Disclaimer: This story and its characters are from the television show Tour of Duty and belong to Zev Braun Productions. No copyright infringement is intended. It is in appreciation and care that I attempt to bring them back to life. No money is being made from this story.

Acknowledgment: Danny Shaw initially suggested this idea for a storyline to me on Pidd’s message board. The idea was always intriguing, but it took springtime to inspire me to actually write something. Thanks Danny!

Dedication: This story is dedicated to my father, who shared the magic of the game of baseball with me for as long as I can remember. I have always loved the game, even before I understood it. Thank you Dad…I love you!

Rule 4.17

"Come on, LT, it’ll be fun," Zeke urged, already thinking ahead to his next tactic. Reasonably sure the "fun" factor would not impress the LT.

"No, Sergeant, I have about all the fun I can handle right now. Thank you very much," Myron replied, hoping his sergeant would, for once, accept his answer and go away. Of course, with Anderson that was just wishful thinking.

"Well, Sir," Zeke started again, sounding a little desperate, "we have a shortage of infielders. I seem to remember you once sayin’ you played some infield. We got no shortstop at all, LT. We got nobody."

Myron brightened at the specifics of his sergeant’s plea. Maybe he could get out of this after all. "I don’t play shortstop, Zeke. Never had the arm for it. I played second. Sorry, can’t help you there."

"Second? That would be great, LT," Zeke gushed. "We got no one for second either."

Rolling his eyes, Myron gave the sergeant a look, but he knew it was too late. There was no point in arguing with Anderson when he got something in his head like this baseball game. "Probably because his persistence usually pays off," Myron acknowledged, reluctantly signing up to play second base for Team Viking. Wondering if that was Zeke’s plan all along and the shortstop thing was just a ploy.

"Sergeant, McKay plays short, you could ask him," Myron added half-heartedly. Hell, if he was going to be suckered into this game maybe he could drag McKay in too. Of course, John J. McKay would no doubt enjoy the chance to show off on the field as much as he did in the air. "Hot dog," Myron thought automatically.

At least with McKay signed up Myron would not be the only officer playing. He wished that fact was not important to him, but it was. Some of his superiors thought that he was too close to his men. As ridiculous as that sounded, it still bothered the young, career-minded lieutenant.

"Thanks, LT," Zeke beamed enthusiastically. "I’ll do that!"

"Yeah, you do that," Myron mumbled to no one after Anderson was out the door. Roped in again.

*******************

Sitting at his desk, Sergeant Anderson studied Team Viking’s lineup for the "SOG Championship Game" with Team Zeus. Initially, Zeke was annoyed that he had taken the bait and accepted the challenge. But now that the team was picked and ready to go, he had to admit he was pretty excited about it.

Satisfied that he had done his best, the sergeant looked over his choices. Percell would be playing third, McKay - short, LT - second, and Johnson - first. Ruiz was in left; Taylor in center and the weakest link, Doc Hock was in right. "Well, you can’t have everything," Zeke conceded. He would do the catching himself. Sergeant Morgan, from Team Thor, had been recruited to pitch for both teams as a way of keeping the competition as fair as possible.

Zeke could not remember the last time he was this enthused over anything. It worried him. Things never seemed to turn out well when he was happy. "It’s just a baseball game," the sergeant reminded himself.

Baseball evoked one of only a handful of good memories from the sergeant’s meager childhood. It was one of the few times he had experienced a sense of family, and a camaraderie that he would have otherwise missed. Until later on of course, when he found his niche in the army.

The excitement of competition had been a factor, but that was not what had hooked a young Zeke Anderson on the game. Baseball requires a certain amount of patience, along with the ability to remain focused, yet relaxed. The slow deliberateness is what was so appealing. Loping into the batter’s box, staring down the pitcher, making him wait and vice versa, and then doing the whole thing over again on the very next pitch. Kicking the dirt, tugging on the uniform and gear, waiting, thinking… anticipating. Baseball is not a frenzied rush up and down a field as the clock frantically ticks off the remaining minutes. It’s slow and methodical. Meant to be savored.

