Speaker 1: He Hello, friends from across the nation and around the world.
I'm Martin, and you are listening to Dad's Bedtime Stories.
Tonight We're going to be headed into a standalone episode,
a bit of a baseball fantasy thing, because I got
a suggestion from Miles to do a baseball planet and
I decided instead to just do a baseball fantasy episode.
And hopefully Miles will like that just as much and
other people will too. Now, if you don't know this,
I am Canadian. So this particular baseball one is going
to take place in Toronto, but you, wherever you are,
are still the main character, and I really hope you
enjoy it. Aside from that, the biggest news I have
for everyone is that I just launched another stories podcast
called Dad's Anytime Story. Now. The design of that one
is for me to take some of my best Dad's
Bedtime Stories stories, particularly the ones I've turned into novels
and that sort of thing, and read them on that podcast.
So if you really like the Cards of Power series,
the very first Cards of Power novel about Carter is
currently being read on Dad's Anytime Stories, which you can
find anywhere you get your podcasts. And if I could
ask for a huge favor from everyone if you can
subscribe to that, especially if you're interested and do a
rating and review. It would be really great to get
that thing moving right out of the gate, and the
more reviews and follows and that sort of thing has,
the better off it is. So please, please, if you
can take a second to go over there right now
and follow it, that would be amazing. And I believe
you should already have the first three episodes uploaded there,
chapters one to two and three from Cards of Power.
Chapter four is coming on Wednesday, and then I'll be
releasing a new chapter every Monday and Wednesday until we're
done all seventeen chapters of Cards of Power, at which
point I'll go on to the next book, which will
be wizard Craft two point zero. But now I should
probably get on with this podcast. Close your eyes, get
as comfy as you can in that bed, and imagine
yourself doing what the kid in the story does. Imagine
yourself hanging out in your very own home when a
phone call comes in. It's for you, your parents says,
handing you their phone. Hello, You say a cheerful voice answer,
is it once? Good afternoon? A am I speaking to
the grand prize winner of the Canadian Baseball Experience Contest.
You sit up straighter. Wait what, the voice laughs, that's
a yes, then, congratulations, You've won a private trip to
Toronto for the grand opening of the brand new Canadian
Baseball Hall of Fame at the Rogers Center. You blink
a few times. Are you Are you serious? You say,
very serious. The man says, my name is mister Donnelly.
I represent Major League Baseball Special Events and I will
be arriving personally to escort you. Escort me, yes, he
says in style. You're still trying to figure out what
that means. When a few minutes later you hear something
thumping outside. You run to the window. A helicopter is
lowering towards a nearby field. Your mouth falls open. No
one in your neighborhood has ever had a helicopter arrived
for them before. As far as you know, it's not
really a normal thing. The helicopter settles onto the grass
with a dramatic swirl of wind. A man in a
sharp jacket steps out, holding a paper coffee cup and
wearing sunglasses. He smiles you, he says, pointing at you
with a grin you must be my all star. Are
you really here for me? You ask as you walk
up towards the helicopter. I would never bring a helicopter
for anyone else Today, you stare at the aircraft. This
is amazing. It gets better, he says, Come on, Toronto awaits.
A few minutes later, you're strapped into the seat beside him.
As the helicopter lifts off into the air, the ground
falls away beneath you. Your stomach flips, but not in
the bad way, in a sort of awesome way. You
look down at the roads, the trees, the houses shrinking
smaller and smaller. Cars look like toys below you, Rivers
turn into little ribbons. The whole world suddenly seems bigger
and now smaller at the same time. Mister Donnelly SIPs
coffee as if flying over Ontario in a helicopter is
the most normal thing in the world. You ever flown
in one of these? Before he asks, no, he nods, excellent,
first helicopter rides should be memorable. It already is. You reply,
You're about to visit the greatest baseball museum in Canada.
I didn't even know there was one Inside the Roger Center.
You say. He lowers his sunglasses just enough to look
at you over the top of them. Very few people do.
Today is a preview opening, very exclusive, exclusive. How you
ask you won the contest, he says, that makes you
one of the lucky ones. You grin and look back
out the window as the helicopter races onward. Soon, the
sky line of Toronto rises ahead of you, tall towers,
glittering windows, busy streets, and beyond it all the unmistakable
shape of the Rogers Center, formerly known as the sky Dome.
