Prose Issue 137 – Page 2

by Frank C Modica

Vinny felt lousy, even though it was his birthday. He gazed up at a photograph of his older brother, Vince Junior, hanging in his bedroom. The chubby baby in the picture wore a little White Sox cap and sat between Vinny’s parents, Vince Senior and Marie Castelli. His parents never talked about Junior, but when Vinny was born in 1933, two years after his brother died from pneumonia, they named him Vince to carry on the family name. Vinny felt sad and maybe a little mad whenever he thought about Junior.

The phone in the kitchen rang. His mother called out, “Vinny, it’s for you. It’s Uncle Louie.”

“I’ll be right there, Mom.”

“Don’t talk too long or Mrs Cangelosi will complain about you hogging the party line.”

“Ok, Mom, I promise.”

Vinny took the phone out of his mother’s hand.

‘You know how it is with me and Uncle Frank when I talk about Robinson.’

“Hey, Uncle Louie, I haven’t heard from you since your argument with Uncle Frank and Dad about Jackie Robinson playing in his first game against the Cubs.”

“Vinny, I’m sorry about staying away. You know how it is with me and Uncle Frank when I talk about Robinson. Hey, I called because I didn’t forget about my promise to take you to a ballgame for your birthday. I reminded your mom about it last week and she said it was ok.”

“Gosh, I forgot all about it. You bet I do, Uncle Louie. Thank you.”

Vinny raced to his bedroom without saying goodbye, and made up a quick roster for the game. He hadn’t been to Comiskey since April, and all thoughts of Junior vanished from his mind.

This should be a great one. The Sox are playing Cleveland, and the Indians are only one-and-a-half games up.

He folded up the chart and stuffed it in the back pocket.

Two hours before the game Louie knocked at the front door. Vinny’s mom let him in the duplex and called Vinny.

“Louie, don’t fill Vinny up too much on junk. Remember when you got him sick for his 13th birthday? You should have cleaned him up. And don’t take him to a bar after the game.”

“Ok, Marie. I promise. No beer for the birthday boy.”

“So, what do you think about the Indians?” Vinny said, as they walked to the park.

“The Indian’s owner, Bill Veeck, is always coming up with a gimmick, but the Sox should kick their butts anyway. Maybe 1947 could be a lucky year for the Sox.”

“I hope you’re right, Uncle Louie!”

Uncle Frank showed up after the second inning. He was late for everything. By the end of the sixth inning the Sox had pulled ahead of the Indians. At the top of the seventh Uncle Louie got up to go to the restroom.

“Tell me if I missed anything.”

“Ok, sure, Uncle Louie.”

There were two outs when Vinny heard an announcement over the public address system, “Larry Doby pinch-hitting for ….” Vinny checked through his roster for the Indians. He didn’t find Larry Doby anywhere.

A murmur of voices welled up from the bleachers. He heard Uncle Frank shouting, “That guy pinch-hitting for the Indians, he’s a melanzane!”

“Hey Doby, go home, you don’t belong in baseball,” yelled Uncle Frank. Other people in the bleachers picked up the chant.

Vinny looked around. Uncle Louie hadn’t come back from the restroom. Uncle Frank caught his eye and yelled even louder. Vinny shivered with fear. He picked up the chant with almost everyone else in the bleachers. Vinny felt someone grabbing his left arm. He turned around and saw Uncle Louie.

‘Negroes should play baseball like everyone else.’

“What are you doing?’ Uncle Louie said.

“I didn’t mean anything about it.”

“I thought you’d be different, I hoped you wouldn’t act like the other ignorant people in our family and the neighborhood.”

“You don’t know what it’s like. The other kids call me a sissy cuz I’m not good at sports.”

Uncle Louie let go of Vinny’s arm. Uncle Frank still yelled and cursed at Larry Doby.

Doby struck out and walked back to the Indians dugout. Vinny and Uncle Louie sat silently for the last two innings. The White Sox beat the Indians 6-5.

At the end of the game the stands emptied. Vinny walked away from his uncle. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

Vinny raced home ahead of Uncle Louie. He barged through the back door, ran to his bedroom, and slammed his door shut. Vinny flopped down and sobbed into his pillow.

Lying on his bed, he gazed up at the picture of Vince Jr. and cursed his older brother, “Screw you, Junior. You were always first in Mom and Dad’s hearts. I’m sick and tired of being second.”

Vinny could hear his mother outside of his bedroom door, but he didn’t care if she heard him. Thankfully, she left him alone but he thought he heard her crying.

Vinny got off his bed and wiped away his eyes tears and opened his bedroom door.

“I’m sorry, Mom. I didn’t mean what I said.”

“A Negro, some guy named Larry Doby, played in the game against the Sox, and Uncle Frank started yelling an ugly cheer and I joined in.”

“Your Uncle Frank can get nasty”

“Uncle Louie grabbed my arm and yelled at me. I ran home without him.”

Marie hugged Vinny.

“Your Uncle Louie really loves you.”

“I know, I know.” Vinny started to cry again.

“Vinny, Uncle Louie is right. Negroes should play baseball like everyone else. Maybe if Jackie Robinson played for the Sox instead of the Dodgers, they’d be in first place.”

