps of Titan plank holders and giving them the undeniable feeling of pride that comes with inclusion to the ranks of Titan Baseball Brotherhood. The mighty mainmast that sat midship and climbed beyond the clouds was now cracked in two by a bolt of lightning sent down with wrath and redemption from the heavens igniting St. Elmo’s Fire. Although it was being seamlessly mended now there was still evidence from whence the crew merged as one, fashioned the split mast into two separate but equally as important masts, creating a brigantine that brought the ship around and continued to fight for the beach on the island of Omaha.
From the starboard side of the ship near the bow, a large gaping hole came into view just below the figurehead of Tuffy the Titan and was now being patched. In a second attempt to obtain victory upon the sands of Omaha Beach, The Titan Brothership, double masts filled with the Winds of Mayhem, giving all and then some to the fight of their lives raced for the narrow Strait between Scylla and Charybdis in order to storm the beaches of Omaha in attempt to claim it all for the Monarchy of Fullerton. The Strait, the width of an arrow shot from side to side turned into a swirling violent whirlpool with every belch of swallowed salt water from the mouth of Charybdis forcing the Titan Brothership towards the crag where the evil monster Scylla stalked her prey. The once ravenous beauty of Scylla was now the hideous product of wanton jealousy. Her arms are now spiked tentacles that bear sharpened claws were here hands once were and her legs that of coiled springs of iron with claws that carve rock from which she launches herself upon maritime vessels. From her backside is a spiked dragon’s tail and from her torso are six heads like teats of an animal she seeks to constantly feed one sea faring man apiece to. A mighty claw reached out from the crag and pierced the starboard bow as a dragons tail the size of the ship itself wrapped around the stern of the vessel pulling the brothership into the rocky cliffs that sheltered her 6-headed torso, devouring and thus sending 6 of the staunches Titans to Valhalla via the draft. The Brothership ‘15’s quest halted there and the goddess Ran swooped them up in her net and cast them out into the South Sea. The hole was almost completely patched now but from the darkness beyond the still exposed gap came fierce war cries of pride and accomplishments that echoed and moaned from the deepest part of the ship’s hold. The patched area like a citation of valor pinned ceremoniously to the ship would always be a symbol to the crews that would follow in how far a team could get on sheer will, brotherhood and love for the game.
The sound of an Iron Fist crashing down on the gunwale of the Quarterdeck brought all about face and to attention. To the astonishment of all there to bear witness, The Craftsmen that had been diligently repairing the battle scars and preparing the Titan Brothership for yet another run at destiny were now in full regalia in flanked support of the ships command. Myth and legend swirled around Captain Hook’s ode to battle addressed to the men prior to each commission. The Hookie-Monster, as he was often referred to by those who bore the ire of his stern but fair hand, did not deliver heartfelt sentiments that put a mind at ease but rather four letter barrages that separated those already in possession of their sea legs from those that may need a bit more time fighting for buoyancy in the tides , their tongues hanging out askew parched by the unforgiving sun, their bellies boated with salt water and their minds scrambled form the toxic effects of being stowaways of the ocean and her unforgiving elements.
The strong arm that supported the Iron fist stood guard proudly behind the helm master on the quarterdeck. The Minister of Defense and Tools of Ignorance, The Warlord Baumbardier, The Dangling Chad took point to the right for his 10th expedition and shot daggers down off the quarter deck from his eyes. Standing tall to the left donned in a toga and a crown of laurel sprigs armed with an abacus and a scroll of wisdom, The Laureate of Lob, The Sage of Sling, The Chancellor of Chuck, The Dietz, just the Dietz and nothing but the Dietz glaring down judiciously. Behind them in line formation at attention the back bone of the command, Boatswains of Badass, The Wall of Ten bearing the crest of experience, knowledge and pedigree armed with determination and commitment to the Titan cause.
