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

"Just a minute, let me see," Lou said. Perfunctory offer, Henry sensed. Fffssst. Fffssst. He brought two beers back.

"What chart's that now?"

"Sacrifice bunts. See, here's—"

Lou grunted, looked away. "What inning are we in, Henry?"

"The fourth."

"And there's nine innings?" He looked at his watch. "We'll never make it, Henry."

"Well, damn it, let's try anyway. I usually play four or five games in the time it's taken us to get this far. York's on second, two outs, Ingram at the plate." He rolled the dice. "Extra base hit! Now we're moving, team!" he shouted. Lou ran his finger down the chart, but long before he'd found it, Henry had rolled again: "Home run! Hey hey! It's a 3-to-2 ball game!" He marked the scoresheet.

"I haven't even got to the part where this girl falls out the window," Lou said disconsolately. "You should see that movie, Henry."

"Wilder up… and he grounds out to short Three down. But it's a new ball game."

"You really oughta go more often. Makes you think about things. There's a real good one next week—"

"You're up."

Lou took the dice absently, tossed them down. "It's down in the south. There's these two brothers, and this one gets murdered."

"Your man Maverly just flied out to left."

Lou watched pensively, as Henry inked in the out. "Everybody thinks the other brother did it, but there's a surprise ending."

"Go ahead, throw."

Lou rolled. "Listen, Henry—"

"Base on balls. Now your man Koane is up."

Lou perked up a bit. "Koane? That's the one I…? Mmm." He threw."How'd he do?"

"He struck out, Lou."

'Take him outa there."

"You can't, he's the only third baseman you have left."

"What's wrong with these other fellas? Here, put Casey in there." Lou was getting a little testy with the beer.

"He's a pitcher, Lou."

"Who's bossing this team, you or me?" Lou squeaked petulantly, then regretted it just as quickly. He smiled apologetically and drank some beer. "Oh, I don't care. Who's up?"

"Your pitcher."

"Pinch hitter."

"You don't have any more Aces—"

"That's all right, what's the difference? Let's see, this Chase fella…" He rolled, as Henry dutifully inked the name in. "Where'dhehitit?"

"To the pitcher."

"You mean, he's out?" Lou sighed wearily, looked at his watch.

Before he could remark the hour, Henry asked: "What's the surprise ending?"

"Surprise…?"

"The movie next week."

"I don't know, they never tell you. I think there's a girl mixed up in it."

"There usually is. Who are you pitching now?"

"Pitching…?"

"You used a pinch hitter."

"Oh! You jump back and forth so much, Henry, I can't keep up. I don't care who — who've I got? How about this Casey now?"

"Okay, Casey." A crazy game, but anyway he was where he wanted to be in the first place. Of course, he probably only had a couple innings before Lou used another pinch hitter. Too bad the bottom of the line-up was at the plate. "James batting. Rookie-to-Regular. Infield fly. Second baseman takes it." He showed Lou the place on the chart, though Lou really didn't seem to care any more. Halifax up again. Needed the Ace in there, but they had to hit Casey. "Axel Rawlings batting for Halifax." Barney Bancroft wouldn't have done it. Or maybe he would have. He'd be so bewildered by this game by now, he'd be apt to do about anything. But Rawlings struck out. "Oh, goddamn!"

"What's the matter, Henry?" asked Lou, starting up, suddenly concerned.

"He struck out."

"Oh. I thought you were, that something. . well." He settled back with his beer.

Come on, Ramsey, damn it! A little pepper, boys, we gotta get a — Ramsey, waiting Casey out, watched a third strike go by. "You're up."

"Are you mad about something, Henry?"

Henry sighed. "No, go ahead and throw."

"Listen, let's go out and get another one of those pizzas."

"Ate too much already. Throw."

"Henry—"

" Throw , Lou, for crying out loud!"

Lou looked blearily disturbed, but he threw the dice just the same. Wait a minute. Get a new pitcher in. Who. .? Shadwell. No, he pitched yesterday. That's okay, the Knicks — no, it isn't okay. McDermott. He'd made mistakes like that before, pinch-hit for a pitcher then forgot he was out of the game and gone on using him, and it had been hell each time to get everything straightened out after.

