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, thoughtfully 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
