by Bill Turpin
“The Cobra has already humiliated him once over this,” she says. “Now, you’ve set him up for a second humiliation. Believe me, if he loses the game for us, it will be a very bad day for him.”
As if the conversation weren’t going badly enough, Max remembers that he gave the Wife’s spot on the roster to the Cobra. He makes a mental note to tell her before the game.
The Cobra is a repeat visitor in the newsroom for the next two days, gathering each player’s statistics and working out a game plan. Max is unhappy at this. Worse, Max’s staff likes the unusual attention from the top guy and join in enthusiastically. It’s like they’re cheating on him. Each time their eyes meet during these visits, the Cobra gives Max a carefully calibrated look as if to say: “Why aren’t you helping, Max? We’ve got a big game coming up.”
Game day is perfect. Each bench has a chilled two-four under it and the air is full of the sounds of softballs smacking into mitts and hardwood bats. The Political Reporter has already opened a beer. Max, who has barely retained his position as team manager, surveys the scene and notes that each team has brought a ringer to the field.
The CBC guy is tall and well-built. Tight curls of brown hair form a dark halo around his head. He has a thick beard that almost covers his cheekbones. His eyes are hidden behind silvered sunglasses. Within 30 seconds of his arrival, Max’s team has dubbed him the Yeti. But Max isn’t laughing because the Yeti is casually swatting softballs out of the park, one after another.
The other ringer, undeniably, is the Cobra. He’s in right field with a few others from the team, shagging fly balls. Despite his comic-strip build, he is moving around the field with grace and speed.
Max recognizes this as a sign of a true athlete, someone whose abilities you haven’t imagined possible until you’ve seen them close up. This happened once in Montreal, where Max was playing first base on a team that had mistakenly entered an elite tournament. The first hit that came Max’s way was a waist-high line drive, easily within his reach. But the ball was close to breaking the sound barrier. Max, who had no idea someone could hit a ball that hard, calmly elected to watch it go by rather than risk an injury trying to catch it.
“Hey Max! Wake up!” the Cobra calls cheerily from the right field fence and fires the ball toward the edge of the cage where Max is standing. He looks up just in time to see the ball land three feet in front of him and bounce into his mitt. Max has players who can barely throw the ball from base to first. The Cobra flashes a smile and, for once, it appears to be genuine.
“Look alive, Max!” he hollers.
The CBC is the home team, so the Paper bats first. Max leads with the Copy Boy and, on a hunch, pencils in the Cobra as clean-up. This meets with the Cobra’s approval. The rest of the lineup is immaterial.
The Yeti is pitching for the CBC. His warm-up throws are low and straight — fastball style. Every other player on the field, with the possible exception of the Cobra, is accustomed to high, looping pitches.
Max walks over to the CBC manager, a well-known on-air “personality” with perfect hair, something regarded in newspaper circles as a tragic defect.
“Sorry, Max,” he says. “There’s nothing in the agreed rules to stop him.”
“Where did you get this guy, anyway?”
“He’s the building electrician. I had no idea he liked baseball.”
Bullshit, Max thinks.
“Play ball!” the umpire yells, and the Copy Boy lumbers awkwardly to the plate.
The first pitch, like the warm-ups, zooms by the Copy Boy’s kneecaps, hard and straight. He does nothing but look at it.
“Strike one!”
“Atta boy! Atta boy!” the Cobra yells. “Wait for one you like! Wait for the one you like!”
In softball, everything has to be said twice.
The Copy Boy lets a second one go by.
“Just make contact. Just make contact,” the Cobra yells. Then he turns to Max and says quietly: “Look, he’s relaxing. I think he likes fastball pitches because they come in straight rather than falling in front of him.”
The next pitch is high and inside. The Copy Boy doesn’t flinch.
The following pitch is exactly the same as the first two, but the Copy Boy makes contact with a ferocious swing that startles all onlookers. The ball heads straight for the Yeti himself, who is unprepared for it, and connects with his ankle.
