by Guy Franks
At least I’m on the interstate. A certain person here who I won’t mention, but who’s name rhymes with ‘blurry’ as in Kid Curry, is O for ten.
Scott
He needs a slump buster.
Tito
Sloomp booster? Que es eso?
Scott
Tito, stop, you’re killing me. Not ‘sloomp booster’. It’s sll-ump buss-ter. Slump buster. A slump buster is a fat ugly girl you pick up and screw to break out of your slump. Even Basset knows what a slump buster is.
Steve
Keep me out of this.
Tito
Ju-mean, puta grasa. Ahh, haha, sll-oomp boos-ter.
Luis
Close enough.
Chuck
Ahh, grounded out. Basset’s still got the lead.
Phil
Hey, check it out! The Dallas cheerleader is back.
“No way! Awesome!” came the replies as the pitchers moved as one out of the shade and over to the edge of the bleachers. Some brought their chairs to stand on. They gathered at the low point where the chain link fence met the stands and craned their necks and stood on tiptoes or chairs to see over into the crowd. The object of their interest was a beautiful blond in short-shorts and a halter top. She noticed them ogling her and waved back with a smile, causing them to collectively fall backwards as though staggered by a mighty punch.
Scott
Man, I’d love to get her on a slow boat to Bedford.
Phil
Come off it, dude. You couldn’t get to second base with her.
Scott
Sure I could.
Phil
No way.
Chuck
How are we defining ‘second base’ here? First base is a kiss but second base is what?”
Ken
Second base is copping a feel—under the bra, down the pants—copping a feel. That’s definitely second base.
Scott
Then what’s a blow job.
Phil
A homerun.
Chuck
No way. A homerun is penetration
Scott
No, no, a blow job is a homerun.
Ken
Quiet and listen to me. You might learn something. It’s simple: First base is a kiss. Second base is copping a feel. Third base is oral sex and a homerun is screwing. Third base can also be a hand job.
Phil
You just said copping a feel is second base, so a hand job is, by definition, second base.
Ken
No, copping a feel and getting a hand job are two distinctly different things. One is just a feel while the other one takes concentrated effort. It’s like warm-up pitchers versus the real thing.
Chuck
I don’t know. I think I agree with Cap. ‘Copping’ means they got their hand on it. They’re handling it. So handling can be the same as a hand job.
Ken
You’re not appreciating the legal nuances here. It’s a matter of duration and intent.
Phil
Okay, Matlock. Just admit you’re wrong.
Scott
They’re both right. I think a hand job is somewhere between copping a feel and a blowjob. That puts you like between second and third caught in a pickle.
Ken
Yeah, she caught your pickle all right. Listen, don’t ask me, ask Santiago. He’s the expert here. If anyone knows what third base is, he does. Tiago, tell them. What’s a hand job?
Luis
Third base. And that means Phil gets to third base with himself every night.
Phil
And you can go hit a homerun on yourself.
Tito
I find one! I find one!
Scott
What? What did you find?
Tito
A sloomp booster.
Chuck
No shit? Let’s see.
Scott
Me first.
Phil
Out of my way
Our boys stood on chairs and craned their necks, to confirm his find for slump-busting sex.
19
CHAPTER
The great thing about baseball is that there’s a crisis every day.
Gabe Paul
As the season moved into late July, the Kingsmen sat atop the Eastern League by seven games. Shake would have preferred a ten game lead but he’d take seven because he knew, barring a collapse, the New Haven Admirals in second place had little chance of catching them. He was just being objective—unflappably objective—like one of those great generals of the past who could step outside themselves and coolly assess their strengths and weaknesses against their enemies. Their pitching was too good. It was as simple as that. Nobody in the Eastern League had their pitching. So, short of a catastrophe, like Basset and Ellsworth and Santiago all getting hurt at the same time (and he knocked on wood when he thought this), their chances were excellent on finishing first and being the top seed in the play-offs.
