by Paul Haven
Neither Canova nor Ruffian gave an inch. The first three innings passed without so much as a base hit.
As ball boy, Danny's job was to run out after a Sluggers player hit the ball and retrieve the man's bat and helmet. When someone fouled a ball back into the screen behind home plate, Danny would run out and get it.
It was incredible fun, but it wasn't rocket science, and it left Danny plenty of time to go over strategy with Biggins.
“This book shows how each of my boys does against Ruffian and all the other Tornado pitchers,” Biggins explained, opening a loose-leaf folder filled with statistics.
“It tells me where they're likely to hit a curveball, what they might do with a fastball in on the hands, whether they prefer right-handed pitchers or lefties,” he went on, pointing to a series of graphs and pie charts.
“Wow,” said Danny. “That sure looks complicated.”
“It is,” the manager huffed.
In the bottom of the fourth, Boom-Boom Bigersley ripped a single to right, and P. J. Planter came to bat with a chance to do some damage.
“Whaddaya think we should do now?” Biggins asked Danny after he'd retrieved Boom-Boom's bat and helmet. The manager tilted his playbook so that Danny could see the rows of statistics. “He's got a forty-two percent chance of hitting the ball to left field. Should I tell Boom-Boom to steal second or have P.J. bunt him over?”
Danny thought for a moment. This wasn't the type of strategy he was best at.
“I think we should all turn our caps inside out and put them around backward,” Danny advised the manager.
Biggins gave Danny a hard look. Then he flipped closed his book and nodded to the players on the bench.
In no time at all, every player on the team had turned his cap around and inside out. They were quite a sight, and more than a little off-putting for the allbusiness Tornadoes.
“You know, on paper you've got to give the Texans the edge in pitching, hitting, fielding, strategy, and experience,” Mandelberg said. “But the Sluggers definitely have them beat on good vibes.”
“Yeah, and of course we've got Danny Gurkin,” said Santana. “I'd say all in all, it's about even.”
But the hat stunt wasn't enough to faze Ruffian. He fooled Planter on a mean split-fingered fastball, getting him to bounce into a feeble double play to end the inning.
“Sorry,” Danny said to Biggins.
“Don't sweat it,” the manager shrugged. “Half of my ideas don't work either.”
The frustration in the Sluggers' dugout grew with every pitch from Ruffian. Fastballs, change-ups, and curveballs shot past the helpless batters and thudded into Mungo McBust's waiting mitt.
A sigh went up from the bench as Sam Slasky struck out with two men on in the fifth, ending the team's best chance of the night. Slasky stalked back to the dugout and kicked the watercooler.
On the other side of the field, Canova's sparkling performance was starting to get to the Tornadoes as well. They questioned every call from the umpire. They stalled at the plate, stepping out of the batter's box just as the rookie went into his windup.
In the top of the seventh, Gus Schlays broke his bat over his knee after striking out for the third straight time. He hurled the broken handle toward the mound, catching Canova in the cheek.
In an instant, the Sluggers rookie had Schlays by the shirt, and both teams were piling out onto the dugout steps. Medley pulled Schlays and Canova apart as Biggins and Tornadoes manager C. J. Le Swine rushed out to calm their angry players.
Fists clenched, the teams growled and turned back to their seats.
“The frustration is starting to boil over down there,” Santana said.
“We're still scoreless after six and a half innings,” Mandelberg said. “It's hard to see how either team is going to break through.”
Danny stuck the Kosmic Kranberry to the roof of his mouth as Tito Calagara came to the plate in the Sluggers' half of the seventh. He split it in two and stuck the pieces on the end of his tongue.
“Base hit!” Mandelberg shouted.
Ruffian flared his nostrils and screamed in Swedish as Bruce Minsky stepped to the plate. The veins on the pitcher's forehead were bulging and his eyes were red.
“Yikes! That can't be good for your health,” Santana said.
Minsky ground his feet into the dirt, then stared out at the crazed pitcher.
