GAME 1: The Next Best Thing

UNCLE MERL'S BAR & GRILL

GAME ONE:

The Next Best Thing!

Peter "Lou" D'Alessio

We had a tough time deciding on a Manager. The obvious choice was John “Mugs” McGraw, the great New York Giants Manager. But Merl refused solidly, pointing out the McGraw had been an outstanding third baseman and we could use him there. We all swung then for the venerated and highly moral Connie Mack of the now extinct Philadelphia Athletics. Max pointed out that Ty Cobb intimidated the hell out of him in life. That exhausted my level of expertise on the decade. It seemed like that was a consensus. The only guys who had been around back then who could even remember the managers were Merl and the dragons, so we delegated them the choice (Doc and Charley just couldn’t recall—seems they were busy that decade). After a short, somewhat vigorous conference, a choice was made.

For no other reason than style, they had picked the Manager of the 1907 New York Highlanders. He had earned his pseudonym the hard way. Despite the fact that the Highlanders would shortly become the Yankees, old ‘Crafty Clark’ Griffith had few of the tools that his descendants would become notorious for, but he truly knew the game and the men who played it. He also carried a fringe benefit we hadn’t counted on. As Griffith’s own career extended backwards into the 1880s and 90s by virtue of the carry-over clause in the rules, he could pull players from that period. However, Crafty Clark did have one drawback—as he was from the year 1907, Ebbets Field hadn’t been built yet.

As we got up to exit the bar at game time I glanced at my watched. It’d been all of two hours, real time, since I had wandered into Uncle Merl’s, three days ago. As I blundered out into the daylight as the sole representative of the Press, I found myself not in a press booth but sitting on a small clump of grass affording me a semi-commanding view of the field. It was Brooklyn all right, the part they called “Pig Town”—a dump! It was where Baseball really got started in Brooklyn.

A backstop of sorts had been built and a diamond sprawled forward with the right and left foul lines running off into infinity. With no grandstand—or a wall for that matter—a home run had to be in-the-park, like it or not.

A small group of men were shuffling around home plate wearing the most garish uniforms I’d ever seen. They wore black shirts and baggy black pants with bright yellow belts and stockings and bright pink caps. They looked dark and sullen and downright mean. Surely, I thought, these were Satan’s legions. It wasn’t until I spied the bright yellow ‘O’ on the shirt of the tallest of the lot that I realized I was looking at the Baltimore Orioles of the centuries turn. If half of what I heard about them was true, they weren’t Satan’s legions, but probably the next best thing! I had to give Crafty Clark his due. He was going to fight fire with fire, and it would probably set the tone for the series!

One by one, other uniforms appeared—and on almost every right sleeve I saw three embroidered letters—HOF—Hall Of Fame. Some of the toughest players the grand old sport had ever known began appearing for this first game of the final challenge. Crossing from the right field side, three Chicago Cubs drifted towards the infield for warm-ups—Tinkers, Evers and Chance. From the as yet uncursed Red Sox, it was the Gray Eagle himself! Some say he was the fastest center fielder of all time, and Tris Speaker had been so sure of his own fleetness he’d play in so shallow, fans would mistake him for the second baseman. The sullen young man sitting on the bench sharpening his spikes had to be Tyrus Raymond Cobb. In years to come, this young man would earn the highest batting average in the history of the game. Moody and at times purely viscous on and off the field, he would fit in nicely with the men in black and yellow. How Crafty Clark picked the ‘Georgia Peach’ before Detroit, I never found out, but here he was getting ready to play with the Orioles! Somehow, I saw Merl’s hand in it!

Never before had a team been so feared. They had practically invented the inside game, the Baltimore Chop—and the spike in the groin! The Orioles were as fierce as any demon could ever hope to be, and they loved it! As they stood there, shuffling around the plate in what looked like some sort of pre-game ritual, I felt I was becoming history myself. I was pulled from my reverie by a tap on my shoulder. A dark faced boy in knickers and knee socks waved a piece of paper in my face.

“Mr. Griffith says I should give dis ta you! Rosters n’ startin’ line-ups, Mr. D! Sharpen your pencils boss, dis here’s gonna be some swell game! As the boy turned to walk back into the crowd, I realized I knew the face.

“Campy?”

The boy kept walking, but shouted over his shoulder. “You dink dis is sompin, wait till the 40s! I’m the kid from Newark that finds Joe D’s stolen bat! I wasn’t a Yankees fan, but you can’t fool with time! That was Joe D’s year!”

Well, that figured!

I looked at the paper—and it took my breath away. I ran through each position shuddering at the awesome list of names at any position, but it was shortstop that grabbed me. Vying for the start: old E-ya Jennings of the Orioles, from the Pirates, Johanus Peter ‘Honus’ Wagnor, and from Cleveland, perhaps the greatest Indian of all time, Napolean Lajoie.

On the field, Griffith would place Orioles at the heart of the team. Slugger Dan Brudder would stand on the first base, E-ya would get the call for shortstop, Wagnor and Lajoie would get their turn. At the third sack stood the Giants’ Muggsy McGraw, the one and only. Behind the plate was Wilbert Robinson—I knew the name but couldn’t remember for what. In right field stood the man who held Joe Ds’ spot in history for nearly fifty years, Oriole Wee-Willie Keeler, and to his left, Foxy Ned Hanlon. To complete the outfield was Ty Cobb, The Georgia Peach if you were a fan, or the Devil from Detroit if you were at the other end of his cleats. He was a kid, but you could see the Hall of Famer in there. On second, a fellow by name of Evers.

