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May 17th, 2012
10:09 pm - Richmond 1 Harrisburg 0 (14)
 The Richmond Flying Squirrels drew four walks in the bottom of the 14th to beat Harrisburg 1-0 on Thursday.
Senators reliever Marcos Frias walked the leadoff Glider, who went to second on a wild pitch. Harrisburg made the second walk intentional to enable force plays, then Frias walked two more Flying Squirrels.
The third walk of the inning was so hotly contested by Harrisburg catcher Devin Ivany that he got ejected. The Richmond broadcaster agreed that one of the disputed pitches got enough of the plate to suggest that home plate umpire was looking to go home.
After Ivany got tossed, home plate umpire Daniel Born reduced the strike zone to Eddie Gaedel size. The Harrisburg manager was screaming from the dugout, but the war was lost — Greg Maddux in his prime couldn't have hit that strike zone.
***
Following the 14-inning contest, the Squirrels boarded the bus for an eight-hour ride to Akron. Squirrels broadcaster Jon Laaser tweeted "you either love the life or you don't".
I replied that I don't think it's a boolean. Booleans are true or false, yes or no, 1 or 0. Life on the road as a baseball broadcaster or basketball scout is a constant — "this is the life", you say with an appropriate amount of irony.
I love Laaser. I wouldn't listen to the Gliders on 'netcast if Laaser weren't an informative and humorous play-by-play man. A month ago, he used one of my tweets on the air, which tickled me — the Flying Squirrels had just turned an Adrianza-to-Cavan-to-Hodges double play, and I said that I most preferred the Crawford-to-Noonan-to-Belt double play because it has the same rhythm as Tinker-to-Evers-to-Chance. Laaser repeated that on the air, and enhanced it for his audience, reminding us that Crawford, Noonan, and Belt weren't together that long — Belt tore up the Eastern League so fast that he was quickly promoted to Fresno.
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May 15th, 2012
10:06 pm - Unusual technical job interview
May 16 '11 was my first day at … er, the place I work. Its name is Deem, changed from Rearden, while my desk is at Home Run, my project is for Great Big Financial Institution, and NIIT Technology signs the checks. Whatever you call it, it's been exactly one year plus Feb. 29.
I've been striving for a promotion. The time is ripe, and there are two openings right above mine on the food chain. Two days ago, I was on a team that interviewed a guy for one of those jobs — I thought that was a little odd, considering the plain conflict of interest.
Before my turn to talk to the fellow, a co-worker says "I want to tell you about this guy that he has never worked with Selenium".
I thought: If he doesn't like sports that start with "b", it's going to be a short conversation.
My boss hands me the man's three-page résumé. To me, a résumé longer than one page is a red flag, like mentioning a stack of LinkedIn recommendations.
I scan the pages, and find his claim of experience with Watir. That's common ground — Watir and Selenium are two pearls in a clam. We get down to discussing Watir, and I tell him "if you get this job, I'm going to bring you questions like this…". His experience with Watir and other web automation tools was sufficient to to solve the problem, and he explained it so I could understand him. That was enough for me, so I moved on to casual conversation. "What do you like to do after work?" I said.
He said some stuff, along with "I am a very strong chessplayer".
I'd already decided that he was a good technical fit for the job, so he wasn't going to kill himself with whatever he said about chess, but he opened the door, right?
In a couple of minutes, I knew he wasn't a very strong chessplayer. But he actually improved his interview position with his description of how he thinks about selecting a move. I went to find his next interviewer, and brought back a copy of Capablanca: A Primer of Checkmate.
"That's a gift," I said.
He thumbed through the pages, and said something really dumb. "I need to improve my play in the openings," he said.
I gave him a lecture about how learning a bit about the endgame will pay off infinitely more than working on the opening. That book is about Capablanca's endings, I said, and flipped it to Chapter 1: "What to Learn".
I keep yakking, and when he finally puts the pieces together, he hands me a pen and asks me to sign the book. Then he asks about lessons.
Wait a second, I said. You're saying that even if *we* don't hire *you*, *you're* might hire *me*. I thought this was now the weirdest employment interview I'd ever been part of from either side of the table.
