The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waugh, Prop

by Robert Coover

  Now, Rooney turned to him and said: "Trench, I just wanted to mention: we're gonna knock the holy shit outa you tomorrow."

  Trench was caught off guard, but he managed to say: "What with, sewing needles?"

  Rooney grinned patronizingly, and very gently, very distinctly, said: "We're gonna bury you, boy. For good."

  Trench felt something cold whistle clean through him. Before he could think of a comeback, Rooney had gone back out front. Trench turned, stared down at toothless Jaybird Wall, snoring on the cot. Oboy. Move over, man . . .

  Ain't no more roar

  In the park no more;

  Down in the cellar

  And cain't find the door . . .

  Hot shit! Raglan (Pappy) Rooney was on his way to the final transmutation! into the land of the goddamned blessed! yes! grind, grind without slackening, first law of the game! soak it up, blow it out! Those first shots tonight had burned Rooney's belly like salt and vitriol and had brought on a bloody purgation that scared the hell out of him; but then, taking a deep breath, he'd discovered that the old tubes had somehow been fritted by the fire, arid the rest of the night it was all sublimation. He'd revivified himself with a long rosy piss, then gone back out to slaughter the innocents. He really got a bang out of drinking with these guys. He didn't give a golden chamberpot full of solid silver turds for buddyship, so-called, but Rooney loved to drink and he hated to drink alone. He liked to hear them laugh and bitch, liked to hear old Sandy sing, liked the racket, the meanness, the tension, the heat, liked it all filled up and boiling away. And above all, he loved to rag 'em. Ho ho! fat Trench had nearly popped his cork: fffooOO! They were going to beat him all right, Trench was through. Dead. Rooney cackled. Bathe 'em in blood, boys! Give 'em the truth! And the truth? It was raunchy and morbid and arid, but it was all there was and worth a passing celebration!

  Yeah, you're down and you're out, boy,

  All the play in' is done,

  You tried and you failed, boy,

  And you ain't anyone . . .

  This was Rooney's party and nobody was enjoying it more. The wake's at Jake's! He sang and hollered and whipped it up. It tickled his best rib to see them all show up, they couldn't stay away, afraid to come, more afraid not to come. Too bad Sick Flynn was gone, he'd had a few more things he'd like to jab him with. Like shotgunning poor Damon for jumping his virgin daughter. But Flynn was scared. And he'd better be. They were going to needle him and that kid pitcher of his right out of baseball. The great-grandson of Fancy Dan Casey. End of the line! Mad jocks get off!

  No-hit Nealy, ho ho ho!

  When they pitched high, he swung low!

  "Hey, Gooney! Stop garglin' and get rid of it, man!"

  "Aw, you guys ain't got no appreciation!" He laughed with them, though. When they stopped ragging him, they'd bury him.

  He caught Bancroft on the way to the head: "Hey, Philosopher, can I interest you in a coupla pitchers?"

  "What kinda pitchers?" Barney asked. He was smashed.

  "Dirty pitchers!" Rooney howled with delight. "Things're gonna get tough, Philosopher!"

  "The Rutherford spirit," Bancroft slurred, "will carry the day!"

  "Oh yeah? What's your spirit's E.R.A.?" Rooney cackled, oh hey! that's a beauty! "E-R-A, get it?" He dug Bancroft's ribs—the Old Philosopher my ass, a lotta puff and blow, but he'll never make it—then spun on the others. "Hey! It's the new Rutherford Era!" he hollered. "The Spirit E-R-A!" He roared with laughter, but laughed alone. Nobody got it. "Pour 'em out, Jake! Keep 'em alive!"

  While the house was picking itself up again, he soft-shoed over to Shadwell, got old Tim yakking sentimentally about the old days. Rooney and Shadwell had come up as rookies the same year—Year X: who the hell said XIX was the Year of the Rookie?—and Tim had dusted Rooney more than once over the next fifteen seasons. Then, once he'd got Tim waxing eloquent and blubberish, Rooney leaned close and whispered, "Now, honestly, don't that Brock Rutherford Era crap twist your balls, Tim?"

  Shadwell flushed pink as a punched virgin. "Well. . ." he said, squirming, looking around. His hands shook and the cubes rattled in his glass. "Of course, uh, Brock had his faults, but... I mean, it's not exactly the, you know, right time to..."