And what did the top-seed in the play-offs buy you? Not much, he knew. You got home field advantage and were matched up in the first round with the fourth place team. At that point, anybody could get hot and win a five game series. Theoretically, you could finish the regular season up by twenty games and get knocked out in the first round of the play-offs. He’d seen it happen. They were sure to lose Basset to a September call-up, maybe even another pitcher, but everyone was in the same boat. His job and his coaching staff’s job, at this point in the season, was to keep their players sharp, in a groove, and minimize the risks of injury. If they got to September in good shape, he felt confident about their chances of repeating as champions.
Repeating as champions was not a thing Shake dwelled on. He would never tempt fate like that. That would have been hubris—pride before the fall—and as an English Lit major and a seasoned baseball manager he knew the dangers of hubris as well as a deep sea fisherman knew the signs of an approaching squall. If there was one thing he kept better than most it was perspective. And when it came to winning and championships, it was his hero the Bard that kept him grounded:
The painful warrior famoused for fight,
After a thousand victories once foil’d,
Is from the book of honour razed quite,
And all the rest forgot for which he toil’d
After their New York road trip, the Kingsmen faced the Pittsfield Cubs for a three game series starting on Tuesday. They won Tuesday and Wednesday and were going for the sweep on Thursday but drew their old nemesis Todd Clinton as home plate umpire.
Luis Santiago was pitching and looked sharp, but with Clinton behind the plate he was going deeper into counts and throwing more pitches. Shake and his pitching coach Larry Benedict watched Santiago closely. He was known to throw tantrums on occasion when things didn’t go his way. In the seventh, with a 3-1 lead, Santiago walked a batter who then stole second on him. He went 3-2 on the next batter and threw a beautiful slider that painted the outside corner for strike three. Only Clinton called it ball four and Santiago kicked the mound and screamed up at the sky.
“Go calm him down,” Shake said to Benedict.
Shake watched as Benedict jogged out to the mound to talk to Santiago. Benedict waved the other infielders off—he wanted to talk to Santiago alone—and only let Estrella listen in. Santiago nodded at Benedict’s words, glared over Estrella’s shoulder at Clinton, then nodded some more at what his pitching coach was telling him. When the visit ended, Shake could tell by Santiago’s body language that he was still angry.
“Come on, Luis!” yelled Shake. “Bear down! Let’s get two here!”
The first pitch was close for ball one. Santiago called his catcher out and they huddled together, talking with their heads down. Hamilton jogged over to join t
hem but they brushed him off. “Careless Whisper” by Wham started playing over the speakers. Finally Estrella walked back to home plate and got back down in his squat. He gave Santiago the sign and waited for the pitch.
It was a high fastball that Estrella short-armed, and it ticked off the edge of his glove and hit Clinton squarely in the mask. The sound of a ninety-three mile an hour fastball hitting metal shot through the stadium, and it was followed by a groan from the crowd. Clinton’s mask flew off from the force of the blow and he stepped backwards, stunned, then sat heavily down as though he’d just received bad news from the doctor. The other umpires hurried towards home plate.
“Shit,” exhaled Burton. “Down goes Frasier.”
Shake glanced at his pitching coach and they locked eyes. They were thinking the same thing. Back out on the field, the other umpires were bending over Clinton. Shake looked for his trainer and saw him talking with Rosecrans at the end of the bench. “Hey, Mike!” he yelled at him. “Get out there.”
Faust ran out to home plate and kneeled next to Clinton. At one point smelling salts were administered, and after ten minutes Clinton was helped to his feet and stood up shakily. He looked punch drunk and the crew chief ordered him to follow Faust into the clubhouse to get first aid. It took another ten minutes for the crew chief to don his gear and get behind home plate. They would go short-handed but the game would continue.
“If they did that on purpose, I’ll string ’em both up by their short hairs,” Shake said to Benedict.
