Title: The Hand of God
Disclaimer: I do not own the hand of God.
Summary: And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark.
Notes: Another ficlet featuring the pitcher from the This is Home piece. Most religious themery, and such. He also gets a name -- Michael -- as does the catcher, Chris.

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There is this loud snap like the hand of God, and the pitcher can tell right away that the result is not going to be good. Not even the hand of the good Lord Himself could keep that ball inside the park.

The white-and-red blur of a baseball bullets across the night sky, lancing rain clouds, this home run would be a highlight on SportsCenter, this home run was what the so-called experts (and that term is used loosely) liked to call a 'cloudsplitter'.

Michael thought that was rather blasphemous, only God could command the rain to fall, not a home run, but whenever he would say something to Chris, or the other catcher, Ramón, they'd just laugh at him like he was no better than the crazy who camped out on the street corner in front of the stadium's lost and found.

Dropping down on his haunches, he bites down hard on the webbing of his glove. It tastes of leather (obviously), and the dirt of the mound, and something else, something he can't quite put his finger on. Something intangible.

He tilts his head up toward the sky. The clouds are heavy and angry, filled with rain, pregnant, ready to burst into a torrential downpour at any moment.

He feels a droplet of rain on his cheek and for a second, he mistakes it for a tear.

"And of every living thing of all flesh, two of every sort shalt thou bring into the ark," he mutters, mostly to himself, but also to his ghosts.

And that is when the skies open.