co-author: Stokes Howell (who wrote most of it)
Todd and I had had a baseball Jones for months. When game day arrived we jumped into Todd’s Chevy Saturday afternoon and tooled into town for the Yankee game on Saturday night. We were psyched.
On the way we were shooting the breeze about the Yankee game the night before, which we had watched at Todd’s house on the tube. Todd said the manager, Crawford, shouldn’t have yanked the pitcher Smith in the fifth inning, since the Yanks were on top and Smith would have gotten the win if he’d finished the inning. I pointed out that the previous three batters had lit him up for two dingers and that a line drive back through the box had nearly knocked his jock off, so clearly he was on the ropes.
“In that situation,” I said, “the manager’s got to worry about blowing the lead, not about padding the pitcher’s stats. If Smith gets the hook and doesn’t get the “W”, that’s his own fault for pitching a sucky game. No need to bitch about it.”
“But Smith was still bringing some serious heat. They clocked him on the gun at 97. Even his curve was getting to the plate at 85 miles an hour. He had seven K’s in the first four innings. He was throwing aspirin tablets out there. Did you see him saw the bat off in Gardner’s hands? Now that was a jam job.”
“You’re just pissed because you think Crawford is heinous.”
“But he is heinous! And he’s got diarrhea of the mouth. What about the seventh inning? The first base umpire makes a call he doesn’t like, Crawford goes out and flaps his jaw until the ump has to give him the heave-ho, then Crawford goes postal and kicks dirt all over the ump’s shoes. Even if the ump is blind as a bat you can’t diss him in front of everybody like that! You’ll get thumbed every time.”
“But Hennessey missed the bag by a mile, so Crawford had a legitimate beef.”
“I just don’t like him. I think he’s dead from the neck up.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s stupid, but he’s definitely a boozer. They got him on a DWI in spring training. He was totally wasted when they pulled him over. He maxed out on the Breathalyzer. Anyway, it’s not worth getting your undies in a bunch over it. Just chill out.”
“I’ll chill when we get to the stadium and start pounding some brews.”
“I heard that.”
“—Ninth inning, first game of a twin bill. The Mets took the opening game of this four-game series last night with clutch hitting and great relief pitching when Slidell came in and struck out the side to end the game. A series sweep would put the Mets only a game out of first. It’s the top of the ninth, two on, one out, Bailey on the mound. He needs a pop-up or a strikeout here, but Gamble is a tough out. He’s got a good eye and has only fanned seven times in one hundred and ninety trips to the plate this season.”
“–He’s two for four on the day, Bob Murphy. He walked in the first, flied out in the third, doubled off the wall in the fifth and legged out a bleeder down the third-base line in the seventh.”
“–A single would win this one. The count is three and two, Bailey goes into his wind-up, the runners lead off first and second, here’s the pitch, Gamble drills a liner deep to left –”
The sergeant suddenly turned the radio off. I didn’t care, it was adding insult to injury to have to hear baseball on the radio now that we were going to lose out on the Yankee game. I was hacked off about losing the jackets and mitts and stuff, but more hacked off that we’d never get to the game. There was no way to score any tickets now. It was “Bat Night” and the game had been sold out for weeks.
We filed our report. When the detective heard that they’d scarfed our jackets with the tickets in the pocket, he had an idea.
“You know where your seats are?”
“Yeah,” Todd said. “The cheap seats. Left field bleachers. Section eight, row two.”
“Let’s call the precinct up there. We’ll tell ‘em to meet you guys at the stadium. The perps got your tickets, maybe they decided to catch the game themselves. We could catch them red-handed.”
“They’d have to be morons to go to the game and sit in our seats,” I said.
“Look, these guys aren’t rocket scientists. You’d be surprised how dumb these retards are. Most slimeballs aren’t playing with a full deck. I say it’s worth a shot.”
“Okay, you’re on.”
Todd and I got in his car and he hit the gas. We headed up the FDR Drive, trying to dodge potholes because Todd’s front end alignment was out of whack. We took Todd’s transistor out of the glove compartment. It was the only thing the pipeheads had left behind. I guess it was too piddling for them to rip off. The Yankee game had already started. In fact it was already the bottom of the second. Monroe was batting for the Yankees, Garfield was on deck.