I told my boss that I approved of the applicant. Oh good, she said, he got thumbs up from everyone else.
They offered the guy the job, and he starts in two or three weeks.
So I'm down to working toward a senior position at the San Francisco office — I don't recall laboring so hard in the past for a higher rung on a company ladder, but Selenium is still a hot commodity, so I ought to capitalize.
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May 13th, 2012
10:56 pm - "Sound of My Voice" and "The Avengers" — you already knew one of them is grandly entertaining
I was most looking forward to the openings of the blockbuster "Marvel's 'The Avengers'" and the independent "Sound of My Voice".
Both exceeded my expectations. (A big statement, considering I'm one of those freaks who think Joss Whedon hits for extra bases every time at bat, while Brit Marling's "Another Earth" was one of my two favorite indies of 2011 — the other was the basketball documentary "No Look Pass".)
You already know everything about "Marvel's 'The Avengers'". If there's anyone who could make a badass out of Scarlett Johansson and find the winner inside Mark Ruffalo, it's Joss Whedon.
I've been tentative regarding "Sound of My Voice" for the basest reason. Let's say Scarlett Johansson cornered me in an elevator, and said in that voice of hers: "So, handsome, what did you think of 'The Island'?".
"It sucked, but don't let that stop you from further questioning," I'd say.
But if Brit Marling said — in an e-mail or something — "How did you like 'Sound of My Voice'?", I'd think for a spell about whether "funniest comedy I've seen all year" is what she wants to hear.
Some movies are funny, which is good. Some movies are unintentionally funny, which isn't so good. I thought "Sound of My Voice" was a laugh riot, even though I haven't read Marling referring to it as such. The New York Times reviewer didn't use any words close to "humor", "comedy", or "funny"; neither did the San Jose Mercury News writer.
I thought "Sound of My Voice" was so funny because Brit Marling plays The Terminator.
If you were SkyNet, and wanted to rid Los Angeles of Sarah Conner before she gives birth to the resistance leader, you wouldn't send Arnold Schwarzenegger in all his conspicuousness. You'd send Brit Marling — who looks like an angel and writes like a knife — in the guise of a cult leader, and people would voluntarily bring Sarah Conner to her.
The investigative documentarians who go in to expose the cult *know* the cult leader is bad news, which makes the confidence game more compelling. The best con movies are the ones in which the suckers are aware — in "Matchstick Men", Nicolas Cage is a con man who gets conned; in "House of Games", Lindsay Crouse is a psychologist who wrote the book about scams; in "Diggstown", Bruce Dern thinks he owns the game. In "Sound of My Voice", the reporters want to unveil a fraud, but they both find that undercover cult activity does them good.
"Sound of My Voice" hints at the scan when the visitor from the future (Marling) slips while giving her followers a glimpse of the future. She's busted, but the suckers in the movie and in the audience want to believe, so the tension grows and the humor escalates. The brilliance of "Sound of My Voice" is that when it delivers the knockout punchline, you're in the middle of laughing when you think "hey, wait a second, that changes everything".
It's all played straight and seriously — which fooled the New York Times reviewer — but the tests the reporters must endure to get into — and stick with — the cult are absurd at the start and become hazardous. It grows, like any good joke (maybe the one with the earthworms isn't so treacherous).
You know how "Reservoir Dogs" changed forever how we hear "Stuck in the Middle with You"? After "Sound of My Voice", I will never again listen to The Cranberries' "Dreams" without laughing.
Brit Marling might hate me for thinking her new movie is funny as hell. Too bad, because Scarlett Johansson won't talk to me after reading this, either.
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May 10th, 2012
09:26 pm
The capacity Mudville (but not *the* Mudville; man, that joke got stale fast) crowd was stunned silent. A friendly everyday baseball brawl had turned savage and deadly when Marty the vampire slayer came within an inch of staking a Musketeer with a broken bat.
Even the umpiring crew was visibly shaken during a hasty conference with the Mudville and Gading managers. "What was that boy of yours thinking, Barks?" said the crew chief.
"You know rookies," said Lancelot Barks, Marty's watcher. "Dumb as rocks. Overexuberant."