There it is, says mister Donnelly. You press closer to
the glass. From above, the stadium looks enormous. As the
helicopter circles lower, you feel like you're arriving for the
biggest moment of your life. You land on a private
area near the stadium, and a small group of staff
greet you. Everything moves quickly after that. Doors open, hallways,
pass by, security waves you through elevators, hum upwards and
then downwards again, and finally, mister Donnelly spreads his arms dramatically. Welcome,
he says, to the Canadian Baseball Hall of Fame experience.
You step through the doors and stop. The place is incredible.
There are giant, glowing displays showing famous baseball moments. Glass
cases hold bats, gloves, jerseys, balls, helmets and trophies. Screens
play clips of impossible catches, towering home runs, stolen bases,
and crowd eruptions. One wall is covered in signatures. Another
shows a timeline of baseball in Canada. You walk slowly,
trying to take it all in. Oh, you whisper, mister
Donnelly smiles proudly. That is the correct reaction. He leads
you from exhibit to exhibit. At the Velocity Cage, you
stand on a marked spot and watch a screen simulate
blazing pitches from famous players. At the Wall of Gloves,
you see old worn mits that look as if they
still remember the shape of the hands that used them.
At the Bad Vault, there are legendary bats resting under glass.
Did someone really hit a home run with that one?
You ask? Oh? Yes, says mister Donnelly, more than one. Actually.
You move on to an audio chamber where famous calls
echo around the room. Back goes the outfielder, the pitch,
It's gone. Mister Donnelly checks his watch. Well, he says,
that was the public tour you turn to him public
He glances left and right, lowers his voice, and says,
now for the pot almost no one knows about. He
leads you down a quieter hallway. The lights here are dimmer,
the walls are smooth and silver. At the end stands
a heavy looking door with a security scanner beside it.
Mister Donley takes one more sip of coffee, balances the
cup in one hand, and places the other on the scanner.
The door slides open. Inside the room glows blue. You
step in and immediately stop. The walls are lined with
tall glass cylinders filled with some sort of softly lit liquid.
Wires and cables run from them into a huge central
machine covered in screens, flickering cymbals, and glowing tubes. You stare,
and then you stare hard, and then you point, are
those brains? Mister Donley clears his throat. We prefer not
to get too barked down in the details. You keep
staring and definitely looks like a room full of brains.
He nods once. Yes, all right, fine, it is a
room full of brains. What you say, the greatest baseball
minds ever archived into a super computer, he says, proudly
past legends, modern stars, strategic geniuses, pitchers, hitters, fielders. We
call it the cognitive legacy archive. You slowly look around
the room again. That is the weirdest thing I've ever seen, baseball,
says mister Donneley, is a game of innovation. To demonstrate,
he says, tapping a control panel, let us call up
one of the all time greats. A holographic figure forms
above the central console, big, confident, grinning. You recognize him
at once from old photos and highlights, Babe Ruth, you say,
the figure taps his cap. That's right, kid, You jump
a little. He's not just recording. He talks like a
real person. You play ball, Babe Ruth, asks A little?
A little's enough to start? He says, you keep your
eye on the ball, swing hard, and don't let anybody
tell you can't. You grin. Did that work for you?
He laughs most of the time. Mister Donney beams and
takes another sip of his coffee. This, he says, is
the future of baseball education. And that is when everything
goes wrong. He turns a bit too fast, his elbow
bumps a panel, his coffee slips. No, no, no, no,
the cup falls, It hits the edge of the console
and explodes in a splash of hot coffee across the controls.
The machine sparks instantly, lights flash red, an alarm blairs.
Babe Ruth vanishes. Oh dear, says mister Donnelly. The central
supercomputer crackles with wild electricity. A bolt of blue white
energy shoots outward, right at you. You barely have time
to gasp before it blasts into you like a lightning strike,
only it doesn't hurt. Suddenly, you simply find yourself not
standing in the room anymore. You're standing on a mound,
then at a plate, then sprinting for a second, then
diving for a line drive, then crouched behind the catcher's mask,
then firing a ball from deep in the outfield. You
feel the grip of a four seam fastball, the snap
of a curveball, the sharp cut of a slider, the
late drop of a splitter, the strange, floating wobble of
a knuckleball. You feel hundreds of swings, thousands, the timing,
the balance, the power, the crowd, noise, the pressure, the focus.