But even with this, a heart was needed to pump the great, talent-swollen machine to life. Here too, there was awesome and frightening depth. I did not recognize the young man in the Cleveland Spiders uniform. And try as I might, not even the sewn on letters on his right sleeve gave me the slightest hint. But I knew him well as he went into his wind up, for there was no mistaking this defiant eyed young man. It was Denton True ‘Cy’ Young! Beside him, coaching this frighteningly fast youngster, stood The Christian Gentleman himself, the great New York Giants pitcher, Christie Mathewson. What better man for a game such as this? Old Crafty Clark had counted sauce for this goose too. Waiting in the wings was the Cubs 3-finger Brown. If so much hadn’t been at stake, it would have been laughable. Was there a team anywhere, from anytime, so formidable as to be greater than this one?

I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a voice say gently, “Pride goeth before a fall!” I turned to see Merl. The old boy hadn’t changed his countenance and he appeared as I had known him. He seemed to be studying Cobb as he ran across the outfield limbering up. His gaze drifted off to the distant left field where a host had been gathering. “C’mon,” the old gent said, “better move down to the bench. Be much safer there.”

There was a bleak one-board bench hammered into the dirt for the team to sit on. While Merl had chosen to sit on the end I gathered some rubble and created a small, tottering tower to sit on. It afforded me a view I could have willingly done without.

Their uniforms were a dark, powder-bluish with blood red lettering that read simply Hell’s Angels across the chest. In tribute to their greatest victory they wore knee-high black sox. Satan had gathered a demon roster that hadn’t missed a trick. It was the absolute best of the absolute worst! As they swarmed the field for their warm-ups, I counted no less than twenty-five of the worst demons in hell.

“Flip the card!” Merl shouted from his seat at the end of the bench. It took me a moment to figure out what he was talking about, but sure enough, when I finally flipped Griffith’s line-up sheet, there was Lucifer’s roster. A scroungier, more menacing lot of the bottom of hell’s fire was not to be found. It was immediately obvious that Old Scratch had come to play. He hadn’t brought his legions; he’d brought his legions’ commander. Beating them was going to be tough!

It was an international lot of demons, devils and demi-gods from almost every corner of the planet. His outfield was unique! In right field, Uggue, a Middle Eastern god of death stood as motionless as… well, as motionless as death itself! Left field harbored Duke Bathym, better known as Bathym, Grand Duke of the Infernal Regions. Both their bodies tapered down to a snake’s tail—no legs, just tails. Talk about mobility! Holding down centerfield was Baal Zeval, and while he had legs he was openly touted as “Lord of the Flies” which led me to believe not much got by him. He was dismal and dark and reminded me of Cobb, although for the life of me I couldn’t tell you why.

Lucifer’s infield went even lower down the moral ladder. On first base stood a rather menacing creature, tall and grim. It was Bar Ligura the Terrible, a Semitic demon who not only led hell in stolen bases, but stolen basemen as well! On the second sack was a charming little number right out of the old testament, Abaddon the Destroyed, chief demon of the Seventh Hierarchy. His ability to cover the bag had earned him the title “King of the Grasshoppers.” The Short Stop was a goat-headed creature listed in my roster as “Buck” Basphomet. When Merl spied him, an immediate protest was filed—seems like old Buck was actually Boue dela goelia Basphomet, an incarnation of Lucifer himself! Merl stormed out to the Umpires, did a twenty minute Billy Martin act, jumping up and down and screaming incoherently at the Umps until Crafty Clark managed to drag him back to the bench before he got thrown out! It really fired up McGraw and the Orioles, drawing long cheers and catcalls. The protest was duly noted and properly ignored. As the little show was playing its way, I’d been studying third base. A creature with the head of a leopard and the wings of a griffin was constantly stretching and limbering, charging imagined grounders and bunts. Bitru, the Prince of Hell, was going to be hell to bunt against!

Perhaps the single most impressive character Scratch had brought was the creature behind the plate; there was no doubt in anybody’s mind that the lion-headed creature squatting for the warm-up tosses was bad to-the-bone! Ahriman, as he was called, in his squat looked more like the rear end of a furry Ford Pinto than a catcher! His upper arms were wider across than the shoulders of a broad man. As the first pitcher finished its warm-up and the next pitcher approached the mound, Ahriman let fly a throw to second. It actually whistled as it flew! When it reached the second baseman’s mitt the noise it made was highly reminiscent of a two-by-four being broken over a head! If it had been done for effect, the point had been noted.

“Darn!” Said Wagnor, watching the missile fly, “Second base is gonna be a hard steal today!”

“Honus, you always was a little pussa!” A Georgia accent cut through the noise of the gathering crowd. It was Cobb, carefully grooving the handle of his favorite bat with a piece of bone. He didn’t seem to care all that much about the catcher. He was watching the second baseman. “J’a see his head snap back? I’ll take his leg off at the knee and hug the bag befo’ he knows what’s hittin’ him!”

I saw Uncle Merl just shake his head at Cobb’s stupidity. Several of the Orioles, never having played against Cobb in life, just looked at Wagnor as if to ask, “Who the hell is this young asshole?” Honus’ hard, weather-toughened face had turned back towards the field. The wry smile on his lips was the only response he needed to crack his teammates up. It ticked Cobb off to the point of turning him purple in the face.

I had moved off my tower of trash and found myself standing at Lajoie’s shoulder. He was studying Satan’s four ace pitchers. They were almost as majestic as well as fearsome, and any batsman in his right mind wouldn’t even stand in the box when any of them were on the mound.