“Why do people in the neighborhood get so crazy when they talk about Negroes?”

“Vinny, it’s always been that way, but maybe things are getting better since the war.”

“I hope so, I didn’t mean it.”

“I know, Vinny, it’s hard being second.”

Vinny took the crumpled paper out of his pocket and added another name to the Cleveland roster: Larry Doby.

FRANK C MODICA is a retired public school special education teacher living in Urbana, Ill. He taught students with special needs for 34 years. His work has appeared or is forthcoming in Bluepepper, Adelaide Literary Magazine, Mad Swirl, Crab Fat Literary Magazine, and The Tishman Review.

by Brian Mihok

My wife and I used to take the only subway line in Buffalo to see the Bisons play, who at the time were a farm team affiliate of the New York Mets. Minor League Baseball is a real treat. One year we went to a game on May 4th and halfway through the game, Darth Vader and some storm troopers murdered a few Jedi right there on the field. We didn’t know this would happen. It was an extra treat, a science fiction twist to the evening we couldn’t have imagined.

Minor League Baseball is a real treat.

After the game we took the subway back up, walked the few blocks home, and moved on with life. We attended probably eight or 10 games that summer. The next year we made sure to buy a pair of buy tickets early in the season because we were eager to be done with winter. The frigid wind off Lake Erie is the penance for the cool summer breeze it reverts to in the warmer months. We attended the game via our usual route, and to our surprise the same imperial scene was played out on the field mid-game. We had unknowingly bought tickets for another May 4th. What a coincidence, we thought. After the game though we went on with life. That summer we attended so many games because Minor League Baseball is a real treat.

We ate garlic fries and watched players play their hearts out hoping to make an impression on people we didn’t know, scouts scattered in the stands.

That following winter was long and bitterly cold, and as spring rolled around we were excited for the temperatures to finally rise, for people to mow their lawns, to drag our feet over the cement and smile into a cool breeze, and to catch a few ball games. I went online and bought a pair of tickets a month into the season. Our hearts were delighted. Baseball. Sun. Warmth. Activity.

We took the subway the handful of stops and got off at the stadium, a nice AAA coliseum downtown. We ate garlic fries and watched players play their hearts out hoping to make an impression on people we didn’t know, scouts scattered in the stands. Around the sixth inning the PA announcer came on to tell us there would be a special presentation. Then Darth Vader came out with his crew. Lives were lost. It was a dark day for the Rebellion. We couldn’t believe it, sitting there in our field seats. We laughed. We shook our heads. After the game, though, we stumbled out of the stadium along with everyone else, into the tight downtown streets and over to the aboveground subway stop. We simply went on with life, hoping to get to so many more games that summer. Tickets were cheap, after all, and Minor League Baseball is a real treat.

BRIAN MIHOK is a writer, editor, and filmmaker. His work has appeared in Fast Company, The Disconnect, Publishing Genius, Vol 1 Brooklyn, and elsewhere. His novel, The Quantum Manual of Style, was released in 2013. He edits matchbook, an online literary magazine. His latest short film, Three Trees (In Three Parts), was released in 2018. Visit his website to learn more about his work.

by Art Lasky

523,624 people claim that they were there that historic day. The day Babe “the Sultan of Swat” Ruth calmly pointed to center field then hit the next pitch out of the park, exactly where he had pointed. Ask any of them where that was, you’ll get 379,007 Yankee Stadiums, 71,921 Polo Grounds, 24,325 blank looks and most of the rest will give you the right answer: Wrigley Field. Says something about human nature; some people feel the need to claim a piece of history as their own. Ask the same people about his greatest accomplishment, and you’ll get many different answers: greatest home run hitter in history, greatest clutch hitter, greatest slugger, most walks in a season. Sadly, few people know of his greatest sporting accomplishments. I witnessed them and only realized, years later, that I had seen Babe Ruth’s at his greatest.

You see, before the Babe took up the slow-paced boring sport of Baseball, he was a competitor in the one pure sport: competitive eating.

You see, before the Babe took up the slow-paced boring sport of Baseball, he was a competitor in the one pure sport: competitive eating. He never admitted it, but there is no doubt in my mind that Pudgy Mushmelon (yes! The Pudgy Mushmelon), was, in fact, George Herman Ruth Jr., the Babe. I don’t have to tell you of the legendary Pudgy “the Stomach” Mushmelon. His feats are legendary: 73 hot dogs in 10 minutes, the mixed double record of 24 double cheeseburgers, half American and half Swiss, in 10 minutes and of course the tragic end to his young career.

I was there at the beginning, and I was there at the tragic end. I first saw Pudgy at the annual Nathans’ hot dog eating contest on Coney Island. I watched as the young fellow calmly crammed 62 hot dogs down his maw to obliterate the competition. I was there when he set record after record, never stopping to burp, or even swig water to wash the dogs down. That kind of behavior was for lesser mortals. His fame grew, stretching from the Rockaways to the Bowery and beyond.

He was well in the lead when tragedy struck; with a horrible scream, Pudgy collapsed sobbing on the boardwalk.

