A Funny Thing Happened at the Ball Park

By William Post

Chapter 1

“The Wind Up”

“Mikey, I don’t know what I’d do if I weren’t playin’ ball.” Charles Aloyisius Mack spit out a wad of tobacco as the rain fell outside the dugout. It’d been raining fifteen minutes and was threatening to turn worse. Thick black clouds rolled closer to the top of the cheap seats in center field. Water had been accumulating in them since their long journey from the sea [this bit of information distracts from the story] and looked to burst at any second.

“Ha. I know [not necessary] I’d be busting dirt clods on my Daddy’s farm in Kansas.” Mike Puller spun a ball on his fingers to alleviate the boredom, which grew as oppressive as the humidity. “Heck, my Daddy still spits fire when I talk about playin’ ball. He just don’t understand why a grown man would put on funny pants and throw a ball around, instead of puttin’ in a hard days work plowin’ on a corn farm. Sometimes I don’t understand it myself, but if they want to pay me one-fifty a month to play, I’m not gonna tell ‘em they’s crazy.”

Both men chuckled. {It was a sweet deal. They were fortunate to wear funny pants and throw a ball. It was 1927 and} [could you put 1927 right under your chapter heading?] Charlie was in his twelfth season with the Redbirds—actually ten and a half, thanks to the Great War.

Sergeant Charles Mack had slogged his way through the trenches of France along with a few million other sore-footed soldiers. Only funny thing about his part in the war was the medal. He took out a German machine gun nest, but certainly not heroically. He was just showing another soldier, who happened to play for the Giants, how good his throwing arm was.

“That grenade felt a little heavier than a baseball,” Charlie said to Mike. “So I used it to demonstrate my put-out throw to home. I just pulled the pin—it blew out those Jerries. My commanding officer happened to be in the trench that day and saw the whole thing—at least he thought so.”

Charlie wasn’t the only major-leaguer in France. Ty Cobb, Honus Wagner, and Christy Mathewson were among the Yanks trying to stay alive to play ball again. Now and then some of the soldiers would get together for a game. Charlie’d play ball any chance he could—the feel of a bat in his hands helped him get through the madness.

For these makeshift games, someone would measure off a field, someone would put down satchels for bases, and a few precious socks were wrapped into a ball if one wasn’t available. A stout tree limb or rifle butt would double as a bat.

Charlie entertained Mike with the story of one such game in the spring of 1918. “We talked a Captain into umpiring. It was the old sock-ball and when suddenly Christy Mathewson showed up. He had heard about our games and hunkered over to get in a few innings. He brought a real baseball and a real bat. Course we had to let him pitch, and boy did he.” Charlie blew out a long whistle. “Five straight innings—nothing got out of the infield. Yours truly never could hit Matty.

“We had a young lad named Joshua Lynburg, pitching for us. Unfortunately we never got to see him pitch in the bigs.” Charlie looked down. “He never made it home.”

He shook off the sadness and continued his tale. “Lynburg was holding his own against Matty. Not a real exciting game for scoring, but one great pitching duel. However, in the sixth inning we heard the rumbling of artillery. I was in left; Josh was up zero and two, when all the sudden we heard that sound. You never forget it or what to do when you hear it. The screaming whine of big artillery shells heading right for your head. It seemed like the Krauts wanted to spoil our game, so they lobbed a few high-flys our way. Artillery landed smack between second and center. We didn’t even have a chance to run. We just hit the dirt and prayed.”

Charlie chuckled. “When the dust finally cleared and we staggered up, nobody was hurt. We looked in the crater and laughed till tears streamed down our cheeks. Those idiots lobbed a dud. The worst injury sustained was the dignity of two fellas who wet their pants.” He slapped his knee.

When the war ended, Sergeant Mack returned to the open arms of the Redbirds management. His contract was still good, his position safe and he’d be treated to a “Charlie Mack Day” at the ballpark. He was glad he helped “save the world for Democracy” [I’d skip the quotes around both those phrases.] more importantly, save his keester. Still, the loss of time bothered him. He felt owed for the time away from baseball.

When Charlie finished his story, he sat on the dugout bench, and gazed out at the rainy day. While waiting for the downpour to subside, he thought about time. [Until now, it wasn’t clear when Charlie was telling Mike these stories. I felt like I was floating through the whole thing—not knowing when I was. Make it clear, but it’s still going to be backstory. Although interesting and entertaining in this case, backstory will always be problematic because the story isn’t moving forward.]