The starting pitcher was the ruler of the Japanese underworld, Emma O, and was known as the Supreme Judge! He relied on only two pitches. It was obvious from his throwing motion, which never changed, his number-one pitch was the ‘overly’ fastball. And judging by the two decapitated heads hanging from his belt, his only other pitch was the bean ball, which was legal in this generation.

Satan’s second Ace was a hairy curve ball hurler. The Zoroastrian god of Darkness and Prince of Lies, Angra Mainya, could break one almost three feet from the plate and have it dip, zigzag or flip through the strike zone.

The clutch bullpen pitcher was a garbage man. Zurvan, the Iranian demon of time, had an almost uncontrollable knuckle ball that flapped like a bat as it winged its way to the plate. His most impressive pitch was a fade-away that could disappear on the left side of the plate and reappear in the right corner of the strike zone. He could unbalance even the steadiest of batters.

However, the mother of all Aces was Lucifer’s fourth pitcher. Kali, the Hindu goddess of Destruction, seemed virtually unbeatable! If you could get past the three eyes, it was the four arms that were the stopper. With two arms on each side, she stood alone as the universe’s only switch pitcher, throwing either right or left handed, depending on the batter!

Lajoie stood quietly watching. A gentle looking fellow in a Red Sox uniform joined him. It was Harry Hooper, a great hitter in his own right, as the embroidery on his sleeve attested to. “What say, Nap?” he spit out with the ever-present wad of tobacco that seemed to tie this ball club together. “We got us a game?”

“Harry,” Lajoie spat back, calmly, “we can hit any one of them. They say this new ball will jump right off the bat. We’ll get ’em!”

The new ball! Hell had opted to go with the hitter’s ball of modern day baseball. Tightly wrapped and very much alive, it had opened the doors for guys like Ruth, Williams, Aaron and Maris. The baseball of this generation was a pitcher’s ball that rarely flew to the fences on the fly, flopped all over the infield and created a need for strategy of small ball: bunting and base running. But Hell had long ball hitters.

The number of Umpires fluctuated with the year of focus, two being the number for this game. After some debate, Hank O’Day (of Fred Merkle’s Bonner fame) was selected by our side to call balls and strikes, and John Heydler (a pre-1900 umpire destined to become National League President) was selected by theirs. Heydler was once heard to remark that the Orioles were “mean, vicious, and ready at any time to maim a rival player or Umpire if it helped their cause.” I guess Hell took that as an indication that he had a bone to pick with Baltimore.

They were wrong. It was just an idle observation.

I am not the brightest bulb on the marquee. The actuality of what I was doing still, for the most part, eluded me. Merl was right. I had grown up knowing my heroes only as pictures on cards, dull and lifeless. The loose and baggy looking uniforms they wore made them seem slow and awkward as I watched them run onto the field, but I realized very quickly that their uniforms were as much an illusion as anything else that was unfolding. They belied the youthful bodies underneath. They were as agile and quick as any modern player.

The starting pitcher, much to everyone’s surprise, was Cy Young. Why Griffith chose the rookie over the Christian Gentleman was anybody’s guess… right up until the first pitch. The Great Basphomet was handcuffed for a third strike that skated an inside edge of the plate with all the subtlety of a butterfly’s blink. A very fast butterfly. The next batter up, Hell’s third baseman, Bitru, managed to catch just the shadow of a fading curve and popped out feebly to his counterpart.

But the third batter in the order was Baal Zeval. Tall and muscular, he reminded me of Reggie Jackson. Zeval looked like he’d be more at home smashing through defensive lines on a gridiron than hammering out triples on a diamond.

I had given up my teetering tower and squeezed next to Merl on the bench. The old fellow was twitching and jumping like a kid because he’d been invited to sit with the team. It was as if the future of mankind had taken second place to the playing of the game itself—and it felt right. “Now watch this!” he beamed. “The damned fool is gonna try and hit one outa here!” Sure enough, Zeval was digging in, planting his size 18 feet hard in the batter’s box, sacrificing mobility for power. The outfield was shifting to counter the diabolical lefty. I looked at Young. He was leaning forward, almost doubled over, with the ball pressed hard into his hip. There was a look of disdain on the man’s face that anything, man or demon, would have the audacity to plant his feet and dig in against him. It had been nearly three decades since I had thrown from the sacred hill, but I still remembered what the look on Young’s face meant. Cy didn’t fear the devil.

“Son,” Merl said, patting my knee. ”You’re ‘bout ta see a lesson in humility given to the devil himself!”

Before I could speak, a small sphere not much more than nine inches in circumference was moving at an estimated speed of almost one hundred miles an hour, whistling straight for the batter’s head and catching him between the horns. The large creature, realizing too late that Young’s response to his arrogance was a bean ball to the head, couldn’t move quickly enough to get out of the missile’s path. A loud BOK resounded across the field and the demon’s feet flew out from underneath him! He hit the ground, flopping and jerking like a fish out of water.

Needless to say, this brought Scratch’s squad to its feet or tails or…whatever. It also brought the Orioles in, moving slowly towards the mound to protect their young pitcher, if needs be. I was certain the benches were going to clear!

“They can’t say shit!” Griffith grumbled. “That’s a legal pitch!”

Sure enough, Cy had planted his own feet on the side of the mound and was pointing an angry finger at the opposition’s bench as if to say, “If you dig in on me, I’ll dust you up again!” After a few uneasy seconds, they carted Zeval off the field.

