UNCLE MERL'S BAR & GRILL
GAME FIVE:
There Was a War
“If you were drinking as long as us, you’d be ‘fuzzy’ too!”
By
Peter "Lou" D'Alessio
Copyright 2010
Pete and the Boys, 20th Century Newark
"It may have very well been one of the most astonishing displays of game control to grace the annals of baseball history! A historic, unprecedented string of Herculean hits and fielding tenacity on the part of the furred and feathered adversaries is truly... a remarkable occurrence. Not even the all-encompassing fielding and base running of agile Jackie Robinson could inspire this predominantly Dodger team to slow the procession of horned hitters across the plate..."
Max swung around in the seat. “Wad d’hell is that schmendrick in the bad rug and ugly jacket talkin’ about?”
I looked up from my paper to the black and white Dumont television screen looming above the bar. “Who? Him? Howard up there? He said we just had our asses kicked, big—time. We’ve lost two in a row—one more and we’re gone!” I looked over at Campy. I had the feeling he wasn’t quite certain that my translation was accurate.
“He said dat? Chris’sake, we had a bunch a’ women, a dozen 4F’ers and a one-armed outfielder for most of da game! An’ we played ’em tight for almos’ two innings…” Campy looked back at the screen. “…an’ den they beat our brains out!”
I reached for the pitcher and just nodded affirmatively to no one in particular.
It was a dismal game, and only the appearance of Jackie Robinson on the field kept it from turning from a shame into a sin. For me though, the infamous fifth game did have a thrill. I got to watch Pete Grey of the Saint Louis Browns play. He’d lost an arm in a childhood accident and, thanks to the war, had still made it to the majors. He’d played about a year and had 234 at bats with only 11 strike out.
However, unlike the First World War, the second one had decimated the ranks of professional baseball. Hank Bauer of the Yankees had been snatched by the Marine Corps and was a Raider in the South Pacific. Hank was both wounded and decorated. The Corps liked his caliper of man so much, they went out and hired Ted Williams, Boston’s Splendid Splinter, to fly for them. Hell, they liked Ted so much they asked him back for Korea! But they all had gone. Yogi Berra, Bob Feller, Warren Spahn… the benches had been emptied.
Durocher hadn’t had a lot of top quality talent to pick from. Hell steamrolled over Leo’s bunch of military rejects, women professionals—anybody who could even vaguely be considered a player—and were beaten down by Hell on the rampage. For seven long innings Hell used us for batting practice. It wasn’t until Jackie Robinson and other players from Branch Rickey’s Dodgers took the field that things begin to turn around. Damn, we even put runs on the board starting when Jackie did what Cobb couldn’t—stole home! But the most impressive post war player was the fellow Leo ‘The Lip’ brought in as a reliever. In 1934, an exhibition game was played in Japan. A young Japanese High Schooler, Egie Sawamaura, had struck out Lou Gehrig, Jimmy Fox, Charlie Gehringer… and Babe Ruth. Egie had gone down with his ship during the war, but definitely rose to the occasion, striking out four of the six batters he faced. But it was all, as they say, too little, too late.
There was a spiritual darkness settling over the bar. Outside of Crazy Al (you remember him, don’t you? He started all this!) and his fiancé—who had opened an all-night tax consulting office in the corner between bouts with the Budweiser clock, and spurring a whole truckload of H&R Blockhead jokes—we were all pretty out of it. We were down to our last strike. The darkness around us was heavy and stifling and it floated like a dark cloud—over one man, in particular.
Doc Boreese hadn’t said all that much since the realization that he’d been set up. He was on an emotional roller coaster, rising and falling with every inning played. This afternoon’s loss had left humanity sitting on a razor’s edge and, while no one was blaming him for anything, he was acting most human, which, as I learned from his apprentice, was not a natural state of being for him.
Push come to shove, I can’t say the dragons were doing that much better. That Cobb-thing had really bent them out of shape, and despite the fact that there was absolutely no way Cobb was getting into another game, they were all jumpy as a herd of kangaroos. They had seen Merl in action. Campy couldn’t escape the feeling it wasn’t over yet.
I guess it was getting to me, too. I didn’t notice Merl slipping in behind me and quietly start tending bar as I shook my head at Howard on the screen over the bar. “Don’t get so tense, ma’friend. Didn’t figger we’d get that one. There was a war!” Merl walked out from behind the bar with a pitcher and sat next to me.
“Merl,” I mused, not looking over at him. “I don’t understand. It seems our team rises and falls with what’s going on in the world.”
“Good observation, but ya got it backwards! Thas’ why I ain’t worried ‘bout t’morrow. We’ll win.”
“And you can be sure of this, how?” Doc Boreese had materialized from his corner and was standing over our table dejectedly, beer mug in hand. Merl smiled calmly up at him.
“Sid’down, Doc. Dis here conversation is right up your alley!” The aged hunter slid into a chair. I kind of felt he really didn’t want to be here. “Doc, you of all people should know, we will win tomorrow. The universe has no choice; it’s got to balance! Good and evil…must balance! Now! If dis was the final game…”
There was an expression of stark realization sweeping across Doc’s face like the Golden Horde across China. He began to shudder, like he had just stepped out of a nice warm shower into arctic tundra. “There has to be a seventh game!” he sputtered out.
I looked over at Uncle Merl. The old boy had rocked back in his chair and was sitting there with his hands folded on his stomach.
“Yup! And if I was you boys, I’d hurry down to Hell’s gate and place a few bets! Easy Money. Real Easy Money!”
Did you ever see dragons stampede? As I heard it, Max talked them into five to one odds!