  "Crock Rubberturd."

  Shadwell, uncontrollably and no doubt shocking his own lily-white self, commenced to giggle. "Rooney, you're worse than death," he allowed.

  "Hey, Sandy!" Rooney bawled out. "Give us 'Long Lew and Fanny'!"

  Lew Lydell protested, but the rest of the boys picked it up. "Long Lew and Fanny!" Sandy stroked a chord and loose laughter rattled in the bar. "Give her all you got, Sandy!" some wag shouted.

  "Too late for that," Sandy drawled, and they whooped again...

  Come, boys, give a cheer,

  And buy me a beer,

  And sit down beside me a spell,

  While I tell the uncanny

  Tale of Miss Fanny

  McCaffree and Long Lew Lydell!

  Oh, who can ever forget

  That day the Grooms met

  The Knicks on the Knicks' home diamond?

  Long Lew'd made a vow

  That they'd win somehow

  Or Fanny would forfeit her hymen!

  Now, this much is true:

  The first was Long Lew,

  Though later there may have been many;

  For, believe it or not,

  Though Long Lew had a lot,

  Fanny had never had any!

  After nine innings of play

  On that hot summer day,

  The Grooms lost, nothing to six;

  So Long Lew went and caught her,

  The long-legged daughter

  Of McCaffree, the boss of the Knicks!

  "Excuse me, Miss Fanny,"

  Said he, "don't take any

  Offense if I must tell you true

  That this will hurt me

  More than you, for you see

  Here the reason they call me Long Lew!"

  Oh yes, this much is true:

  The first was Long Lew,

  Though later there may have been many;

  For, believe it or not,

  Though Long Lew had a lot,

  Fanny had never had any!

  Now, when all of Long Lew

  Came into full view,

  Miss Fanny collapsed in dismay—

  She fell on the bench,

  Did that long-legged wench,

  With her skirts tucked neatly away!

  There was wrenching and pounding,

  The noise was astounding,

  And still he had only begun!

  But he banged and he bored

  Till at last he had scored,

  And Fanny cried out: "HOME RUN!"

  No, I'm sure this is true:

  Number one was Long Lew,

  Though later, perhaps, there were many;

  For, I swear on this spot,

  Though Long Lew had a lot,

  Fanny had never had any!

  How he managed to pin her

  And get it all in her

  Remains an eternal league mystery;

  But the crowd round the pit

  All had to admit

  That Long Lew Lydell had made history!

  As for Fanny, though fallen,

  She said: "Stop your stallin'

  Long Lew, and prove you''re a pro!

  I've seen your muscle,

  Now show me some hustle:

  You still got eight innings to go!"

  Oh yes, I'm tellin' you true,

  Her first was Long Lew,

  Though later there were probably many;

  For it's true, is it not,

  That Long Lew had a lot,

  But Fanny had never had any!

  Well, Old Fenn came upon her

  In total dishonor

  And Long Lew in a state of fatigue;

  He'd've made Long Lew shorter

  But was stopped by his daughter,

  Who
said: "Daddy! I've made the

  Big League!"

  So the Knicks won the game,

  And Long Lew his fame,

  And Fanny had fun in her fall;

  McCaffree was furious,

  The fans merely curious,

  And the moral is: don't win' em all!

  Yes, this much is true:

  The first was Long Lew,

  Though later there may have been many;

  For, believe it or not,

  Though Long Lew had a lot,

  Fanny had never had any!

  Well, yes, it was a great wake, and as they joked and shouted, he saw that it was good, but yet it wasn't enough. Something was missing. "Hey! All you old pissers! Over here!" Rooney shouted,

  "Whatsamatter, Pappy?"

  "Get over here!"

  "Pappy, if I take this bar out from under my elbow, I ain't got nothin' left to hold me up!"

  But he kept insisting, and finally they all came, he gathered them all together, and when he'd got them all over, they looked back toward the bar, and there she was, nobody'd noticed her before, but now, there she stood, alone, at the bar. They wasted no time. They rolled the cot out from the back room. Old Jaybird Wall still snored there, biting his ass with his own dentures; they dumped him off and her on. No time or words wasted. They'd had enough of the putrefaction phase, they'd passed through the dissolutions and descensions and coagulations: what they wanted now was union. And oh yes, they seeded her well, they stuffed her so full it was coming out her ears, it was a goddamn inundation . . .

