A Midsummer Madness

by Guy Franks

  (He writes on the back and hands it to Speed.)

  Speed

  ‘It takes one to know one’. Hmph, what’s that mean, you’re both bastards? Brotherly bastards? The Battered Bastards of Bastogne? In your case—let’s see, you both played for the Birmingham A’s, right—‘The Battling Bastards of Birmingham’.

  Burton

  Clever. Don’t you have laundry to do?

  Speed

  I do and my first load is your dirty mind.

  Burton

  Good luck with that.

  Speed

  I’ll need extra strength Cheer.

  Burton

  Out!

  Speed

  Fare thee well, gentlemen. I’ll deliver your D flat to Bennie and the Jets… Yo, Junior, find the Ultra Cheer.

  Shake stood up and playfully drummed his chest. He was feeling good about the universe. (One touch of nature makes the whole world kin.) “Let’s get the troops going on their indoor drills or let them go to the gym,” he said. His post-game report to the big club was going to be a short one and he wasn’t sure how he was going to explain the benevolence of the baseball gods. “Meet you over at The Mermaid at, what, five? First pitcher’s on me.”

  “Works for me.”

  “Sounds good.”

  “Which reminds me,” Shake added, looking at Burton. “Did you talk to Hamilton about listening to his radio in the dugout?”

  “Yeah. Didn’t know Ivy Leaguers could be such knuckleheads.”

  “What’s he listening to? Mozart?

  “No, talk radio I think. Anyhow, I told him to cut it out.”

  Shake nodded and sat back down at this desk to start on his game report. His coaches left to motivate the troops. Pitchers with off days would toss underneath the stands; those who wanted could hit off a tee and take instruction from Larkin or Kalecki; the rest would head to the local gym to run through their customized work-outs. It was their job, even on rainy days.

  The local press popped in to get a few quotes. Orson was with them. Shake had noticed that young Kent was taking a keen interest in the fledgling career of the journalist student—what was his name? Balt. Anyhow, Shake gave them their quotes and finally finished up around four-thirty and headed out to the parking lot under his umbrella. He stopped when he noticed a bunch of people gathered around one of the refreshment stands that sat underneath the bleachers. Curious, he walked closer and saw Rex who beckoned him over. Rex had opened up one of the taps and was giving out free beer to his employees.

  Rex handed him a freshly poured cup of beer as he walked up. He raised it in thanks and looked around at the others. They consisted of concessionaires, parking lot attendants, ticket-takers, and general gofers, all of them young, underpaid, but happy with their job and even happier to be getting free beer from the boss.

  “Here’s to the rain,” toasted Shake.

  “To the rain,” they all echoed back cheerfully. Shake took a sip and looked at Rex. The old man looked downright chipper. But it was unusual for him to open the beer tap like this. He did it once or twice in a season and never this early in the year. He must be feeling lonely, concluded Shake, and as that thought settled in he noticed that everyone was looking at him in anticipation. Of course, a quote. It was expected, like Chardonnay samples from a winemaker.

  I would I were in an alehouse in London!

  I would give all my fame for a pot of ale, and safety.

  They laughed and cheered his quote and Shake smiled in return and looked back to Rex. “What’s the occasion?” he asked.

  “None. Felt like it,” he replied, then thought about it some more. “Didn’t feel like going home. Plus it’s nice and cozy down here.”

  Shake had to admit it was nice and cozy under the bleachers and out of the rain. Up above them the rain pelted the aluminum benches and made it sound like heavy applause. “And the beer makes it even cozier,” he said with a smile. He paused a moment before deciding to jump into it. “I saw Corey the other day.”

  Rex’s brow darkened and he walked a few steps off. Shake followed him.

  “She looked good—a little skinny—but she looked good. She asked how you were doing.”

  Rex stared down into his beer without responding. Shake wondered if he should push it. The old man was touchy at times, even volatile, and one had to tread lightly. Baseball trivia worked to break through or sometimes a common cause. In this case he’d try Ronald Reagan.

