copyright © 2003 by Robert L. Blau
It seems like I spent my whole life chasing the Boomtown Bombers, but it didn't matter. Playing baseball was all I ever wanted to do. It's the greatest game ever invented. I still say that. So what if I played for the Burlap Longstockings instead of the perennial pennant winners? But it did get old sometimes.
Actually, in the beginning, it wasn't so bad. Sometimes the Bombers won. Sometimes someone else did. And we held our own. Then Boyle bought the Bombers. Dirk Boyle was a multi-million or billion or ... well, something with an "aire" at the end of it. I don't know where he made his money. Someone said energy. Someone else said banking. Maybe it was both. But the point was that Boyle insisted on winning. He didn't care how much it cost, but once he paid the bucks, losing the seventh game of the World Series by one run on a wind-blown bloop single in the 18th inning was an inadequate excuse for losing.
Suffice it to say that, following the coming of Boyle, the game got more intense. He fielded the best team money could buy, and some of us were a bit awed by the high-priced free agents that entered the Bombers' fold, but our manager, Joe Shlabotnik, was undismayed.
"It's still just old-fashioned county hardball," said Joe. "When they come on the field, that 20 million dollar contract don't mean jack if the guy can't hit a slider. The game's still won on the field. We all play by the same rules: nine guys, nine innings, three outs per inning, and all that."
He was right, too. The Bombers finished in the middle of the pack in Boyle's first year. Word had it that he was livid. The second year wasn't much better, but after that the Bombers started winning. They seemed to be getting an inordinate number of breaks, but that's the way it goes sometimes. It was just the vagaries of the game. No one paid it much mind at first.
Then the talk started. People were saying that Boyle had been seen with umpires and league officials. Satchels had supposedly changed hands. But it was just talk.
Until the Strikeout. It happened in Burlap, so I saw it with my own eyes. It was Boyle's fourth year as owner, and we were running neck and neck with the Bombers. It was the bottom of the ninth. The Bombers were leading by a run, but we had loaded the bases with two outs. Wilbur was batting with a count of one ball and two strikes. The Bomber pitcher completely lost control of his pitch, which went sailing behind Wilbur and over the catcher's head before caroming up the third base line and heading for left field. Two runs would score easily. A win would put us in first place.
"Strike three!" bellowed the plate umpire.
Everyone was so stunned that, for a moment, absolutely all movement stopped. Then all hell broke loose. Shlabotnik stormed out of the dugout. He argued with the umpire. He appealed to the other umps, who backed the plate ump. The benches emptied. The stands emptied. The next day, Shlabotnik and three of the Longstockings' best players were suspended for three days.
"Don't worry," said Joe. "I've protested the game."
"But the league never allows a protest," I protested.
"They will this time," said Joe. "The favoritism was too blatant, too public. We have videotape. We have at least 50,000 eye witnesses. That ump is finished."
Indeed, the news media were full of support for our position. Concrete corrective action, however, did not come. But you can't just flout the rules like that without consequences. It was only a matter of time.
Ah, but have you heard about the Run-down? That one happened in Boomtown when the Bombers were playing Podunk, so I didn't see it in person. However, there was a crowd of some 70,000 fans and heaven knows how many more on TV. A Boomtown runner was picked off first base and hung up between first and second. As he cut sharply back toward first, he slipped and fell flat on his ass. The first baseman walked over and tagged him out. But the runner, buoyed perhaps by recent events, snatched the ball from the first baseman's hand and threw it into the stands. The umpire, far from calling the runner out, awarded him third base. Boyle called a press conference to praise the officiating and announce that he was giving the umpires who called the game a generous reward.
Well, we now had not only two clear cases of corruption, but a public announcement of bribery. We were certain that that would be enough to get Boyle banned from the game for life. Then came the next bombshell. Boyle was caught betting on baseball games. Now, that is the ultimate kiss of death for anyone involved in baseball. We danced in the streets.
The next day, we traveled to Boomtown to open a series with the Bombers. We were positively giddy with anticipation. So giddy, in fact, that we didn't notice that anything was wrong until we came onto the field.
The diamond was gone. The pitcher's mound had been razed and all the dirt areas had been covered with artificial grass. Out toward what had been center field, several men clad in full football regalia were tossing a pigskin around. The officials were wearing striped shirts instead of basic navy blue. Boyle was grinning from the box seats.
Joe was the first to regain his voice. "What the hell is going on here?" he shouted.
"We're playing football now," smirked Boyle. "Didn't you know? There's not going to be any more baseball. If you don't like it, my associates will be glad to escort you out. We have ... camps set up for unreconstructed baseballers."
"Whattaya know?" marveled Joe. "While we were concentrating on the rules, they went and changed the game on us."