"Maybe we should call it a night, and play two tomorrow," an umpire offered.
"OK, but instead of the ushers, you get to clear the seats between games to make room for tomorrow's ticketholders."
"I guess you're right. Should we toss Martinson?"
"For what?" These were the days when beanball wars were not so frowned upon, which enabled the slayer to dust a number of demons without getting ejected. Decades in the future, baseball historians and researchers would piece together through boxscores and legend that Gading pitcher Marty Martinson plunked every man on the Mudville roster at least once that night.
"Let's play ball."
The baseball game resumed with Mudville leading 8-0 in the bottom of the second. In the standings, the Green Sox trailed the first-place Assassin Beavers by one game with two games remaining. A loss to Mudville might have been the end of Gading's season, but if they couldn't score enough runs, the slayer had the plan to dust vampires until the Muskies forfeited.
Meanwhile, in the Mudville owner's box, the commissioner of baseball — and head vampire — fumed.
The Green Sox gradually picked up one run here and three runs there. During a late inning, Marty blasted another vampire. The home plate umpire instructed the Mudville dugout to put a pinch-runner on first base, and then he stepped out a few feet, bent at the waist, and swept vampire dust off home plate.
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May 6th, 2012
10:27 pm
 The San Jose Giants came from behind twice Sunday, scoring three runs in the eighth to beat Inland Empire 4-2.
It was the sixth win and second series sweep in a row for San Jose.
Had it been a seven-inning game, the Angels farm team wins a 2-1 defensive gem. For example, there was second-year first baseman C.J. Cron — through the first seven innings, Cron contributed to 12 of the 66ers' 21 putouts.
1 3-6-3 double play
5 4-3 putouts
4 3-1 putouts
1 3 unassisted
I think the 3-1 putout is not a routine play:
First baseman:
• Has to make the stop.
• Has to keep his head down while fielding the ball, then after looking the ball into his glove, has a split-second to look up and determine whether to take the ball to the bag himself, or feed the pitcher.
• If he judges that he has to feed the pitcher, he has to make a feed that's hard enough to beat the runner, but in a way the pitcher can handle.
Pitcher:
• Has to go mound-to-first — the most ground any defender has to cover while making an infield putout.
• Usually has to catch the relay while on the move.
Cron and Inland Empire starter Lay Batista made that combination flawlessly four times in six-and-one-third innings. Then with one runner on and one out in the bottom of the 7th, Inland Empire reliever Kevin Nabors walked one before getting one strikeout swinging, plus Cron's 3-unassisted.
I was hoping the 66ers could hold that 2-1 lead, because Batista deserved to win, and for the identical fashion in which Inland scored their two runs. In the 3rd and the 7th, #1 hitter Witherspoon led off with a four-pitch walk, stole second, and after the #2 hitter made out, #3 hitter Grishuk singled Witherspoon home.
Pitching and defense abandoned the 66ers in the 8th. Giant James Lofton led off the inning with a homer to tie it (giving Batista a no-decision).
With two out, Rick Oropesa walked and Luke Anders singled. Ryan Chaffee replaced Nabors.
As the go-ahead run on second, Alex Burg pinch-ran, moved to third on a wild pitch, scored on a passed ball. With Anders on third, and Jarrett Parker on first, the 66ers sent Parker — perhaps Inland Empire should've let Parker advance to second by defensive indifference, because as they arranged the 1-3-4 putout, Anders scored from third.
Instead of Inland Empire winning a pretty 2-1 game with pitching and defense, they can ascribe their 4-2 loss to having left 11 runners on base.
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May 2nd, 2012
08:53 pm - Brawl
Marty's slayer training covered close combat with vampires and other demons, but not — in specific — ticked-off humans who'd been nailed by a fastball. The Mudville batter charging the mound was considered to fall within the scope of 'angry demons'.
The first hurdle for Marty was accepting that he was about to engage a big live human instead of a slimy undead monster — because he'd never been in a fight with another human. But he adjusted quickly, and when the hitter was on the edge of the mound, Marty met him with a spinning kick designed to push the man away, but it looked like an aggressive move. The Mudville crowd got to its feet, screaming for mayhem like Roman emperors.