  "Well, it's a funny world," said Jake.

  "Yeah ... yeah, it is. You said it."

  His name will shine down through all time,

  Shine like an eternal flame,

  For though he has died in his youthful

  prime,

  His spirit lives on in the game!

  Hang down your heads, brave men, and weep!

  Young Damon has come to harm!

  They have carried him off to a grave dark and

  deep:

  The boy with the magic arm . . .

  Going into exile, heartsore, Sycamore Flynn stared out on the night, seeing nothing there, not even his own pale reflection, staring dispiritedly back into the coach. He had no thoughts, any more than a drowning man had thoughts, just anxieties, and his mind in trouble pitched here and there, rocked by the wheels' pa-clockety-knock, jogged loose from the continuum, sloshing here and there, the green and the gold, the suns and the shadows, the sons and the fathers, the sons and the fathers—and the piping cries of the sandlot boys, the leaping and throwing and running and swinging, all the games won and all the games lost, balls came bouncing at him, were thrown at him, flew by him, arched over him, and he was running back, and running back . . .

  He looked away. Running back. Tomorrow's game. Which was yesterday's. Pa-clockety-knock, pa-clockety-knock, nearer and nearer. Well, there was pattern maybe and legend and graphs and prophecies—but there was something else, too, and it came at you and it was hard and it was tangible, yes, to say the least, and sometimes you could field it and turn it to glory, but sometimes it hit you right in the teeth, and no, you couldn't stop it, you couldn't even duck. You couldn't even give it a name! He was afraid. Not only for himself. Not just for his team. For everybody. They'd all be there. Brock Rutherford Day at Pioneer Park . . . plus two. Resumed. Substitution announced: for the Pioneers, pinch-running for . . .

  He'd thought of every possibility. Getting rid of Casey. At least benching him. Quitting himself. Withdrawing his Knicks from all further games this season. Proposing they call the rest of the season off, give the pennant to the Pioneers, who were anyway in second place behind them. Even: that they close down the Association. Why not? Because what would all the past mean then without the present process? Nothing at all, but so what? No answer: only dread. And everything less than that fell short or looked cheap. Finally, he supposed, it would resume, and he would simply have to play out his part. But he dreaded that, too.

  His daughter had disappeared. She'd left no note. Hadn't been necessary. He knew what she was telling him and there was nothing he could do about it, nothing he could do that would bring her back. Harriet was as dead to him now as her Damon was to Brock. Even more so, because Damon died and left no hate behind. In a way, Flynn envied Brock. No, that wasn't true. You're just trying to smooth it over, ease the guilt. You can still love her even though she hates; but what does Brock have to love? You can't love a corpse.

  Brock the Great. His Era: yes, yes, it was. It had hurt Sycamore to say so in front of all those people—like he'd been tricked or something, and it had made him sore, sore at McCaffree, sore at Bancroft, and sore at Brock Rutherford. But it was true. Sycamore Flynn, age 57, Hall of Fame, all-star Bridegroom shortstop Years XIX through XXX, Most Valuable Player in XXVIII, Knickerbocker manager since LIII and twice a boss of champions, knew it was. He was there. He'd come up with Brock in XIX, and his one personal triumph had been his selection—over Brock and all the others —as Rookie of the Year. Brock had got back at him. Oh yes, many times over. Like at the end of the season three years later when Sycamore and Brock's teammate Willie O'Leary were fighting it out for the batting title. The Pioneers were taking the pennant in a walk that year, and they even got a little sloppy in the final games, but not when Sycamore Flynn came to the plate. Brock personally struck him out seven straight times in the final series—and once when there was a man on second, no outs, and first base open, when he should at least have passed him, but no, it was Get-Flynn-Year, and get him they did. Finally, he finished up fourth. Brock the Great Oh yes, damn it, damn him, he was!

  The train pulled in. Sycamore was alone; his players had returned ahead of him. The depot was only a block from Pioneer Park, the hotel where the Knicks were staying just another block or so beyond that, so he decided to walk. Loosen up. Anyway, he wasn't all that confident about getting in a cab here in Damon's hometown: he might be recognized and that might not be so good. Though it was a warm night, he turned up his collar, chose the dark sides of the streets. What was hounding him? That he didn't feel guilty enough?