Baseball memories flood through your mind from every redirection at once,
but not just memories, muscles, instincts, reflexes. It feels as
though you've had years and years of practice instantly downloaded
into your brain, into your arms, your legs, your hand,
your eyes. When you open your eyes again, bright lights
are shining above you. A face leans over yours, and
then another. Ah can you hear me? Someone asks you. Blink, Yeah,
do you know your name? You tell them your name?
Do you know where you are? In the baseball brain room?
You mumble. There's a short silence, and then one of
the medics says, all right, good, I think he's oriented.
Another one shines a light in your eye, Eh, any dizziness, nausey,
a double vision? You sit up slowly. Mister Donnelly's standing
near by, looking horrified and embarrassed and well kind of
worried about a lawsuit all at the same time. I
am so sorry. He says, this is not how the
tour is usually meant to go. Ah, you mean the
whole electrocution part, you ask. He winces, yes, uh exactly.
That You move your arms, then your legs, then your fingers. Strangely,
you feel fine, Actually you kind of feel more than fine.
Your body feels loose, and sharp and ready, as if
every joint knows exactly what to do before you even
think about it. The doctor checks a tablet. Ah, vinyls
are stable, pupils look fine. No obvious sign of injury.
No obvious signs says mister Donnelly. Ah, I'm trying to
help you out here. The doctor says, how do you feel.
One of the medics asks, I feel normal? You say,
Then you pause, but also sort of not normal? Now
not normal, asks the doctor. You hesitate. It's hard to explain,
mister Donnelly leaves in nervously. Please say it in a
way that will not ruin my career. You close your
eyes for a second. In your mind you can suddenly
feel the memories from well, the baseball machine, the throws,
the hits, the catches. You open your eyes again, and
I think I know a lot more about baseball than
I used to. Mister Donnelly exhales. That is somehow the
best possible answer. The medics help you to your feet. Ah,
you should probably rest, the doctor says, and probably avoid
any more experimental supercomputers today. The other one asks, yes,
says mister Donnelly, absolutely, no more brain rooms. He then
straightens his jacket and forces a cheerful smile. Well, he says,
clapping his hands once, to make up for this very
unusual incident, I think we should probably upgrade the rest
of your day. How you ask, he grins, How would
you like to see the Blue Jays on the field?
Your eyes widen? Really batting practice, he says, private access.
You forget all about the medics instantly. A few minutes later,
you're walking through a tunnel toward the field at the
Rogers Center. The sound reaches you first thwack, thump, shouts, laughter,
the hum of a stadium getting ready for a game.
Then you step out and see it. The field stretches
out in front of you, bright green and perfect. The
seats rise high all around you. Giant screens glow overhead.
Players move across the grass like the people from your
baseball cards have suddenly stepped into real life. You stop walking.
Whoa you whisper? Mister Donnelly smiles. That, he says, is
also the correct reaction. A ball cracks off a bat
and sails high across the stadium. Another one follows. You
can smell the grass and dirt. You can hear gloves
popping and cleat scraping and coaches calling out instructions. For
a moment, you just stare. This is amazing, you say.
It is so amazing that you probably don't feel any
need to sue me or anything. Mister Donnley adds, you
just stare at him. And that's when someone on the
field takes a huge swing. The ball rockets fowl straight
toward the tunnel, straight toward your head. Mister Donnelly yelps
and ducks. You, on the other hand, do knock duck.
You don't even think twice. Your hand snaps up by
itself and smack with a bit of a sting. The
ball lands perfectly in your gloveless hand. Everything goes still.
A nearby coach stares at you. A player near the
dugout stares at you. Mister Donneley slowly lifts his head.
You caught that. You look down at the ball in
your hand, yeah, you say, though honestly it surprised me too.
Someone from the field cups his hands around his mouth. Hey,
throw it back, you nod, without really trying. You take
one step turn and fire the ball. It leaves your
hand with a sharp hiss. The catcher by the batting
cage barely gets his glove up in time. Crack the
ball slams into his mit. Several heads turn at once.
A man holding a radar gun looks down at it,
and then back up and then down again. What he says?