“Strike one!” yelled the umpire after a ninety-six-mile-per-hour fastball.
The next pitch was the same as the first, only a little bit faster.
“Strike two!”
Minsky stepped out of the batter's box and took a deep breath.
“Hit it, Bruceeeeee!” a little girl yelled from just behind the dugout.
“You're the man, Minsky!” her grandfather screamed from the seat next to her.
Minsky stepped back in and glared at Ruffian. He pounded his bat against the plate.
Whoosh!
The ball shot off Minsky's bat and up into the air. It soared out past the left fielder and toward the outfield wall. Fifty-five thousand heads swung toward the outfield as Minsky stumbled to first.
“That ball is way, way back,” Mandelberg said. “It's going, going …”
“Gone!” Santana yelled as the ball disappeared into the stands. “A home run for Minsky. The Sluggers lead two–nothing! How about that!”
A joyous cry went up from the stands, and the stadium shook as people in the crowd leapt into each other's arms. Ruffian slammed his glove against his hip as McBust ran out to talk to him.
As the Sluggers took the field for the top of the eighth, the atmosphere at the stadium was electric. The team was closing in on its first-ever play-off victory against the Tornadoes, and there was no room for error. Danny knew exactly what to do.
He told the Sluggers bench to stretch their arms out in front of them and waggle their hands like zombies. Then he had the entire team cross their legs left over right, then right over left.
For C. J. Le Swine, it was the last straw.
The Texas manager marched out to home plate to complain to the umpire about the Sluggers' antics.
“It's not right,” Le Swine insisted, his enormous beer belly jutting out toward the umpire. “Them boys are trying to put a hex on us. We don't appreciate it one bit!”
Biggins shot out of the Sluggers' dugout to argue his side.
“I've been in this game for most of my life, and I tell you there is nothing in the rule book that says what we're doing is illegal,” he said calmly.
The umpires huddled together, but Biggins was right.
In the entire 208-page Official Rules of Baseball, there was not a single mention at all of zombie hexing, synchronized leg-crossing, or putting your caps on backward in the dugout being illegal.
Le Swine trudged off the field mumbling to himself.
In the stands, fifty-five thousand rowdy fans greeted him by waggling their arms like zombies.
The Sluggers couldn't come up with any offense in the bottom of the eighth, and the score remained 2–0 as the final inning opened.
On the mound in place of Canova was Baxter Ore-juela, the Sluggers' best relief pitcher.
“The Tornadoes are down to their final chance,” Mandelberg said. “It doesn't get any better than this. This is why we pay our taxes, go to work, drink lots of milk, and look both ways before we cross the street. It's for moments like this.”
The crowd was on its feet. Danny paced in front of the bench. Biggins got up and abruptly sat back down.
Leopold Doberman, the Tornadoes' ninth-place hitter, was up first.
“Popped him up!” Mandelberg exclaimed. “One away.”
Gus Schlays was up next. A rumble went up in the stands as the fans stomped their feet.
Schlays's bat barely moved as Orejuela threw three bullets right down the middle of the plate.
“Struck him out!” screamed Santana, struggling to be heard over the din. “Two away!”
�
�If only Orejuela can hold on …,” Mandelberg said as Tucker Riesling stepped to the plate.
Smack!
The ball sprang off Riesling's bat, zipped through Orejuela's legs, and bounced into center field for a single.
The crowd gasped.
“Oh, boy, that was a shot,” Santana moaned.
“Two outs, one on. Baxter's got to be careful here,” Mandelberg said. “The tying run is coming to the plate, and just look who it is.”
Rocco Barnworthy stood in the on-deck circle, swinging his bat ferociously. He had been hitless in three at bats against Canova, and he was looking to make amends.
He kicked the dirt in the batter's box slowly, ignoring the cascade of boos from the stands around him.
“I hope Rocco bought some earplugs with all that money Diamond Bob is paying him,” Santana said sourly.
Barnworthy fouled off the first two pitches, then watched as Orejuela threw the next three in the dirt. The count was full at three balls and two strikes.
