by Paul Haven
The Offer
Harold led his family through the ballroom, pushing aside the dinner chairs as they navigated their way around the tables. As they got closer to the front of the room, Danny could make out the silhouette of a tall cowboy hat. The man under it was sitting on a chair between two other men, and he had what looked like a briefcase in front of him.
“Mr. and Mrs. Gurkin, I presume,” said the man in the ten-gallon hat, rising to greet them. He extended a meaty hand adorned with the largest diamond ring Danny had ever seen.
“And you must be Max,” the man added in what he hoped would sound like a grandfatherly tone. “We do our homework, you know!”
The entire Gurkin family stood and smiled at the wealthy-looking gentleman.
Everyone, that is, except Danny.
His eyes were trained on the two other men at the table, one large and sweaty, the other small and weaselly, with a dark goatee. Where had he seen them before?
“Let me introduce myself,” the wealthy man continued, taking off his hat and holding it against his chest. He made sure that the sparkle of his diamond ring found its way into Harold's and Lydia's eyes.
“My name is Bob,” the man said at last. “Bob Honeysuckle the Fourth to be precise. I brought you here to talk about your very clever son.”
Harold, Lydia, and Max Gurkin's jaws dropped at once.
“Not the Bob Honeysuckle the Fourth?” Danny's father said slowly. “Not … Diamond Bob?”
Here was the living incarnation of everything that was wrong with baseball, everything that was wrong with the planet, everything that was wrong with humankind! Here was the man who—along with his forefathers—had snuffed out the hopes and dreams of Zechariah and Ebenezer Gurkin and countless other Sluggers fans through the ages.
“The one and only!” Diamond Bob grinned. It was almost amusing to see the shock on the faces of the Gurkin clan. Power really was a fun thing to play around with, Diamond Bob thought.
The two other men at the table sat beside their boss with painted-on smiles. The smaller one was wiping something off his mouth, and the larger man had what appeared to be a fast-food wrapper clenched in his fist.
Danny narrowed his eyes and took a closer look at the wrapper. It was crumpled up in a ball, but the writing was unmistakable:
HOUSE OF TACOS read the yellow and brown lettering.
Danny's mind was whirring. The diamond-studded hood ornament on the black car. The strange license plate, DB-IV. The burrito wrappers.
It was all starting to make sense.
“Hey, you're the two guys who have been following me for the past three weeks!” he blurted. “The guys who eat all the tacos!”
Harold and Lydia looked alarmed, but Diamond Bob chuckled dismissively.
“Oh, we don't like to use that word,” he laughed, waving his hands in the air in front of him. “Let me introduce Mortimer Hickock and Calamity Truffaut. My employees haven't been following you, Daniel. They've been scouting you. They've been trying to find out what you're made of so we know whether you are the type of young man we'd want … in our organization.”
“In your organization?” Lydia Gurkin said. “I don't understand.”
Diamond Bob turned to Danny and smiled.
“You see, Danny, the Tornadoes are in the market for a lucky fan, and … well, we like your stuff. We think it's time you brought your talents to a professional outfit.”
Danny couldn't believe what he was hearing. Root for the Tornadoes? Forsake the Sluggers?
Danny turned to his parents.
It was preposterous. It was ridiculous. It was … a lot of money.
Harold and Lydia Gurkin were both staring at a piece of paper that Calamity Truffaut had taken out of his boss's briefcase and placed on the table in front of them. In particular, their eyes were drawn to a dollar figure in the center of the page.
The number was as long as a centipede and many times more beautiful.
“I think you'll agree it's a most generous offer,” Diamond Bob said, leaning back smugly in his chair.
Moment of Truth
“Are you nuts?” Danny growled between clenched teeth, only faintly aware of the loud gulping noises his father was making next to him, like the sound a fish makes when it's plucked out of the water.
“Now, son,” Mortimer Hickock interjected. “You should weigh your decision carefully. Don't rush to judgment. A boy has to think of his future at a time like this, isn't that right, Mr. Gurkin?”