"Aw shit," grumbled Scotch, who ran toward the mound to restrain the vampire slayer. But halfway to the mound, one of the Mudville players dragged Scotch down from behind.
Both benches cleared, and Musketeers and Green Sox were coming in from their respective bullpens. They appeared to be in a hurry, but no one wanted to run into a big guy on the other team when it was a numbnuts teammate who started the ruckus. Also, guyfights are typically five guys restraining one guy who is usually glad to be held back.
In this instance, however, some of the Muskies knew this was their chance to subdue the slayer with numbers. Three vampires joined the human hit batsman in surrounding the mound in a 15-foot radius. Their demon forms flickered on and off, catching the puzzled eye of their human teammate.
Perhaps it looked from above like a scene from an Esther Williams movie. The pitcher turned warily on the mound, while his foes circled around him in the opposite direction, ringed again by a number of postured shoving matches.
The demons advanced together, and the Mudville human went in also, because he charged the mound, establishing himself as a bad guy who deserved to get his ass kicked. One demon leaped feet first, with spikes on his baseball shoes sharpened deadlier than Ty Cobb's. Another wielded a bat, which, of course, leads to the group's defeat, but the vampire must have been thinking that he needed a weapon before joining the brawl. And without the bat, we don't get the dramatic paragraph at the end, so it's a required dumbass move.
Like Bruce Lee at his baddest, or River Tam at the end of "Serenity", or the radar-sensed Marvel hero Daredevil (my favorite Marvel character who is not a raccoon), or Anatoly Karpov, Martinson the slayer could read his opponents' attacking moves before they were made. In a sequence demanding a professional choreographer, Marty jumped over the low blow, cut under the high one, and knocked out the two others at his sides at once. In one motion, he plucked the Louisville Slugger from the air, broke it cleanly over his knee, and poised himself to stake the fallen vampires.
With a sudden drop of his shoulder, Marty the slayer plunged the jagged bat handle toward the undead heart of a demon. With a second to spare, Scotch grabbed his arm. "Marty!" he cried. "Stop!"
The slayer shot his eyes at his catcher, furious. He was straining against Scotch's grasp, an inch from staking the vampire, who stared up at the slayer with hate and fear, while thinking "I was a ballplayer with All-Star talent. One night with the wrong fucking woman, and here I am."
"Kid, please!" Scotch implored. "Look around!"
Marty focused his eyes for the distance behind Scotch. Magically, all the skirmishing had ceased, and the thousands of Mudville fans who were screaming for blood a moment before were quiet. Some children could be heard crying in the sudden silence.
In the owner's luxury box — seething — was the Big Bad. Also known as the head vampire, or the commissioner of baseball.
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April 29th, 2012
08:15 pm
In the next-to-last game of the season — a game the Gading Green Sox probably had to win — Gading's starter was knocked out by six runs before he got an out in the second. Marty Martinson assigned himself to long relief, giving the Sox an additional way to win: Baseball rule 4.17 said a team that couldn't put nine men on the field forfeits, so if Martinson the slayer could hit about 15 vampires with a pitch, Gading's 6-0 deficit on the scoreboard could be made moot.
Play resumed. The Green Sox battery attacked the first hitter Marty faced — Scotch called for the duster, and Marty threw high and hard, spinning the batter out of the box. The Mudville crowd erupted into boos — the Gading reliever was showing poorest sportsmanship, throwing at the Mudville man after the Muskies had roughed up the opposing starter.
The batter spat a thick tobacoo slime that seemed to take on life of its own when it hit the dirt. "Don't stir any shit, Scotch," he said to the catcher. "Our pitcher throws harder 'n your pitcher, and you ain't nearly as agile." He stretched "agile" into four syllables.
"Batter up, assface."
"That's what I mean. Let's play ball, huh?" He spat again, this time in Scotch's direction. The catcher wondered if vampire spit from a plug of tobacco burned a human like holy water burned vampires. The batter settled into his stance, tapping the plate with the bat.