As a boy, Zeke had always championed the plight of the underdog. Baseball was conducive to that. Physical stature and athletic prowess are not always the determining factors in who will be able to hit the ball. Everyone has a shot at being a hero. Teams can "hide" a player in right field, but eventually, that player comes up to the plate with a bat in hand, rendering all things possible.

Best of all, baseball is a game of second chances. Strike out five times and commit all kinds of errors, but finish up with the winning hit in the ninth and find instant stardom. The game was designed to give second chances.

Unlike the war, baseball is incredibly forgiving.

*******************

The sergeant understood that he had fast-talked his squad into playing. Most of them were only doing it for him. Zeke was not terribly concerned about his men’s motivations, as long as he could get them worked up enough to kick Team Zeus’s collective ass. Taylor had been the last holdout and Anderson needed Taylor…in body and in spirit.

"Well, Taylor, I’m sure there will be plenty of fans watching the game," Zeke hinted, waiting patiently for the light to go on in the private’s head. When the betting angle finally did click in, so did Taylor. Zeke wondered if he should have felt guilty about his subtle reminder, but in reality...he didn’t. Wherever there were soldiers and any type of contest there would be betting. Someone would make money off of it…why not Taylor?

The only downside was that Hockenberry, the new medic, had voluntarily signed up. That just did not look promising. Zeke didn’t have the heart to say no, he could only hope that the newbie medic was a little more athletic than he looked.

Neither of the lieutenants showed up for the first practice. McKay was on a mission and Zeke had no idea where Myron was. Eventually, he would have to convince the officers to come to at least one or two practices. The rest of his team was there, although not as enthusiastic as the sergeant would have liked.

Without the two officers to play the infield, Zeke had Percell and Johnson play catch, while he concentrated on hitting some routine flies to the outfield. Ruiz seemed adequate in left, though not spectacular. Unfortunately, Doc Hock was no surprise and caught less than half of the balls that came his way. Taylor, on the other hand, was very good, but lazy.

Johnson and Percell watched and laughed from the sidelines as the outfielders circled around the fly balls, while the sergeant yelled out advice. "Ruiz, get back. Go to the spot where you think it’s going to be, and then put your glove up!"

"Yeah, good advice, Sarge," Ruiz complained. "Except it ain’t ever where I think it’s going to be!"

As if to illustrate the point, Ruiz took two steps in on the next fly before realizing the ball was going to sail over his head. Trying to pull up and adjust, the specialist slid precariously on the mud before losing his fight for balance and falling unceremoniously on his ass. The ball landed a good ten feet beyond him. The sight sent Percell and Johnson into an uncontrolled fit of laughter.

"That’s it. I’m done!" Ruiz yelled, throwing his glove down in frustration. Humiliated.

"Get back out there, Ruiz!" Anderson ordered in no uncertain terms. "And you two…SHUT UP!"

Muttering expletives in his native tongue, Ruiz reluctantly complied. Percell and Johnson pretended to go back to playing catch, but Ru could see that their shoulders were still shaking vigorously. They at least had the decency to turn their backs to the field after Anderson’s order, but were unable to contain their laughter. Ruiz had to suppress a giggle or two of his own when he caught Johnson doing a reenactment of his stumbling attempt and subsequent fall on the sidelines. The two were still doubled over and finally sat down on the ground. Ru continued to watch and noticed Danny was actually wiping away a few tears from all the hysterics. Alberto found himself wishing he could join them.

"Hockenberry," Zeke shouted in exasperation as another easy fly glanced off the outfielder’s glove, and landed harmlessly on the ground. "Keep the glove out of your face. Watch the ball go into the glove."

"Yeah, okay, Sarge, I’ll try that," the medic replied good-naturedly.

"Why couldn’t the Doc get mad and storm off he field?" Zeke wondered. He would certainly not try to stop him like he did Ruiz. The sergeant felt like his perceived endless well of patience was about to run dry.