The Crew of ’16 now dismissed and ordered below decks to secure quarters in the berth begins descending into the hull of the Brothership. The dark shadow of vacancy cast down upon them from the crow’s nest aloft the main mast, mocking their every step the way its former occupant taunted would be base runners. Shelters are now brimming to occupancy around the NCAA with vagrant baserunners thrown out on their heels and rent checks were still being run up the mast to the nest care of The Landlord Apple-Jax Kennedy, who used to box the compass from the nest until the claw of Scylla snatched him from his lofty perch. Upon the forecastle deck near the bow is the DH Turret, station of the chase gun. It was there that Acroman, rumored to be a strange visitor from another planet who cut his teeth as an intergalactic midshipman, was devoured by one of the ravenous heads of Scylla. Evidence of the offensive onslaught administered by Acroman were just now being replaced and prepared for further battle and conquest. The mighty gun he launched many a bombs from burned white hot with fury during the Battle of Louisville causing it to melt and warp rendering the weapon unusable. Yarns spoken of that day told of Acroman with the death blow in site pulled an extraterrestrial lasso from his satchel and flung it into the violent seas. When he reeled it in he had snared the largest most ferocious shark any able seaman had chance to gaze upon. A bloody donnybrook took place above board and when all was said and done, Acroman drug the mighty now lifeless shark up to his Turret, pried open his wide mouth and packed powder and ball down the shark’s throat. Taking careful aim in the 11th hour he pointed the shark leeward, took a match to the beast’s ass and let lose a shot heard around the NCAA. The shark corpse proved to be much more durable than his original iron and was still levying a barrage of fire power when Acroman was snatched up in the jaws of one of Scylla’s 6 heads protruding from her torso in the final charge for the beach at Omaha.
Just below the main deck was the gun deck with its elaborate array of weaponry protruding the eight individual gun ports in an awe inspiring soliloquy of silence for the time being. Fire began to rage in the hearts of the salty sea dog veterans that were returning to their battle stations for a second, third or even a fourth war campaign. They had sipped from the cup of victory but had it ripped from their very hands in their final run for the spoils of Omaha. They had fought the good fight side by side with brothers that would not be returning and for their sacrifice the battle scared Titans would once again leave it all behind for another chance at the elusive title and reparations of those they lost. In honor of the two gunners pulled from their battery dugout in ‘15 and sucked out to sea by tidal waves of controversy they swore vengeance with fists clenched upon any wayward soul who attempted to halt their mission and its one purpose of victory at sea.
Titanomachy raged between The Olympians and The Titans since the program inception. With the clash burgeoning in ‘15 and Cronos drunk on fermented honey eternally slumbering in the cave of Nyx, Poseidon attacked The Titan Brothership with all the wrath of the sea. Bombardments of land consuming tidal waves struck the ship somewhere near the Arc of Visibility. When the seas finally calmed a tally was taken of the crew and it was discovered that two of the most resilient and voracious gunners had been sucked out to sea never to be seen again. Maiden voyagers that had yet to cross the equator thus being initiated into the Kingdom of Neptune aspired to take up the fight in the stead of the men they called Fire Plug and Deer Hunter. And the crew of ’16 traveled deeper into the hull of the ship.
Just below the gun deck and above the water line was the oarsmen galley, station of the strongest of Titan arms to ever lace ‘em up in the Fullerton cause. An arch board, hung ceremoniously above the doorway to the galley is symbolically embedded with the rarest of blue and orange sapphires from the furthest points on the map. Inscribed upon it in memoriam with the most effervescently colored abalone shells signifying eternal life beyond the pearly gates are the Initials N.H.; initials that also adorn the hearts and minds of every brother that reached up and reflectively touched the plaque as ritual when they passed beneath it. Thwarts of oarsmen ran horizontally along the port and starboard sides of the galley deck adjacent to the outrigger portholes to which their mighty oars protruded. To the rear of the center aisle was a platform from which The Chief would bang the drum to the rhythm of the fight and the Dietz initiated the bullwhip crack forever rechristening the deck as the bull pen to those arms that powered the magnificent vessel.
Lineage and experience abounded from decades of those that plied the oars so skilled it was said they could spin the massive ship on its own axis bringing about the bow up against the wind or propel the ship to stern with such execution and force as to avoid and defuse a rally charge from rival vessels hell bent on ramming the Titan Brothership. The entire area was colder than any place else on the ship and when men sat on the mounds of ice that masqueraded as oarsmen benches it sent a cold throughout one’s body enough to freeze the soul of a man until he was released from the chains that bound him to the mound. The reason for the cold crept through the slates of the hull planks at the backend of the bullpen where Kool Smoke lingered for the previous four seasons keeping the oarsmen galley extremely Kuhl. Across from there at three points off the port quarter is where through, resilience and beguile The Pied Pietzer claimed ownership of the port side bump. Lore has it that when all the other oarsmen fell ill do to devouring a bugoo feast of maggots and weevils, The Rootin’, Tootin’ from Yutan took position abeam and from out of the stretch came gate across the width of the ship and both ends of the galley rowing without Avast throughout the day and deep into the night securing victory for the Kingdom of Fullerton and saving the Titan Brothership simultaneously before he himself was devoured by Scylla.