They played in silence, except for Henry's reading of the significance of each throw, as he pointed the place for Lou. Batkin and Weeks walked, putting McDermott in trouble right off. Garrison flied out to left and Baldwin to right, Batkin advancing to third and then on home after the catches, Baldwin getting the RBI. McCamish walked and then Maverly singled, loading the bases and getting an "I told you so" peep out of Lou, but O'Shea struck out. Four to two. Casey'd be up at bat next inning and Lou would no doubt use another pinch hitter: it was now or never. Unless Lou was too sleepy and forgot. Couldn't take that chance. Barney sent Rusty Palmers in to bat for Locke. Locke had one for two in the ball game. .? That's all right. Play percentages. Bancroft's style, wasn't it? Didn't work. Palmers grounded out, second to first. The boys clapped him in, though. Don't lose the spirit. Remember who this guy is out there. They all knew. Barney didn't have to spell it out. Damon's killer. And then it happened! Hatrack Hines leaned into one and sent it clean out of the park: 6-6-6! Boy, were they pretty! "Now, we're going, men! we got him on the run! whoop it up! on your feet! chin music! It's the Mad Jock out there, boys, old Poppycock! And it's York up there now, come on, Witness baby — hey, Lou! where are you going?"

Lou already had his coat on. "I kept trying to tell you, Henry, but you weren't listening." Lou was a little unsteady; you couldn't really tell it with Lou, except that he planted his feet a little wider apart than usual. "It's after midnight. Tomorrow's a working day. We gotta be there— you gotta be there, Henry. It's your last chance—"

"Lou, wait a minute! I just rolled a home run—"

"We can finish it next week, Henry."

"Next week! I'll be into the next season by next week!" he cried.

"Henry, remember what Mr. Zifferblatt—"

"Oh, to hell with Zifferblatt, Lou! Listen, I just rolled a triple six. That moves the game to the special Stress Chart!"

"Well, that's nice, Henry, but—"

"That only happens twice in every three games, Lou! Don't you see? Anything can happen now! Come on, play out this inning anyway."

"Aw, Henry. ." he whined, but he came over.

Henry flung the dice: " Hah! " he bawled at them. But all they gave him was a 2-6-6, a lot less than he'd hoped for.

Lou yawned: "Hee-oooff!" and slapped his hat to the table — bop! the beer can somersaulted and rolled, bubbling out over charts and scoresheets and open logbooks and rosters and records—

" Lou! " screamed Henry. He leaped for the towel, but Lou,

in shock and drunkenness, stood up suddenly, and they collided. " You clumsy goddamn idiot! " Henry cried, and shoved around him. He snapped up the towel, turned back to the table to find Lou there, dabbing pathetically at the inundation with a corner of his handkerchief.

"I'm sorry, Henry," he mumbled tearily.

"Just get outa the way!" Henry shouted. He toweled up the beer as fast as he could, but everywhere he looked ink was swimming on soaked paper. Oh my God! He separated sheets, carried them into his room and spread them out on the bed. At some point, he heard the door close, Lou's heavy footfalls descending the stairs. When he'd got up the worst of it, he sank into his chair, stared at the mess that was his Association. The Pioneer-Knickerbocker game lay before him, damp but still legible. It's all over, he realized miserably, finished. The Universal Baseball Association, proprietor left for parts unknown. A shudder raked through him as he sighed, and he felt ill. He propped his elbows on the table, folded his hands, and leaned his head against them. Great moments from the past came floating to mind, mighty old-timers took their swings and fabulous aces reared back and sizzled them in; he saw Marsh Williams belting them out of the park and flashy Verne Mackenzie and Fancy Dan the Keystones' Man, watched Jumpin' Joe Gallagher go hurling himself up against the ivied wall in center and shy Sycamore Flynn making impossible leaping snags of line drives, saw the great Pioneers drive for flag after flag and watched the wind-ups of Sandy Shaw and Tim Shadwell and old Brock and Edgar Bath, and there was the great Cash Bailey cracking the.400 barrier and Hellborn Melbourne Trench socking them out of sight, Uncle Joe Shannon, and Wally Wickersham, and Tuck Wilson, and Winslow Beaver, and Hamilton Craft. . and Damon Rutherford. Finally came down to that, didn't it? All week, he'd been pushing it back any way he could, but it just couldn't be done. Damon Rutherford. He wiped his eyes with the beery towel, stared down at the game on the table. That was what did it, it was just a little too much, one idea too many, and it wrecked the whole league. He stood, turned his back on it, feeling old and wasted. Should he keep it around, or…? No, better to burn it, once and for all, records, rules, Books, everything. If that stuff was lying around, he'd never really feel free of it. He found a paper shopping bag under the sink, gathered up a stack of scoresheets and dumped them in, reached for that of the night's game. He saw the dice, still reading 2-6-6, and — almost instinctively — reached forward and tipped the two over to a third six. Gave York and Wilson back-to-back homers and moved the game over to the Extraordinary Occurrences Chart. Easy as that.