But the game wasn’t cancelled.
Frecklie gave him a big smile and thumbs up as he rushed through Gate Six and down Section 116, hopping over the fence and through the dugout into the clubhouse, pausing to dry heave into a dissipated wall.
The team slumped lazily before their lockers. When Puppy came in, the whole clubhouse went mute. He wandered down each row until he came to his locker, flagged with a lopsided sign: PUPPY, each letter in a different handwriting. The team watched him lovingly open the door. A big pile of shit, clearly contributed by each member of the Bronx Hawks, sat in a bag. Everyone broke up.
“Welcome.” Mickey rubbed his hair. “Now don’t make me chase any balls near those skulls.”
Once Puppy finished dressing in the too small white t-shirt and too large blue uniform pants, Ty beckoned him into the office.
“How you feeling?”
“Great.”
“So glad to hear that. Think getting polluted the night before a game was smart?” Puppy’s head ached from the reminder; he slowly shook his head. “Mantle can drink and play. You can’t. You ain’t gifted. You gonna emulate anyone, it’s me.”
That scared Puppy a little, but not enough to shut up. “Why didn’t you stop me?”
Ty turned scarlet. “You think I’m your fucking mother.” He shouted into the clubhouse. “Do I look like anyone’s mother?”
The players gratefully shook their heads. The manager nearly sat on Puppy’s head.
“If I ever find out you were drinking the night before you pitch, I’m gonna knock out all your teeth.”
Puppy wouldn’t care what Cobb did as long as he said it a little quieter. He started toward the door when Ty grabbed his left elbow.
“If the shoulder hurts, you tell me. Or I’ll slide into your ears.”
As Puppy stumbled onto the field during the Falcons infield practice, Frecklie hopped onto the top of the dugout and very noisily windmilled his arms.
“What’s wrong?” Puppy whispered.
“There’s a big line.”
“Of what?”
“Fans. There, there, there.” Frecklie pointed.
“Okay, okay, okay. Calm down.”
Irritatated, Freckle smacked his chest. Am calm. He made little people with his fingers.
Puppy shrugged. “Get.”
Frecklie ran his finger over his throat, pointing at the executive suite on the second level.
“I don’t have time to argue with them. You have to handle this, kid.”
Frecklie went so white his freckles looked like HGs. He coldly shoved a paper and a pen at Puppy, who skimmed it as Ty bounded onto the field, glaring at his starting pitcher.
“I can’t sign any authorizations.”
“As the baseball historian, you’re an employee of the Sport Commission. I looked it up when I started.”
“Pretty smart…”
“Just sign,” Frecklie yelled and raced back up the aisle with the approved work order. Puppy followed Vernon between the first base line and the stands, where about a hundred or so fans were scattered.
Shit, he blinked.
Ty spit ‘bacco on their shoes. “Where’s the tea, girls? I could bake some crumpets if you like.”
“We’re gonna warm up now, skip,” Jackson explained, pounding his glove.
“Oh my.” Cobb delicately put his fingers on his lips. “I didn’t realize this was the bullpen.”
Jackson swallowed. “You want us going out there?”
“No, up your ass, you dumb black bastard.” Cobb sputtered. “Get out there. Now.”
Puppy briefly turned back near second base. Frantic DVs were directing siblings in all directions behind home plate. Officer Brennan was running back and forth, tipping his head in greeting so quickly sparks seemed to flash around his receding hairline. Puppy couldn’t see the crowds swarming the concession stands inside, overwhelming Mr. Ruiz’s taco supply and Mrs. Balinski’s pierogi stash. Forget the congestion by the one entrance, Gate Six, from Aito steadfastly triple-checking each ticket price, while Frecklie and five new DVs ran past the patient, troubled fans who decided against work today, looking for a diversion from Grandma’s Story as they ambled in a messy line back under the El.
Hundreds and hundreds of fans.
Puppy crunched over a carpet of shattered glass which stretched before the bullpen in right center field like a glittering moat, guiding Jackson by the hand through the doorless frame. The catcher moaned. Both pitchers’ rubbers were buried beneath piles of rusted debris wrapped in tangled wires fallen from the scoreboard. Their spikes woke rows of rifle shells, which rolled toward a dirt-encrusted home plate.
Vern pointed to skeletons leaning against the back wall, guns by their feet as if waiting to resume the fight. Puppy carefully toed some mottled orange wigs.
“Leave them be,” the catcher warned, not moving.
Imagining, Puppy looked up at the remains of the scoreboard, frozen with Grandma’s smile. “I guess Black Tops were positioned up there. Or maybe these guys were fighting ‘copters. Or just fell.”
“All that matters is they lost. That’s why they’re bones and we’re not.”
Puppy grunted and walked back. “Ever seen pictures of the stadium before October 12?”
Jackson shook his head.
“The scoreboard went from right to left field. They posted lineups, statistics. Had games, vids, photos, music. Attention, ladies and gentlemen. Now batting. Players had numbers.” Puppy leaned against the wall, disturbing a rat which scurried in search of quieter digs. Jackson almost fainted. “This used to be called Yankee Stadium, before baseball started skidding into the toilet and needed businesses to pay. The whole place was beautiful. All the ballparks were. They had personalities like people.”
Jackson jerked his head toward the fleeing rat. “That’s what was lurking. Tick-tock.”
Puppy frowned. “You believe that?”
“Don’t you?” Vern asked warily.
“It’s hard to believe something so beautiful could represent something so wrong.”
“Sometimes that’s the easiest way for wrong to get inside your shirt.” The catcher kicked the ground nervously. “What pitches you got?”
“Fastball,
