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

A couple heads turned his way; he brought his arm down, ducked his head… better get in off the streets… light down there a couple blocks ahead: lead on, Barney! lead on! Yes, by God, old Fenn had been right about that wake for Damon— out of the ashes had risen the new leading light of the UBA. And brought to consummation at another wake.

The Circle Bar. Looked pretty much like Pete's on the outside, and from the inside, he heard country music. Give it a try. Push in…

"Well, boys, I've played some ball now,

I could hit and I could run,

And some of the games—"

Inside, Henry pulled up short. He could hardly believe it! There he was, behind the bar, white-aproned, smiling moon face, paunch and all: Hellborn Melbourne Trench ! Henry smiled back, though inside it was damn near a belly laugh, hooked up his hat and coat, asked for brandy, VSOP, the best. Yes, he must have given up that hopeless job of running the Cels to open a bar, carry on the great tradition of Jake Bradley, oh yes, and all the boys were gathering, coming through the door, grand opening! even the young ones now that the season was over and the training rules were down, Witness York and Ham Craft and Maggie Everts and Walt McCamish and Bo McBean, here they come! and Rag Rooney and Jaybird Wall and Cash Bailey with his champion Patsies, the whole goddamn whooping and hollering lot of them! and Chauncey O'Shea and Royce Ingram! Have to find a new manager for the Cels, who'd it be? Well, worry about that tomorrow, maybe easygoing old Mose Stanford, hey yeah, how about it, Mose? and old Mose, coming through the door, shrugged noncommittally and laughed to watch Jaybird go into, his famous wind-up, pitching himself at the plate instead of the ball; and there was old Gus Maloney to catch him, holding up his derby and laughing around his big black cigar. "Yes, set 'em up! it's a goddamn holiday!" And Jake Bradley's old teammates, forgot about them! Burgess and Parsons and Bacigamupo! Darlin' Harlan Hansome and Philpott Loveen! and there's Willie O'Leary and Brock Rutherford and Sycamore Flynn and, goddamn it, even old Fenn McCaffree — hell, yes, Fenn! Come in and have one! Tune it up, Sandy! And yes, by God, there was a new song in the making, a Jake Bradley song, that "paraclete" idea had given it to him: "pair o' cleats" — and second sack, that sack in the back, hot damn! And the girls, too, that's right, let 'em in, fill 'em up, and if they hold out on us, boys, well, maybe old Willie O'Leary will drop by Mitch Porter's later on and see what sweet Molly's got up her skirts for the evening! It's the great American game! And hey! there's Tuck Wilson and Grammercy Locke and Tim Shadwell with his boy Thornton! and Toothbrush and Hard John and Swanee and Jumpin' Joe! Here they come!

DAMONSDAY CLVII.Down in the Pioneer locker room, Knickerbocker rookie Hardy Ingram pulls on the old jersey with its bold antiquated "1." Was it really his? Probably not: too pat. Numerology. Lot of revealing work in that field lately. Made you wonder about a lot of things. Like the idea Damon was killed in Game 49: seven times seven. Third inning. Unbelievable. Or like that guy who's discovered that the whole damn structure from the inning organization up and double entry bookkeeping are virtually identical: just multiply it by twenty-one, the guy claims, and you've got it all. Grim idea. As Hardy tugs the shirt on over his head, there's like a — some said always a sudden chill — the others pause to watch: he gives them no sign. Fakes a yawn. Still, there is something strange — what is it? Fits too well. Coincidence. Or maybe they made it for him, new shirt, not the old one at all. In fact, the original must be in tatters by now.

When he arrived at the ball park a few minutes ago, Hardy was set upon by the usual runty mob of kids wanting autographs, but there was this one, standing at the fringe, just looking on. Peculiar, and it's still bugging him. What to make of it? Nothing, forget it. Trick probably. Get him upset. They all know the story from the catechism. Have a big laugh about it later. Next to him, the Universal Baseball Association's best rookie catcher, Paul Trench, who's to play Hardy's own great-great-great-grandfather, pulls on cleats. Paunch is good, but a Bridegroom, and Hardy isn't used to throwing to him. He hopes it'll come off all right. Paunch doesn't have much to say. Stage fright. Hardy grins at him: HOF Royce Ingram, the Avenger, the man who in remorse sank to the bottom of the UBA, then rose again to be the greatest backstop of them all, the Great Atonement Legend.

Sudden roar! Crowd. Big one. Ceremonies beginning. Take an hour or more, no hurry. Makes his throat catch just the same, though, and he grabs too fast for his pants. Take it easy, plenty of time. Still watching him, the bastards. Hardy Ingram isn't sure what might happen out there today. The annual rookie initiation ceremony, the Damonsday reenactment of the Parable of the Duel, is an Association secret. Lot of rumors, unnerving hearsay, but you can't be certain. Maybe it's like some claim and he won't come back. Doesn't make sense to him to knock off your best young talent every season, but he knows people aren't always rational. And if that's the way they want it, if that's how it's got to be, Hardy Ingram wants to take it like a man. Like the man himself. Poised. Knowing. Cool.

Really got them packed in up there. Not only a holiday and a good show, but in the middle of another centennial year as well — one hundred years since the assassination of HOF Barney Bancroft, the ninth UBA Chancellor, and the subsequent Monday Revolt. Weird times they had back then, all right. Still: ninth Chancellor, nine innings — all just so much bullshit, probably, like Cuss says. Centennial of everything these days. Enough to give a guy the creeps.

"How ya feeling?" Trench asks, standing. He tugs his belt one notch tighter under his belly, clops his cleats a couple times on the cement Boor, picks up his mask and guard.

"Okay, I guess, Paunch." He uses the real name on purpose and grins to see Paunch blink.

"Good boy! Nothing to worry about. See you up on the field. . Damon." He squeezes Hardy's arm, not looking at him, and leaves him. The rest watch this exchange, looking for — for what? some sign. Sign of weakness. Or sign that he knows. . Nothing to worry about: hah! like hell! Hardy yanks on his knickers, feeling suddenly a little sore: why him? Because, goddamn it, you're the greatest, that's why. Rather be a second-rater like Squire? No. Well, then, shape up. Talks to himself like that, keeping his nerve up, hoping the others don't see the cold sweat of doubt starting to prickle his face.

Paul Trench is Hardy's age, but already looks and acts like an old man. A company man, a loyal Damonite, at home in the world, incurious and doltish. His old man was a Damonite, so is he. All there is to it. Well, it'd be nice to have it so simple. Attractive ideas, though, Hardy has to admit. Not easy to love the establishment, but on the other hand, if he'd been born back in the days of the Damonite origins, he'd have probably joined them. Return to the simplistic and pious view of Damon as Good and Jock as Evil. Seems silly now, but back then, the Caseyites having turned despotic and fractious, and the Association at the tag-end of two bleak decades of unalleviated mediocrity, it all must have made some sense. And something about Damon the man, legend or no, always excites Hardy. Genius. Yep, he'd have joined.

And the Damonites didn't lift an arm and still they got their way. Plain simple-minded faith in the ultimate power of justice and truth. Must have excited the hell out of them to see it happen like they said it would. Of course, once they got in, they grew a little muscle. Lot of different ways to get what you wanted, but only one to keep what you had.