Yelling and throwing his arms in the air, the Copy Boy ambles to first base.
“I think we just got a break,” the Cobra whispers to Max.
“The poor guy’s ankle might be broken,” Max says, trying to sound concerned as the Yeti writhes on the mound.
“Don’t bullshit a bullshitter,” the Cobra says.
“Okay. As long as he doesn’t die, I’m fine with it.”
The Cobra offers his second genuine smile of the day and puts a hand on Max’s shoulder as he leans in for a collegial moment.
“He’s okay, but he won’t be able to pitch off that foot. I don’t think he’ll be able to field well, either. They’ll move him to first base just so he can keep hitting. If he can hit half as well as he did in warm up, that’s all they need.”
That’s exactly what happens, and the new pitcher throws lob balls. The Paper gets another man on base before the Cobra gets his chance. Max marvels at his long torso and wonders if it affords extra strength at the plate.
The Cobra answers the question by blowing the first pitch onto the adjoining diamond and strolling casually around the bases. The overjoyed Copy Boy and the rest of the team are waiting for him at home plate.
Max starts the Copy Boy as pitcher, figuring that all the extra motion entailed in delivering a pitch will drive the CBC batters crazy. It does, except for the Yeti, who is batting clean-up for his team. Injured as he is, he is barely able to clear the fence with his first homer and limps around the bases.
The inning ends when the CBC hits a high fly over the right fielder’s head and the Cobra journeys all the way from left field to catch it.
For the bottom of the second the Cobra, with Max’s agreement, moves to centre field, where he can more easily back up both of the other outfielders. Even from there he can be heard chattering at the batters: “Humm-batta! Humm-batta! Pakka-pakka-pakka.”
Fortunately for all, only Max realizes that “pakka” is Cobra-chatter for “fudge-packer.”
The Cobra and the Yeti continue to exchange home runs. The only thing that varies is the number of runners on base. In the fourth, the CBC batters figure out the Copy Boy and score a couple of extra runs. Max and the Cobra swap the Copy Boy for the City Editor, who had been playing right field in a tennis skirt. This is of no concern because the Cobra has demonstrated his ability to cover pretty much the whole outfield. Max tells him to cheat a bit to the right, just in case.
The Paper is ahead by two going into the last inning. But the CBC scores a run and then gets the tying run on base when the batter is hit by a pitch. The offending pitch has no velocity at all but the batter, a sports reporter, calmly lets it hit her on the shoulder before throwing herself violently backwards to demonstrate an attempt to avoid contact.
Max is furious. He bounds up to the umpire to protest: “She has to make a reasonable attempt to avoid contact!”
“She did,” the ump says.
“Yes, but she did it AFTER the ball hit her.”
“Way to go, Max. Way to go, Max,” the Cobra says.
“Take your base,” the ump says to her.
Max is furious. The Cobra sees that, runs in from centre field and drags Max away before things get out of hand. “Easy Max, baby. Easy Max, baby.”
With a runner on first and two out, the potential winning run limps up in the form of the Yeti. Max double-checks the line-up to see if it’s possible, and the news is bad. The Yeti, still favouring his ankle, settles in at the
plate. Max signals the Copy Boy to take a position at the very edge of the right field fence. The Cobra cheats a little more to the right and backs up.
The Yeti looks directly at Max through his silvered glasses and points with his bat at the Copy Boy, who looks every bit as helpless as he is.
As is customary, the Yeti smacks the first pitch. But the combination of his sore ankle and his attempt to hit the ball to his wrong side sends it high and short. The Cobra, who is way back, starts for the ball, but it’s going to be close.
At first, no one notices the lonely fielder out by the foul post. He starts in, shifting wildly from left to right, both of his arms waving randomly in the air, eyes fixed firmly on the ball.
The Cobra is faster, but the Copy Boy has a shorter line to the ball. They are on a collision course. The team yells at them with everything they have, but the two fielders are too focused on the ball to hear.