Suddenly [that’s a word that should almost never be used in fiction], lightning crackled across the black sky.

“Aw heck.” Mike Puller ran his big hand through his sandy hair. “Now we ain’t never gonna finish this game.”

“Don’t worry, Mikey, the rain’s tapering off. We’ll finish.” Charlie said to ease Mike’s heavy fear of lightning from his childhood days in Kansas. [Not necessary] As soon as he said it, lightened struck again.

“One thousand one, one thousand two, one thousand—”

“What are you doing?” Charlie interrupted. [the em dash makes it clear this is an interruption, so it’s not necessary to say Charlie interrupted.]

“Didn’t your mama ever tell you to count from the thunder to the lightning?” Mike frowned.

Thunder rumbled, and in unison the two star outfielders counted. “One thousand one, one thousand two.” They glanced at each other and chuckled.

Instantly [along the same lines as suddenly] the sky brightened. “Hey, I think we’re gonna get this game in.” Mike wiggled his eyebrows.

The umpires and the managers, Connie Mack of the Philadelphia A’s and the Redbirds own Art Knox, conferred at home plate. They gazed at the sky and argued.

Mike, Charlie, and the rest of the Redbird’s players bit their fingernails, inspected the sky, and strained to overhear the conference at home. The pitchers stopped their warm up, as they waited for those two magical words. With last looks skyward and nodding of heads, the conference broke up.

“Play ball.” The lead umpire yelled.

Players and fans cheered. Redbirds raced out to their positions and started the beautiful ballet of tossing the ball around the infield. Charlie Mack, Mike Puller and their fellow outfielder, Jimmy “Red” O’Kernan, raced each other to their respective positions. Red was about half a step quicker and beat Charlie. Mike brought up the rear.

Red O’Kernan was small for an outfielder—five feet nine—but made up for it with good Irish tenacity. He was ferocious at the plate and on defense, coupled with his quickness made him a tiger in right field. He’d chase down fly balls and crash into walls. His fearlessness off the field was legendary, too. Once he challenged Ty Cobb to a fistfight, after the game. It never happened though. Red forgot about it after hitting a game winning homer and celebrating with too many swigs of Scotch.

In contrast to Red, Mike Puller, was six four with thick muscles. As the quintessential center fielder, he could cover the wide open spaces of Redbird Park with his rangy strides, and easily steal what the opposing team thought were home runs, by leaping up the ivy covered wall.

Mike and Red were quite different. Mike, the gentle giant, was shy, naïve, and carefree, who was content to watch his teammate’s antics at parties and bars on the road. At home, he preferred to stay in with wife of five years. He and Clarice went on long walks and built dollhouses—the source of unending ridicule from his teammates. Truth was that Mike was the most content of the three Redbird outfielders.

Charles Mack wasn’t happy unless he was playing baseball. If he could play a doubleheader seven days a week, he’d gladly do it. The off season was the worst time of year for Charlie. He tried to create pick-up games and even resorted to playing with kids on the sandlots—anything to play.

[The above 4 paragraphs are pretty much backstory, too]

{Some people called Charlie Mack the best player in the game. Others disagreed. Most folks were split between Ruth and Mack. But in 1927, the argument was settled. Both players were having career seasons. Home runs, RBI’s, hits, the two men crushed every offensive statistic, and dueling homers. It was a special time in baseball. All spring and summer the rivalry heated, especially with the boys in the press who attempted to top one another’s grand prose.} [You’re in omniscient point of view, but when you go that far away, talking about “others”, it leaves the reader floating again.]

In fact, on this rainy day against the A’s, Charlie hit two homers to tie the Babe for the season. He hoped after the rain delay, he’d have one more in him.

After warming up, the Redbirds players tossed the practice balls back to the dugout. Bob Shannon, the knuckle-ball-throwing pitcher was set. The infielders were crouched and ready. Puller, O’Kernan and Mack were positioned correctly. The crowd gave a low roar. The umpires were set and warily eyeing the players and the sky. The A’s batter dug in to face the first pitch. That’s when a noiseless lightning shot through the sky to the ground.

“He’s been hit!” Someone screamed from the stands.

***

This was actually the beginning of a short story, not a novel. It was split into 2 chapters, but I took the liberty of deleting the chapter break for our purposes. I’ve read the whole story (close to 9,000 words) and, as Bill is aware, the beginning doesn’t give a good indication of where the story is going. It heads in a sci-fi, Twilight Zone direction. Bill has a link to the entire story at his blog, Bill's Waste of Air, in the post for July 31st.