We here at FenwayNation are privileged to have access to excerpts from the soon-to-be-released new novel by
Gary Morgenstein,
"A Fastball For Freedom".—Book Two in the "Dark Depths" series of novels that began with the spectacular,
"A Mound Over Hell". You can pre-order the novel
HERE.
We will soon have a full review of the new novel, but here's a sneak peek at a few exclusive snippets dealing with Boston and Fenway Park:
Zelda walked quickly along Boylston Street toward the hammering humming. A BT tank was parked to the side as if unsure about being there; fans passed by quietly, bumping into her with muttered apolo- gies. More scarecrows hung on both sides of the street mutely proclaiming “Life, Liberty and the Pursuit of a Fastball” and, at the corner of Yawkey Way, “All baseball fans are created equal.”
The scarecrows were nothing compared to the light.
It was as if the illumination were coming from underground, bathing the construction site like an up- side down volcano. Workers in red B baseball caps scurried up and down immense steel ladders, while others dug with shovels and picks into the frozen ground. Buckets of concrete flew by on wheelbarrows pushed by singing fans in Red Sox warm-up jackets; from somewhere, a medley of Mooshie’s songs played. Makeshift stands stood patiently amid stacks of paint cans. Zelda thought it was a viewing area, but she was the only one just watching. Everyone came to work at the only place in America, along with the site of the new Wrigley Field in Chicago, where the 10 p.m. curfew was lifted.
“What’s going on?” Zelda asked an old woman in a floppy t-shirt.
The woman sighed disapprovingly at such an idiotic question, gesturing at the huge, hand-lettered red sign atop a flag pole jammed defiantly into the ground: “Welcome to the New Fenway Park.”
“Hopefully we can re-open next summer if everyone pitches in,” she said accusingly, heading off with a paint brush.
A BT tank squatted at the north end of the construction site, bored soldiers sprawled on the front of the vehicle occasionally exchanging good-natured suggestions with passing workers about how best to build a ballpark.
All around the site, the lights of Boston went out for the ten o’clock curfew, setting off a loud cheer of pride. For a moment, BT ’copter blades lost their stealth and glittered. Zelda hushed Diego, stirring noisily to tell the whole world he had gas, and edged toward a trench of concrete being poured into the ground.
“What’s this?” Zelda asked a heavy-set man in a Yaz sweatshirt.
“It’ll be the home plate side.” He pointed to some rickety chairs off to the right. “There’s a seat over there for you and the baby.”
“Thanks, but if everyone else is helping, we can, too.”
