The shortstop shoved Ty, who decked him with one punch, then kicked the second baseman in the chest. The Hawks rushed out to help. Mick flattened the first baseman and Vernon completed the destruction of the opposing infield as the fans stood and barked and applauded happily at the newest wrinkle to this fascinating game everyone had always said was boring.
By the time the calmer folks, led by the umpires, impressed order, the three Hawks were tossed for starting and continuing the fight. Puppy wanted to think that his aching shoulder was because he’d wrenched the Falcons’ catcher off Mickey’s back, but he knew otherwise.
He was the first person in the clubhouse today because he wanted to hit the aspirin supply; Ty grumbled past.
“Where the hell are your friends?” Ty yelled.
“It’s only eight.”
“What does that matter?” Cobb overturned stools. “Will you be there?”
“Here I am, skip. I’m not the ghost.”
“At this goddamn meeting.” He flung a crumpled piece of paper at Puppy.
Puppy read, frowning. “They can’t suspend you.”
“Good. Take care of it.”
Ty slammed the office door in Puppy’s face. Mickey helped straighten up the clubhouse; Puppy dropped the stools a few times. Mick gave Puppy a shrewd look as he buttoned his jersey with his left hand.
“Mornings are the worse.”
“For what?”
“The pains.” He tapped the scars on his knees.
“It’s just a little stiffness. Mooshie takes up a lot of room and we only have a small bed.”
Mick grunted. “That must be it.”
Puppy carefully tied his spikes. “She’s pretty selfish. Lucky I don’t fall on the floor.”
“Think how much the shoulder would hurt then?”
“The shoulder’s fine, Mick.”
“Drinking never helped. I thought it dulled the pain, but not really.”
“I have no pain and I don’t drink much.”
“I figure they have better medicine now for sports injuries.”
“I wouldn’t know.”
“We ain’t got a team doctor?”
Puppy shook his head. “No one had ever been hurt before yesterday.”
Along with the police and teachers, doctors were the Three Amigos of The Family. Trust, faith. Only the best, like Cousins without the mystery. If you couldn’t trust a doctor, a teacher, a cop, how could you trust anyone? They were the bedrocks of daily life.
If a physician made a diagnosis and the patient refused, it was put before a medical board. So if the board agreed his shoulder needed surgery, and Puppy had never heard of a board overturning a doctor’s diagnosis, then he would have the surgery. Another simplistic way Grandma protected her more stubborn children. And Puppy was not having surgery. At least not until the season was over.
Puppy tossed the burlap sack into the locker, grimacing.
“What’s that?” Mick asked.
“My fan mail,” he said shyly.
Mantle chuckled. “You?”
“Yeah. Me.” Puppy reluctantly fished out several letters.
“Dear Mr. Puppy, I saw you pitch on the vid screen. You were very funny and I’d like to pitch when I grow up.”
“Dear Puppy, I haven’t watched baseball since I was a little boy. I think you’re terrific and you remind me of the days my grandfather talked about rooting for the Philadelphia Phillies.”
“Dear Puppy, You stink. I prefer the HGs. They don’t give up as many home runs.”
Mick chuckled his way through a few more letters.
“None for me?” he finally asked, half-serious.
“Nothing I’ve seen. I’m the local kid so it makes sense I’d get…”
Mantle cut him off with a shrug of his thick shoulders. “I don’t care, Pup. You deserve it.”
Puppy blushed and mumbled sheepish thanks; Mick gently smacked his cheek. “It’s kind of nice just playing for once and not worrying about all that other crap. I had enough attention in my life which did me no good except lots of fun, but him.” Mantle peered at Ty’s closed door. “The guy thinks people should applaud when he farts. He didn get even one letter?”
“Nada.”
They both grinned devilishly.
• • • •
BOCCICELLI AND FISHER stood in the far corner of the office as far from the fuming Cobb as they could get without levitating outside the window.
“De la Puente is very upset, very upset.” Boccicelli glanced down at his notes. “He required five stitches. And Larsen might have a head wound.”
“If he ain’t dead, he’s all right,” growled Ty. Puppy shot him the fifteenth warning look since they rode up in the elevator.
“Ty is accustomed to an aggressive sort of play,” he explained again.
“There was blood,” Boccicelli snapped.
“Only five stitches,” murmured Fisher.
“Would you like five stitches in the leg?”
“No.” Fisher edged away, unsure who was the greater enemy at the moment.
Ty gave Boccicelli the finger. The owner thrust out his chest like a fat rooster.
“You’re the smart guy, aren’t you?”
“Ain’t difficult in this room.”
“Well, you’ll have more time to study because you’re suspended three games without pay.”
Cobb fired murderous stares. Boccicelli moved a little further away.
“No one’s getting suspended.” Puppy smiled reasssuringly.
“Yes he is. This is the second fighting offense.”
“Ty will apologize…”
“Like hell I will…”
“And we’ll chalk this up to enthusiasm. The fans loved it.”
Fisher and Boccicelli exchanged uneasy glances. The Falcons owner said, “Yes they did. A little too much. We don’t want the DVs all riled up.”
Puppy frowned. “It’s a baseball game.”
“We know that. But all the barking. And the applause. Who knows where such behavior will lead.”
“To a real game,” Puppy said slowly.
“Or more violence. Riots. Worse. Remember 10/12.” Boccicelli’s mind nearly exploded at the thought of bloodshed and mayhem because of this vicious old man. He calmed down with difficulty. “Your DVs can howl. Seems suitable in a way.” He sneered. “We understand it’ll never be like football or basketball, where the fans innately understand what is proper.”
“Backgrounds matter,” Puppy’s mouth barely moved.
“Precisely.” Boccicelli clasped his right shoulder; the pain didn’t register through the anger. “So then, we’re all agreed Ty Cobb is suspended three games…”
Puppy nudged the cursing Ty away.
“If he’s suspended, I won’t play. Neither will the rest of the team.”
Boccicelli blanched. “Are you threatening us, Nedick?”
“No. I’m just stating a fact.”
“Then we’ll get other players. That shouldn’t be hard.” Boccicelli looked at Fisher for support, but the Hawks’ owner wasn’t