"Taylor, why didn’t you go after that?" Zeke growled, even more annoyed as another routine fly landed between center and right.

"No way, Sarge, don’t blame me for that. That one wasn’t mine. It was his," Taylor whined, pointing at the inept medic.

"Sorry," Doc responded, shrugging his shoulders. "You’re going to have to hit them more directly to me if you want me to catch them," he said seriously. "I’m not very good at chasing after it."

"I’ll be sure to mention that to Team Zeus," Zeke uttered in disbelief. The Doc merely chuckled.

The medic was hopeless and the sergeant wisely decided that any further discussion would simply be a waste of time and energy. Choosing to ignore Hockenberry, Anderson took a deep breath, counted to ten, and headed out to the outfield to have a little chat with his centerfielder.

"What?" Taylor asked defensively. "That was his, Sarge," he said again, nodding towards Hockenberry.

Zeke put his arm around Taylor’s shoulder. "Marcus, you’re right," he calmly agreed. "And in a perfect world he would have ran over there and caught it but…" Zeke paused and pointed at the Doc, "does he look like he is going to catch many of those?"

"Nope," Taylor said staring at the medic. "He looks like a pinko, commie, sissy-ass, mama’s boy, but what’s that got to do with me?"

"All right then, " Zeke explained patiently. "That’s why it is up to you." Anderson took his hand off of the young man’s shoulder and pointed his finger into the private’s chest for emphasis.

Taylor hesitated. "Why should I, Sarge? It ain’t my ball. Why should I do all the work?"

Zeke fought the urge to grab Taylor by the throat and yell, "Because I said so!" "C’mon, Taylor, have a little respect."

A surprised Marcus Taylor looked up at his sergeant. "I respect ya, Sarge," he mumbled.

"Not me. The game! Have a little respect for the game!" The confusion on the Spec 4’s face stopped Anderson from attempting to make that argument. "Marcus," Zeke sighed, changing his strategy. The voice still sounded patient but the sergeant’s hand moved from the private’s shoulder to the back of his neck, and Marcus could not help but feel a little pressure in Anderson’s grip. "You’re the centerfielder, you get to call everything. You get to try for everything," he enthused, trying to make it sound like a fun deal.

Taylor still wasn’t buying it.

"Think of it this way, Son," Zeke said, unconsciously squeezing Marcus’s neck ever so slightly. "You’re the captain out there. Out here on this field, YOU are in charge."

Taylor’s eyes brightened a little at the prospect. "The captain?"

"That’s right, Taylor," Zeke said seriously, taking his hand off of Taylor’s neck and placing it back on the private’s shoulder. "Out here, whatever you say goes. Your duty is to make sure that all the balls get caught by someone… don’t matter who. Can you do that for me, Son?"

"Yeah, Sarge, okay," Taylor agreed. Finally seeing the light.

The sergeant let out a sigh and realized that this coaching business was a lot harder than he anticipated. Zeke was disappointed in his team’s effort; they definitely did not share his passion for the game. Sure they wanted to beat Team Zeus, but that was only for money and bragging rights. It had nothing to do with the game of baseball.

Zeke Anderson appreciated the game. Baseball had given him his most cherished childhood memories. "What the boy lacks in skill, he more than makes up for in hustle and heart," Anderson’s coaches would say. It was true. As a young ballplayer, Zeke not only gave his best on the field, but off the field as well. He never disrespected the game by leaving his uniform on the locker room floor or throwing his glove down in anger. In return, baseball helped the lonely youngster restore his shattered confidence and negative self-image as he slowly learned the concepts of trust, teamwork, and accountability.

Plus, Sergeant Anderson credited baseball with convincing him to join the army. After drifting aimlessly for months, a teenage Anderson wanted to recapture the sense of pride and belonging that he had only experienced once in his young life…as a member of a ball team.

Zeke Anderson was not one to forget a kindness. The sergeant always tried to give the game its due.

