UNCLE MERL'S BAR & GRILL
Chapter XI
The Devil’s Due
(So pitch him inside and don’t give anything to hit!)
By
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright 2010
“WAIT A DAMNED MINUTE!” I could hear Doc’s gasket starting to blow. He sounded like an ‘86 LeBaron. “WHAT DO YOU MEAN, WHAT DID WE DO TO YOUR DAUGHTER!!! WE DIDN’T DO SQUAT AND SHE’S BEEN FOOLING AROUND WITH THE FLOW OF TIME AND NATURE…HAVE YOU SEEN THE RED SOX LATELY!!!”
Satan was still fuming. “The Red Sox! What do I care about the Red Sox! Hapless mortals pretending to play the game of the gods!”
“Whoa! Get a load of old Brimstone here!” Doc was working up a real fury. I mean, of all the people to go picking a fight with! “Who are YOU to tell US about the game! The way I heard it, Michael and his Winged Wonders kicked the stuffing out of you in your first series!”
“Doc! Shut up!” Merl was jabbing Doc in the rib cage to try and get him to quiet up. It wasn’t working.
“Yeah, I heard he drove you and your whole club right out of the park and you haven’t been back yet! So don’t give me…”
“Doc, will you SHUT UP…”
“Merl, Will you pleeeaaassseee stop jabbing me! So don’t be bad-mouthin’ Boston!”
Lucifer’s mood was changing rapidly. There was, I think, the smell of opportunity in the air to mix with the sulfur and brimstone. He rubbed his chin and looked Doc square in the eye. “Are you telling me that you think… a team of yours…could beat a team of mine? Ha!”
“A team of yours? I thought Boston was your team.”
“Don’t be an idiot! They’re only pawns. It did me good, if you’ll pardon the expression, to see that obnoxious fat man traded to the Yankees! I engineered that one just to piss God off! How’d I do, numb nuts! He cursed Boston, helped their archrivals become a legend, and even got them to change the baseball to better suit batters! All off one little trade. AM I GREAT, OR WHAT! HA!”
Doc’s eyebrows were twitching, and that was always bad! He was going to put his heart on his sleeve, roll the sleeve up and take a poke at the Prince of Darkness.
“YOU engineered that trade? It’s YOUR fault Boston hasn’t won a World Series in seventy years? You miserable, low-life, mother…”
“Doc! Will you shut-DA-FUG-UP!”
“That’s right little fellow! Don’t put you foot any further into your mouth than it is already is! Of course it’s my fault, you simpering TWIT!”
“Twit. TWIT!!! Who’re you callin’ a twit, you cloven hoofed, horn-headed, spear-tailed…”
“Why Doctor Boreese, you flatter me…”
“Flatter you? If I had my Hammerin’ Hank autographed Louisville slugger, I’d be massagin’ you head…”
“And why not! It’s big enough for even a mortal to hit!”
“You egotistical son of a…”
“DOC, WILL YOU BE QUIET!!!”
“You haven’t got a batter in Hell…”
“I’ve got lots of batters in Hell. Enough to kick your asses for a century of baseball!”
“Oh! Is that so??? You wanna put you money where you horns are?”
“What is money to me?”
“You name the bet! Best of seven, winner take all!”
“Hmmm!”
“Oh, shit, Doc!”
* * *
When reality set in, the Doctor guy couldn’t believe how easily Lucifer had baited him and he was terribly distraught. Well, if you had bet the human race on a ball game you’d be upset too! No matter, the damage was done. The dragons were in a frantic state.
The rules were simple. Satan would play the same Team that Michael had beaten. He could bring up one player and one pitcher from his farm clubs in each game, if needed—and he let it be known just how bad it would be for any of his players who were sent down!
We would play each game with the managers and stars of a generation, starting a little before the twentieth century. So much for meeting Moses and Ramses!! If a player had been traded in his career, and it split a generation, he could be called up for every uniform in his closet. That multiple usage clause would also apply if he had won notoriety at a different position than he began with. In both cases, the player would age and appear as he had in his ‘second life’. We could draft or call up one free agent per game, a minor leaguer or the like. The actual rules under which the games were played would be the rules of that generation, applicable to the year of the uniform. We (both sides) would select the stadium or field as a home team choice, and those choices were also applicable to uniform year. We would play two, then three, then one game. If we were tied at the end of six games, the team with the most runs scored could select the final stadium.
Considering we were dealing with the King of Darkness, the rules were more than fair. But then again, old Scratch could afford to be generous—word had it that he had all the Umpires.
