A Mound Over Hell

by Gary Morgenstein

  She’d scolded, wagged her fingers, threatened.

  “No comprende.” Satan’s Spawn had shrugged innocently.

  Should’ve just left her. She could find Puppy alone. Oh no, how could she call herself a sibling if she broke a promise to a pregnant woman. Sometimes she just really hated life and all those people who made it possible.

  “Don’t look,” Annette warned. Clary growled softly. She’ll eat me if she’s hungry, Annette decided, frantically looking around, the two Miners getting closer. She nearly pulled Clary off the ground hurrying through the crowd, angrily mumbling apologies.

  “Tren.” Clary hopped up and down, pointing.

  Annette whispered hotly, “Speak English. Spanish is illegal.”

  “Tren, stupido.” She tapped her head and made a loud horn noises; pedestrians smiled at the charming girl with the fat bandage on her cheek.

  “Tren. Train. Where?”

  Clary clucked disgustedly and dragged Annette into a milling mob shuffling towards the train station a few blocks away. She tried pushing through, but they were jammed. Two New York-bound trains filled up and rumbled away; maybe they moved five feet. The Miners were having better success; their cold murderous eyes were clearly visible.

  Clary’s mouth curled in a thoughtful sneer. She suddenly ripped off her bandage, shouting, “Jesus Christo, beisbol, hurry, hurry.”

  People stared uneasily at Clary’s scar, stepping aside.

  They lost the Miners and made it to the entrance, where Clary turned her face right and left and up and down; as soon as someone frowned or gasped, she darted forward into the gap, Annette ducking and crouching to keep up until they joined the mass of walking talking baseball memorabilia boarding the train.

  “Good girl.” Annette smiled.

  Something hard pressed into her back.

  “Now you be a good girl and come with us,” the Miner whispered, his comrade jabbing a gun into Clary’s spine.

  “Let the girl go.” Annette didn’t know where such brave words came from.

  The Miner laughed meanly. Clary glanced over her shoulder, her expression scaring Annette.

  “Puppy Beisbol.” Clary waved her Yankees cap. “Viva la Yankees.”

  Nearby fans picked up the chant.

  “Viva la Puppy.” Clary faced the puzzled Miner, who carefully slipped the gun back into his pocket.

  “Viva la Puppy,” Annette joined in.

  Two tall, thin twins in homemade Yankees jackets lifted Clary off the ground and picked up the chant. A conga line formed, snaking and chanting and barking towards the train ten feet away.

  A couple Blue Shirts looked on, laughing.

  “Guns, polizia, guns.” Clary yelled and pointed at the Miners. “Guns. Shoot Puppy Beisbol.”

  There was a second or two where everyone froze, trying to understand.

  “They’re Miners,” Annette screamed.

  Now the cops rushed forward, the muttering crowd closing around the Miners. They started running before they were smothered by fans.

  “Viva Puppy Beisbol.” Clary triumphantly brandished her cap as they squeezed onto the train, which slowly chugged away. A voice announced that Monticello would be the next stop.

  Annette gave Clary a respectful smile. “Where the hell do you come from?”

  “Barcelona.” She curtsied and nodded at the conductor trying to collect fares. “Billetes de tren.”

  Annette frowned. Damn.

  Clary reached for a wallet sticking out of the pocket of a sweating man in a Red Sox t-shirt. Annette distracted the guy with a big flirtatious smile.

  41

  Although it was still four hours to game time, Ty was already stomping in and out of his office grumbling about a bunch of irresponsible lazy players who couldn’t get to the stadium on time. He’d made it through the cars and soldiers and marching bands and dancing coloreds and whites, shoving past the dopey-eyed gawkers outside staring at the new Yankee Stadium sign.

  Just wait until they re-do Tiger Stadium. Or Ty Cobb Park, as that Kenuda promised. For a licensing fee; Ty had already begun the negotiations with the Big Commish. He gets one lousy salary for managing and playing? And him hitting .331 which was pretty good for someone dead almost 140 years. Endorsements, too, Ty had tossed that onto the table. That lousy funeral home paid shit. Puppy didn’t care about the money, just the glory of playing. Mick was happy to be sober.