“Mnnh,” said Harold. He was still staring at the contract, grabbing his shirt collar in an effort to let more oxygen into his lungs. Lydia's brows were furrowed.
“I'll root for the Tornadoes for that kind of money,” shouted Max. “Take me!”
“Shut up, bonehead!” Danny yelled.
“That's very kind of you, kid, but we want your brother,” said Diamond Bob. “I'll give you five dollars if you wear a Tornadoes cap. How about that?”
Max looked crestfallen.
“Let me get this straight, Mr. Honeysuckle,” Harold said. “You'd be willing to give my son all that money just to be a Tornadoes fan? All he would have to do is root for them?”
“It's unusual, I know,” Diamond Bob said. “But it all makes sense if you think about it. We see Danny as a sort of free agent, just like Rocco Barnworthy or any other great talent. In fact, your son will be the first free-agent fan in big-league history, and it's about time, don't you think?”
Harold Gurkin stared at Diamond Bob but didn't say anything.
“But I don't want to root for the Tornadoes,” Danny protested.
“Want, want, want.” Diamond Bob chuckled. “What is want? Do you want a fancy new bike? Do you want every video game known to man? Do you want a private plane? These are not matters for an eleven-year-old to consider on his own. That's why I've invited the entire family to this little meeting.”
“But our family has rooted for the Sluggers forever,” Danny said.
“Not forever,” Diamond Bob corrected. “Just a long time. My family used to sell saddles door-to-door, but now we're exceedingly wealthy oilmen. You see? People change.”
Diamond Bob twisted his enormous diamond ring around his finger, shooting a cold beam of light into Harold Gurkin's eye.
“He has a point,” Danny's father said.
The idea of rooting for the enemy made Danny sick to his stomach, but he had to admit it was an awfully large amount of money. Max certainly didn't seem to have a problem with it, and even his father appeared to be bending to the idea.
“Even if I wanted to do it,” Danny said, “it's impossible. I hate the Tornadoes. I'm a Sluggers fan. How can I root for a team I hate?”
Diamond Bob leaned back in his chair and let out a hearty laugh.
“Oh, children really are precious,” he said, glancing from Harold to Lydia, who were both smiling nervously. “Danny, do you think I expect all of my employees to love me, or to love the Tornadoes? Of course not. That's why God invented a little thing we call money.”
“He sure did,” said Harold. His voice was soft, and his eyes were still fixed on the contract.
“Why don't we give you and your parents a few minutes to talk it over in private. We'll be right over there,” Diamond Bob said confidently, rising to his feet.
“We don't have to talk it over,” Danny said, but he felt a tug on his shoulder.
“Danny!” his father said sharply. “Why don't we sit down.”
Diamond Bob and his assistants walked to the corner of the ballroom and huddled together as the Gurkins took places at the table.
Danny looked from one member of the family to the other.
“Danny, I'm as big a Sluggers fan as the next man,” Harold Gurkin whispered. “But that is a heck of a lot of money. It would pay for your college education, and we could buy a big apartment, a nicer car, take a very long vacation.”
“Yeah, and I could drop out of school and start my own rock band,” Max said breathl
essly.
Danny turned to his mother.
“It's up to you, Danny” she said. “Whatever you decide, we're with you.”
Danny glanced down at the contract on the table. It was a lot of money!
He thought of the fading black-and-white photo he kept in his room of a young Zechariah Gurkin crying in his seat behind home plate after the Sluggers missed the play-offs in 1907. The umpire had called their last player out on strikes before the opposing pitcher even delivered the pitch.
Then Danny remembered the photo of his grandpa Ebenezer giving a thumbs-up sign from his hospital bed after a brush with frostbite from sitting too long in the snow-covered bleachers in 1934, waiting for the season to resume.
He thought about poor Manchester Boddlebrooks keeling over in the locker room after the Sluggers' only championship, and of his evil brother, Skidmore, and all the damage his greed had caused.