Index of Stories
Home
It seems like I spent my whole life chasing the Boomtown Bombers, but it didn't matter. Playing baseball was all I ever wanted to do. It's the greatest game ever invented. I still say that. So what if I played for the Burlap Longstockings instead of the perennial pennant winners? But it did get old sometimes.
Actually, in the beginning, it wasn't so bad. Sometimes the Bombers won. Sometimes someone else did. And we held our own. Then Boyle bought the Bombers. Dirk Boyle was a multi-million or billion or ... well, something with an "aire" at the end of it. I don't know where he made his money. Someone said energy. Someone else said banking. Maybe it was both. But the point was that Boyle insisted on winning. He didn't care how much it cost, but once he paid the bucks, losing the seventh game of the World Series by one run on a wind-blown bloop single in the 18th inning was an inadequate excuse for losing.
Suffice it to say that, following the coming of Boyle, the game got more intense. He fielded the best team money could buy, and some of us were a bit awed by the high-priced free agents that entered the Bombers' fold, but our manager, Joe Shlabotnik, was undismayed.
"It's still just old-fashioned county hardball," said Joe. "When they come on the field, that 20 million dollar contract don't mean jack if the guy can't hit a slider. The game's still won on the field. We all play by the same rules: nine guys, nine innings, three outs per inning, and all that."
He was right, too. The Bombers finished in the middle of the pack in Boyle's first year. Word had it that he was livid. The second year wasn't much better, but after that the Bombers started winning. They seemed to be getting an inordinate number of breaks, but that's the way it goes sometimes. It was just the vagaries of the game. No one paid it much mind at first.
Then the talk started. People were saying that Boyle had been seen with umpires and league officials. Satchels had supposedly changed hands. But it was just talk.
Until the Strikeout. It happened in Burlap, so I saw it with my own eyes. It was Boyle's fourth year as owner, and we were running neck and neck with the Bombers. It was the bottom of the ninth. The Bombers were leading by a run, but we had loaded the bases with two outs. Wilbur was batting with a count of one ball and two strikes. The Bomber pitcher completely lost control of his pitch, which went sailing behind Wilbur and over the catcher's head before caroming up the third base line and heading for left field. Two runs would score easily. A win would put us in first place.
"Strike three!" bellowed the plate umpire.
Everyone was so stunned that, for a moment, absolutely all movement stopped. Then all hell broke loose. Shlabotnik stormed out of the dugout. He argued with the umpire. He appealed to the other umps, who backed the plate ump. The benches emptied. The stands emptied. The next day, Shlabotnik and three of the Longstockings' best players were suspended for three days.
"Don't worry," said Joe. "I've protested the game."
"But the league never allows a protest," I protested.
"They will this time," said Joe. "The favoritism was too blatant, too public. We have videotape. We have at least 50,000 eye witnesses. That ump is finished."
Indeed, the news media were full of support for our position. Concrete corrective action, however, did not come. But you can't just flout the rules like that without consequences. It was only a matter of time.
Ah, but have you heard about the Run-down? That one happened in Boomtown when the Bombers were playing Podunk, so I didn't see it in person. However, there was a crowd of some 70,000 fans and heaven knows how many more on TV. A Boomtown runner was picked off first base and hung up between first and second. As he cut sharply back toward first, he slipped and fell flat on his ass. The first baseman walked over and tagged him out. But the runner, buoyed perhaps by recent events, snatched the ball from the first baseman's hand and threw it into the stands. The umpire, far from calling the runner out, awarded him third base. Boyle called a press conference to praise the officiating and announce that he was giving the umpires who called the game a generous reward.
Well, we now had not only two clear cases of corruption, but a public announcement of bribery. We were certain that that would be enough to get Boyle banned from the game for life. Then came the next bombshell. Boyle was caught betting on baseball games. Now, that is the ultimate kiss of death for anyone involved in baseball. We danced in the streets.
The next day, we traveled to Boomtown to open a series with the Bombers. We were positively giddy with anticipation. So giddy, in fact, that we didn't notice that anything was wrong until we came onto the field.
The diamond was gone. The pitcher's mound had been razed and all the dirt areas had been covered with artificial grass. Out toward what had been center field, several men clad in full football regalia were tossing a pigskin around. The officials were wearing striped shirts instead of basic navy blue. Boyle was grinning from the box seats.
Joe was the first to regain his voice. "What the hell is going on here?" he shouted.
"We're playing football now," smirked Boyle. "Didn't you know? There's not going to be any more baseball. If you don't like it, my associates will be glad to escort you out. We have ... camps set up for unreconstructed baseballers."
"Whattaya know?" marveled Joe. "While we were concentrating on the rules, they went and changed the game on us."
Index of Stories
Home