Danny held his breath as Orejuela released the ball.
“And down the line it goes!” Mandelberg groaned. “Color me purple! That's going to be a double. Oh, doctor, how about that? Men on second and third. This is way too close for comfort.”
The crowd fell silent as a lusty cheer erupted in the Tornadoes' dugout. Orejuela bit his lip and stared straight ahead.
“It's all on the line here, Wally,” Santana said. “Top of the ninth, a century of hope on Orejuela's shoulders, and Mungo McBust coming to the plate.”
McBust strode out toward the batter's box, but he didn't stop there. The Tornadoes' catcher stalked halfway out to the mound, pointing his bat at Orejuela ominously until the umpire came out to stop him.
Danny couldn't watch. He closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around his body, then pushed the Kosmic Kranberry into the gap between his two front teeth.
“Don't give him anything to hit! Don't give him anything to hit,” Danny murmured to himself.
But Orejuela didn't hear him.
The pitch was straight down the middle, and McBust crushed it. It shot over the outstretched glove of Boom-Boom Bigersley and out into right field as Riesling raced around to score.
Winning Streak Stadium held its breath as Rocco Barnworthy rounded third and headed for home. Out in right field, Thelonius Star gobbled up the ball and came up ready to fire.
“Barnworthy is flying in with the tying run!” Mandelberg screamed. “Here's the throw from Star!”
The ball shot out of the little right fielder's hand on a beeline toward home plate. It bounced once on the soft infield grass and plunked into Chico Medley's mitt, just as Barnworthy slammed into him with the force of a freight train.
The two men collapsed in a cloud of dust.
“Safe or out? Safe or out?” Santana whispered urgently.
The hulking umpire crouched intently over the two men as the dust cleared.
Barnworthy lay on his front, craning his head toward the umpire. Medley lay on his back, his mask in the dirt beside him. His face was streaked with sweat and grit.
Slowly, Medley lifted his giant arm in the air.
A hush fell over the stadium, and the players froze on the dugout steps as Medley opened his mitt. Clutched firmly inside was a gleaming white baseball.
“Y'ER OUT!” screamed the umpire, punching his fist in the air as the stadium shook with joy.
“I can't believe what I just saw!” Mandelberg's voice boomed out of the dugout television. “Two to one! Two to one! Hell has frozen over. My dog is a cat, and the Sluggers have taken the first game from the Tornadoes! The Sluggers win!”
Danny hadn't heard a word of it.
He and the rest of the team had already poured onto the field to celebrate.
The Lost Years of Lou Smegny
Somewhere in the frigid tundra of northern Canada, not far from the Arctic Circle, lives a tiny tribe of fishermen whose people have never once heard of the Sluggers and couldn't tell you the difference between a run batted in and a reindeer.
What they could tell you about, assuming, of course, you were fluent in Nabutee, their native tongue, is the famous day 1,296 full moons ago when a painfully stooped young man with wild eyes and a cardboard box full of chewing gum showed up outside their ancestors' igloos.
The Nabutee people called the man Seeyamoora, which means “One Who Turns Up Unexpectedly.” He had clearly been through some terrible ordeal, and he was taken in by the tribal chief without question, in keeping with the local custom of hospitality.
The man was given the finest health care nineteenth-century Nabutees knew how to render. Basically, a warm blanket, a raging fire, and an extra-large helping of breaded fish sticks, the greatest delicacy in the Nabutees' rather limited culinary repertoire.
The fish sticks didn't improve the man's posture at all, and they did nothing to stop his eyes from jiggling about in their sockets like beach balls bouncing on the nose of a seal. But the Nabutees' generosity was enough to keep him content, and he remained with the tribe for the next thirty-six years.
In that time, Seeyamoora built a home and learned to speak the Nabutee language, but he never revealed the terrible secret that had brought him so far from his own people.
In fact, he didn't mingle much at all, and for their part, the Nabutees were content to let the young man keep to himself.