“Just look what happened to him!” Danny thought. After he lost his empire, Skidmore was forced to go to work on the assembly line of the Ball-Park Mustard Goo Conglomerate he had once owned. He retired a broken man, moving to the only elderly community in Florida where gum-chewing was strictly forbidden.
Danny looked up to see Diamond Bob sauntering back to the table. The oil tycoon snapped his cell phone shut and smiled while Hickock and Truffaut stood motionless at their boss's shoulders.
“Danny, you tell Mr. Honeysuckle whether you'd like to accept his offer,” Lydia Gurkin said.
Danny turned to the oil tycoon and said the most honest thing he could think of.
“I'd rather eat my shoes.”
Friendship Follies
Molly and Lucas were just turning the corner onto Wyatt Avenue on their way to school the next morning when Danny caught up to them. He couldn't wait to tell them about Diamond Bob!
“Hey! I haven't seen you guys forever,” Danny said quickly, catching his breath. “You're not going to believe what happened to me last night.”
The two friends turned around slowly.
“I can hardly wait,” Molly said flatly; then she turned to Lucas.
“Maybe he got picked to star in a Hollywood movie,” she said.
“Or maybe he saw a flying saucer,” Lucas offered.
“Maybe he was elected president of the United States,” Molly suggested, putting her finger on her chin thoughtfully. “No, I think I would have heard about that already.”
“Ha, ha, ha,” Danny said. “No. Seriously, you'll never guess. I met Diamond Bob Honeysuckle the Fourth. The Diamond Bob Honeysuckle the Fourth! And I told him I'd rather eat my shoes!”
Molly and Lucas stood and listened as Danny told them the whole story.
“That's great, Danny,” Lucas said. “That's really cool.”
“Yeah, that's really cool,” Molly said.
There was a long pause. Molly pulled on the strap of her backpack and Lucas looked down at his feet.
“Hey, Danny, I've got to run,” Lucas said, turning around abruptly.
Danny turned to Molly.
“What's eating him?” he asked.
“Well, Danny, it's not exactly like you've been around much lately,” Molly said.
“What do you mean?” Danny replied. “I've been busy, you know.”
“Yeah, I know,” Molly said. “So busy you never call, you never meet us after school, you never invite us to parties at stupid Briny Anderson's house.”
Danny looked down at the ground. He knew she was right, sort of, but he didn't want to admit it, not even to Molly.
He was busy! It's wasn't easy being the good-luck charm for an entire city!
When he looked up, Molly was staring at him sharply.
“So busy that you've never even told us what happened at the Boddlebrooks mansion?” she added.
“What are you talking about?” Danny replied defensively.
“I saw your face when you came out of that study,” Molly said. “You were white as a sheet. It isn't like you not to mention it once in all this time, Danny. How did you get away from Mr. Sycamore? What did you see in there? What did you find in there?”
Danny gulped.
“Nothing,” he said meekly.
“Don't tell me, then,” Molly huffed.
She turned to walk away but suddenly whirled around to face Danny again.
“Just remember, Danny—I'm the one who showed you the article about the Boddlebrooks mansion. It's my father who made you famous,” she said, pointing at her chest. “I wish I'd never told you about that stupid house in the first place!”
Home-Field Advantage
Like any good businessman, Diamond Bob had a backup plan, and the minute his jet hit the ground back in Texas, he set the scheme in motion.
“If we can't steal the Sluggers' lucky kid, we're just going to have to take luck out of the equation,” he explained to his board of directors at an emergency meeting that very morning, slamming his fist down on the table.
“That little pest won't be here for the next three games,” Diamond Bob continued. He had made sure of that by banning the Sluggers from bringing their own ball boy into his stadium. Just to be extra cautious, he'd bought up all the empty seats and posted photos of Danny at the entrance with instructions to turn him away if for any reason he did show up.
“I'd like to see them deal with what I've got planned for them without him!” Diamond Bob snorted. Then he whipped out a notepad and began ticking off the list of measures he wanted implemented immediately.
“I want a strong set of eyes out in center field, I want the balls taken care of, and we'll need to order up a few cases of petroleum jelly,” said the oil magnate, looking up to make sure his executives were taking good notes.