Afore the beam are oars one and two and riddled all over them was the work of the previous occupants. Worthy of gracing the cover of Baseball America and both rowing from the starboard side, Mex-Calibur and Eshel-Sketch created one of the most dominating tandems throughout the Big West Ocean. Seamen and boatswains alike will attest to the speed and thrust of Mex-Calibur who once generated such a pace through the waters below the fortified cliffs of Northridge that the other oarsmen could not keep up and had to lift their oars from the water. Mex-Calibur carried the weight of the ship alone the entire distance with such speed and tenacity not a single shot fired from the cliffs of Northridge notched a hit against The Titan Baseball Brothership on that day. The oar that had been handled by the Sketch Artist the past three seasons was marred with the impression of his mighty grip. Never relinquishing his post during his shift, Sketch was known for carving up the competitive seas with skill and dexterity and when his shift did come to an end his hands had to be pried from his throwing oar. Rest to him was a fleeting memory of a long lost friend he rarely visited anymore and he sought out devious ways to shorten the lengths of visits with his old mate, rest. Who better than Sketch to take the number one oar with the Island of Omaha full ahead and when Scylla dug claw into ship his mighty oar was driving still for the beach on Omaha. Choosing only the best of those eligible, Sketch was snatched up first and devoured whole but for the flesh from his hands that still remained attached to the oar handle because this time his hands could not be pried from the game without mythical intervention. Mex-Calibur, who was said to be a time traveler that fought alongside the Knights of the Round Table and was requisitioned to the Titan Brothership from the Lady of the Lake, was chosen shortly thereafter. He too refused to give up and when he was snatched through the oar port by one of the heads of Scylla the right arm from the elbow down was torn off and remained attached to the oar from which he slung.
Below the water line is the berth where the crews are housed. Men slung hammocks and tried to prepare for what might lie ahead when the call of anchors aweigh was heard. Suddenly coming from below them in the hold a sound so maniacal it drove shivers down the timbers of the hardest of sea faring men. What sounded like the moans of men longing for land and the high pitched clinking of metal on metal like the gnashing of teeth turned into ghostly chanting of the macabre. The refrain repeated excessively by the misfortunate occupants of Davey Jones’s Locker, menacing in its tone and origin, sounded like an order of monks.
‘Make no mistake should you hear the sound of chains begin to shake it means the beast is awake and with a metal bat he will soon rake leaving nothing but carnage in the wake of The Pirate, Jungle Face Jake’
The pirate Jungle Face Jake was captured by the Titan Brothership for crimes on the high seas so heinous that he could not be allowed to escape again. The Iron Fist of Captain Hook order him chained and shackled in the hold to the base of the main mast. Once in irons the men laid ballast across his lap pinning him the floor of the hull until such fierce battle ensued that the fate of the Titan Brothership was in doubt. Needing all hands on deck to repel the scourge of enemy attacks, a pact was made between the captain and the pirate. Jungle Face Jake emerged deck side metal bat in his hand and commenced a display of violence in the Titan effort, gallantly defeating all within his reach until he too was devoured by the Scylla. From the mouth that half devoured him, came a salute and a smile to the Captain from the pirate for allowing him to spend his last moments above board and in battle rather than chained up below.
A loud clank reverberated through the hull of the ship as the man powered capstan hoisted up the last bit of the anchor chain and signified anchors home, coming to rest prominently outside the hawsepipe at the bow of the ship. The crew was ordered to report to their stations on the double and they dug in. Every available arm that fancied themselves a pitcher grabbed an oar, groups of gloved assassins prepared the battlements for defense of the mighty Titan ironclad warship while teams of men in unison swung about spar and hoisted sails up the masts and soon, they would be fully underway. After the sun was over the yardarm the crew began to return to the berths for mess and sleep. A young apprentice seaman stretched out on his top bunk perch still tense with adrenaline that coursed through his veins, pondered his answer to fates call and when it would come. Sweat poured from his brow profusely with the anxiety of it all and he suddenly felt like a man overboard until he read the words carved in the wood above his bunk. Scribed deep into the grains of wood were words of either a prophet or an ordinary seamen who had learned the answers to his questions and left them there for prosperity. The words read ‘we don’t come alone, we are fire, we are stone’ and signed simply RJD. The youngster new two things then and there, as long as he was a crewman aboard The Titan Baseball Brothership he would undergo no tasks alone but as a member of a unified team and two, there would be no turning back now, this is it, the final approach to history.
Stay tuned for the coming epic adventures of the Titan Baseball Brothership ’16…….…