  But he was the Georgia Peach. He was gonna make it back in spades. Another fine expression you couldn’t say anymore.

  He listened at the door. The lockers had finally stopped creaking, though spikes scuffed impatiently. Someone slapped a hand into their glove. A ball rolled around. Cobb waited another few minutes and re-checked the balance on his Lifecard to make sure no one was cheating him.

  “Thanks so much for coming, girls and boys and whoever.” Ty sneered, leaning against his door frame in mock surprise. “The Cubs are already out there.”

  Cobb walked to the middle of the clubhouse and placed his right foot on a stool, hunching forward as if there was a fuse at the base of his spine eager to be lit.

  “Tonight’s a big deal so everyone says. Ain’t that right, Puppy?”

  “It’s more than a game, skipper.” He regretted that cheeky answer.

  “More than a game.” Cobb smiled blandly. “Just a bunch of people who ain’t got nothing better to do.”

  “I meant the significance…”

  “Oh, yes. Our famous pitcher who’s won a grand total of fifteen games in his big league career is going to speak on the goddamn significance. Number Seven, want to tell them about significance?”

  Mantle rubbed his right big toe. “Like the World Series, Ty?”

  “Yeah, that’s a good one. Real championships. The World Series. Not the bullshit dreamed up here with the whole country losing its mind because lights go on or some soldiers are getting another medal. Real wins and real losses.”

  Cobb squinted deeply into Puppy’s face; he was afraid to blink.

  “But tell us all about tonight’s significance, Puppy. Tell us how it’ll change what fucking pitches you throw since you can only throw one.” He whirled on Jackson. “Or you fat boy. Tell us how the significance will change the way you block the famous pitcher’s pitches from rolling to the backstop.

  “How about you, girlie?” Cobb spun around, glaring at Shannon. “The significance of tonight gonna change the way you chase the curve ball off the outside corner every fucking time?”

  Someone chuckled.

  Ty cupped his ear. “What’s that I hear? Laughter? You’re laughing before a game of such significance?”

  The team lowered their eyes.

  “That’s right, assholes. Tonight you’re going to do the same shit you’ve been doing all season long except better because I ain’t gonna be embarrassed on a night of such significance. Anyone not understand?”

  Vern slowly raised his hand. “Is this considered a pep talk, skip?”

  Ty threw the stool at Jackson, who barely ducked.

  “Now on your knees, girls and boys and everything in between, and give thanks to your Lord and Savior, who allowed us to be here tonight.” Ty bowed his head. “Thank you Jesus for all we have and all you’ll give us. Let us play as hard as we can and kick the butt of the other team. And also thank you for letting us play on a night of such significance that could change the world.”

  He snorted and clapped his hands for the team to head onto the field. Mick lingered and followed the manager into his office, closing the door.

  “What do you want?” Ty made it very clear he was very busy.

  Mick slumped in the chair and pulled off his right spike, propping his heel onto the edge of the desk and tossing aside his sock.

  “This.” He wiggled his big toe.

  Ty put on his reading glasses for a closer look, poking at the toe until Mick flinched.

  “What the hell am I, skip?”

  Cobb fell back into his chair, th
oughtfully chewing on a stem of his glasses. He grunted a decision, rolled up his left sleeve and pulled off a thick bandage from his elbow.

  “I don’t know. But you’re the same as me.”

  • • • •

  PUPPY TIPPED HIS cap to the barking crowd, punctuated by a few good-natured “Let’s Go Cubs” cries, as he and Vernon sauntered across the outfield toward the bullpen.

  “Lots of folks.” Jackson took in the vast crowd.

  “Another full house.”

  “Fuller,” the catcher said. “More children.”

  Vern pointed at the neat rectangles of kids who filled the seats in a semi-circle between first and second.

  “There’s going to be fireworks after, so that always gets kids.” Puppy nudged Jackson through the bullpen gate.

  “Usually there are families,” Vern insisted. “Parents, kids.”

  “I remember what a family is. My friends had them.”

  Jackson ignored the attempt at humor. “The late fireworks will be after bedtimes. Parents are supposed to be with children then. Not soldiers.”

  Puppy pounded his glove. “I think you’re reading too much into this.”