“I got it! I got it!” they both yell.
The Cobra, being an athlete, finally sees the problem. At first he moves to cut in front of the Copy Boy, but then he realizes it can’t be done, and cuts the other way.
Max is marvelling at the near miss when he hears a great howl from the Copy Boy. The howl continues, unbroken, as he races toward his teammates. It takes Max a moment to realize what’s happened: the laws of physics and chance have combined to nestle the ball firmly into the pocket of the Copy Boy’s glove.
He is still yelling “I got it!” as he crashes into his waiting teammates, who drop everything and carry him off toward a bar down the street.
Max and the Cobra are left to pack up the bats, balls and empty beer bottles. The Wife and the Son pitch in, too.
When it’s done, the Cobra is sitting on the bench, shoulders drooping, head hanging. Max, on the other hand, is enjoying the thrill of victory and actually liking the Cobra for the first time in his life.
“C’mon,” he says. “Let’s go celebrate! You’re the MVP! You’re the star! Geez, nine RBIs and six homers.”
He puts a friendly hand on the Cobra’s shoulder, but the reaction is cold.
“No, he’s the star,” he says, meaning the Copy Boy. “Let him have his glory.”
Max protests again, saying it’s a team victory.
“Thanks,” he says.
Max cannot fathom why the Cobra is so downcast. After all, the Paper won!
“It’s Saturday,” the Cobra says as he strides away. “I’ve got a lot of errands to do.”
Max turns around. The Wife and the Son are hand in hand, waiting for him.
Max gives them a “what’s his problem?” shrug.
“Because you got the lineup you wanted, the Cobra’s not the hero today — and he obviously needed that,” she says. “You can’t edit everything, Maxie.”
1995
His Excellency
Requests a Favour
“I’M NOT GOING to make His Excellency the Archbishop walk through your newsroom,” the Smiling Cobra hisses. “It’s bad enough you refused to go to his office.”
“We don’t have to explain ourselves to police, state, or church,” Max says. “If they want to discuss our content, they can come here.”
Max loves the walk to the publisher’s office. After working almost 15 years in a strip mall, he’s delighted by the Paper’s airy new building. And the Paper’s making money and employing 100 people.
Best of all, the Owner is giving Max most of the credit for the success, making him difficult to fire, something the Smiling Cobra still rabidly desires. Max secretly agrees with the Cobra’s analysis of their success: a growing population means a growing newspaper. Nonetheless, he graciously accepts any praise that comes his way.
When Max arrives, he sees that the Archbishop and his Assistant are already present. The Cobra sits nervously behind his desk, which bears a huge new nameplate saying simply PUBLISHER. The Assistant, wearing the requisite black shirt and clerical collar, has turned his chair to face the empty one intended for Max.
The Archbishop is beside him in a well-tailored grey suit. His face is fleshy and heavy-jowled. Oddly, his chair is set closer to the back wall, so that he isn’t facing anyone directly.
The Cobra does the introductions, repeating “His Excellency” as many times as possible. The Assistant leans back toward the Archbishop and mumbles unintelligibly. The holy man utters an equally unintelligible reply.
“Max,” says the Cobra. “As you know, His Excellency has come here to discuss a serious matter.”
“Father Peter,” the Assistant says helpfully.
“Ahh — Father Peter,” Max replies. “I thought as much.”
Max has no idea who Father Peter is.
The Assistant leans toward the Archbishop and mumbles again. His Excellency replies. Max is astonished to realize that the two clerics aren’t speaking English, French or the third language that Max would recognize, Spanish. The Cobra nods, apparently believing this is how things are done.
“His Excellency says there is a lot of gossip in Father Peter’s former parish.”
“Vous parlez français?” Max asks the Assistant.
Silence. “Habla espanol?” he asks.
“Father — I assume I should call you Father — may I ask which of God’s languages you and His Excellency are speaking?”
The two of them confer before the Assistant turns to Max and says: “Latin.”