*******************

Sergeant Anderson sighed at the mound of papers stacked high on his desk. He hated filling out reports and usually kept up with it on a daily basis so as not to get this bogged down. He had no good reason to be this far behind, Team Viking had not been out on a mission in three days.

The obsession with the upcoming baseball game was the underlying reason for the paperwork pile up. The sergeant spent the better part of the down-time trying to coax the quagmire behind the supply post into living up to its name…diamond. Right now it didn’t look like much, but that never discouraged the sergeant. He spent the time pulling up vegetation, picking up rocks and stones, and throwing sand on the area that was going to serve as the infield. The more Zeke worked on it, the more he could envision what the field would look like when the two teams were standing out there competing with each other. The difference might not be that noticeable, but in the sergeant’s eyes it was coming together nicely. He was surprised to find the experience so rewarding.

A couple a times, Zeke had coerced a few of the guys into helping out. At first, the sergeant practically had to make it an order. But working on the field was a welcome distraction from the war and it soon became as popular as the game. Team Zeus began coming out as well, and that led to a lot of friendly banter and pre game bragging.

Baseball is steeped in tradition and superstition. This game, thousands of miles from home, was no different. Team Zeus believed they would win because their sergeant had organized the game. He played shortstop and was named Mays, claiming to be a second cousin to Willie. They were positive that this, plus the fact that none of them had shaved in two weeks, would ensure victory. Taylor was equally confident that Team Viking would triumph because he was from Detroit and Detroit had just won the seventh and deciding game of the World Series. Marcus was convinced it was an omen, a divine guarantee telling him to bet it all on Team Viking.

Baseball has a way of doing that…making the illogical appear reasonable and the impossible…likely.

*******************

"What position do you play on this team, Sergeant?" Myron asked, grabbing a glove out of the pile.

Zeke pointed down at the equipment he had managed to scarf from a chopper jock in Saigon. "I’m the catcher, LT," he grinned. "Tools of ignorance," he added, pointing to the gear.

Myron looked up into his sergeant’s smiling face and bit down hard on his lower lip to keep his sarcastic comeback from becoming a reality.

"What, LT?" Zeke prodded.

"Nothing," Myron decided, not sure if Zeke was glad or disappointed that he had managed to hold his tongue. "Take it easy on me, Sergeant. I haven’t done this in a long time."

Anderson did just that for the first twenty minutes or so. Home seemed a little bit closer, and the war a bit farther away as the guys fielded easy grounders and chased down lazy fly balls. Even the Doc surprised everyone with a few catches.

Deciding to pick up the pace, Zeke hit the ball harder into the outfield gaps and infield holes, encouraging his team to track them down.

The next fly was shallow, but over Myron’s head. The ball headed smack dab between second, center and right…no man’s land. The LT went running back, gamely giving chase, as Taylor came tearing in from center with a full head of steam. Doc never moved.

"I got it," Myron yelled.

"I got it. I got…" Taylor barely got the words out before running full speed ahead into the second baseman. The force of the impact sent Myron flying, airborne for a split second before landing with a thud, the ball harmlessly beside him.

The players converged on their fallen lieutenant. Hockenberry was first on the scene. "You all right, LT?"

"What the hell is the matter with you, Taylor?" Myron roared, pulling himself into a sitting position and gingerly rubbing his shoulder. "Didn’t you hear me say I got it?"

"Yep, I’d say he’s all right," Percell murmured, slowly backing away.

"I heard you, LT, but didn’t you hear me?" Taylor responded, not at all intimidated by the loudness of the lieutenant’s question.

"I said it first," Myron muttered childishly.

"First or not, LT, I’m the captain," Taylor boldly declared.

"WHAT?"

"The captain. Well, the captain of the outfield…right, Sarge?" Taylor quickly sought confirmation when he saw the look on his lieutenant’s face.

"Not now, Taylor," Zeke quickly chided. "Doc, why don’t you help the LT back to his hootch. Better get some ice on that shoulder, Sir," he quipped after them.