Then came the fateful day, April 11, 1913. The Peoples International Gluttony Fest or P.I.G. fest as it was known. The world’s most prestigious knish eating competition, held at Gabila’s Knishes in Brighton Beach. Pudgy was there; as were his two biggest competitors Armand “Le Cheval” De Gaulle, and Morris “Shmaltzy” Lipmann. Pudgy was in superb form, cramming one knish after another down his throat, barely pausing to swallow or breath. He was well in the lead when tragedy struck; with a horrible scream, Pudgy collapsed sobbing on the boardwalk. My dreams are still haunted by that fateful scream. He had bitten his cramming finger.

His career was over. In a highly competitive sport like eating, where every competitor is a finely tuned machine; an injury to your cramming finger is a career-ender. Pudgy tried for a while, but never regained his form.

Once an athlete always an athlete, though. Roughly a year later, Pudgy disappeared, and Babe Ruth appeared on the baseball scene. While you can’t push one hotdog every six seconds down your throat when your cramming finger’s been injured. In the lesser sport of baseball, you can still deal a 93MPH fastball, and you can still knock them out of the park at will. Look closely at Babe, in most pictures, you can see a hint of sadness over true greatness lost.

Babe’s First Career previously appeared in Drunken Boat, summer 2014.

ART LASKY is a retired computer programmer. After 40 years of writing in COBOL and Assembler he decided to try writing in English; it’s much harder than it looks. He lives in New York City with his wife/muse and regularly visiting grandkids.

Lasky’s had stories published in Third Flat Iron Anthologies, Fall Into Fantasy, The Rabbit Hole, and The Gray Sisters. You can find his work by searching Amazon in science fiction and fantasy for “Art Lasky.” You can contact him at artlasky321@gmail.com or on Twitter @ARTLASKY.

by Terry Kirts

I

The sexual revolution may have been raging on the coasts, but in the sleepy, stay-close ‘70s of downstate Illinois, where teachers still wore skirts and three TV stations piped in Andy Griffith reruns and American Bandstand, free love didn’t flow. Where were my carnal suggestions? Baseball. In the tightened cut of the uniforms, the hard cups, the catcher squats, Reggie Jackson’s forearms, the eyebrows and mustache of Keith Hernandez, the quick peep show of a locker-room interview, and nowhere more tantalizing to a queer fifth grader’s mind than a single parenthetical in an ad at the back of Baseball Digest: Collector’s Edition Posters, $1.95, Bucky Dent (No Shirt). I stared and I stared.

II

Where were my carnal suggestions? Baseball. In the tightened cut of the uniforms, the hard cups, the catcher squats, Reggie Jackson’s forearms, the eyebrows and mustache of Keith Hernandez…

Baseball hated me. A scene I recall at will involves my siblings, middling or better sports players all, nudging me out to the yard when I was four or five to see if I could swing a bat. Not a plastic or wiffle but a real wood bat almost as tall as I was, and four, five, six pitches I missed at wildly or didn’t even swing at, their laughs not the gentle snickers of a tight-knit family but deriding, my dad joining in. (Is it any wonder I preferred reading?) Instead, I turned on baseball for all its baroque trappings, its gear and its jargon, filling my head with as many batting titles and Relief Man awards as I could cram there, dressing in the loud jerseys and caps of the latest division champs (though never, ever the Cubs). In this way, I could pass as the man my family had hoped I might be, if only for a stretch of nine innings, quoting some saying of Stan Musial or a fact I’d borrowed from This Week in Baseball or the AM play-by-play. Three hours of an easy summer afternoon when I wore not a fag’s name but something natural and manly like Dutch or Bucky.

III

Who was the poster for? No girls I knew subscribed to baseball magazines or traded Topps or Fleer. Grown men and women alike worshipped baseball players as demigods, with a kind of attention and electricity that bordered on the erotic. But they didn’t see it that way. Any of the older men I suspected as gay weren’t watching baseball. The priest (later incarcerated) and his “friend” who drove my brother and me to the big college town for pizza played “Boogie Nights” on the AMC Pacer’s stereo, winked over us, and wouldn’t have stood for my asking the score.

Just the fact that the magazine suggested even this homosocial brand of ogling turned those little slick-covered, stats-heavy booklets into contraband. Someone, somewhere saw ad value in the phrase “No Shirt.” I stashed them in the box with pilfered underwear ads, a page torn from Penthouse Forum, the odd musty book on the history of hair with a few glimpses of pubic cropping. All which paled to my fantasies of an unseen photo of Bucky Dent.

IV

A man’s man, fully at home in his body, unlike I am. Never no shirt.

In an online poll from 2014, 11% of all voters think that Bucky Dent is gay (homosexual), 83% voted for straight (heterosexual), and 6% like to think that Bucky Dent is actually bisexual. Like to think. Bisexual. Wikipedia tells me that Dent, both divorced and widowed, eloped with his current wife, also his business partner, in 2019. He founded the charity “Embraced With Love” to honor his wife who died of cancer. In its third century, baseball is still not big enough to accommodate a single openly gay player. Not a retired utility outfielder or a player terrorized in the clubhouse but a star in his own right, celebrated for his homeruns or his splitter as much as tragedy or late bravery. An umpire or two, good for a coffee-table book. Still no role model for today’s young, awkward version of me. Through Google, I also learn that Dent was taken home from the hospital as an infant not by his parents but by his aunt and uncle, a fact he found out as an adult. Growing up, I was sure I had been switched at birth, not by relatives but by aliens who’d landed in a cornfield and ate headcheese and Jell-O with marshmallows. All we had in common, it seemed, was baseball.