“Christie would never have done that, even as a rookie!” My neck almost snapped as I turned my head in Merl’s direction. The old man was staring admiringly at Craft Clark. Of course, it was now so obvious even I could see it. Griffith wasn’t going to give Hell the chance to dig in on his pitchers! He had ordered the rookie to plant one in the ear of the first demon stupid enough to sell the human race short!

The hit batsman, or his replacement anyway, was awarded first base. It was Amduscias, another Grand Duke of Hell. This raised eyebrows up and down the bench. The scouting report indicated that Amduscias’ incarnation was that of a unicorn or some such. This guy was a runner, no doubt about it. He had touched the bag and taken at least a fifteen-foot lead. Somewhere in the crowd, I knew Max was shakin’ his head saying, “Don’ vorry, no sech critter!” Unicorn or not, I don’t think anyone watching the game didn’t know this guy had plans for second base! I looked over at Young standing in the stretch position. He was intently looking across the first base line, not at the runner, but towards the bench were Griffith was sitting. Griffith seemed to be flashing him a hit & run sign! What the hell was happening? Was he telling his pitcher to watch out for a hit & run play?

Young’s head swung back towards the catcher. Robinson nodded in affirmation, then pushed his mitt hand straight away from his body.

“Jesus, Merl!” I exclaimed. “They’re gonna walk him!”

“You think so?” the ancient necromancer said coyly.

His words still hung in the air when Robinson suddenly sprang from behind the plate. Young had gassed a screamer right in his chest protector and Wilbert returned it right up the first base line with almost the same incredible velocity. In typical Oriole fashion, Brudder had positioned himself not on the bag but between it and the runner. Amduscias had been caught flat-footed. He had driven three or four quick steps bluffing towards second base when he realized the play wasn’t going on there, but behind him. He wheeled and charged headlong back towards first.

Unfortunately for him, he was still a good five or six feet from first when the ball reached Big Dan’s glove. The Baltimore slugger pivoted and threw his glove like it was a roundhouse punch at the diving runner and contacted him full force in the face.

And another of Hell’s finest went down hard.

The cry of “eee-yaaa” shot from shortstop as the jubilant Jennings and the rest of the infield dashed off the field, literally walking over the bloodied demon. I counted at least three separate uses of the word ‘sucker’ as the Baltimore mob headed back to the bench.

This was not setting well with Lord of Hell who had his team up and running. You could see them sweating right through their fur! The look of determination on the faces of these unholy rollers was concerning me a little—up until Foxy Ned stepped up to the plate and took the first pitch! Hell’s hurler, Emma O, sent a screamer that was as clear an inside strike as ever I’d seen. Most rational batters would have dived out of the batter’s box and run for cover. Not Foxy Ned Hanlon! He leaned in and took one for the team! The ball had done little more than brush the letter on Ned’s shirt, but it caused it to go high on the catcher who had it bounce off his facemask and into the outfield. If the catcher had been human, Emma O would have had another head for his belt.

It looked like the death scene from a bad production of ‘Hamlet’! Ned clutched his chest, hyperventilated, moaned, groaned and wailed his woeful state. Griffith was up and heading for home plate and screaming that the pitch was clearly retribution for Hell’s poor showing in the top of the inning. O’Day stood up from behind the plate waiving one hand towards first base—which Ned staggered towards, holding his heart like he’d been shot in the chest—and pointing a finger at the pitcher, O’Day cautioning him about hitting batters. One more intentionally struck batter and he would be gone! Needless to say, this brought Satan running from the bench screaming foul! He was screaming that bean balls were legal! O’Day just stood there and shifted his angry finger from the mound to Scratch’s chest, and pushing his face into Lucifer’s explaining that O had missed Hanlon’s bean by a foot and a half, so it wasn’t a bean ball! I was certain he was going to toss Scratch out of the game!

Crafty Clark, seeing that his damage had been inflicted, had turned away from the field and was walking back to the bench. He had tears in the corners of his eyes from trying to hold back the laughter. This was better than even he had planned!

“Boy!” Merl cried, never once taking his face from the action at home plate. “You jus’ saw the two best actors in the history of the game, doin’ their best work!”

It got better. The only player warming up in the batter’s circle was Cobb. I had him slated for third up and figured there’d been a change in the line-up. But as play was about to resume, Willie Keeler sprang to his feet and walked slowly towards the box. Willie had been sitting three players down from Uncle Merl, and I had watched him cutting slices off a chaw of chewing tobacco with a small penknife. He had started stuffing his face with the chunks as soon as Hanlon had gone into his act. He had crammed so much in that as he walked to the box, amidst cheers of “Get ’em Willie!” and “Show ’em who we are Willie!” the juice from the chewed tobacco began dribbling down his chin and onto his uniform; his cheeks had swollen to almost three times their normal size—and they were still growing!

Keeler held the record for the longest hitting streak for almost fifty years, until Joe D came along. He knew how to get on base, but standing at the plate he looked more like a gigantic drooling beaver than a Hall Of Fame hitter. His jaws kept working as he took the first pitch, outside and away—evidently, Emma O had heard of Wee Willie’s skill and wasn’t taking any chances. The next pitch, however, was right where Willie liked ’em and his wrists snapped the bat almost perfectly level across the plate, just meeting the ball and spraying the infield with tobacco juice.