"On that note, this practice is officially over," the sergeant announced to the rest of his squad. They quickly scattered, leaving Zeke to chase down the stray balls and pick up the abandoned equipment that was carelessly strewn about. It was a hot day and Zeke ran a hand through his dripping hair as he went about the task. The sergeant could have ordered one of his men to stick around and help, but the truth was he enjoyed the peacefulness of doing it himself.

Sergeant Anderson could not help but smile at how well the practice had gone… before the ill-fated fly ball and subsequent collision. Baseball had managed to transform his savvy jungle soldiers into the young, carefree kids they must have been before Vietnam.

The transformation was most apparent in Lieutenant Goldman. Zeke had served with the LT for almost a year now and had never seen Myron as relaxed as he was fielding grounders and taking batting practice. For an hour or so the dark circles under the lieutenant’s eyes disappeared and the rigid posture was replaced by friendly back and forth banter and a genuine smile that the sergeant was convinced he had never seen before today.

It was amazing how after a few awkward moments the lieutenant easily slid into his role of "just another teammate". Zeke was startled to see his uptight lieutenant so unguarded with the men, talking strategy and joining in the trash talk directed at Team Zeus. At twenty-two years old, the lieutenant did not look any older or wiser than the rest of the squad. A stranger would have been hard pressed to pick the officer out of the group of boisterous young men.

It did Zeke’s heart good to see it. "Ah…the power of baseball."

*******************

"You wanted to see me, Sir?" Anderson asked eyeing his lieutenant, trying to see if the spectacular collision from this afternoon had caused any real damage. The boy looked okay, but the sergeant knew that a bone would have to be broken beyond repair before the LT would admit to it. Of course, Zeke knew better than to ask.

"We have a mission tomorrow," Myron said, unconsciously rubbing the sore shoulder. "We’re going out with Team Zeus at 0600. We are accompanying them to this checkpoint here," he continued, pointing it out on the map. "After that we split up and each take three days to look for the supply route."

"Yes, Sir," the sergeant agreed, feeling guilty about the LT’s injury. As if the war wasn’t dangerous enough. "Maybe you outta have that looked at, LT."

"I’m fine, Sergeant," Myron huffed, every bit annoyed by the suggestion as Zeke expected he would be.

"Yes, Sir," Zeke mumbled making his way to the door.

"CAPTAIN OF THE OUTFIELD?" Myron suddenly asked, causing the sergeant to stop in his tracks. "Who the hell made Taylor captain of the outfield?"

"I did," Zeke admitted. "He needed a little motivation is all," the sergeant tried to explain.

Myron finally chuckled. "Don’t motivate him anymore than he is, okay, Zeke? He might kill me."

"Yeah, okay, LT," Anderson smiled on his way out.

*******************

The mission went exactly as planned and Team Viking was back on the base in four days. That night, as tired as Sergeant Anderson was he sat down at his desk and looked over the duty roster, comparing it to the lineup for the upcoming ballgame. Racking his brain trying to figure out a way to get all of his players freed up at the same time in order to fit in one more practice. He almost had it. Trading off Percell’s guard duty for a later shift should do it. Getting Goldman and McKay to show up for one last practice would be the real trick.

"Come on in," Zeke yelled, in response to the knock on his door. "Hey, LT, I was just thinking about you," he said, still focusing on the roster. "What would be a good time for you to make one more practice, Sir?" He asked, hoping to get a commitment.

Myron did not answer. "Well, Sir, if you can’t make it, you can’t make it, but I think one more practice would give us just the edge we need."

When the lieutenant still did not respond, Zeke looked up from the list of names. "What is it, LT?" He asked, suddenly serious.

"It’s Team Zeus," Myron said quickly, not wanting to prolong this. "They got ambushed last night…took heavy casualties." The lieutenant carefully watched his sergeant’s reaction. He hated telling Zeke this. Myron was not sure why, but he knew this game meant more to Anderson than to anyone else. The sergeant did not ask for much and Myron hated taking this away. "Some of their guys are still out there," he added quietly, placing a hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. "You okay?"