  “I told her you were still everyone’s favorite S.O.B.” He noticed Rex crack a grin at that so he pressed his advantage. “But what do I know about daughters, right? God spare me from daughters. Look at Reagan. What’s his daughter’s name, the one who took her mother’s name—Patti Davis. She just published another book trashing her dad. Makes him out to be a terrible dad. You’d think he’d disown her but, no, he still loves her and she’s still welcome in the house. But it must be tough on him.”

  “Yeah, must be.”

  “Maybe it’s Nancy. Maybe she keeps it all together.”

  “Maybe… Moms are good for that,” said Rex, his voice trailing off. And with that, he poured his beer onto the ground and shifted suddenly into boss mode. “That’s it. Drink up, let’s go,” he barked at his young employees. “We got work to do. We got a game tomorrow.”

  The employees jumped up as though jolted by an electric shock. Some downed what was left of their beer while others followed their boss’s lead and poured it out, many of them glancing accusingly at Shake at the sudden turn of events. Shake felt momentarily like a villain—one minute they were all enjoying a fresh brewski under the stands, nice and cozy, and then he comes along and it’s back to work.

  “I know what you’re trying to do,” said Rex locking eyes with Shake. “I get it. But it’s best to stay out of my private affairs. We all have our problems. Don’t we? I have problems with my daughters and you’re pushing fifty with no wife and no kids. We all have our fatal flaws. Don’t we, Glover? So don’t try to fix mine and I won’t try to fix yours.”

  Shake wilted a bit under the millionaire’s hot stare and staccato delivery. The old man had mastered his technique and knew how to effectively put an underling in his place. But this wasn’t the first time that Shake had been dressed down by some bigwig owner and he quickly regained his composure. “Do, kill thy physician, and the fee bestow upon thy foul disease.” he replied evenly. “Thanks for the beer.”

  On his drive over to The Mermaid Tavern, Shake replayed his talk with Rex in his head. It was unfortunate. Usually the round-a-bout way worked with Rex but not this time. With the rain-shortened win he’d been feeling rather pleased with himself but this whole Rex encounter put a damper on it. It was like going 3 for 3 only to strike out in the ninth with the winning run on base. And what was with this whole “fatal flaw” thing? Yeah, he was pushing fifty. No wife. No kids. That was not a fatal flaw; that was a conscious choice. Where’d Rex get off calling his life choices a fatal flaw? But the more he thought about it the damper his mood got.

  His mood lightened once he stepped into The Mermaid. Burton, Benedict, Larkin and Kalecki were sitting at the back table. A small cheer went up from the Kingsmen fans who hung out in the tavern. Don the bartender waved at him and Lucy, who stood next to the till counting out twenties, smiled at him. Shake immediately forgot about the whole Rex thing. It was like coming home and stepping off the bus after a long grueling road trip.

  When he came up to the table, Larry and Bernie were already going at it.

  Larry

  Shake, thank god you’re here. Save me from this harpy. She’s trying to tell me that we’re bachelors—you and me—because no decent woman will have us.

  Bernie

  I didn’t say Shake—I said just you.

  Larry

  ‘Just me’. Hmm, you still got a thing for me, don’t you? />
  Bernie

  You’re like the clap. Easy to catch and hard to get rid of.

  Larry

  You’d know about that better than me. But why suffer; they have pills for that.

  Bernie:

  What? Valium, Zoloft, Prozac? I’ve tried them all and you’re still here. And my point was this—Shake, don’t listen to him—my point was this: you’re still a bachelor because no woman in her right mind would have you.

  Larry

  Then thank god for right-mindedness. Hallelujah for it. Ever seen a bull with a ring through its nose? That’s a wedding ring. Not for me. No, no, sweetheart, not for me. That’s your dream.

  Bernie

  You got it wrong, Mr. Benedict. I’ve got the same opinion of marriage you do. I’d rather hear a dog bark than hear a man say he loves me.

  Larry

  Well, if a man did say he loved you, he’d be barking up the wrong tree. But, hey, stay that way. If you did get married you’d just end up scratching his face.