It sounded like an explosion. Names and stats were buzzing around our head like mosquitoes. I thought a three-way fistfight was going to break out between the dragons—the fourth had found a ‘cock roach’ match on ESPN. It was getting scary, as we played right into Lucifer’s hands.
“Knock-it-d’hell-off!” a voice boomed from behind the pickled egg jar on the bar. We froze and all eyes rolled towards the egg jar. Merl was very calmly refilling the jug. “Do any a’ you damn fools realize what you jus’ did?” Obviously, we weren’t too sure ‘cause nobody said anything. “YOU damn fools jus’ bet the entire human race on a baseball game! An’ if we lose, there ain’t no nex’ year. Evy’body goes to hell!” Boreese had already realized the truth of what Merl was telling us. In his haste to conquer the forces of evil, he had bitten on a sucker bet. When his lanky frame slid down in his chair and he started banging his head on the table, it became apparent to all of us just how bad things were!
“Well,“ the old man said, “the dirty deed’s done! We better git down to it! We…” There was an explosion again in the room, causing Merl to jump a full step backwards as everybody in the room (including me) started shouting out favorite players and childhood heroes. I pushed back in my chair and watched the old man that this entire fiasco seemed to center about. His hands were now gently folded on the bar as if in prayer and there was a clear unpanicked look in his eyes that gave me a strange sense of hope. I could not tell you why, but somewhere inside me I knew I was looking into the face of a man who’d faced his own redemption. There was an angelic peace to his countenance that is only seen in the very young or very ancient. He seemed to be searching through his many centuries of experience for the words of consolation to sooth the nerves singed by the worsening situation. And at last, the ancient master spoke!
“WILL YOU DUM’MUDDA’FUKKAHS SHOT D’HELL UP? ENOUGH!” A chilling sudden silence E.F. Hutton would have been proud of permeated the bar. “Seems to me, things ain’t as bad as they look. Good’s been beatin’ evil since the beginnin’ a’ time.”
“What the hell has dis got to do wid dat? This is Baseball!” Campy blurted out.
“An’ what d’hell do you think baseball is! That’s the whole point! Seems to me, all things bein’ equal, we got as good a chance as them. But! We gots to get organized! S’pose we do it this way. We got almos’ a century to cover in seven games. Sounds like lots to pick from—it ain’t! We’ll be suckin’ wind by the sixth game if we don’t do it right. I say we pick a manager for each game an’ let him pick the players. He’ll know the players as people—t’us they be bubble gum cards and stats. And stats an’ old pictures don’t mean shit when you need heart to win!”
Merl paused and went to glass washing. Charlie looked around the room for Boreese. Doc seemed to comprehend the force behind the idea. Jonsey, who was still in awe over the proceedings of the past few minutes, never could pass up a good ball game. “I…I don’t understand,” Jonsey spoke up. “Why do we have to pick a ball park?”
Now there was a question! I never saw so many bright eyes turn dull so quickly. Merl gently spoke up to the bewildered flatfoot.
“Good question, Jonsey. Juju! Power of place, heart of Darkness. They’ve already selected Yankee Stadium for one of their games!”
“Yankee Stadium? The house that Ruth built? Home to Gehrig, Mantle and Maris, Mr. October, Yogi and Joe D?” I blurted out in my best journalistically-panicked voice.
“George Steinbrenner!” Merl mumbled.
“Oh.”
“Yankee Stadium can charge up a player just to be there! We need a place to meet the kind of power head on.”
There was an awkward silence. I didn’t know a ballpark anywhere that could match Yankee Stadium for history, power or even fan loyalty.
“Ebbets Field! Stinkin’, tiny, miserable little Ebbets Field!”
We all turned to the voice. Campy was rubbing the autographed baseball along its ridges as it rested on its base. He wasn’t looking at the baseball but his eyes were focused on the tabletop, seemingly pulling some mystic strength from the name written there on.
“The First Church of Brooklyn,” I said, “and the home of Gil Hodges, Jackie Robinson, Peewee Reese… and Roy Campanella. I agree. For more than half a century, through some of the most forgettable baseball ever played, Brooklyn loved their bums and defined itself through the Dodgers. They showered Dem Bums with more lovin’ than an ugly two-dollar hooker with a great body gets on New Year’s Eve in Times Square.”
“OI! There’s an image for you! I hope you write better than you talk!” Max looked at me with a wry smile. “An’ jus’ for the record… short of Tiger Stadium—home a’ Ty Cobb and Hank Greenboig, by the vay—I can’t think of a better place, no-veer! I agree with Campy!”
“Now there’s a first!” Merl said.
Here beginith THE BOOK OF GAMES!
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