V

It was years before I actually saw the pin-up, the swaths of fur on arm and chest, the gold bracelet, the pinky ring (World Series ’77). This was in Playgirl, not the poster I never ordered. Before the internet, a boy could connect to the larger multifarious world with a few postage stamps and his allowance. That poster exists only in my imagination, more arousing for my never seeing it. The one on my laptop is washed out, sepia, a relic more interesting for the fact that it passed for soft porn in the past, for the ease of Dent’s smile and his hands at his waist. A man’s man, fully at home in his body, unlike I am. Never (no shirt).

Coda

A few weeks ago, three months into a wrecked season, I matched with a young, invincible-looking “baseball professional” (below Single A) on Tinder with a huge Instagram following who makes no mention in any post of being gay. He never wrote me back. The fantasies I kindled as a budding baseball fan are still laughable at 50. As I write this, MLB players are monitoring their vitals, testing “pos” (though never with a z), spending days in isolation, seeing their names added to a growing list. The first decade of my young gay life—free clinics, blood pricks, the fear, even, of kissing—is playing out, language and practice, not among some marginal group of deviants but among America’s most respected, highest-paid elites. They, too, want to spit, hug, pat bottoms, slap bare hand to hand, talk smack and shout cheers into each other’s face without thinking. And they’re killing the game.

TERRY KIRTS is the author of To the Refrigerator Gods, which was chosen for the Editor’s Choice series in poetry by Seven Kitchen’s Press in 2010. He is a senior lecturer in creative writing at Indiana University-Purdue University in Indianapolis. His poetry and creative nonfiction have appeared in such journals as Third Coast, Gastronomica, Alimentum, Sycamore Review, Green Mountains Review, Taco Bell Quarterly, Presence, and Another Chicago Magazine, as well as the anthologies Food Poems and Home Again: Essays and Memoirs from Indiana. His culinary articles and restaurant reviews have appeared in WHERE Indianapolis, Indianapolis Woman, Nuvo, and Indianapolis Dine. He is a dining critic for Indianapolis Monthly.

by Joe Gordon

I was a lucky kid. My dad was an avid baseball fan and he passed that enthusiasm on to me at a very young age. I was named after his favorite baseball player: Hall of Famer Joe Gordon. He started giving me baseball cards when I was four or five years old.

This was the early 1950s. There were eight teams in each Major League. The Athletics (not the A’s) were in Philadelphia, the Dodgers were in Brooklyn, the Giants were in New York, and the Braves were in Boston. Of all the teams in the majors, the St. Louis teams were the furthest west. Major League Baseball was just beginning to integrate. The remnants of the Negro Leagues were still playing, but would not survive much longer. Dad had been a professional musician and traveled the country before the war. In his travels he often watched Negro League games and firmly believed that many of the black players could compete in the Major Leagues if given a chance.

I grew up in a small farming town in north central Kansas. Every little town had a baseball field, usually sponsored by the American Legion and each town had a baseball team made up of its best high school players. I used to ride my bike out to the ball park to watch the games. I played and watched baseball all summer long. Baseball was what you did in the summer.

Dad had watched a lot of baseball, including major league games, in his traveling days and he always told me that Satchel Paige was the best pitcher he ever saw.

One day when I was six or seven, my dad came home and handed me a flyer that announced that the county fair, one county over, was featuring an exhibition baseball game between the Kansas City Monarchs and the Indianapolis Clowns from the Negro Baseball League. What was more exciting was a large proclamation that Satchel Paige would be pitching for the Monarchs and that the Clowns were featuring the Harlem Globetrotter “Goose” Tatum. Dad had watched a lot of baseball, including major league games, in his traveling days and he always told me that Satchel Paige was the best pitcher he ever saw.

In those days it was common for Negro League teams to barnstorm around the country in their off season. The Monarchs were one of the premier teams in the league. The Clowns were showmen, but were a solid team who won the league championship in 1950.

We made sure we got there early so we could get good seats. Ever optimistic a foul ball would come my way; I had my glove fastened to my belt. My ball cap was pulled on tight. It was a muggy, Indian Summer evening. The field was a typical town ball field and probably held six or seven hundred fans. The lighting was so dim that I still do not know how the outfielders saw the ball. We got there more than an hour early and were some of the first people to get in. The teams had not taken the field, but we could see the team buses beyond the left field fence. Dad asked someone and found out the Monarchs would be using the third base dugout. He took me to the bleachers down the left field line just beyond third base, where the bull pen was. I asked him why we were so far from home plate and he just smiled.

Satchel Paige, wearing a warm up jacket, stopped and set down a small bag. He walked down to the catcher and very carefully unwrapped a stick of gum. He kicked dirt over the bull pen home plate and spread out the foil wrapping and put it on the ground. ‘That’s home plate,’ he announced.

