Banner’s always been an oddball, let’s get that straight from the start. I tried to be nice to him around work, he seemed so lost and lonely all the time, but when I talked to him, he rarely responded with more than two or three syllables. I'm surprised he wanted to do something social like play on the department baseball team, but I'm glad he did. He was our best player. He's a savant, particle physics and baseball. He struggles with everything else.
On game nights, he showed up at the field early like everybody else, but he kept to himself, stretching against the backstop while everyone else joked and tossed balls. Whenever I made eye contact, he looked away. I always paired up with him. I made a production of it. “Hi Bruce. How was your week? Whatcha working on? Wanna warm up together? Up for a catch?”
For such a geeky, little guy, he was crazy athletic. Fast, always under the ball, the batters avoided center field. If he had any chance at all, it would be an out. When he threw the ball in from the outfield, it always had heat. I mean, man, it hurt! He had the highest batting average on the team. Most homers, most RBIs. In high school and college, the best athletes were also the most popular guys, the most charismatic, the most fearless. Not Banner, he was scared of his own shadow, scared of other people.
That night in June started like the rest. Hotter than normal, but that’s been this whole summer. Bruce might have even been in a good mood. I think I saw him smile when I asked him to warm up. When the game was about to start, the other team began to trash talk us. Everyone hates those guys, the Government Contracts division, bunch of lawyer-wannabes. They assumed we suck because we’re scientists. Five of our guys played college varsity.
As we walked off the field, the pitcher, Dave McCoy, yelled “Hey Banner, hey little man, you’re going down tonight.” Bruce had some sort of altercation last month with McCoy. It happened in the canteen. Gina told me McCoy pushed Bruce backwards a few times, telling him to man-up. Pretty unseemly for a couple of adults wearing suits. Of course, Banner just walked away, head down, muttering. Gina said he skipped lunch altogether.
Contracts was home team, we led off batting. Banner came to bat with runners on first and third. Scarab just lined a single. I stretched his hit for an extra base. McCoy was already fuming from our little lead-off rally. No outs, two base runners and Bruce batting, we were going to score this inning, but not from a Banner hit. McCoy wouldn't let him knock in a three-run homer. McCoy would walk him for sure.
“Hey weenie-dick, let’s see if you can handle this?” Weenie-dick? Seriously? Is this middle-school? Jackson, the VP for Contracts, stood just sixty feet away, playing first base. I’d never say something like that in front of my boss. McCoy wound up and rifled a fastball straight at Banner’s head. Bruce ducked it, but he hit the ground hard. I looked towards our bench. A couple guys were laughing.
When Bruce got up, he didn’t look so good. That close call left him a little green. Truly, his skin looked tinted green. I was about to ask him if he was okay when I realized McCoy was winding up again. The pitch caught Banner square on the chin. It should have knocked him out cold. Banner didn’t move. He didn’t duck or flinch, he didn’t fall, he didn’t even grab his chin. He just turned and glared at McCoy.
And he grew. Taller, wider, thicker. Much thicker, muscular. I heard his shirt rip as his shoulders and chest expanded. The buttons on his shirt began to burst. They popped straight out, one after another, reminding me of the sing-song game I play with Olivia in our backyard with stalks of clover. Daddy's got a baby and her head popped off. The trick makes the clover head snap off and rocket away eighteen inches.
There was no denying it now, Banner was green. And huge, hulking. He turned into some sort of a giant, a monster. No one said a word, but almost everybody took a couple of steps away from home plate. Banner stomped straight to the pitcher’s mound, and squared off, towering over McCoy. McCoy, looked left and right, unsure what to do, hoping for some intervention.
The giant swung his meaty, green fist and clubbed McCoy on his left ear with a hollow sounding crack. McCoy sprawled sideways into the dust and never moved again. Banner, the monster, whatever, stormed off past first base. Jackson scurried away as he passed. Banner crossed the driveway and stepped down an embankment into the woods. Everyone else, both teams, all the spectators, stood motionless.
That was three weeks ago. Of course there’s a video. It’s all you see on TikTok and Instagram. Federal investigators are crawling around DalChem nonstop, certain that some sort of immoral and illegal research is taking place. No one seems to know anything about Banner. His apartment was sparse, no knickknacks or souvenirs, but plenty of books on physics and anatomy. No friends or close family have come forward. The oddest thing to me was learning he never played baseball in high school or college. Or even little league as far as anyone can remember. No one knows how he got so good.
The world has tagged me as his closest friend. I’m the only one anyone ever saw talking to him. I’ve been interviewed six times. Twice by investigators and four times by reporters. I’m ready for this to die down. I don’t like the notoriety, the attention. I don’t like the crap people say about me online. People are nuts. Someone’s going to do something stupid. I worry about Bruce, but only in a vague humanistic way. After all, I really didn’t know him. To me, he was another coworker. Since no one has found him, I assume he’s dead, and honestly, that’s probably the best thing that could happen to him. If he ever turns up, God knows what will happen.
Written to the prompt: The buttons on his shirt began to burst. Because, well, how can you read that sentence and not immediately think about the Incredible Hulk?
Note: I'm not much of a baseball guy. If some of my baseball oriented terminology is misstated or unclear, please let me know. I'd like to correct it.
Photo by Bertrand Colombo on Unsplash