“I want the bench in the visitors' dugout lowered to a foot off the ground, and I want all the water in the Sluggers' locker room trucked in especially for the occasion,” Diamond Bob went on, pausing for emphasis.
“Preferably from a river near one of my oil plants,” he added. “We need the dirtiest water we can find.”
The plan worked to perfection.
With a spy perched out in the scoreboard behind center field to steal Chico Medley's signs in game three, the Tornadoes' batters knew exactly what was coming, and they crushed nearly everything thrown at them by poor Barr Randall, the Sluggers' starting pitcher.
“This is like watching a Wiffle-ball game,” Wally Mandelberg commented.
“Yeah,” said Santana. “And Randall's the ball!”
Every pitch thrown by Tornado pitcher Stagwitt Jones was spiked with a dollop of Vaseline, just enough to make the ball dart through the strike zone at unpredictable angles, without being spotted by the umpires. He was completely unhittable, and the Sluggers lost 11–0.
By game four, nearly every Slugger had come down with stomach cramps from drinking the runoff water from Diamond Bob's Tierra Quemada refinery, and their knees ached from sitting on the ridiculously uncomfortable bench he'd installed.
They came to the plate barely able to lift their arms, and one by one they trudged away in dismay.
In the top of the eighth, with the Sluggers already losing 6–1, Boom-Boom Bigersley struck out so feebly that even he gasped in disbelief.
“That's the worst effort I've seen out of Boom-Boom since he broke his vow of silence,” said Mandelberg.
On the way back to the dugout, Bigersley doubled over in pain. He felt as if a locomotive had run through his stomach.
“The Sluggers must not like this Texas air,” Santana offered. “They don't look like themselves at all.”
“Maybe it's just a matter of things evening out,” said Mandelberg. “I mean, this is one heck of a good Tornadoes club. Maybe the Sluggers are just getting outclassed. It certainly wouldn't be the first time, Bullet.”
“Wally, I really hope you're wrong about that,” Santana replied. “And I hope that somewhere out there, Danny Gurkin is watching. Get that boy some hot dogs, pronto!”
Of course Danny wa
s watching, and what was worse, he had wasted his second-to-last piece of Kosmic Kranberry during the game three loss. There was just one piece left, and Danny decided to save that for the Sluggers' return to Winning Streak Stadium. The boys would have to win game five on their own, or there wouldn't be enough gum to get the team over the hump.
In his luxury box, Diamond Bob was beside himself with joy. He slapped his ten-gallon hat against his hip and hollered into the night sky.
As the fans at Tornado Stadium cheered below him, the oil man flipped a latch on his enormous diamond ring. Inside was a faded black-and-white photograph of his beloved great-granddaddy, the original Diamond Bob Honeysuckle.
How proud he would be!
“Old man, you ain't seen nothing yet,” Diamond Bob mumbled under his breath.
The Gurkin Sours
It was hard to figure out exactly when things started to fall apart. Was it the fight with Molly and Lucas? The thrashing the Sluggers took in games three and four? The way Danny lied when Molly asked him point-blank what he saw in the Boddlebrooks study?
Whatever it was, Danny felt as low as a snake, both about the Sluggers and himself.
What was worse, his confidence was completely shot.
Why had he wasted his second-to-last stick of Kos-mic Kranberry on game three? How would he get the Sluggers two more wins with just one stick of gum left? Why had he taken his two best friends for granted for all these weeks? Why did he have to be such a big jerk?
The newspaper headlines on the morning after the game four collapse didn't help Danny's mood any.
BOY WONDER? the Herald Times read.
HOT DOG, HOT AIR! the Morning News blared.
THE GURKIN SOURS! screamed the back page of the Daily Bugler. Danny hated pickle jokes, but this was really the lowest.
On WBUB's Morning SportsBeat, callers speculated about why Danny and the Sluggers were failing so miserably.
“The boy's lost his touch,” said a banker named Fred.
“He's become caught up in the fame,” said a grandfather on Jackson Avenue.