I soon found out why. As the teams took the field, a player in catchers gear stopped about 25 feet from us. About the same distance down the third base line, Satchel Paige, wearing a warm up jacket, stopped and set down a small bag. He walked down to the catcher and very carefully unwrapped a stick of gum. He kicked dirt over the bull pen home plate and spread out the foil wrapping and put it on the ground. “That’s home plate,” he announced.

These barnstorming teams realized they were entertainers as well as athletes and had a whole routine they went through before the game. This was particularly true of the Clowns. Tatum came out for infield practice with a three foot long first baseman’s mitt and started a running commentary that lasted through the whole warm up.

Paige strolled back down to the pitching rubber, picked up a ball and started to warm up. This is when I realized what Dad had done. Here I was, 25 feet from Satchel Paige and I was watching him warm up. The first thing I noticed was how loose and easy he was when he threw. The second was that the catcher never had to move his mitt. He would give Paige a target and he always hit it. The whole time he was throwing, he and the catcher had an ongoing dialogue. He had names for many of his pitches and would call down to the catcher, “Here comes the Bat Dodger. Get ready for the Midnight Creeper. Look out, here come the Trouble Ball.” I was totally mesmerized.

By the time he was finishing his warm up, the ball hitting the catcher’s mitt sounded like a pistol shot. After the first couple of full-speed fastballs, the catcher stood up, pulled off his glove and blew on his hand. Then he made a big show out of pulling a big handkerchief out his pocket, folding it up, and stuffing it into his glove. Even though this was toward the end of his career, Paige still threw very hard.

Satchel pitched five innings that night and gave up one hit, a fly ball, and a couple of routine grounders. He struck out everybody else. The Monarchs won 8 to 3. However, it is that 20-minute warm-up that remains etched in my memory after 65 years. We do not get too many times in our life that we can call special, but that muggy Kansas night at the ballgame was magic.

JOE GORDON is an award-winning author, speaker, and retired educator who is a lifelong baseball fan. Gordon’s been a Braves fan “since they were in Boston” he will tell you. He has a masters’ degree in education and is working on his second novel and a non-fiction book on “How to Successfully Fail.” He frequently writes and teaches on a variety of related topics.

He proclaims that his baseball claim to fame is that he once got a base hit off a Hall of Fame pitcher. When pressed, he admits it was a late swing, bloop single over third base off a Jim Palmer fastball. “Palmer could really bring the heat in those days.” he reminds everyone. There is no discussion about how many times Palmer struck him out that summer.

He saw his first Major League game in 1956. As an adult, he lived in the Phoenix area for many years and was a regular at spring training games, Triple-A Giants games, and always attended the Arizona State games. He got to watch all those great future Major League Sun Devils: Rick Monday, Reggie Jackson, Sal Bando, Barry Bonds, Bob Horner, and many more (five Sun Devils drafted this year including number one). Joe will tell you that he was fortunate to see many of the great players early in their careers. Over the years he watched Triple-A teams in Wichita, Phoenix, and most recently in Salt Lake City.

In addition to this story, two other memories that he fondly recalls are watching Larry Doby put a home run ball clear out of the old Kansas City Municipal Stadium and being in the stands when the Salt Lake Trappers broke the longest winning streak in professional baseball record in 1987.

by Timothy Gager

Jimmy Grant answered a job listing for “Sobriety Wellness Coach,” he’d seen posted at the hospital where he attended meetings a few times a week. He was sober, and finally well, but as often is the case, he wasn’t very employable given his history. The wording of the ad was quite curious, and noted, “You will be compensated through a multi-billion dollar organization.” This could mean two things. 1) He would be compensated well, or 2) The job was going to be part of a research study for the greater good.

When he was called for a video interview, Jimmy thought they were going a bit over the top with the “coach,” part of the job title, as the wall behind Mr. Samuelson was covered with banners, and posters of players. Jimmy recognized most of them, being a fan, and he couldn’t help but talk to Samuelson about Ryne Sandberg and Ernie Banks, who were posted prominently in the office. “My middle name is Ryne!” Jimmy wanted to yell, but he had to remember that this was still an interview, and not to get too excited. Then, damn if their conversation didn’t end up heading in the direction of Jerome Walton and Tuffy Rhodes. Jimmy thought this might be bad form, but if it didn’t get the job, at least, he’d had a good conversation about baseball, a pastime that always passed the time for him. The only odd part of the interview was when Samuelson asked for his blood-type, and was thrilled it was AB-negative. Besides that, it all seemed on the level.

He was sober, and finally well, but as often is the case, he wasn’t very employable given his history.

The next day, he was contacted for a second interview, to be held at 1060 West Addison St., which he immediately knew as the address of Wrigley Field. Jimmy realized that the job was going to be with the Cubs. “It’s likely some training position, where once or twice a year, you tell your story so the players will know how much they have to lose.” Jimmy thought. “More likely it is going to be collecting urine samples used for drug tests.”

Even the worst of these possibilities, Jimmy knew was better than his current sober job as barista at Windy City Coffee. He was pumped. All he had to do is tell Samuelson his story of sobriety, which he’d been told at meetings was very entertaining, and this job would be his. I have experience, strength, and hope, Jimmy said as he entered Marquee Gate, as instructed, at the intersection of Addison and Clark.