“Have you given up living languages for Lent?” Max asks.
The Cobra, the Assistant and the Archbishop all flush with anger. In the case of His Excellency, this is an impressive sight. The two holy men engage in an extended conversation.
“The Archbishop is a holy man, Max,” the Cobra explains.
“There’s no shortage of them,” Max says. “What’s so special that we can’t speak English?”
“First,” the Assistant says. “This is not the Lenten season, although we suspect you know that. Second, His Excellency holds a deep distrust of the media, something you have just reinforced. By conversing in Latin, we can deprive you of a direct quote that you could use out of context.”
“But your translations are full and accurate, are they not?” Max asks.
The Assistant smiles: “Maybe. Maybe not.”
Max switches to French, annoying both the Cobra and His Excellency, but the Assistant doesn’t miss a beat. He translates Max’s French into Latin.
Got me, Max thinks.
In French, the Assistant explains that any coverage of Father Peter will do great harm to Catholics.
“For Christ’s sake,” the Cobra says. “Max, Father, whatever, would you please speak English.” Max smiles broadly. The holy men stare at the Cobra in silent rebuke. “Oh! Sorry, Your Excellency.”
The Archbishop resumes in Latin.
“His Excellency is concerned that coverage of this regrettable matter will undo all the good work Father Peter has done for Nova Scotia and Halifax, not to mention centuries of good work by the Church,” the Assistant says. “For example, we fear that the youth and gymnastic clubs Father Peter established will fail. Perhaps even more importantly, we are concerned that publicity in irresponsible journals will unnecessarily shake the faith of some parishioners, which would be very painful for them. Further, it has been dealt with in a most severe manner . . .”
Max raises an eyebrow, prompting the cleric to add that Father Peter has been sent to work with the poor under very difficult conditions.
“Where?”
“I am authorized to tell you that he is in Latin America.”
The Cobra is again nodding, satisfied at a job well done. Max is feeling less charitable. “I assume that by ‘irresponsible journals’ you mean this one. The one that I edit.”
Archbishop and Assistant confer in Latin. “Yes. That is correct. We believe society underestimates the effect the gutter pre
ss can have on people’s emotions.”
“Quite so,” Max says.
“Your competitor would never publish this story.”
“They know about it?” Max asks.
“They have known for some time,” the Assistant replies smugly. Both of the holy men wear the approving smiles reserved for newspapers that know how to co-operate for the greater good.
Again, the Archbishop speaks through his assistant: “We Christians have a saying: ‘It’s God’s job to comfort the afflicted, and afflict the comfortable.’ Are you a religious man, Max?”
“When I was six,” says Max, “my best friend explained that we couldn’t be friends because I was a Protestant and would burn in Hell. Then there was an unfortunate incident with a pencil. Since then, I haven’t been noticeably religious. How about you?”
“There is one more thing,” the Assistant says. “Father Peter is a good man whose fall from grace is punishment enough. And here, I speak only for myself, because it is a difficult topic. It has to be recognized that some young boys have dark hearts.”
“What do you mean, exactly?”
“Well, in some cases, they learn how to manipulate human weakness at an early age.”
“And . . .?”
“They can be seductive. They are often the predators, not the victims.”
Max realizes he has been unconsciously measuring the distance between himself and the Assistant. Half a step would put him well within striking distance.
“Yes,” he says, hoping the Assistant can hear the malevolence in his voice. “We all understand how seductive these young slatterns can be. No adult could be expected to resist their wiles.”
The Archbishop goes red, apparently on the verge of summoning the Devil. He whispers to the Assistant, who relays the message. “You so-called journalists are not careful about what you say and write. You don’t worry about consequences. If you are not careful, you may come to regret that.”
Max stands: “Indeed. Well, I’ll certainly give some thought to everything you’ve said, including the apparent threat you just uttered. By the way, your ‘affliction’ aphorism was originally about newspapers before being appropriated by some lay religious writers. And, for the record, I lean toward afflicting the comfortable.”