"Yeah," Zeke managed, still staring at the list of names.

Myron nodded. "Stop by for a drink later," he offered. Anderson barely responded with a slight shake of the head. "You want me to tell the guys?" Myron asked, wishing he could make this better.

"No, that’s my job, LT," Zeke finally said, trying to regroup.

"Okay," Myron agreed. "Stop by," he reiterated on his way out.

Zeke slumped down at his desk and stared at the team roster. Ripping it up, he watched the pieces flutter into the trash. "It was just a baseball game," the sergeant guiltily reminded himself, wondering how many of the men that made up Team Zeus’s ball team were no longer alive…wondering about Sergeant Mays. Zeke closed his eyes and did his best to let it go. Taking a deep breath, he put on his sergeant demeanor and went to inform his men.

"Team Zeus is not going to be able to make the game tomorrow," Anderson explained steadily.

"Hey, if they don’t show we win, right, Sarge?" Taylor interrupted, needing some reassurance as the dollar signs continued to roll around in his head, not caring how they won, only that they did.

Anderson ignored Taylor. "Listen up," Zeke said quietly, getting everyone’s attention. "I was just informed by the lieutenant that they were ambushed last night and took heavy casualties. Game’s off."

Silence filled the room as Zeke waited uncomfortably for some type of acknowledgement. Finally, Percell spoke up, "Why can’t it work out, just once?" He yelled, picking up a baseball and throwing it at the opposite wall.

"Hey, watch it with that thing, Danny. You almost hit me," Marcus complained.

"I don’t know why, Percell," Zeke sighed on his way out.

*******************

Sergeant Anderson sat and watched the sun set on the open field behind the supply post, and thought of the hard work and imagination that had transformed the sludge into a diamond. The sergeant frowned. He could no longer see the diamond. The field was back to being what it always was…an endless sea of mud. "Why can’t it work out, just once?" Percell had asked. Zeke wondered the same thing. The makeshift baseball field, the practices, and the rivalry had given them a temporary sense of home and normalcy.

Even the magic of the game could not hold back the war. The Nam had felt the need to reassert itself. To remind them where they were…and who was boss.

Baseball and the war do have some common ground though, the sergeant thoughtfully decided. Both forge unbreakable bonds and require teamwork. Yet, an individual act can make all the difference, hence the Most Valuable Player Award and the Silver Star.

Each has its own distinct lingo. The war refers to Victor Charles, a hot LZ, the DMZ, and grunts. Baseball counters with Uncle Charles, the hot corner, the Mendoza Line and utility men. Some words are even shared. Rhubarbs and jams for instance. Granted, when a batter gets jammed the consequences are not as dire as when an M-16 does.

But that is where all similarities end.

Baseball has an official rulebook with absolutes that have not changed in close to a hundred years. The bases are always ninety feet apart. The pitcher stands sixty feet six inches from the batter… whether Babe Ruth is batting or Doc Hock. Each team is allowed twenty-seven outs before the contest is officially over. For nearly a century, the game has proven to be loyal… remaining true to itself and its fans for generations. The rules are the same for everyone. Baseball strives to be fair.

The war has statistics of its own that are fudged and manipulated daily to suit the needs of the brass and the politicians. The number or troops in country, the cost of maintaining and supplying those troops, and most importantly…the body count, ours and theirs, us against them. Can’t keep track of the war without a scorecard. The war has no rules and guidelines to follow. Not in Vietnam anyway.

Anderson allowed himself a rare moment of disappointment. Thinking of Team Zeus, he recalled an oft-quoted rule from his high school playing days, when players were often scarce. Rule 4.17.

The official rulebook of baseball defines rule 4.17 this way:

A game shall be forfeited to the opposing team when a team is unable or refuses to place nine players on the field.

Zeke realized that the war has its own version of rule 4.17…

Sergeant Anderson flinched at the thought and strained his eyes again, staring past the supply post into the rapidly descending darkness. But the vision is gone for good. It’s only mud.

----The end----