  “Think so?” Vern indicated the right center field bleachers. Sure enough, there were blocks of kids, one row wearing Yankees t-shirts, the next, Cubs, alternating for ten rows; adults sat in each corner of the rectangle. Northwest corner, Yankees t-shirt. Northeast corner, Cubs. Southwest, Yankees. Southeast, Cubs. All in perfect order.

  Puppy shielded his eyes against the setting sun competing with the stadium lights. Same configuration in left center. He scanned the grandstands, but they were just too far away to make it out.

  “They’re there.” Vern crept into his thoughts.

  “It’s a special night of significance.” Puppy grinned, a little uneasily. “Which won’t be mine if I don’t warm up.”

  Vern squatted, his head twisting around at the stands. Puppy’s first pitch bounced off Jackson’s mask, getting his attention.

  He warmed up for about twenty minutes, tossing easily and opening the distance until he was in his groove.

  “Hey.” Vern stood as the fastball sailed past. “Save that shit.”

  “I got at least four more cutters left.”

  Puppy’s eyes wandered again as he waited for Jackson to retrieve the ball. Red, white and blue bunting billowed along the left and right field stands. Dale’s monsters in baseball uniforms were flying around the outfield. The Rolling Stones roared Satisfaction. From the wonderful food smells, you’d think America was a real agricultural nation again.

  He stayed an extra few minutes in the bullpen before rejoining the team in the dugout, where he and Mick watched the groundskeepers sweep the field, night lazily drifting over the Bronx.

  “It’s a beautiful green, right?” Puppy asked. Mick shrugged. “You’re supposed to give me some story about you and two blondes in the lush grass of the Stadium.”

  “I told them all already.” Mantle leaned forward, elbows on knees, frowning.

  “Something wrong?”

  “Nope.”

  “Sure?”

  Mick looked at him. “How’s the arm?”

  “The usual shit storm. What’s up, Mick?”

  “I’m allowed to be serious.” Mantle kicked the bat rack and disappeared into the runway.

  Everyone’s weirded out, Puppy thought, spitting sunflower seeds into his palm. Like you’re not? Dancing until dawn. Skipping two vidnews interviews so you can make yourself breakfast in Annette’s apartment and pretend to have a full blown conversation followed by a spat. Yeah, that’s sane. Or using a spare, illegal key to get into Pablo’s place and, not finding him in the clutches of a beautiful boy or girl, trudging downtown to his office, which was locked up. Thanks for abandoning me, pal, Puppy re-started that argument.

  Three armed security guards slipped soundlessly into the dugout, stepping past Puppy as if he were invisible. Puppy looked across the field at more members of Artito’s detachment taking up positions in the Cubs dugout.

  The HGs chased each other back into the scoreboard with demonic cackles. Suddenly the air over second base ruffled and blades whirred. The crowd grew silent. A ‘copter drifted toward home plate, touching down near the Yankees’ on-deck circle.

  Grandma bounded out, waving to the hovering HG Grandma. They pretended to shake hands, bowing. The crowd cheered wildly. The security team converged by the gate to the left of the Yankees dugout and escorted Grandma to her seat, while another squad accompanied Cheng and Kenuda, whose presence generated little response; Dale hadn’t thought them important enough for HGs.

  Grandma nodded to the crowd and sat down.

  “So good to see you all.” The Grandma HG hovered politely over the pitcher’s mound. “This is an historic occasion, but I’m a guest just like all of you. Now make sure you eat up.” Hot dogs, pizza, tacos and popcorn with sweet faces floated into her arms. “One beer only.” A foamy cup landed on her shoulder. “And enjoy tonight. I love you all very much.”

  The Grandma HG whooshed away. Into the delighted din, Mooshie strolled toward home, trailed by a five-person honor guard wearing the uniforms of the Army, Navy, Air Force, Marines and Coast Guard. They presented Beth’s flag.

  The soldiers stood as one and saluted, while the rest of the crowd anxiously waited to see what Grandma would do. It seemed to take a brief effort, but Grandma finally stood and saluted.

  “Hi everyone,” Mooshie said. “I’m Dara Dinton.”

  Roars of greetings.