It wasn’t the cleanest hit I’d ever seen. The ball snapped off the bat moving a lot faster than Willie had expected it to and went straight towards the pitcher, who took one for his team, right on the knee. It broke the flight of the ball but sent it zinging off the mound towards third base. Bitru had shifted towards second but sprung backwards and clawed at the sputtering sphere. He did a cartwheel over his wings and came up ready to throw.

Hanlon was already in the Valley of the Shadow of Second, but Wee Willie had been surprised by the explosive new ball and was a second slow getting out of the box. It would be close but a perfect throw might nail him. Bitru let fly. It was perfect, moving like an arrow.

Close wasn’t the word! Keeler, Bar Ligura and the baseball were all flying to the same point. It was a classic baseball love triangle—a ball soaring majestically, a determined baseman refusing to give ground and a charging, daring runner, tearing up ground, head lowered… WHOA! Keeler wasn’t running with his head down! His head was high up and straight back on his shoulders, and as all elements of the play came within inches of each other, Willie introduced another factor into the equation. His arms went back and head went forward like a sprinter at the finish line and a wad of tobacco the size of your fist shot out of his face with incredible accuracy! It caught Ligura on the nose, as the ball, and then Willie’s elbow, caught him in the chest. Ligura went backwards as the ball zigzagged its way up the left field foul line.

Foxy Ned had never broken stride. He had rounded third and was dashing for the plate. Hell’s left fielder had raced for the ball and barehanded it on the roll. He came up looking towards the plate but saw there was no play. He slowed, conceding second base to Keeler… only he forgot to tell Keeler, who made certain he shot the bone at the second baseman too, rounded the bag and charged for third.

The crowd was going wild, screaming and yelling at the incredible nerve of the Oriole base runner. Keeler was flying, pumping like some kind of unknown running machine and moving towards third at a catastrophic pace. The left fielder, realizing at last that Keeler was moving on third, let one go! It arched flawlessly and was coming down at third base with enough juice to come across the bag as a strike. Bitru squared off to block the bag and Willie slid into him as ball met glove. When the dust cleared, Wee Willie Keeler was safely on the bag and the ball was rolling towards the plate. Bitru was dancing on one leg.

The crowd roared. Ligura was jumping up and down, screaming like a… well… like a demon, that he’d been fouled. He kept pointing all over his face and uniform at tobacco juice marks and jumping up and down on the bag. From the left field foul line Umpire Heydler was standing, calmly rocking on his heels with his hands in his pockets. Lucifer joined his first baseman and began shouting insults at him for missing the play. The Umpire walked in to first base as readily as he would have strolled in the park. He brushed past Ligura and calmly shoved his mug into Satan’s face.

“You wanna play the Orioles?” he said innocently to the demon master. “You’d better be tough!” He turned and walked back in to the outfield leaving Satan to sputter like a split air hose and simmering in his own juices.

As Satan had cited his case to the deaf-eared Ump, Griffith had stepped up and caught Cobb on his way to the batter’s box. “Get ’em in, Cobb. One run ain’t gonna do it with this bunch. Take the out if ya got to, but get ’em in!” Cobb stared at Griffith for a second. He shook his head, spit and walked to the box.

Cobb was never a power hitter, though the power always seemed to be there when he wanted it. His preference was placement and an uncanny ability to beat out a throw. He had accomplished all this by choking up on the bat and poking balls almost anywhere he wanted them to go, then running with a near flawless form. He stood at the edge of the batter’s box knocking the dirt out of his cleats. There was a look on his face that in itself was demonic. If Cobb was trying to make the pitcher nervous by taking his own sweet time, it was working. The glowering stare he was sending towards the mound was making O twitchy, but as he stepped into the box, his attention turned towards the catcher.

“How y’all doin’, ya fat piece a’ shit! Don’t bother crouchin’ on my behalf, I ain’t gonna be here all that damned long!”

There was a rush of the foulest air I or anyone on the bench had ever smelled disgorging from Ahriman’s facemask. A hellish tone echoed Cobb’s words, or at least the damned long part. Cobb, who had assumed his stance, raised the butt end of the bat over his head and looked back at the catcher under his arm.

“Nice touch, asshole! Now tell that ugly dick head on the mound to throw me the ga’damned baseball!” Cobb’s face turned grim and his body seemed to settle into his stance. For nearly a minute Ahriman’s mask was cocked upward as the young Cobb stood there, motionless.

O went into his stretch. Keeler, over at third, kept shuffling off the bag, jerking and darting and begging for a pick off attempt. O looked but wasn’t taking the action; he wheeled and flashed one at the plate. The ball hadn’t left his paw and Cobb had squared off to bunt. Brother, this was prime, right out of the baseball All-Stars history book! Keeler broke for the plate and Cobb laid down one of the most spectacular bunts I’d ever seen—if you wanted to reach first base! The ball shot off the bat faster than he had wanted and it rolled straight up the third base line.

So much of the greatness of a player is instinct. Instead of charging the plate or towards second, Basphomet had sprung from his shortstop position on contact with the ball to cover third base. Bitru had out-charged Wee Willie who was now caught in a rundown. Willie did a stop/go and ducked the tag but the ball went to the catcher who pasted Keeler good and then blew a lightening bolt to first. Cobb had made the big turn but dove back to the bag, inches if front of a thrown-out with his name on it.

Keeler dusted himself off as he returned to the bench. He paused as he past Griffith. “The kid’s got nice form, boss. Shit for brains, but good form!” Keeler started to walk back to the bench but Griffith blocked his path.

“You think he did that on purpose, Will? Just to get a hit?”

Keeler looked over his shoulder. Cobb was inching towards a very unreasonable lead. “You tell me, boss.”

