Robert Coover - The Universal Baseball Association, Inc., J. Henry Waugh, Prop

Ain't no more roar

In the park no more;

Down in the cellar

And cain't find the door. .

Hot shit! Raglan (Pappy) Rooney was on his way to the final transmutation! into the land of the goddamned blessed! yes! grind, grind without slackening, first law of the game! soak it up, blow it out! Those first shots tonight had burned Rooney's belly like salt and vitriol and had brought on a bloody purgation that scared the hell out of him; but then, taking a deep breath, he'd discovered that the old tubes had somehow been fritted by the fire, arid the rest of the night it was all sublimation. He'd revivified himself with a long rosy piss, then gone back out to slaughter the innocents. He really got a bang out of drinking with these guys. He didn't give a golden chamberpot full of solid silver turds for buddyship, so-called, but Rooney loved to drink and he hated to drink alone. He liked to hear them laugh and bitch, liked to hear old Sandy sing, liked the racket, the meanness, the tension, the heat, liked it all filled up and boiling away. And above all, he loved to rag 'em. Ho ho! fat Trench had nearly popped his cork: fffooOO! They were going to beat him all right, Trench was through. Dead. Rooney cackled. Bathe 'em in blood, boys! Give 'em the truth! And the truth? It was raunchy and morbid and arid, but it was all there was and worth a passing celebration!

Yeah, you're down and you're out, boy,

All the play in' is done,

You tried and you failed, boy,

And you ain't anyone. .

This was Rooney's party and nobody was enjoying it more. The wake's at Jake's! He sang and hollered and whipped it up. It tickled his best rib to see them all show up, they couldn't stay away, afraid to come, more afraid not to come. Too bad Sick Flynn was gone, he'd had a few more things he'd like to jab him with. Like shotgunning poor Damon for jumping his virgin daughter. But Flynn was scared. And he'd better be. They were going to needle him and that kid pitcher of his right out of baseball. The great-grandson of Fancy Dan Casey. End of the line! Mad jocks get off!

No-hit Nealy, ho ho ho!

When they pitched high, he swung low!

"Hey, Gooney! Stop garglin' and get rid of it, man!"

"Aw, you guys ain't got no appreciation!" He laughed with them, though. When they stopped ragging him, they'd bury him.

He caught Bancroft on the way to the head: "Hey, Philosopher, can I interest you in a coupla pitchers?"

"What kinda pitchers?" Barney asked. He was smashed.

" Dirty pitchers!" Rooney howled with delight. "Things're gonna get tough, Philosopher!"

"The Rutherford spirit," Bancroft slurred, "will carry the day!"

"Oh yeah? What's your spirit's E.R.A.?" Rooney cackled, oh hey! that's a beauty! "E-R-A, get it?" He dug Bancroft's ribs — the Old Philosopher my ass, a lotta puff and blow, but he'll never make it — then spun on the others. "Hey! It's the new Rutherford Era!" he hollered. "The Spirit E-R-A!" He roared with laughter, but laughed alone. Nobody got it. "Pour 'em out, Jake! Keep 'em alive!"

While the house was picking itself up again, he soft-shoed over to Shadwell, got old Tim yakking sentimentally about the old days. Rooney and Shadwell had come up as rookies the same year — Year X: who the hell said XIX was the Year of the Rookie? — and Tim had dusted Rooney more than once over the next fifteen seasons. Then, once he'd got Tim waxing eloquent and blubberish, Rooney leaned close and whispered, "Now, honestly, don't that Brock Rutherford Era crap twist your balls, Tim?"

Shadwell flushed pink as a punched virgin. "Well. ." he said, squirming, looking around. His hands shook and the cubes rattled in his glass. "Of course, uh, Brock had his faults, but… I mean, it's not exactly the, you know, right time to…"

"Crock Rubberturd."

Shadwell, uncontrollably and no doubt shocking his own lily-white self, commenced to giggle. "Rooney, you're worse than death," he allowed.

"Hey, Sandy!" Rooney bawled out. "Give us 'Long Lew and Fanny'!"

Lew Lydell protested, but the rest of the boys picked it up. " Long Lew and Fanny! " Sandy stroked a chord and loose laughter rattled in the bar. "Give her all you got, Sandy!" some wag shouted.

"Too late for that," Sandy drawled, and they whooped again…

Come, boys, give a cheer,

And buy me a beer,

And sit down beside me a spell,

While I tell the uncanny

Tale of Miss Fanny

McCaffree and Long Lew Lydell!

Oh, who can ever forget

That day the Grooms met

The Knicks on the Knicks' home diamond?

Long Lew'd made a vow

That they'd win somehow

Or Fanny would forfeit her hymen!

Now, this much is true:

The first was Long Lew,

Though later there may have been many;

For, believe it or not,

Though Long Lew had a lot,

Fanny had never had any!

After nine innings of play

On that hot summer day,

The Grooms lost, nothing to six;

So Long Lew went and caught her,

The long-legged daughter

Of McCaffree, the boss of the Knicks!

"Excuse me, Miss Fanny,"

Said he, "don't take any

Offense if I must tell you true

That this will hurt me

More than you, for you see

Here the reason they call me Long Lew!"

Oh yes, this much is true:

The first was Long Lew,

Though later there may have been many;

For, believe it or not,

Though Long Lew had a lot,

Fanny had never had any!

Now, when all of Long Lew

Came into full view,

Miss Fanny collapsed in dismay—

She fell on the bench,

Did that long-legged wench,

With her skirts tucked neatly away!

There was wrenching and pounding,

The noise was astounding,

And still he had only begun!

But he banged and he bored

Till at last he had scored,

And Fanny cried out: "HOME RUN!"

No, I'm sure this is true:

Number one was Long Lew,

Though later, perhaps, there were many;

For, I swear on this spot,

Though Long Lew had a lot,

Fanny had never had any!

How he managed to pin her

And get it all in her

Remains an eternal league mystery;

But the crowd round the pit

All had to admit

That Long Lew Lydell had made history!

As for Fanny, though fallen,

She said: "Stop your stallin'

Long Lew, and prove you''re a pro!

I've seen your muscle,

Now show me some hustle:

You still got eight innings to go!"

Oh yes, I'm tellin' you true,

Her first was Long Lew,

Though later there were probably many;

For it's true, is it not,

That Long Lew had a lot,

But Fanny had never had any!

Well, Old Fenn came upon her

In total dishonor

And Long Lew in a state of fatigue;

He'd've made Long Lew shorter

But was stopped by his daughter,

Who said: "Daddy! I've made the

Big League!"

So the Knicks won the game,

And Long Lew his fame,

And Fanny had fun in her fall;