  He passed under the stadium. It bulked, unlit in the dark night, like a massive ruin, exuding a black odor of death and corruption—no, no, just that modest stink of sweat and garbage all old buildings had, and ball parks especially. It caused an unreasonable dread in him, a stupid dread; to purge it, he crossed over, touched it, felt the solid stone, just plain ordinary lifeless matter. A ball park. Like any other. The arched entranceways, he noticed, had no gates. How did they keep the crashers out? Just a passageway, maybe; other doors and gates inside. He peered in. Couldn't see anything. It was pitch black in there.

  Inwardly, he laughed at himself. Crossing a street to see if a building was real! Funny what funerals could do to the mind. If anybody saw him, they'd take him for a complete nut. He glanced about furtively, but he seemed to be alone. He rapped a wall, skinning a knuckle, as a kind of self-punishment, and set off for the hotel. But then he hesitated. Silly thing, but those gateless entrances bothered him. Forget it. What you need is a night's sleep. Or a night's rest anyway—he wasn't sure he could get to sleep with tomorrow's game to wake up to. Well, that's right, so what's the hurry? He turned back.

  No, no gates. Not even the hinges for one. And inside: it shouldn't be that black in there. Was it the streetlight out here, dim as it was, that made it look that way? He stepped inside. Still couldn't see anything, but once inside, he realized it was more like a tunnel than the entrance to a ball park. He edged to his right, hand outstretched. Yes, a wall. Rough and damp. He traced it a few paces. Peculiar. Construction work maybe. Excavations. Have to come look at this in the daytime. He turned, half afraid that—but, no, there it was, the dimly lit street. But something new now. Voices. Indistinct, but not far away. Better wait. They'd take him for a thief.

  As time passed, he grew impatient. A couple guys standing on a street corner describing conques
ts, no doubt. Of course, they could also be cops. Better stay put. To take up the time, he explored a little further, left hand stretched out in front of him, right hand tracing the contours of the wall. Earthen. Sweating. It seemed endless. Finally, he gave it up, turned hack. Now, in fact, there was no street! Moment of panic, hut he made himself think. The wall he was tracing must have been curving. He stepped out away from it. Still couldn't see a thing. Better go back the same way you came. He reached out for the wall, but couldn't find it. Then he did panic. Wheeled around, scrambling in every direction at once, not afraid of the voices now, but afraid to cry out. Why? he didn't know—ah! the wall! But which one? He was breathing heavily, ashamed. He'd lost his head there for a minute. And now what, right or left? He decided to gamble on its being the same wall, so followed it now with his left hand. But after a hundred paces or so with no sight of the street, he realized he'd guessed wrong, was just getting deeper. Turned back. Keep calm. It'd be easy to break. Count. At one hundred, he paused. Must've started about here. Another fifty or a hundred paces, and he ought to see the street. But after twenty, the wall curved suddenly to the right. He swallowed, licked his lips. Keep thinking, keep cool. Could put your back to the wall, then strike straight out on the perpendicular—have to find the opposite wall sooner or later. But he had a grip on this wall and didn't want to let go. And when he did find that other wall, which way would he go? Besides, if these were excavations, there might be drops: he could fall, hurt himself, have to spend all night here. No, consider. This tunnel must go somewhere. Some other exit probably. Better stick with it, keep moving. He was afraid of the right turn he'd come on, so he went back over the same ground again, right hand out in front, left hand tracing the rough passage wall. Hundred paces and that wall curved, too, sharply to the left. Too soon. But maybe he was taking bigger steps now. No point in going back. Better keep moving. Don't think. Just lead to panic. Move, just move, hustle. In his mind, he kept up a little pepper. That's it. Lotta action. Hup, two, three. Every hundred paces or so, the wall again bent left. Going around in circles. Or maybe a spiral. What kind of a goddamn ball park was this anyway? Don't question it. Keep going. Seemed to be climbing now. Lift those knees. Come on, Sic'em baby, cover ground! He was sweating now, his clothes feh sticky on him, the air heavy— heart going too fast! He dropped his right hand to feel its beating and smacked up solid against a sudden right turn in the wall.