Cobb took the right knee to the ground and clasped his hands. “Are you all Hebes? Get down on your goddamn knees.”
Puppy gestured for the team to kneel and clasp their hands. Everyone was fairly confident that Ty was going to behead them with their bats.
“Lord Jesus Christ. I hope you ain’t given up on us yet.”
The players’ eyes widened in alarm at the illegal praying. They started standing; Puppy emphatically waved everyone to remain kneeling.
“These godless heathens ain’t worthy of you. But I know your heart is large and I’m hoping you’ll find room for them. They’re stupid and they’re useless and they will be a real test for you, Lord. So whatever you can do, send it along because this goddamn country is going to hell.”
Ty did something weird with his hands, waving left to right across his torso as if chasing a fly, then touching his forehead and chest.
“Amen.” Mickey belched.
The manager waited for Puppy by the entrance to the dugout, blocking the door with his arm, smiling shrewdly.
“You’re pitching BP.”
“Excuse me?”
Cobb pressed the ball into his hand.
“Ty, I can’t…”
“I can’t, I can’t.” Ty danced daintily on his toes around Puppy. “Get your worthless ass out there, Mabel. I can’t pitch BP too.”
Cobb shoved Puppy up the steps. He stumbled onto the field. A glove landed just over his head, followed by a fluttering Hawks cap.
“I don’t have a uniform.” He tried one last act of defiance.
“Fatso.” Ty called over to Vern, busy examining the bats. “Give Mary Jane your t-shirt so she feels like she belongs.”
Self-consciously covering up his belly rolls, Jackson flipped his shirt to Puppy.
“Any other excuses ‘cept you’re a gutless coward?” Cobb sneered, hands on hips.
That’ll do.
Puppy walked toward the mound. The players quieted down, watching. At least there weren’t a lot of fans. He counted four so far. Five stadium staff. Perfect. He pawed at the pitching rubber, looking around the wrecked stadium. It hadn’t looked quite so shabby when he stood here in 2081 for the city-wide championships. Basically the Bronx and the north end of Queens were represented, Staten Island still underwater, Brooklyn finally drying out, Manhattan containing pockets of civilization.
His Bronx College played against the traditional Reg-infested Bronx University. Here. Right here, except there were about 10,000 fans, the contents of both campuses and families, friends, swarming behind both baselines. Annette had sat off to the left of the home dugout. Row 12, Seats 2,3,4, only her hotshot lawyer parents Cara and Nadi never showed; Annette was a Reg from Philly and for all the admonitions, insights, endless lectures, a DV however dipped in bright paint would eventually rust. All those people cared about were climbing up and out of their holes like rats with a new hairdo. Course he’d want to marry our daughter.
But Annette had believed in him back then. Hell, he believed in himself. Cocky bastard. He’d gone 14-2 with a 2.45 ERA, striking out about ten a game. And hitting around .250, too. The things you think you can do when you’re twenty-one.
Like tear down records in your senior year of college. He just didn’t want to win the championship, he wanted to be the best ever. Mooshie’s record of 14Ks in a single game held for decades; he was going to rip it down.
First inning, struck out the side. Second inning, someone managed a squib to second, next two batters swished and missed. Third inning, struck out the side; Annette’s boobs nearly bounced out of her blouse. Grandma’s clit, he loved her so much then. Fourth inning, two more strikeouts.
His fiancé found a piece of blank cardboard and a magic marker and held up the sign. Puppy 10, Mooshie 14, brandishing it high over her head and parading up and down the aisles so everyone could see.
The buzz intensified. Bronx College led 7-0, if anyone was paying attention to that.
Fifth inning, first batter popped out. Second batter grounded out, 6-3. Puppy sweated, doing the math. On a 1-2 pitch, he broke off a slider and felt something pull in his right shoulder. Not just pull. A little person was holding onto his muscle like a bell, ringing pain.
He sat alone at the end of the dugout, towel over his head; his teammates and manager figured he was superstitious. He didn’t want anyone seeing him chomping on the cotton fabric as a pacifier.
In the sixth inning, the leadoff hitter smacked the ball into the gaping artillery hole in the left field stands. Next one lashes the ball into the right field corner. Single scores him, triple scores that runner. Suddenly it’s 7-3.
Puppy persuaded the manager that he was fine. He bore down and got the next batter on strikes, a grounder scoring the run, and the third out retired on a lazy fly to center.
Puppy 11, Mooshie 14, Annette carried the crossed-out updated numbers through the stands.
Top of the seventh, a leadoff double followed by two groundouts cut the lead to a couple runs. Annette climbed on top of the home dugout, leading the crowd in barking.
“Oof, oof, Puppy. Oof, oof, Puppy.”
He nailed the third out on a sinking fastball, nearly going to his knees in agony.
Puppy 12, Mooshie 14.
Bottom of the seventh, his teammates gave him a little cushion, taking a four-run lead into the top of the eighth. The leadoff batter homered into a mortar chasm in right-center, but the next two hitters singled. First and second. Puppy waved back the manager into the dugout. Only way he was giving up the ball was if his shoulder sailed across home plate.
A bouncer to short set up first and third, two outs. Annette’s boobs danced on top of the dugout. Fans of both teams were rooting for him, clapping and barking rhythmically.
Puppy 13, Mooshie 14.
He went into the clubhouse during the bottom of the eighth, heaving in the toilet and swallowing down four aspirin. The manager