Griffith pushed his fallen runner aside and started waiving Cobb back to the base. He went, but not willingly.

There is a brotherhood amongst senior players, even on teams as opposed as these. Brudder had stood in the batter’s box just watching Cobb. Now he looked down at the catcher, shaking his head negatively. Ahriman just grunted back, “stupid rookie” and both tensed back into their jobs.

Cobb kept moving further off the bag, taunting the pitcher to try and pick him off; but O went into his stretch and sent Brudder his first strike. Brudder set himself for the next pitch, but was watching Cobb’s annoying dance more than the pitcher. He was moving almost twenty feet from the bag and was verbally abusing the pitcher something fierce.

Big Dan stepped back and put a palm in the air. “Time!” he shouted to the Ump, who signaled a stop in play.

Brudder looked down at the catcher. “By God!” he spat out. “If anyone had said those things about my mother, I’d have punched him solidly myself by now!” He dropped his bat in disgust and walked towards Crafty Clark.

“Who the hell does this guy think he is? The world’s greatest ball player? He’s really starting to piss me…uh, them, piss them off!”

Griffith shuffled his feet and clawed the grass with his cleats. “He comes to us on good authority.”

“Get him out of the game, boss! The damned fool is going to cost us, mark my words!”

Griffith twisted his torso and looked over at the bench where Merl and I now sat—I knew he wasn’t looking at me. Merl had lowered his head and was counting the lace holes in his shoes. So much for ‘good authority’. This was not good! The players wanted Cobb out, the coach wanted him out—and Merl was counting his laces. Griffith looked at the old guy for some sort of sign until the Ump called for play to resume, and then he turned back to his batsman. “Get back to the box and advance the runner. Let me worry about runnin’ the team.” Brudder shrugged and returned to the box. He was generally unsatisfied with his boss’s answer and it showed. He was talking to himself and giving Cobb dirty looks. Hell found it amusing. It was a mistake.

On the next pitch, a split fingered fastball belt-high and away, Big Dan did something nobody was expecting. As the ball left O’s fingers, he had partially squared off as if to bunt, but threw the bat back up over his shoulder and swatted downward at the ball like he was swinging an ax, smashing at it with amazing speed. The ball rocketed downward and hit about three feet in front of the plate. It angled off to the right, shot almost thirty feet in the air and bounced on the fly into the outfield over the jump of the first basement.

It was the Baltimore Chop, that which was made famous in song and story! I had seen modern players attempt it, but they hadn’t really mastered it. The ball had been met with such extreme force that it had one-hopped out of the infield and didn’t come down to earth until it was twenty or thirty feet deep into the outfield. Bathym, who had played deep knowing Brudder’s reputation, charged forward, tail flapping in the breeze.

Cobb, who had left the bag with the pitch, had rounded second and was pretty certainly going to ignore Crafty Clark’s signs to stay at third! He hit the bag and turned.

I have to admit, in my time I’ve see some pretty great things on the diamond. I saw the Mick bounce one off the upper façade at Yankee Stadium, saw Henry Aaron break the Babe’s record, saw Nolan Ryan hurl a no-hitter, even saw the Met’s Marvelous Marv Thornberry get thrown out for missing the bag on a clean hit—but nothing I’d seen matched the Georgia Peach. From the instant the bat had touched the ball, Cobb had had no intention of stopping anywhere but home plate!

He ran with his head tilted towards the outfield, watching the ball land and measuring the distance to the nearest fielder, then the fielder to home plate. Bathym had reached the ball first and turned to check the runner at third, but when Cobb failed to begin a slide into third base, he had wheeled towards home, letting one fly that was straighter than a pig’s pecker and right on the beam for the plate.

But Cobb was ahead of the throw, pumping on all cylinders and as certain to score as a man can be in this grand old game. All he had to was side-step Ahriman who was busy…blocking the plate! Any player on the field would have been more than happy to side-step Hell’s catcher—anybody in his right mind would have been happy to side step this grunting behemoth!

Not Tyrus Raymond Cobb!

Cobb had no intention of side stepping Ahriman—or sliding past, around or under him. Much to the horror of every player on the bench, fan in the crowd, and opposing player on the field, it was obvious Cobb was going to leap, cleats thrashing, right at the catcher.

Ahriman didn’t seem to care. He knew there was a train coming down on him but his eye was affixed to the ball hurtling towards him, too! Not only did he not care—he didn’t budge…and Cobb didn’t bounce off! Cobb hung there, embedded by his own sharpened cleats, in the catcher’s leg—and Ahriman loved it! Ty cussed and struggled, twisted and cussed some more as the ball flew into the catcher’s mitt. As he hung there, solidly affixed to the demon’s leg, something else became obvious—he wasn’t going to score!

The ball hit the mitt solidly and with a resounding ‘CRACK’. With his free paw Ahriman tossed off his catcher’s mask, which had been on his head like a hat. Then he reached down, grabbed Cobb by the shirt, and proceeded to tag the baseball with Cobb’s face—two or three times—very hard! Only after the Ump had shouted “OUT” a few times did Ahriman pull Cobb out of his leg and drop him to the ground.

Crafty Clark jumped up and took a handful of quick steps towards O’Day. Then he stopped, put his hands on his hips and hung his head in disgust. “Fug it!” he mumbled to himself. “The damned fool got his comeuppance.” He lifted his head and turned back to the bench. “Alright lads. Somebody get out there and drag him back in!”