Sure, they were intrigued by the fact that See-yamoora had hardly aged a day in all the time he had been there, but foreigners were a strange lot, and it was extremely impolite in Nabutee culture to pry. In any event, the Nabutees had enjoyed a string of remarkably prosperous fishing seasons since Seeyamoora arrived, and as their chief quite wisely pointed out, there was no reason to rock the canoe.
Poached Eggs and Disbelief
If game one had been a disappointment to Diamond Bob, game two was a disaster. Time after time, Vince Spagu's knuckleball fluttered into Chico Medley's mitt like a bat flying home in the night.
He threw 153 pitches in all, and when the last of them floated past Mungo McBust, the Sluggers had a 6–2 victory and a 2–0 series lead. They were halfway home!
All over town, the same unthinkable thought began to form in the minds of Sluggers fans, a whisper in the brain, a low murmur just south of consciousness.
This could be our year!
Thoughts were flooding through the minds of the Tornadoes players as well. They were a confident team, but some were starting to wonder.
How could the Sluggers play so well? How could the invincible Tornadoes lose to a team of fallen monks and nineteen-year-old rookies? How could a former supermarket clerk throw such an elusive knuckleball?
Diamond Bob knew the answer, of course, and he was darn sure he was going to do something about it.
“It's Danny Gurkin!” he sighed from the presidential suite of the Château Regency the next morning as he, Truffaut, and Hickock munched on a breakfast of poached eggs, warm croissants, apricot marmalade, and fresh-squeezed orange juice.
The food was remarkably expensive, but it caught in the throat. All in all, the three men would have much preferred burritos. They resolved to order in from the House of Tacos from that moment on.
Even down two games to none, the mood at the Château Regency was not desperate. The oil tycoon had many ways to fight back, not all of them entirely legal. After all, you don't get to be an oil tycoon without bending a few rules along the way.
The contract for Danny Gurkin's loyalty lay on the table between the three men, and Diamond Bob looked over the numbers one last time.
How much was too much for the most valuable fan in history?
The businessman grimaced as he held the contract up to the light. Then he took out a pen and added another zero to the end of the figure his general manager had come up with.
“That ought to do it,” Diamond Bob said with a sigh. The amount was so staggeringly big that Truffaut and Hickock nearly spat out their food.
“There's …
no way … he can turn that down,” Hickock stuttered, struggling to force the last bit of croissant down his throat.
“We shall see,” said the oil tycoon. “We shall see.”
A Special Invitation
The letter inviting Danny and his parents to be honored at the ballroom of the Château Regency came on the afternoon after the Sluggers' game two victory. It did not have any postage on it, and there was no number to call to RSVP.
“Hmmm,” said Lydia Gurkin. “This must have been slipped under the door.”
The letter made clear that the award, sponsored by the Diamante Group Ltd., was for the entire Gurkin family, even Max. The ceremony would begin in less than three hours.
Lydia called Harold at work and both agreed it would be a good idea to attend, even though neither of them had any idea what the Diamante Group Ltd. might be. It certainly looked important, judging by the invitation.
“It's pretty quiet here today anyway,” Harold Gurkin said from Frompovich headquarters. The campaign had ground to a halt during the play-offs. It was simply a waste of time to try to get the mayor's message on jobs and health care out to a city that was completely consumed by baseball.
When Danny, Max, and their parents got to the lobby of the opulent hotel that evening, the manager directed the Gurkins down a marble hallway.
“Right through there,” he said formally, gesturing toward two large wooden doors. “The Marie Antoinette Ballroom.”
Harold Gurkin pulled the doors open and was surprised to find the enormous room nearly completely dark. There were dozens of round tables, each laid with fancy silverware, and there was a dais set up at the front, but there didn't seem to be anybody on it. The Gurkins stood in the entrance of the great room and peered around.
“Maybe we're early.” Harold shrugged as Danny, Lydia, and Max gawked up at the large crystal chandeliers.
“Not at all,” said a deep Southern voice from out of the gloom. “You are exactly on time.”