“Damn, we’re missing Monroe’s first Yankee at-bat,” Todd said. “He’s got a lot of pop in his bat. Thirty-six taters last year, thirty-three the year before. And he’s always good for at least ninety ribbies.”
“Why’d the Red Sox trade a slugger like him?”
“They thought he couldn’t cut the mustard any more. But that was because he had a gimpy shoulder. Now that he’s healthy he’s knocking the cover off the ball.”
“Listen!” I turned up the radio.
“–Monroe corks one down the rightfield line! The rightfielder is trying for a shoestring catch. It goes under his glove! Monroe might get a three-bagger. Decker comes in to score and Sanders is digging for third. He’s being waved in. Monroe is booking around second. The rightfielder boots the ball in the corner. They might send Monroe home. He’s got the green light. He’s rounding third and heading for home. Here comes the relay. There’s going to be a play at the plate. He might be gunned down. Here’s the throw, the slide. He’s safe! The Yankees go up three zip on Monroe’s inside-the-park home run!”
“–Monroe is a gamer, Scooter [Phil Rizzuto]. His home run last night put the nail in the Indians’ coffin, and today he’s picking up where he left off. He’s on a tear. He’s a streak hitter, and when he’s hot he can carry the team…”
“–Monroe is on fire and he owns this pitcher Clay, Bill [White]. Pitchers don’t like it when a hitter’s that hot. He’d better keep an eye out next time up, though. He’s liable to hear a little chin music.”
“–Clay’s been known to throw the brushback pitch, that’s a fact–”
I turned the radio back down. Todd was driving like a maniac, weaving in and out of traffic.
“Slow this crate down, Todd! You’re about to make me hurl.”
“Don’t blow chunks in here. Cool it. Don’t flip out on me. We’re almost there.”
It was eight-thirty on the dot when we pulled up to the stadium. We dodged the squeegee guys and the souvenir hawkers and pulled Todd’s buggy into the parking lot. At the front entrance were a plainclothesman and two uniformed officers. They took us inside.
I kept one eye on the action while we walked toward the bleacher section. It was the top of the fourth now. The Tribe was coming back. You could see their guys in the dugout had their rally caps on. They strung together four hits in a row, a hit batsman and a Yankee error to plate three runs. Finally the Yankee hurler threw a sinker and got a grounder to short. The Yanks turned two and got out of the jam still tied.
When we got to the bleachers the plainclothesman told us to wait at the top of the steps while he walked down to the seats to suss things out. Todd and I stayed with the two uniformed cops. The cops didn’t seem to be too interested in making this pinch. They were just happy to be in the ballpark instead of outside pounding the beat.
The first cop was saying, “Elliot needs to throw the splitter.”
“Hargrove’ll never bite on the low pitch,” said the second cop.
“If Elliot loads one up, Hargrove’ll never see it coming.”
“If Elliot goes to his mouth, it’ll be a balk.”
“Okay, then he should throw the scroogie.”
Finally I interrupted them.
“Excuse me, guys, I don’t mean to bug you, but your buddy is waving for you to haul butt down there where he is. I think he’s found the guys.”
It was true. The plainclothesman had located the two perps, and was having the usher check their ticket stubs. Now that they were standing up I could see that one of the assholes was wearing my Yankee jacket.
“The shit’s about to hit the fan!” Todd said.
“That’s my jacket! Bust the suckers!” I said.
The two cops were a couple of lardasses, so it was funny to watch them waddle down the aisle, then squeeze their beer guts down the row to the seats to make the collar. They dragged the two guys out, took them away, and gave us our jackets back. I put my hand in my jacket pocket.
“Hey, there’s dough in here. There’s a hundred bucks in my pocket!”
“No way!”
“Way. Check it out.”
“Far out. They try to rip us off, and wind up leaving a wad of bills behind. That’ll go part way to replacing my car stereo.”
“It’ll also go part way towards buying us some suds. Two Buds here!”
Todd and I went to our seats, kicked back and watched the game. The Bronx Bombers had it all going that night. The game turned out to be a laugher. Fourteen to three, Yanks on top. Even the scrubs got to play. We did the wave, made fun of the stoners sitting in the back rows of the bleachers, and needled the Indians’ leftfielder unmercifully. He was a rookie and must have had rabbit ears, because he kept turning around to try to see who was razzing him. At the end of the game we got in the Chevy and boogied back home. Just another kickin’ night at the ol’ ballpark.