Samuelson’s office was plush, with a soft royal blue colored sofa, and the posters on the wall he recognized from the video interview. When Jimmy responded to the question on his experience, he began to tell his complete story of his drinking and drugging, Samuelson cut him off. “Look,” he said. “Let’s be honest. Your job is going to be working directly with Greg Mustange. Ever hear of him?” he said, and winked.

“Greg Mustange!” Jimmy yelped, then worried, he was too loud. “He had 59 homers last year, and is one of my favorite players because he overcame so much, but wait….has he relapsed or does he just need a sponsor?”

“Sobriety Wellness Coach,” Samuelson corrected, “and you would work directly with Greg, and with us. You would travel with the team, to make sure Greg does what he’s supposed to. We can’t have any more photos in strip clubs, or ones of snorting coke off supermodels. Best thing about all this, and the job is that it’s all sanctioned by Major League Baseball. I mean, they don’t want the mess … We don’t want the mess. It’s bad publicity.”

“So, will I be going to meetings with him, perhaps spiritual talks?”

“Well, not exactly,” Samuelson said.

“I hope you’re not expecting me to police him and knock drinks out of his hands…”

“No, not at all.”

“Okay, good.” Jimmy said relieved.

‘Best thing about all this, and the job is that it’s all sanctioned by Major League Baseball. I mean, they don’t want the mess …We don’t want the mess. It’s bad publicity.’

“Good,” Samuelsson echoed. Now, there will just be a few more things we must check on.” Samuelson picked up his phone , and turned to Jimmy, “You want this job, right?,”

“Of course,” Jimmy said.

“We’re ready,” Samuelson said into the phone.

In less than a minute, a nurse carrying a rubber tourniquet, and phlebotomy tray, entered. “You may not know this,” said Samuelson, “because it’s confidential medical information, but since we’re working on the same team…Mustange’s blood-type is AB-negative.”

“Same as mine!”

“…and if we need blood from you, at any time, or urine, at any time, you are the guy. MLB will no longer look at players struggling, or using, or relapsing, or anything. It’s bad for the game and the fans don’t like it. Mustange is just one of baseball’s high profile players. He was heading to be the face of the game, and the face of the Cubs. The last thing the league needs is another ’80s Pirates or Mets scandal. If the league is clean, everyone is clean and baseball is clean. Every single team will employ a Sobriety Wellness Coach for each blood type too.”

Samuelson produced a contract from his satchel. “Just sign here, and initial next to the line that says that you agree to be blood and urine tested every week. Of course, it’s a one strike and you’re out policy.”

Jimmy held the document. He scanned down, noted Greg Mustange’s name, and paused. Jimmy had worked hard to change, to be honest, and to live his life in the best way possible. That’s what a 12-Step program is all about. He read the contract in more detail, and it struck him that if he signed and honored the contract, he would be acting honestly, and not doing anything he wasn’t supposed to do.

“Do I get to meet Greg Mustange?” Jimmy asked.

“Oh, at least a few times a week.”

Jimmy took the pen, and in his neatest handwriting signed his name, James Ryne Grant.

TIMOTHY GAGER is the author of 15 books of fiction and poetry. His latest, Spreading Like Wild Flowers,is his eighth of poetry. He has had over 600 works of fiction and poetry published, of which 16 have been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. His work has been read on National Public Radio, has also been nominated for a Massachusetts Book Award, The Best of the Web, and The Best Small Fictions Anthology.

Gager is the fiction editor of The Wilderness House Literary Review, and the founding co-editor of The Heat City Literary Review. A graduate of the University of Delaware, he lives in Dedham, Mass. with some fish and two rabbits, and he is employed as a social worker. He is currently seeking representation for his third novel, Joe the Salamander, a semi-finalist for The Holland Prize. You can read more about his work here, here, and here.

by Andrew Forbes

I once saw Curtis Granderson, with the Mets, homer in the 11th inning to tie a game, and then homer a second time in the 12th to win it. It was such a beautiful evening. Manhattan shimmered in the distance, washed in oranges and reds against the setting sun, and the air had a lovely thickness and softness to it. I’d come to the city with my wife and two friends for The Brooklyn Book Festival, and when we drove in on Friday night we found the last street parking spot in Brooklyn, but it was only about three-and-a-half inches longer than our car. I parallel-parked the hell out of that thing, but just before I settled in to the final resting position I bumped—tapped—the gargantuan SUV behind me with my plastic bumper. This thing was a vulgar monstrosity. The very moment I bumped it—tapped it—I swear to you four uniformed NYPD officers materialized out of nowhere. “Everything okay here?” asked one. “I thought I heard a crunch.” My dear friend John, who was outside the car, directing me, said, “What? I didn’t hear anything.” So how do you reward that kind of loyalty? That willingness to lie to the NYPD? You take your friend to a ballgame is how.

I’m not a Mets fan but in New York I’ll cheer for the Mets every time.

The next night we were at Citi Field, where the Mets were playing the Twins. I feel the same way about interleague as you do, but I still wanted good seats. So: lower level, just past first, maybe a third of the way up. We left the car—because no way was I giving up that parking spot—and took the 7 train up to Citi Field. It was Jacob DeGrom Hair Hat Night, so as we pushed through the turnstiles we were handed a cheap Mets cap with a wig hot-glued inside and a Geico logo stitched on the back. We wore those as we stood in line to get Shake Shack burgers and beers, and then we ate standing up, staring at the gorgeous grass.