Scotch called for a fastball inside. The batter read the pitch and hit the dirt. The pitch covered caught the inside part of the plate, and smacked the catcher's mitt for a called strike one. "Way to fire, kid, way to fire!" barked Scotch, snapping the ball back to the mound.
The Mudville hitter climbed to his feet, muttering. "I'm warning you, Scotch."
"Yeah, thanks. Next time you dive like your sister, I'll be sure to stand clear."
"Your mother."
"My mother can stand in against Marty."
The batter spewed a stream of tobacco spit in front of the plate. Kids would never get near the shit if they'd ever seen a vampire spraying it.
Now the vampire was thinking 'fastball in' all the way, so he was frozen dumb by Marty's sub-minor-league curve, which dropped in for strike two.
Still thinking 'fastball around my eyes', the hitter ducked down and away, while called strike three was at the heart of the plate. Disgusted, he turned for the dugout, while Scotch zipped the ball to third to start the ball around the horn in the traditional celebration.
The next Mudville man to face Marty determined not to take any crap. When the heater came high and inside — smacking him in the bicep — he dropped the bat and charged the mound.
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April 25th, 2012
07:46 pm - Two games to go
With two games remaining in the regular season, the Gading Green Sox were one game behind the Fictional Team Evocative of Dodgers or Yankees for Despicableness.
The Green Sox needed some help from the Despicables' opponents, the Enemies of the Enemies. The Green Sox also had to win in Mudville.
The Mudville Musketeers weren't based in *the* Mudville, and some were tired of fielding the question. On the other hand, a Musketeer could occasionally make a few extra bucks by selling their dirty shirts as an "authentic game-worn Casey jersey from the infamous day".
Mudville's lineup was loaded with vampires, according to the Green Sox scouting report. "You couldn't line a foul ball inna dugout without hitting a vampire," Scotch said.
Therefore, Sox manager Lancelot Barks considered taking the slayer out of the bullpen — from which Barks had been summoning him in spots — and giving him a start. He told the press: "Marty has been pitching good for us, and heading down the stretch, maybe our guys could use an extra rest day. Or maybe I'll let Billy McMinn start all the games. The thing we all know about baseball, you know, is that you never know." The reporters laughed about that last sentence until they ran out of martinis.
On game day, Billy McMinn — with one of those insane 1880s-type records of 55 wins against 20 losses — was gassed. #2 starter Lefty Charleston and the yet-unmentioned #3 man had sore arms. Barks decided to give the ball to his #4 starter Goober Herman. His German father moved to Argentina long before Nazi war criminals made that a dirty habit, and then his parents used named him after the city. Buenos Aires Erlichmann was an unsuitable name for an American big leaguer, so he Anglicized it to Good Air Herman. In time, teammates and baseball fans shortened it to Gooder Herman, which some believed had to be corrected to Better Herman or Do-Gooder Herman. Goober Herman, however, stuck.
The Muskies knocked Goober Herman around for four runs in the bottom of the first, and when they led off the second inning with two more hits, Barks signaled the bullpen to get the long reliever warm.
Gading's long relief man stood up and stretched, but Marty Martinson had a few words with the bullpen coach, and told the long reliever to reseat himself. Marty began warming.
A long double by the Musketeers made the score 6-0, and as Barks made the long walk to the mound, he was wishing he'd given Marty or one of the sore-armed pitchers the start. Herman relinquished the ball, and headed for the showers with his head down. The home crowd yelled suggestions that Herman stick around.
Barks and Scotch weren't expecting Marty to arrive at the mound.
"Martinson, what the fuck are you doing," snapped Barks. The Sox's season was slipping away, and Barks' voice showed it. "This ain't no time for gags, kid," said Scotch. "Skipper wanted Francois." In the gravity of the moment, Scotch referred to the long reliever correctly, instead of "Frankie" or "Froggie".
"We're going to win this game," Marty said, still waiting for Barks to hand him the ball.
Barks was getting angrier. "Why's that, Marty? You gonna win it with your bat?"
Marty calmly turned to Scotch. "Scotch, how many of the Musketeers do you figure are vampires?"
"They're loaded with bogies. I'd say more than half."
"Then let's knock them down to eight men, and win with Rule 4.17."