Larry nodded in agreement but then shrugged his shoulders. “If they fess up,” he replied. “I doubt they will.”
With a new umpire behind the plate, Santiago got out of the inning without giving up a run. He returned to the dugout with a smirk on his face. Benedict walked over to Estrella to find out what had happened then came back to give Shake the story. According to Estrella, he got crossed up. He called for a curve and got a fastball and wasn’t expecting it. He blinked and it got past him.
“Right,” said Burton sarcastically. “So not the twinkie defense but the blinkie defense?”
Shake couldn’t help but laugh at that, which probably gave both Santiago and Estrella the wrong idea since they were watching him out of the corner of their eyes. “I’ll deal with them after the game,” he said simply and turned his attention back to the game.
They won 4-2 and back in the clubhouse he called Santiago and Estrella into his office. They still had their uniforms on and Santiago, with his jersey off, had an ice pack taped to his shoulder. Shake closed the door and cross-examined them at length but they stuck to their story. “How did you get your signs crossed?” he asked. Because we changed them, claimed Santiago. “Why?” Because we thought the runner on second was stealing signs, testified Estrella. That was the reason for the meeting on the mound, but the change mixed him up. His mistake, not Santiago’s. Shake listened patiently then delivered his summation. If he thought they were lying, he’d bench them. If he knew they were lying, he’d suspend them. A baseball traveling at ninety-three miles per hour could severely injure a man, ruin his career, or even kill him. They had no right to put a man’s life or career at stake. None. No matter who he was. And if they ever did anything like that again, mistake or not, he would run them out of professional baseball. Did they understand?
They nodded their heads somberly while still holding onto the look of innocent bystanders. He dismissed them and followed them out the door where he heard cheerful greetings and the kind of the commotion that usually surrounded a celebrity. It was Chili Leonard. The celebrated center fielder came up with a smile and shook his hand.
“How’s it shakin’, Shake,” he said.
“Can’t complain,” replied Shake, smiling back. “Come on in.”
Chili came into his office but could not help noticing the somber looks on the faces of Santiago and Estrella as he passed them by. “What’s that all about?” he asked cheerfully. “Thought you guys just won?”
“Nothing. Got a couple idiots playing assassin… Sit down, man. How’s it going? How’s the knee?”
Chili Leonard was the starting centerfielder for the big club, an eleven year veteran, and two time All-Star. He was in New Britain for rehab starts. His knee was far enough along that the big club wanted him to get some playing time in the minors to test its strength and get his timing back. The Kingsmen were chosen because the big club had an East Coast swing coming up, starting with the Mets, in little over a week. They were hoping that Chili’s stint with the Kingsmen would get him ready for the Mets and Shake hoped so, too. The players loved it when a big-timer came through on a rehab assignment but it never ceased to give Shake yet another thing to worry about. He loved Chili, but high profile rehab assignments were a two-edged sword. First, you got his talent but it disrupted the line-up. Second, if he was successful he went back to the big club ready to contribute, but if he got hurt again it was bad news all around and usually viewed as the minor league manager’s fault.
Chili said that his knee was feeling much better and he was ready for action. They talked a little more before Shake asked him whether he wanted to play centerfield or not. As baseball royalty, he had his choice.
“You got Prince in center, right? Let him be for now. Give me right. Maybe give me center for my last start. How’s that sound?”
“You got it,” said Shake as a thought suddenly struck him. “How well do you know Prince?”
“A little. He played the one season for us but I didn’t get to know him that well. Found him a bit immature.”
“Right. So you know the scoop on him. Five-tool player. Could be the next Chili Leonard. I’ve seen it—the speed, the bat control, how he closes on a ball. It’s all there except for the fire that burns. Know what I’m saying? He’d rather hang out with his buddies and get stoned than put in the extra work it takes to be great. I’ve tried to motivate him. I’ve fined him and benched him, but nothing seems to sink in. But maybe if it comes from a player like you—a veteran—it might make a difference. I’d consider it a great favor.”