In the fourth Eddie Rosario took Seth Lugo deep to give Minnesota a 1-0 lead, and it stayed that way until Yeonis Cespedes drove in Jose Reyes in the bottom of the eighth.

I’m not a Mets fan but in New York I’ll cheer for the Mets every time. The Mets are a philosophy in every way opposed to Yankeeness, diametrically so. The relationship between these two entities is schismatic, a fundamental divergence on matters related to the very essence of being.

Curtis Granderson is among that select group of players who’ve negotiated the sale of their labor to both organizations, so he’s got some insight into the duality of human experience. He knows: while it’s certainly more luxurious to be a Yankee fan or player, being in consortium with the Mets teaches you the same thing that you learn if you live long enough on this planet: true love travels on a gravel road.

What’s remarkable is that Grandy managed the trick of being likeable while being a Yankee. All fanbases, in every big league city, loved Grandy, even if they’re not one of the six teams he played for; he was just that wonderful. When he was young and a Tiger, it was easy to envy Detroit. Patrolling that spacious center field, he was smooth, graceful. He blossomed into an elite defender who made everything look easy, a hitter prone to strikeouts but also extra base hits, an RBI man with 20+ home run power, an All-Star, but the Tigers weren’t going anywhere so they traded him to the Yankees. After four seasons in the Bronx he was granted his free agency. He signed a four-year deal with the Mets, where he had a shot at winning the Series, but ran headlong into the Royals. After that he was on the downhill side of his career. The Mets traded him to the Dodgers, and then he bounced around: Brewers, Blue Jays, Marlins. Everywhere he went, they loved him for his swing, his hustle, and that smile that’d light up a field brighter than a thousand LED lamps.

What’s remarkable is that Grandy managed the trick of being likeable while being a Yankee.

Nobody scored in the ninth, so we settled in for extras. Nothing doing in the 10th, but Byron Buxton homered to lead off the 11th, and it looked like the Twins would steal a win. But Grandy led off the bottom of the 11th and sent Brandon Kintzler’s 0-1 pitch over the wall in left-center. Game tied at two.

The Mets sent six batters to the plate in the 11th, which meant Grandy’s turn came around again in the bottom of the 12th, with two out and the score still knotted. The centerfielder worked the count full against the eighth pitcher the Twins had trotted out.

Grandy, his socks pulled high in tribute to his Negro League forebears, yanked the payoff pitch over the right field wall and rounded the bases at a brisk jog and when he reached the plate his teammates mobbed him and doused him in water. I screamed myself hoarse, Jacob deGrom’s fake hair bouncing up and down on my head. The home run apple rose and lit up out there in centerfield, and the man of the hour beamed.

It was fully night then, close and suggestive, and we rode the train back to Brooklyn. Joaquin Phoenix got on with his dog, hopped off a few stops later. The streets teemed, and we hauled bodega beers back to the place we’d rented for the weekend. We drank from cold bottles with our feet up on the table, and I don’t know now what I miss more, Granderson’s smile, or that old world where we go to New York and sit elbow to elbow on trains and in ballparks with strangers on warm summer evenings. But I know this: no matter how big that smile, wherever Grandy is he’s smart enough to cover it with a fucking mask.

ANDREW FORBES is the author of the story collections Lands and Forests (Invisible Publishing) and What You Need, which was shortlisted for the Danuta Gleed Literary Award, and named a finalist for the Trillium Book Prize. Forbes is also the author of The Utility of Boredom: Baseball Essays, as well as the forthcoming The Only Way is the Steady Way: Baseball, Ichiro, and How We Watch the Game. He lives in Peterborough, Ontario. Visit his website to learn more about his work.

by Aaron Fischman

Madelyn Barnette is on the field, frolicking with Swallows mascot Tsubakuro at Mazda Stadium, home of the Hiroshima Carp. Twenty minutes earlier, the second of two 2015 All-Star games had concluded. Madelyn’s dad had made the Central squad for the second time, the first since his 2012 All-Star nod. Not coincidentally, ‘15 was also Tony’s first fully healthy first half since then.

Most of the other All-Stars and their families had already dispersed, but Tony wanted Hillary and Madelyn to take a picture with him. After games, they’d always run down to the field to say a brief hello before Tony disappeared into the clubhouse. But those were fleeting encounters. This was a special occasion, and Tony wanted to make it last. So, once the final out was recorded, he called Hillary to summon them down.

Upon reaching the field, Hillary handed a not-yet-walking Madelyn over to Tony. The field would be her playground for the night, as Tony began carrying her all over. Television cameras quickly took notice of the scene, the little girl donning a navy blue Yakult jersey with a red bow in her hair. Then, Tsubakuro joined the party, playing with Madelyn before posing for pictures with her. Again, TV crews jumped at the chance to capture the considerable cuteness occurring, as the fifteen-month-old euphorically played with the silly large bird. “Madelyn got hardcore TV time,” said Tony. Hillary beamed, watching the pure joy on their faces.