  Bernie

  In your case it’d improve your looks.

  Larry

  Listen to you. If I had a car as fast as your mouth I’d win the Indy 500.

  Claiming victory, Bernie laughed and walked off. Shake settled into his chair and poured himself a glass of beer. Larry watched his adversary walk away with a sly grin on his face. Rick leaned back and chuckled while Bob took his hat off, rubbed his head, and looked at the three of them.

  “Never seen anything like that,” said Bob. Obviously he’d been waiting to get something off his chest. “Have you?” he asked them. “That storm just sat there like it was waiting on us. Weird. And if Goff doesn’t miss that bunt we probably end up zero-zero.”

  “Yeah,” replied Teddy. “He gets the bunt down and it’s one out with a man on second. They walk Burks to set up a double play and probably get out of the inning.”

  “Don’t forget Estrella’s blast to center,” added Rick. “Hoffman tags and goes to third, Burks with his speed takes second. Now you have two outs but two men in scoring position. Who knows what happens then.”

  “Estrella doesn’t hit that ball to the track,” said Shake. “You can’t say that.”

  “Oh, here we go again,” laughed Rick. He was referring to the ongoing debate he and Shake had about chance and fate in baseball. Shake called it the “Ron White Fallacy” which referred to a player and a game they had managed together back in Bristol. In that game, their player was called out on an attempted steal of second even though it was obvious to everyone he was safe. The next hitter Ron White singled to right. It was Rick’s argument that if the runner had been called safe, White, who was destined to get a hit, would have singled him home to win the game. Shake disagreed. If the runner had been called safe at second, everything would have changed—strategy, pitch selection, positioning—and that would have made White’s single less probable.

  “I’m just saying,” countered Shake. “Everything changes and nothing stands still. Jose doesn’t get the same exact pitch there with a man on first and second and maybe he hits it out or grounds out or misses it. ‘You can’t step twice into the same river.’”

  “Is that Shakespeare?”

  “No, some old Greek guy named Heraclitus.”

  “But that was weird, right,” insisted Bob. “How does that storm just sit there and wait until we complete an official game?”

  “The baseball gods,” said Rick.

  Each man nodded solemnly. They each knew about the baseball gods and fervently believed in them in the same way test pilots believed in gremlins. They explained the unexplainable. And they had learned at an early age, even back in little league, how to appeal to those baseball gods. Outsiders called it superstition but any ballplayer worth his OBP knew better. You didn’t step on the foul line because the baseball gods didn’t appreciate perfectly-drawn fouls lines stepped on. You didn’t mention a no-hitter because the baseball gods were just waiting for some nitwit to mention it so they could thwart it. Out of spite. It was the reason why, during a hot streak, you sat in the same place, ate the same food, and wore the same underwear. It was the reason why Wade Boggs ate chicken and Richie Ashburn slept with his bat. It was to appease the baseball gods.

  Rick’s statement about the baseball gods had attracted Lucy’s attention and she came over and sat down with them. She didn’t normally sit down with Shake and his pals, or with any of her patrons for that matter, unless it was for something that caught her fancy. The baseball gods caught her fancy. She knew about them because Shake, a little stoned one time, somberly told her about them. He cited game six of last year’s World Series as proof of their existence. Denkinger blows a call at first and the Cardinals unravel, losing a game and a series they should have won. Lucy didn’t need convincing since she lived in a world where unseen forces were constantly manifesting themselves. He also told her about curses, and she had looked into the matter herself to confirm that there were three active curses in baseball: Boston, Chicago and San Diego. The Red Sox and Cubs knew they were cursed. The Padres didn’t.

  “What’s this about the baseball gods,” she asked, settling down next to Shake. She wore a white and lavender dress with a v-neck that showed off the ornate pentagram that hung from her neck.

  Shake explained what had happened during the game, highlighting the strange behavior of the storm. When he was done, she rested her hands on the table and smiled knowingly at the five of them.