"What?" said the catcher.
"Rule four dot one seven says that if a team can't put nine men on the field, it forfeits the game. If we dust enough vampires, we win."
"You're yanking my pud, kid."
"Seriously, Scotch. I looked it up."
The usual grin was coming back to Barks' face. He handed Marty the ball. "How come Joey Shockley didn't know that?"
"Skipper, you're the watcher. How come *you* didn't know that?" Scotch said. "OK, kid, we're gonna win this game because Red's gonna hit some three-run homers, but that's a good backup plan."
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April 23rd, 2012
08:53 am - Owners' meeting
When it became routinely overheard that one side of a baseball wager was a sure thing because:
a) the presumed losers were throwing the game; and
b) the presumed winners were taking better drugs,
the baseball owners agreed to act — though some of them didn't give a crap as long as the venture remained profitable.
The owners decided to appoint a commissioner to oversee baseball, to restore integrity and respectability to the game. None of the owners said aloud that they should appoint a commissioner who could be bought, but they were all thinking it. They had to move quickly, else baseball might suffer the ignominy of two teams trying to lose, or — perhaps more tragically — one team trying to lose the game that the home plate umpire wagered on them to win.
They agreed that a judge would lend the most credibility, but none actually knew a judge. One owner said he thought his wife knew some retired judge, and remarkably, two other owners said 'hey, I think my wife knows that guy, too'. So the owners asked the head vampire.
During the honeymoon phase, the vampire commissioner banished several players, officials, and associates without process. The owners collectively praised the new commissioner for cleaning up the great game, while the newspapermen who alluded to the Salem witch hunts mysteriously disappeared.
Then the commissioner revealed plans that would affect the owners' fortunes. Abolishing daytime baseball meant selling less beer. Putting up lights also meant buying electricity, and — worse — buying the adjacent land from neighbors with objections, or bribing state officials into condemning their properties.
The commissioner's demand that a greeter be placed at every turnstile translated to hundreds of additional paychecks to sign, and what the deuce did baseball fans care about being greeted at the turnstile? (In fact, the greeters' true function would be inviting vampires into the ballpark.)
The owners hastily called a meeting to discuss the rescue of their bottom lines, or perhaps the ouster of the commissioner.
The last owner to arrive at the meeting was Hurst, the owner of the Hurstown Wombats. Hurst took his seat at the table with all eyes on him — his skin had taken on a greenish hue. Ridges furrowed his forehead and between his eyes, which had changed from jolly blue to gold, with pupils like a snake.
Hurst looked around the table. "I'm sorry to be tardy. Did I miss a vote?"
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April 22nd, 2012
04:28 pm - Autograph seekers
The Green Sox led 4-3. It was the top of the 8th, and the visiting Assassin Beavers led off with a long single to right. The Sox right fielder had to make an excellent play of the carom off the wall to keep the Assassin Beaver from a double or more.
Barks made a slow walk to the pitchers' mound, joined there by the entire Green Sox infield.
"How're you feeling, Lefty," Barks said, not exactly as a question.
"Never better, Skipper," said Lefty, whose preferred some variation of his name Charleston. Charleston thought his name was a fine tribute to his hometown, and how many left-handers had to be called "Lefty" before it was overdone?
"His slider is falling off the table, Skipper," offered the Sox shortstop.
"Five by five, Skip," said Scotch, in shiny Whedonesque slang, but in this instance was code that meant a vampire was coming up, and Scotch wanted the slayer.
It was a typical conference at the mound. No pitcher ever wanted to come out, except Tom Seaver, who was willing to admit that his arm was gassed. Seaver was a mutant weirder than anything Joss Whedon ever imagined. Managers usually had their minds made up before they got to the mound. Asking the pitcher how he felt was a courtesy. Except for the catcher, the other infielders had no business being there.
With his right hand, Barks patted Charleston on the butt. He held his left hand out for the ball.
The slayer jogged in from the bullpen. Scotch took charge of the infielders. "All right, fellas, let's look alive out there. 'Cept you, Alvarez. You're too fucking cheerful."
"I love you, Scotch," said the shortstop.