Madelyn Barnette is on the field, frolicking with Swallows mascot Tsubakuro at Mazda Stadium, home of the Hiroshima Carp.

Second baseman Tetsuto Yamada, who was fast becoming one of the league’s most feared hitters, was still around. He went over to greet Tony’s daughter, whom he’d seen around over the past couple seasons. Without warning, Madelyn suddenly bent over and vomited on the All-Star infielder’s shoes. “That was fun,” said Tony, with a chuckle. “He played it off great.”

Coming off another spectacular month of pitching, Tony accepted the Central League’s July MVP award prior to a game against Hanshin. For the occasion, Hillary arrived at Jingu Stadium before first pitch, a rarity for her in 2015. She remembers the mid-August day vividly. It was one of Tokyo’s hottest days of the year, and she was holding Madelyn. Hillary moved behind the backstop for a better vantage point to take photos as Tony received the award.

Nearby, a man sprung up from his seat, amazed that the “closer’s wife,” as he called her, would already be at the field. The man introduced himself as a Texas Rangers scout. He wasted little time. “Do you think Tony would want to go back to the States?” he asked. “That’s the question that took me kind of aback,” said Hillary, reflecting on the encounter years later. Unsure of her exact response in the moment, Hillary recalls saying something diplomatic, conveying to the scout Tony’s interest in a potential big league opportunity, while making it clear he was content in Japan and would gladly remain there. “You don’t ever want to say, ‘Yeah, he can’t wait to leave Japan,’ or something like that ‘cuz we were happy there.” After the game, Hillary told Tony. “I said, ‘Hey, there was a guy watching you from the Texas Rangers.’ And I just remember Tony saying, ‘I hope he liked you.’”

“Everything was awesome,” said Hillary of her and Tony’s situation as the season concluded. “He loved his team, we loved the city, loved the people, so it was almost weird to be so happy where we were and to be looking to go somewhere else, I think.”

Outside of unforeseen circumstances beyond his control, Tony stood on the doorstep of signing a big league deal for the first time. While Hillary undoubtedly felt every bit as excited as Tony felt, she later acknowledged the presence of “bittersweet” emotions about what was to come. “We were really starting to get comfortable with Japan in general,” she noted. “The difference between the first year and the sixth year was huge. The first year, you’re awkward, you don’t know what you’re doing, you don’t know where you are. And then by the sixth year, we felt at home, we had a lot of good friends. It just felt like home, felt like a home away from home.”

In a Nashville hotel suite at MLB’s 2015 Winter Meetings, agent Don Nomura closed the deal that would bring Tony to the majors once and for all as a thirty-two-year-old rookie with the Rangers.

Tony enjoyed a particular organizational stability with Yakult, too, by virtue of playing for the same franchise for six seasons. The pitching and bullpen coaches, Swallows staff Tony interacted with most, remained particularly steady during his time in town. “The faces, they never really are gone,” said Hillary. “I think [the stability] was really, really important for him in his development. That totally changed the kind of pitcher he was, and who he is now as a pitcher, for sure.”

In a Nashville hotel suite at MLB’s 2015 Winter Meetings, agent Don Nomura closed the deal that would bring Tony to the majors once and for all as a 32-year-old rookie with the Rangers. Given all the gaijin (Japanese for “foreigner”) had overcome in Tokyo—including multiple demotions, cultural and language challenges, his release after Year 1, and a move to the bullpen—to transform into a dominant closer, how could he be considered a rookie after all that? Humbly, Tony accepted his fate, bringing to Arlington the confidence and experience he cultivated in Japan, along with an enthusiastic willingness to absorb every morsel of insight from his coaches and teammates. Before every game, Tony gamely carried to the pen the Frozen-themed bag of snacks he was tasked with stocking. At the team’s annual charity event, the rookies performed on stage. Donning high-platform shoes, a mask, and the whole look, he sang his heart out as Gene Simmons of Kiss.

From a baseball standpoint, Tony excelled, as did his first-place Rangers, though they were swept by Toronto in the divisional round. After two more seasons in Texas and a brief stint with the Cubs, he retired from pro baseball in order to savor every moment in Arizona with his wife and two daughters.

AARON FISCHMAN is an award-winning multimedia journalist who enjoys crafting long-form stories that focus on universal themes that transcend sports. He earned his bachelor’s degree at UC Davis in political science and communication before completing his journalism master’s at USC’s acclaimed Annenberg School. He’s reported for Ozy, Slam Online, ESPN True Hoop, and the L.A. Times, among other outlets, covering high school, collegiate (USC football, others), and pro (L.A. Sparks, Sacramento Kings) sports. He also boasts extensive experience as an editor, play-by-play announcer, color commentator, and radio and podcast host. Visit his website to learn more about his work

In late 2019, he edited Paul Knepper’s The Knicks of the Nineties book. Currently, Aaron is finishing his own nonfiction book, from which this piece is excerpted, and hosting an NBA podcast. Since the start of the 2015-16 season, he’s co-hosted the On the NBA Beat podcast, which features interviews with beat reporters and personalities around the league. His writing has yielded two Los Angeles Press Club awards, Cobalt Press’ 2018 Earl Weaver Baseball Writing prize.