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

"Now, they say I cain't play no more, boys,

They say I'm agittin' old;

Ole Abe he showed me the door, boys,

Sent Verne Mackenzie out in the cold!

"So I hung up my ole jersey,

Yeah, I hung up ole number seven,

And I'll never play ball agin, boys,

'Less they's a league up there in heaven!

"Oh yeah, I'm all washed up, boys,

I got the axe, I got the aches;

Now you'll find me when you want me

On the sack in the back of Jake's!"

And what would Bancroft call it? The Beginnings , maybe. Or: The UBA Story. Abe Flint's Legacy. The UBA in the Balance . "Yes, that's it!"

"That's what, Mr. Waugh?"

" The UBA in the Balance —how does that sound to you, Benny?"

"Is it a riddle, Mr. Waugh? I'm not very good at riddles."

"Ha ha! Yes, that's what it is! A riddle! You hit it on the head!"

'Uh, well, they only had American brandy, I told them—"

"That's okay, Benny, we got nothing against Americans.

They invented baseball, didn't they?"

"Well, I guess so, but the—"

"Here's an extra quarter, Benny. My boss to your father!"

"Well, I went to see my woman,

I said, 'Baby, I'm feelin' blue!

The boss he turned me out, babe.

My playin' days is through!'

"My baby she started laughin',

She said, 'Verne, don' bother to call,

Cause I got me a brand-new man now,

He's young and he's still playin' ball!'

"Oh yeah, Fm all washed up, boys,

I got the axe, I got the aches…"

Not really, though. After Lou had called, Henry had phoned an employment agency where he was registered, told them he was semi-retired and wanted half-time work, starting after Christmas. They asked for an updating of his record, but told him there might be part-time work for an accountant there in the agency itself after the first of the year. And meanwhile, he had a drawerful of checks he'd never cashed. So old Ziff, ho, ho, he sent to hell.

Well, I went to see my woman … hmmm, true, bunch of the boys probably be gathering at Jake's tonight, little Monday night blue-season politicking, oil the machinery, work up a new pitch or two, try to score. Lot of things to talk over, like who was going to take over the shell-shocked Knicks now that Sycamore Flynn has resigned, what to do about Mel Trench of the sunken Cels and Wally Wickersham, whose Grooms just can't seem to get going, who to run for Chancellor on the Guildsmen ticket against McCaffree and Maloney, and whether or not Patrick Monday would get up his new party this year, and what to call them if he did. Paragonists. Nonesuchers. Optimalists. Perfectionists. Yes, a good night, this new Monday, to play with all these problems, good night to drink a little, make out a little…

First, though, he decided to push through the death rolls. They often affected managerial and political situations, and it was pointless to worry about them until he knew for sure who was going to be around. It was a somber event, he never took it lightly. The shock of their deaths often dismayed him, though later he usually enjoyed the writing of their obituaries. He dreaded, in short, the death blow, yet it was just this rounding off in the Book of each career that gave beauty to all these lives. Even the forgotten ballplayers who never made it; doing research for their obits often led him deep into for-gotten corners of the past, helped him rediscover some of the more unusual and poignant moments of UBA history, and reminded him always that there was no such thing as excellence without the foundation to measure it by. It was like bald-pated old Jake Bradley always said: Yes, we needed him, too, even him.

His formula for the death rolls was based on a combination of insurance actuarial tables and league population: he tried not to let it drop below about a thousand living veterans. As to how they died, he made his own decisions while composing the obituary; if he was uncertain, he had another chart that provided him general descriptors, but usually he just knew , a certain definite feeling about it that would come on him suddenly while considering the ballplayer's past — Abe Flint's heart failure, Verne Mackenzie's liver, Holly Tibbett's tumor, Rupert Allen's suicide. His sign for death in the records was a

"Oh, when I die, jist bury me

With my bat and a coupla balls,

And jist tell 'em Verne struck out, boys.

If anybody calls…"

This year, the rolls brought few surprises, nor were many really great stars caught. Kester's grandfather Phineas Flint. Three of the other Elders with him, but with undistinguished careers. The politicians all survived. Ironically, the dice picked off young Jacinto Abril, the jockey. Violent death, no doubt, an accident. . probably the reason they decided to close down the tracks for a while. On the whole list, only one really great shock, but it, all alone, was enough to make Henry gasp, sit back, ponder, let fall a tear or two: Jake Bradley, old Jake, second-sacker and barkeep, patron and paraclete, had died of a sudden heart attack!

"And when I'm down in my grave, boys,

Drink a toast and sing me a song,

And tell 'em you knew ole Verne Mackenzie

When he was still young and strong!

"Yeah, I'm all washed up, boys,

I got the axe, I got the aches;

Now you'll find me when you want me

On the sack in the back of Jake's…"

Henry pulled his door to, paused a moment under the hushed glow of the bulb on his landing, then drifted down the dark stairwell into the night street. Full moon outside. Maybe it was the moon that gave that peculiar floating luster to the bottom of the stairs. Old Jake Bradley! A real shock! That bald dome, the soft ironic manner, one of the finest! Oh, they all knew about that camera he'd let Fenn McCaffree install, he joked about it himself sometimes, they knew and didn't care because they loved the old bastard. And now he was gone.

Henry wandered through the moonlit Monday night streets thinking about Jake Bradley and wondering where he could go now for a drink, wondering where they'd hold the wake. At Jake's maybe, but not at Pete's. Or maybe they'd close it down. Too painful to go back in there and not see Jake. So where? He didn't know. Leave it to chance, leave it to Barney. "Come on, Barney, lead the way!" Yes: Lead the way! Of course! Suddenly it was all falling into place! Barney Bancroft for Chancellor! That was why he was writing the history, after all! Or maybe not why, but it was enough to do the trick. He'd lived through it all, hadn't he? Yes, the Guildsmen picked him up, he said no, but they persuaded him. The Man Who Couldn't Quit. The Old Philosopher. I'm not a politician, fellas. That's why you're right , Barney! And then, and then, the Pioneers would go hire Sycamore Flynn to take over for Barney, and the Knicks? Why, Brock Rutherford, of course! Wow! A perfect set-up! The UBA in the Balance! Ho ho! And so Barney's history of the Association: revealing the gradual evolution toward Guildsmen principles, and using the Rutherford-Casey event as the culminating moment, revolving toward the New Day, how the league had progressed from individualism and egocentrism — the Bogglers — through a gradual recognition (perhaps by the mere accretion of population) of the Other — the Legalists — to a moral and philosophic concern with the very nature of man and society: the Guilds-men. Of course, Pat Monday might want to carry that history another step, but never mind, for the moment he's no threat— and, in fact, think a moment, yes, he would probably swing his weight behind Bancroft in an effort to upset the McCaffree machine. The machine indeed! "What we want in this Association is participation — not in real time — but in significant time!"