“No problem, Skip. I’ll talk to him.”
“Appreciate that. Now, where you staying? At the Marriot?” He and Chili talked awhile about accommodations and a little about the upcoming series with the Waterbury Indians before they were interrupted by a knock on the door. It was Dane Hamilton. Introductions were made and Chili pardoned himself so the two could talk.
“You wanted to see me?” said Dane.
“Yeah, real quick. Got a question for you.” Shake didn’t expect to get a straight answer here. There was a code at work—a code he was very familiar with—and it was unlikely Dane would break it. “What were Santiago and Estrella talking about when you walked up to them in the seventh?”
“I didn’t catch it. Luis told me to get lost.”
“All right.”
“Whatever it was, they didn’t want me to hear.”
Well, thought Shake to himself, that was a little more than I expected. Hamilton was a smart cookie. He gave me the answer without breaking the code. “Okay. That’s all, thanks.”
“My mom will be here for the weekend. I’ll bring her by to meet you.”
“The Shakespeare buff. Love to meet her.”
When Shake walked into The Mermaid Tavern he noticed Todd Clinton and two other umpires sitting at a table eating burgers and drinking beer. He went up to Clinton and put his hand on his shoulder and asked him how he was feeling. Better, replied Clinton, and Shake said he was very glad to hear that. When he chose to, Shake could put on the charm as well as any talented diplomat, and he did so now. He addressed each man by his first name, asked about their families, and laughed heartily at their jokes. Through his ingratiating small talk, the table of umpires turned warm and convivial. Before parting, he got serious for a moment, put his hand back on Clinton’s shoulder, and explained the cross-up in signs that led to Clin
ton’s beaning. He assured them all it was not intentional and that he would never ever tolerate a thing like that. He was so relieved to see Todd was feeling better since the league could not afford to lose a professional and talented umpire like him.
Clinton looked up at him, genuinely moved by Shake’s words, and said thank you. Shake patted Todd on the shoulder and asked them what they were all drinking (“Bud”), and told them the next round was on him. “Come, gentlemen,” he quoted. “I hope we shall drink down all unkindness.” And with that he left them in good cheer.
At their round table he found all his coaches. Bernie was there standing behind Benedict rubbing his shoulders. Larry had his head down, clearly enjoying the massage. Rick wanted to know all about the confab at the umpire’s table and Shake filled them in. This led to a discussion about targeting—intentional beanballs, spiking and collisions—that each of them had performed or witnessed over their careers. Bob had once seen a center fielder take out his right fielder, whom he hated and owed a substantial gambling debt to, by streaking after a fly ball to right and putting his head down at the moment of impact, breaking the right fielder’s ribs in the process. This topic grew into a larger discussion as to what sport had the worst targeting. Hockey won hands down.
Dark Lucy stopped by and stood next to Shake. She said hi and asked about the game while putting her arm around him and playing with his ear. This mildly surprised him given they had not talked in a while. He brought his arm down off the table and slipped it around her hips. When she was done listening to the game report, she tugged Shake’s ear lobe—the signal—and went upstairs.
Shortly thereafter, Rick and Teddy went home to their wives. Bob met up with his live-in girlfriend and Larry wandered off somewhere with Bernie. Shake sat alone at the round table and thought about what awaited him at the top of the stairs. Mostly trouble, he thought. There was intent and determination in her manner, and what she wanted was nothing less than to have his heart on her pewter platter. The smart move would be to go home, he told himself. But he knew himself better than that… Such is the simplicity of man to hearken after the flesh.
After the grand ritual of the knock, the drink, the impassioned quotes and the rambunctious sex, he found himself in a familiar position—that of lying on his side in bed watching her roll a joint. She was naked and sat cross-legged and reverently performed each step in her fixings as a priest does the Eucharist. She licked the paper and sealed the joint, then lit it and took a deep drag before handing it to him.