"G'wan. Remember to catch the thing if they hit it to you," Scotch said. Alvarez was the slickest-fielding shortstop in the major league.
Marty stepped up on the mound, reminding himself to breathe.
"What's the word, Scotch?" Barks said.
"Lookit where this guy stands inna box when Lefty or Billy was pitching. Crowding the plate, as far forward as he could get. But yesterday when dipshit here came in, he moved all the way back inna box. He's 'fraid of getting dusted."
Barks thought it over. "Marty, work him off-speed stuff on the inner half. If we can get him out easy, let's take it. If it's two-oh or three-one, he eats dirt."
The home plate umpire was on his way to the mound to urge an adjournment, but Barks and Scotch were already heading back to the dugout and the plate. In a minute, Marty was finished with his warmup pitches.
The Assassin Beaver batter planted his rear foot on the back edge of the batters' box, just like Scotch had observed. Marty threw two slow breaking pitches — the hitter took both, one of which was low. The other hit the dirt, forcing Scotch to move quickly to prevent a passed ball and advancement by the runner.
With the count 2-0, the hitter looked a little more settled at the plate, aware of the favorable count. Scotch flashed some fake signals, then the fist.
Peering in from the mound, Marty nodded once. He checked the runner at first, and threw high and hard.
The pitch caught the hitter in the ribs. He dropped the bat, and grimaced in pain. He glared angrily at Marty before trotting to first base. The crowd buzzed — many Green Sox fans groaned at what they believed was another fit of wildness from the rookie pitcher.
With two runners on, the next Beaver hitter was looking for a "get it over" fastball from the start, and hit one high and deep and gone. The score was Assassin Beavers 6, Green Sox 4, and the Beavers held on to win.
"My fault, kid," Scotch said on the woeful walk back to the clubhouse.
"'S OK, Scotch," Marty murmured.
Meeting with reporters later, Barks took the blame for the loss — he put the rookie pitcher in a game situation that would be difficult for veterans, but it was a long season, and he promised the press and the fans that Martinson would learn to get the job done.
Marty, Scotch, and Red left Gading Park together. Three men in coats and ties approached the ballplayers.
One man held out a baseball and a pen. "Hey, Scotch! Autograph, please?"
"Red! Great game today!" Red was 1-for-4, striking out twice with runners on, and making one error in the field. "Sign my card?"
The first baseman took the man's marker and card. Scotch abruptly turned him aside. "Red!" Scotch hissed. "What do you think yer doing? Don't sign nothing for grown men! Who do they think they is? Kids? Ain't no good signing for grownups, Red!"
"Aw, Scotch, I'm just gonna put my name on it. Ain't I handsome?" Red held the card up beside his face, and tried to grin like the painting.
"Whatcha got there in the bag, young fella?" one of the suits said to Marty.
"He's a rook," Scotch said. "Rooks carry bags, get it?" That was true, though Marty carried a bag of bats because they doubled as stakes.
Red was carefully scribing his signature on the baseball card, which was included in a pack of cigarettes. Red neither chewed nor smoked, so it occurred to him to ask the tobacco company to remove his likeness from the cards — better not give the kids the wrong impression, he thought.
While Red's attention was diverted to signing, the men took on demon form, and attacked.
A fight ensued. The demons were fearsome and strong, but Red and Scotch were trained fighters. The demons, however, had surprise in their favor, and their early initiative was snowballing into a gruesome death for the Green Sox.
In the nick of time, Marty swung the heavy bag and connected, knocking the demon for a loop. He ripped open the bag, grabbed a bat, and bludgeoned the demons menacing his teammates. Red and Scotch seized the moment, and struck and kicked the demons down. Marty gritted his teeth, and swung the bat with all his might against a telephone pole. The bat shattered. With the jagged bat handle, Marty staked the demons. The survivor recognized the time to run.
Marty dropped the bat handle, and squeezed his hands together in agony. Breaking the bat on a telephone pole would not do — he'd have to gain strength and technique for snapping the bat above his knee.
Scotch and Red were disheveled and breathing hard after their close call. "You see, Red? I told you that signing for adults was no good!"
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