Another coach jogs over. The man with the radar gun
turns the screen around one hundred and fifteen mph. There's
a moment of total silence. Then everyone starts talking at once. Now,
way that has to be wrong. Do it again. Mister
Donley points at the radar gun. Is that number good?
He asks? A coach slowly turns around. Good. He looks
at you, kid, He says, throw another one, just for fun.
Someone talks says you a baseball. The instant it lands
in your hand. Everything feels simple, natural, easy. You step
forward and throw again. Crack the mid snaps back. The
radar gun flashes one hundred and fourteen mph. Players begin
drifting closer. Another coach says, try something else. So you do.
You throw the ball again and again and again. Each
time it fires off with incredible speed. And each time
you try a different kind of pitch. A breaking ball,
a slider, a curveball, a change up, a cutter, a splitter,
a sweeper. You can throw every single one without well
any hesitation all. The catcher pulls off his mask and
shakes his glove hand a little bit, as if it's
well kind of sore. Mister Donnley whispers, I may fat.
One of the coaches folds his arms. Alright, then, kid,
well can you bat too? He hands you a helmet
and a bat. The moment your fingers close around it,
another flood of memories runs through you. Stands, timing, hip turn, balance,
hand speed, tracking spin. You step into the bat and cage.
The pitcher behind the screen tosses you the first pitch
pretty easily to start off. You swing the bat and crack.
The ball flies deep, way deep. It smashes into seats
far beyond the outfield wall. Everyone on the field freezes.
The next pitch comes, another swing, another blast. The third
pitch is outside, You still drive it the other way
and send it soaring. One player laughs out loud, what
is happening here? Another says, ah, this kid is not normal.
Mister Donnelly raises one finger. Technically, I feel I should
say that I agree. Pitch after pitch comes in fastball,
home run, curveball, home run, change up, home run. You
are barely even trying. Finally, the Blue Jays coach walks over.
He's been watching the whole time, and he looks at
you and then mister Donnelly, how old are you? He asks?
And you tell him. The coach rubs his chin. Ah.
He gestures to an assistant, get me the rule book,
he says, uh the roll bucks, Sir asks the assistant
the full one. A few minutes later, three adults are
standing around with a tablet scrolling furiously. You can hear
bits of the conversation. No, man of my age, that
can't be right. Check again, I'm checking. Afterward, the coach
walks over, kid, He says, how would you feel about
joining us for tonight's game? You blink? What you mean
like I can watch from the dugout?
Speaker 2: Uh?
Speaker 1: Well, not helping. I was thinking you could play. You've
never played before, so the most I could offer you
for the season is probably, you know, one million if
that'll do? What million? One million dollars? You repeat, Yeah,
I know it's not a lot in baseball terms, but well,
if you can throw and hit like that, you're worth
way more. That's a lot. You say. You quickly call
your parents, of course, who contact a lawyer, go through
all of the paperwork, and eventually agree to allow you
to play as long as you wear a helmet. Of course,
they weren't convinced at first, but the whole million dollar
thing probably well put them over the line. Before you
know it, you're giving a jersey with your name on
the back. You're showing the clubhouse. You shake hands with
players who keep glancing with you as if they can't
really believe that they've just hired well you. Then, because
the team wants you well rested for the game, you're
taken to a hotel. Your room is incredible. There's a
huge bed, a giant window overlooking the city, Snacks on
the table, a fresh blue Jay's uniform hanging neatly near
the closet, cleats below it in your size, a glove
on the dresser, a note that says welcome to the team.
You walk to the window and look out on Toronto.
You eat some snacks, watch some TV, and before you
know it, it's nighttime. The Rogers Center is packed, the
lights are bright, the music's loud, and there's a huge
crowd watching You walk out into the dugout wearing your
brand new uniform, and you try to act calm, even
though you're not calm. You're definitely not calm. Tonight's game
is against the Dodgers. Every hit gets a roar, every
close call gets people on their feet, and every time
the Blue Jays come close to a rally, the whole
stadium shakes with noise. You hold your glove tighter. One
of the pitchers beside you smiles. The first game, he says,
you nod. He laughs, yeah, kind of figured at first.
The coach keeps you on the bench. You watch innings pass,
You watch the pitchers work, You watch the batter's bat,
you watch the scoreboard, and slowly the game starts slipping away.
By the final inning, the Blue Jays are down by three.