  “It makes perfect sense,” she said. “There’s a lot going on today and you just need to be attuned to it. For one”—and here she patted Shake’s hand—“Taurus is ascending. It’s also the Waxing Half Moon which is a time when energies are most conducive to action. It’s a good time for magic, for things outside you, which is why that storm stayed back.”

  “Good magic for us, bad magic for Bennie,” laughed Bob.

  “There’s someone you could put a curse on,” said Larry. “Have you ever put a curse on someone?”

  Lucy stared at Larry, considering his question. She finally answered: “Yes, when I was younger… My last one was on Richard Nixon… But no more. It’s negative energy.”

  “Well anyhow, here’s to the baseball gods,” said Bob hoisting his glass.

  “One word of advice,” warned Lucy, her eyes taking them in one by one. “Don’t talk too much about them… lest you want their attention.”

  Each in his thoughts sipped slow and took heed, at Lucy’s warning and her witches’ creed.

  9

  CHAPTER

  But for my sport and profit

  Othello

  Monday started a three game set against the Waterbury Indians. Game time was 7:05pm. Leading up to first pitch were the typical rhythms and movement of an awakening ballpark. The parking lot opened at 3:30 and the ticket windows at 5:00. Galahad the mascot usually wandered into the stands around 6:45 and started doing his shtick and taking pictures with kids. The umpires and managers met at home plate at 6:55 and the National Anthem played at 7:00. Unless of course it rained, then all bets were off. It was Rex’s job to call the game (“bang it”) on account of rain before the umpires and managers met. After that it was the umps’ call.

  Wrapped around this timeframe was Shake’s schedule. For night games, he was usually up by 8:00 in the morning and put on his gym clothes. After pouring his morning jo and grabbing a bran muffin, he jumped in his car to drive over to Gold’s Gym for a work-out. Shake spent a half hour on weights then finished with a strenuous forty-five minute work-out on the treadmill where he read the sporting section of the Herald and scoured over the box scores. After a shower and shave, he changed into street clothes and usually ran errands—the store, the bank—before ending up in his office at Beehive Stadium around noon where he finished up paperwork then suited up at 1:30. He met with the players and personnel he needed to meet with, often t
imes talking to the Director of Player Development on the phone, then headed out to batting practice at 4:15.

  Batting and infield practice were routines that ran like clockwork and Shake watched and listened. Occasionally he offered a tidbit of advice but for the most part he let his coaching staff run the show. Monday was no different. The field had dried out nicely over the day and the groundskeepers had done a great job in getting the field ready for tonight’s game. Shake walked around like a home inspector looking for puddles or soft spots but didn’t find any. A loud whack of the bat caught his attention and he watched a ball sail high over the left field fence. Estrella was in the batting cage, and hitting coaches Larkin and Kalecki stood nearby admiring his swing. Shake walked over to them.

  “Three hours a day,” he heard Bob say.

  “I heard it was six hours a day, seven days a week,” replied Teddy.

  “What’s that?” asked Shake.

  “Jose’s work-out regimen in the off-season,” answered Teddy. “I heard it was six hours a day.”

  “That’s a lot a time in the gym,” said Shake. “But it sure paid off.” They all watched as Estrella crushed another pitch over the centerfield wall.

  “He may end up in Phoenix before the all-star break.”

  “I talked to Lefebvre the other day. They’re already carrying three catchers but he’s definitely got their attention.” Shake’s voice trailed off as he watched another soaring drive.

  “Hey, Larry!” yelled Kalecki out to Benedict who was throwing batting practice. “Give him a breaking ball!”

  Larry raised the ball in his pitching hand to acknowledge Kalecki and threw Jose a lollipop curve. Jose tattooed it high over the left field wall and up into the bleachers. Players around the cage playfully oohed and aahed. “Check that bat,” said one. “The ball’s juiced,” said another.

  “Something’s juiced and it ain’t the ball,” whispered Greg Rosecrans into Dane’s ear. They were in the second group waiting to hit and stood off from the rest.

  “What makes you so sure?” asked Dane, keeping his voice down. “He’s got all those supplements in his locker. It could be protein shakes and hard work.”