I went to a Major League game at the Ballpark last week. The home nine was taking on the team in dark uniforms for first place in the North. It was quite a tilt.
The opposition's lead-off hitter, facing a 3-1 count, tried to cop a walk by ducking away from a slider on the inside edge. The wily veteran had nothing on the experienced arbiter that day, who called strike two.
He squared on the next delivery and laid a roller along the third base line, which the hot cornerman could only watch roll to a stop. He really exploited the defense. Man on first.
The next batsman smacked a one-hopper to the shortstop who flipped to second. The base runner came barreling in six feet from the bag, cleats exposed. He reached back his hand in a token effort to suggest that second base was his intended destination while he upended the sprawling keystoner, disrupting the relay to first. A hustling team player, he saved the hated opposition an out.
Next up, the dangerous #3 hitter. An inside curve ball bounced beside the plate and skidded into the dugout while the batter insisted to the umpire that he'd been struck. His manager, a cagey baseball man, surreptitiously scuffed the ball against his shoe and raced onto the field with the marked ball aloft. The ump, over-ruled by the evidence, awarded the hitter first base.
First and second, one out. Our hurler was born on a day, but it wasn't yesterday. He worked over the newly-supplied ball meticulously while the next batter took his warm-up swings. Hidden between his ring and middle fingers was a tiny emery board, which he applied to the ball in order to destabilize its path to the plate.
Sure enough, his next three pitches fluttered home in thoroughly frustrating patters, sending the burly cleanup hitter to an early seat back in the dugout. He always has something up his sleeve to keep hitters off-balance! A crucial second out to douse the rally.
The inning ended without incident and our side got its licks.
The first offering from the visiting club's ace made a beeline for our speedy table-setter as he began his swing. He spun out of the way as the ball caromed off him, shaking his aching hand something fierce. He jogged to first while the replays showed the ball had, in fact, ricocheted off his bat. What a great actor! Those are the kinds of intangibles that make him an All Star.
Our number two hitter worked the count to 3-1. A slider fizzed wide of the strike zone, but the catcher had set up wider yet and framed the pitch a few inches lean. "Strike two!" bellowed the flummoxed umpire. It's sublime receiving skills like that that make our backstop one of the best in the game.
With the count full and the runner alight, the lefty-swinger pulled a two hopper to second. The second-baseman scooped the ball and backhanded it towards the bag in one motion, allowing the shortstop to slide his foot across second base, catch the ball six feet into the baseline and rifle a twin-killer to first in the nick of time. It's tough to avoid the double play when Timkers and Evers are out there in middle infield.
Our best man with the stick stepped to the plate and worked the count full before taking a fastball knee high. As the man in blue contemplated whether the pitch had cleared his kneecap, he began trotting to first. That evident confidence convinced the ump to let him go.
That brought up our slugging clean-up hitter. He dug in in the right hand batter's box while the hurler straddled the rubber and looked in for a sign. The runner took his lead as the first baseman awaited a pick-off throw. The outfielders played deep and around to left. The stadium lights twinkled and the...hey, what's that? The first baseman pulled the oldest trick in the book, tagging our runner with the ball hidden in his glove. We were all so deflated as he led his team trotting off the field. End of inning.
It continued in that manner for eight innings. Our crafty closer, who has beguiled the media with winked half-admissions about a Vaseline-aided knuckler -- the wascally wabbit! -- fired BBs past the first two batters and then faced that barrel-chested all-or-nothing pinch hitter who's been dogged by allegations of chemical use. Our fireman bewildered him with a diving slider and an infuriating change-up before leaving a 96-mph two-seamer up in the zone. The masher plastered it into the upper deck in right for the lead.
Cheater! User! The run shouldn't even count! He's bulking up illegally. He should be banned from the Hall of Fame, no matter how many games he's won for this team. It's a blight on the game. It's ruining tradition.
The home uniforms succumbed in the ninth and we dropped to second place. Our manager should protest the game. We can't have cheating in baseball.
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