No one moved! The whole team looked like an Olympic lace hole counting squad! It was only when Griffith shouted, “DO IT!” that Harry Hooper and Tres Speaker walked slowly out to reel in the nearly senseless Cobb.

“Nice Stop!” Speaker shouted to the catcher as they dragged Cobb back.

Griffith just shook his head again as they dragged the groggy Cobb past him. “Jennings!” he called. The man on deck looked up. “Get on base, E-Ya.” The short stop nodded, measured the weight of the two bats he had been swinging, selected the lighter of the two and strolled to the plate. Big Dan had made it to second in all the confusion and was staying cautiously close to the bag. He wasn’t the fastest thing on two legs; no sense being careless. Besides, if there was a man on this team that could up him a base, it was Hughie Jennings!

In 1896, Hughie had hit .401 and had seventy stolen bases. Unlike his teammates, Hughie spent the off-season practicing law and contemplating the cosmic usages of the sacrifice fly ball. His abilities as a fielder oft-times belied his countenance, and he was possessed of a quality that endeared him to fan, foe, and teammate alike. If it is true that Wee Willie Keeler coined the phrase, “Hit ’em where they ain’t,” then the phrase, “Take one for the team!” had been, if not his invention, his deepest belief! In one season alone, old E-Ya had “taken one” forty nine times! Speculation was that his cry of “E-Yaaa!” was somehow related to that dubious distinction. Truly, he was unique in the entire world, a living oxymoron of life itself.

Foxy Ned had danced his way on base, being barely touched by the ball. Jennings was a purist! To apply a healthy dose of thespianism to his athletic accomplishments was absolutely loathsome to him. As he walked to the plate he ruled out a sacrifice out, what with there being one out and not knowing if Hanlon could make it home on a tag up and all. He took the first pitch, a blinding fastball that was low and inside for a strike, and ruled out a bunt. No! There was only one choice! He called ‘time’ and stepped out of the box, rubbing his palms on his pant legs.

Encouraged by Jennings’ apparent indecisiveness, O ripped one down the middle, straight as a preacher and letter high. Jennings suddenly crouched as if to bunt and turned right into it. BOP! The orb shot off his head like a cannon ball. The crowd gasped as Hughie spun like a top and corkscrewed right into the ground.

“YER OUTA HERE!” screamed O’Day at the stunned demon on the mound, ejecting him from the game. Jennings hovered in a sitting position, flickering like a candle’s flame and falling forward. I jumped up, certain that he was dead. I felt a huge paw grab me by my wallet pocket and pull me back. It was Robinson, our catcher.

“Sid’down, kid, it hit ’im in the head and there’s nothin’ there to hurt!”

There was a cheer from the crowd and I looked up. Sure enough, Jennings had staggered to his feet and was crab-walking his way towards first base. Over on the mound, Lucifer was jumping up and down, screaming at O’Day, who was losing what little sense of humor he had. The plate Umpire would graciously allow the King of Hell a little dance time to warm-up his next pitcher, but this was turning into abuse and O’Day would have none of it. Emma O was gone. Case closed!

About at the point where O’Day was giving old Scratch his last waltz, Merl turned to me and said, “So what’cha think, son?” as he arthritically fumbled with a box of Cracker Jacks.

“So far so good, Uncle Merl. Hey! What’s McGraw doing?”

Merl peered into the batting circle, where McGraw was fingering a piece of rope. “That? That’s his good luck charm, a piece a’ rope used in a hangin’.”

“Oh!”

Whether it was luck or skill, I’ll never know, but McGraw came through. It was another chop, this time the ball hitting about two feet in front of the plate. He had waited for O’s replacement, Zurvan, to send him one of those slow moving change ups and he had just pasted it. It hopped through the gap between first and second, nearly clipping Jennings again on its way downward. The ball caught the lip where the hard pack of the infield met with the edge of the grass of the outfield, and reversed itself again, flying back between center and left instead of shooting into right. The outfield was chaos as fielders changed directions. Brudder came in. Jennings, who staggered a bit but still knew enough to side step the catcher, came in. McGraw stopped at second with a stand-up double.

We went hysterical. The score stood three to nothing and we hadn’t hit the ball into the outfield on the fly yet! The Brooklyn crowd was going wild, yelling in a way that would have made their progeny proud. We were winning! Except for Cobb, this pick up squad was performing flawlessly. It hadn’t been pretty… what it had been was great!

“Don’t get excited,” Merl warned, “dis here game is jus’ getting’ started!”

“Hell, Uncle Merl, we’re beatin’ the devil at his own game!”

“Number one! It ain’t his game! And number two…” His head swung from left to right and back again, and he refocused on me with a quizzical expression on his face. “I don’t see no fat lady getting’ ready to sing! Do you?”

His meaning was pretty clear; the game was far from over. Robinson popped up and we went into the second inning. Jennings was still seeing two and three of everything, so before a line drive killed him, Griffith pulled him for Napolean Lajoie. Cobb was almost back to his normal, nasty self so Crafty Clark lost his excuse to pull him from the game.

With one out in the third, they finally got to Young. Their pinch hitter, Yen-lo Wang, showed why he presided over the fifth hell, smacking a stupendous triple to centerfield that sent Cobb racing well beyond where a wall in a stadium would have been. Only the swiftness of the fielder and the slowness of the batter kept it from being a home run. Not that it made a difference. Basphomet caught the tail end of a slow curve and doubled him in on the next pitch. Bitru popped up but Amadusias hit a fly deep enough for Basphomet to tag up and score all the way from Yonkers.