The crowd is still loud, but now there's a worry
in it too. The coach stands at the dugout rail, thinking,
and then he turns to you. He says, get loose.
Your whole body goes electric me you, he says, He
hands you a ball and pushes you out onto the field.
It's showtime. The stadium announcer says your name. There's a
strange pause as The crowd begins to react, at first
confusion and then surprise and then amazement, because well, someone
who doesn't look old enough to be playing for the
Blue Jays is marching out of the dugout and headed
straight for the mound. The noise swells and swells until
it becomes a huge, well rolling roar. People are standing, pointing, cheering, shouting.
Phones are up everywhere. You climb to the mound and
look around. The whole stadium seems to spin for a second,
and then you feel the ball in your hand and
everything steadies. The catcher gives you the sign. You nod.
The batter steps in, looking almost amused. You set your feet,
take a breath, and throw. The pitch explodes across the plate.
The batter doesn't even move. Strike one. The crowd erupts.
The batter steps back, startled. Now he'd assumed this whole
thing was just all sit He's stunned, but after seeing
that pitch, he decides to take things seriously. He adjusts
his gloves and stares at you. You throw again, this
time a slider. It starts middle and cuts away so
hard the batter swings at empty air. Strike two. Now
the whole stadium is alive. You hear your name rolling
through the seats. The batter looks nervous, and so to
the next two fastball, curveball, cutter, splitter. You strike it
the first batter, then the second, then the third, Three up,
three down. The crowd screams as you make your way
off of the field and back over to the dugout.
Great work, the coach says. Now it's time to see if, well,
if you can bat too. It's the boss of the ninth,
the last chance. The j's come out fighting single, a walk,
another single. The crowd starts building again, and now the
bases are loaded, but there's already two outs. The dugout
is tense, the stadium's tense. Everyone's standing, and the coach
looks down the bench. You're up, he says, handing you
a bad For a second, your brain goes completely blank.
Then your legs carry you toward the plate. The crowd
is making a sound you've never heard before, part cheer,
part disbelieve, part pure hope. You step into the batter's box.
The pitcher stares at you. He looks almost annoyed about
the whole thing, probably because he just got struck out.
By child sized pitcher and is now being asked to
face the same child size problem at the plate. The
catcher gives the signed The pitcher winds up, and the
first pitch comes in fast, too fast. You freeze. It
zips right past strike one. The crowd groans. You step
back and swallow. Okay, you whisper, all right. You step
in again. The second pitch comes, you hesitate, and again
strike to. The huge groan rolls through the stadium and
the pitcher smirks. The catcher tosses the ball back. You
grip the bat tighter. You close your eyes for a second,
just one, and you breathe. You think about the field,
the ball, the moment, and when you open your eyes again,
everything changes. The noise fades back, not gone, but it
sort of feels further away. The pitcher lifts the ball.
You can see the seams, you can see the angle
of his wrist, you can feel the timing. Before he
even starts moving, he throws, and suddenly the ball seems
to travel in slow motion. You watch it the whole
way in. You step, turn, swing, and crack. The sound
is enormous, the kind of sound that tells everyone instantly
that the ball is gone. It shoots off your bat
like a rocket. The left fielder turns and runs back,
and then stops. The center fielder stops too. The crowd
lifts in one giant wave as the ball climbs higher
and higher and then disappears into the stands. For half
a second, nobody can believe it, and then the entire
stadium explodes grand slam. You drop the bat and run
first base, second, third, Home. Your teammates are already waiting
at the plate, jumping, shouting, laughing. The second your foot
touches home, they mob you. Helmets fly, gloves fly, People
are yelling your name. Somebody lifts you up off of
the ground, and somebody else does too. You're raised over
a pile of cheering Blue Jays, and while the stadium
roars around you. The whole thing is surreal. After interviews
and cheers and a celebration that doesn't even feel real,
you return to your hotel room, still in a bit
of a days, you put on your pajamas and lay
down in the bed. The bed is very, very soft
and very very comfortable. You pull the covers up to
your chin. You close your eyes, and with each breath
you allow your body to sink down deeper and deeper
into the mattress, and as you breathe, your mind begins
to wander off to thoughts of new dreams, new games,
and new adventures to come. Good night everyone in New York.
Speaker 2: Nion, no mothing.
Speaker 3: No mon mome m
Speaker 1: M m