  “As Grandma said, this is a special night of great significance.”

  Puppy burst into laughter; Ty shot him a dirty look.

  “Tonight, we honor the men and women who made it possible for us to sit here and watch a baseball game. “

  The stadium shook with shouts. Mooshie’s jaw tightened slightly.

  “But without Grandma’s love, nothing would be possible.”

  The HG Grandma returned on a flying American flag. FORGIVENESS floated through the air in wispy red, white and blue vapors. The real Grandma smiled admiringly and patted Kenuda’s knee appreciatively. The Third Cousin blushed.

  “We welcome Grandma back to Yankee Stadium,” Mooshie went slightly off script. “We welcome the soldiers back to Yankee Stadium. And now we want to welcome something else back to Yankee Stadium.”

  The crowd fell still again.

  “It’s called The Star Spangled Banner.” The crowd shifted uneasily. “We outlawed it because folks supposedly took it too seriously.” Mooshie stared coldly at Grandma. “But now we’re forgiving all that and all those who did.”

  Grandma grimaced slightly.

  “This song is our anthem. This is America’s song. First, you gotta take off your caps and hats and place them over your hearts, gang, to remember those who died wearing these uniforms.” Mooshie gestured at the honor guard.

  Fans craned to see Grandma’s reaction. She slowly placed her right hand over her heart. The entire stadium mimicked her.

  “Everyone got that?” Mooshie asked. “‘Cause it’s the respect part. It’s the love part. For each other. For what we do for each other.”

  Mooshie flinched as Grandma’s eyes warmed her face like an over-heated washcloth.

  “Now we’re gonna sing. I don’t care how rotten your voice is. You sing or Dara’s gonna find you.”

  A Dara HG in a black witch’s outfit whizzed past to loud laughter. Mooshie shook her head, grinning.

  “Let’s do it.”

  An HG Honor Guard marched out of the scoreboard and presented arms. In huge red, white and blue letters, the words hung over the infield.

  “Oh, say, can you see, by the dawn’s early light

  What so proudly we hailed at the twilight’s last gleaming.”

  The crowd started finding its footing, buoyed by Grandma’s lusty singing.

  “Whose broad stripes and bright stars, thro’ the perilous fight.”

  Now a huge
American flag filled the entire infield, flanked by marching soldiers.

  “O’er the ramparts we watched, were so gallantly streaming

  And the rockets red glare, the bombs bursting in air.”

  Oohs and ahs as HG bombs and rockets exploded.

  “Gave proof through the night that our flag was still there,

  O say does that star-spangled banner yet wave

  O’er the land of the free and the home of the brave.”

  The HG flag covered the entire infield. Holographic soldiers climbed aboard and saluted the crowd, floating over the stands. The fans stomped and whooped and whistled.

  The flag faded and was replaced by FORGIVENESS. The crowd yelled a little louder and Grandma sighed in relief.

  Mooshie returned to home plate, waiting for everyone to settle down. “Now we have another wonderful tradition. The throwing out of the first ball. Don’t worry, Hsen is still pitching for the Cubs and Puppy for the Yankees.” She paused to let the barking subside. “But this ceremonial toss will be from a couple of my…” Dara stopped just in time. “Couple of our all-time favorite players. You remember the Three Amigos?”

  The crowd cheered for the HGs of Mooshie, Derek and Sun Yen dancing with baseball bats.

  “Well, the greatest player of all time, Mooshie Lopez, is no longer with us.”

  You’re just incorrigible, Puppy shook his head, chuckling.

  “But we still have the great third baseman.” Sun Yen hobbled to the pitcher’s mound. “And the amazing right fielder.” Derek joined him. “Easy Sun Yen and Derek Singh.”

  Grandma, waving a Yankees and Cubs cap in each hand to make sure there was no doubt about her impartiality, came onto the field to make it a threesome.

  “Gentlemen.” Grandma smiled at the players, who bowed.

  “Honored,” Sun Yen said.

  “Thank you, Grandma,” Derek added.

  “No, thank you. Now how embarrassing is it going to be when I can’t reach home plate?” She held up the baseball.

  “It’s going to be way worse when we can’t.” Derek grinned wryly.