Griffith new they had his youthful pitcher’s number. Mathewson was up and throwing. Crafty Clark walked slowly to the mound to pull Young.

Christie put out the fire, getting Abaddon to pop up.

The next four innings were the best displays of pitching and fielding I’d ever seen. Christie gave up only two hits, and had them under control. With one gone in the fifth, Griffith ask Honus Wagnor if he’d like to play second base, and sent the Hall Of Famer in for the weaker hitting Evers. Honus did his Job and smacked a beautiful three-bagger. But Mathewson was up next, there being no designated hitter rule in his day, and he was struck out in five pitches. The inning closed when Hanlon died on a line drive straight at the shortstop.

In the bottom of the eighth, we were still clinging to a three-to-two lead when we loaded up the bases with two outs. But the inning ended when Cobb ignored a signal and got thrown out trying to steal home. Griffith must have jumped three feet in the air when he broke for the plate. I thought Griffith was going to get Doc’s Hank Aaron bat and massage Ty’s head!

“Speaker!” he screamed. “You’re in for Cobb!” The Gray Eagle grabbed his mitt and jumped to his feet, but Cobb turned and pushed him back. “I know you ain’t takin’ me out! What I look like to you? A negra? Hell, I—”

Before he could finish, Griffith had his nose pressed against Cobb’s. “You listen ta me, you son of a bitch! You ignored me in your first at bat, you just gave away a run… I need Speaker’s speed in the outfield to guard the one run we got… thanks to you!” Cobb glowered at his manager, but a couple of Orioles carrying bats came over and stood behind him. He spat and cussed and then walked to the end of the bench and sat down… still mumbling, still cussing, and still missing the point of what had happened.

I think what had pissed Griffith off the most was that he had gambled for a run, pulling Mathewson for Harry Hooper. Hooper had done his job and singled the bases loaded. Crafty Clark had wasted his best pitcher and top pinch hitter on Cobb’s grandstand attempt to steal home.

Three-Finger Brown was on the hill now, and the old master sent a shower of curve balls and some bizarre looking sliders down. It was tying Hell up in knots… until Ahriman stepped up to the plate. With a full count on him he reached a slider and sent it so deep into center we lost sight of the damned ball! But Speaker seemed to grow wings of his own and he ran the ball down with the most ungodly all-out sprint anyone had ever seen. The ball was relayed back to the infield in time to stop Hades’ catcher at third. But it was over for real when Brown tried the same pitch on Wang. This time the ball was so far gone, not even Tres Speaker could keep it in sight! When Brown finally shut the door on Hell, nobody would sit next to Cobb on the bench.

Lajoie led the inning off and gave the crowd the biggest thrill of the day. The first pitch delivered was a chest-high curve ball destined for strikedom when Lajoie, who had squared off as if to bunt, threw the bat at the ball. They met about a foot from the plate. The infield jumped in three directions at once as the ball squibbed through the grass between the mound and third. Bitru cornered it and fired a strike to first. Diving, Lajoie’s fingers barely touched the sack ahead of the throw. Tres Speaker singled him to third, and then stole second himself.

It ended there.

There was a wild howl from Lucifer’s bench as players poured champagne on each other and sacrificed bulls and rams (we suspected they tossed a couple virgins in the fire too, but we could never prove it). I just sat there, head hung low.

“We were close, son, real close. And they’re worried, too! We should a’ won that one!”

I looked up. Merl was talking to me but looking at Cobb. No words come to mind to describe what he must’ve been feeling. There was something so pathetic about the way he looked, it gave me pause to wonder where Uncle Merl fit in all this. The players milled about talking amongst themselves, but no one spoke or even looked at Merl.

“So much greatness, but no damned common sense or respect for others!” The old man put a hand on my shoulder and pushed himself upright. “C’mon, boy, let’s git back to the bar and grill. You got some writtin’ and we got some plannin’ to do. Can’t afford to drop two in a row to these guys.”

I spied Keeler, Brudder and the rookie Cy Young standing by home plate and I wandered off in that direction. They were examining the new ball. Keeler saw me and waved me into the group.

“Hey, boys, watch your language, here comes the press!” I smiled and poked my nose into the conversation. Damn, fellas, sorry about the game, I—”

Young cut me off. “Sorry? About what? We had us a great game! Some of us ain’t played in seventy years! And this new ball…”

“Yeah!” Brudder interjected. “Why, I’d bet you a team could hit mebbe thirty of these, right out a’ the park in a single season! Did you see that thing hop when it hit the plate? Like it was shot from a gun!”

“Plate?” I repeated. “Dan, I saw it! The ball you chopped was nowhere near the plate! It had to be two or three…” I saw Keeler grinning. “What?”

“Not, home plate, kid, THE plate! About two hours before the game we buried a manhole cover about four feet across right in front of home plate. We were still stompin’ it down when you got here today! Man-O-Man, when that ball smacked down on it, it was like hittin’ on concrete! C’mon, let’s find Merl! I can use a beer!”

* * *

In 1903, American League President Ban Johnson moved the Baltimore Orioles to Manhattan. They changed their name to the Highlanders. For the next ten or fifteen years, they climbed up and down in the standing as they struggled to find a team identity. This continued until their name was again changed and they became the New York Yankees.

I’m not certain, but I believe it had something to do with a couple of dragons, an old magician, and a guy with the ridiculous name of ‘Babe’. And years later, when Boston found it could not support two professional baseball teams, the woefully bad Boston Braves, I do believe, got shipped out to the town of Baltimore… and again became the Orioles.

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