Screwballs

I have made the point many times that baseball and, for that matter, any professional sport is 60 to 80 percent mental. This doesn't mean that a man can play with 75 percent of a full deck and survive, though it happens all the time. What this means is that when you get to the professional level, the only thing that separates a winner from a joke is something like emotion or pride or guts or heart or determination, something you can't see.

People who play with emotion are better than people who play like, well, there's always tomorrow. The way you have to play the game is like you're on your last leg, like you might drop dead in the morning. You have to make every swing count. Emotion is one of the secrets of life. When a man starts playing like there's (continued on page 192)Screwballs(continued from page 163) always tomorrow, then he's going to wake up one day 39 and he's going to say, "Well, it's time to get me a hit," only he'll get a slipped disk, because it's too damn late. When you hear a man who is 40 say he feels like he's 30, you can have him, because that means he hasn't been doing a thing for ten years.

Now, you can be too emotional.

Our first baseman years ago in Ardmore was a kid named Richardson and one night we were trying to get into the play-offs because the team fed you free meals as long as you kept playing. Richardson was in the on-deck circle and one of the opposition yelled, "Richardson, hey, your wife is a hog."

We started yelling at Richardson, "She is not," but he was so crazy by the time he got in the box, he couldn't even think. He tried to stretch a single into a triple and was tagged out around second. Richardson charged their dugout and cracked his head on a post and missed the play-offs with the injury, so he didn't get paid.

The point is, you have got to control your emotion.

And you can't be giving away emotion like it was dime beer.

That's what our team did, preceding the crucial September Boston series.

The men got a little carried away.

In a copyrighted story in the Boston paper, Sammie Land, outfielder, was quoted as saying, "We're going to kick their [Boston's] butts right up that slimy left-field wall."

Our catcher, Edgar, was quoted as saying the only one of Boston's players who could start for us was their bat boy, and without the cheap shots off the left-field fence, Boston would never be a contender in our division. "If they played in our park, nobody would hit ten home runs," Edgar concluded.

First baseman Doyle Legg was much more to the point. "I hate Boston's guts," he said.

That catchy phrase was the headline in that edition. Doyle Legg's picture, and Edgar's and Sammie Land's, appeared on the next page under the sub-headline "marked men."

The Boston manager, a coward named Fish, had a quote of his own. "The gentlemen over there are entitled to their opinions."

Sammie Land was outraged. He clipped that quote out and put it in our dressing room. "He can't call us gentlemen," he said.

One thing was for sure: Boston would be ready for us. They made it out like we were a motorcycle gang swooping down on an old folks' home.

The person who prospered the most was the Boston owner. The day before the series opener, he sold out the standing room and then sold out the leaning room, and had only about three stalls in the bathroom left to unload.

The commissioner of baseball had caught wind of what promised to be a very heated rivalry and he sent us a telegram encouraging, "Hearty competition and, above all, honor and sportsmanship."

"If that's the way he feels, he can go to hell," Doyle Legg said.

While we were shocking Detroit, the Red Sox split at home, winning 3--2 over the White Sox when a pop fly over the pitcher's mound blew over the dumb wall in left.

The vital stats were: We were six out of first going into the five with them.

Sammie Land announced at our final team meeting that when we took the field in the bottom of the first inning of the first game, he would do something that would let the fans and the Red Sox know exactly what we thought of them.

Sammie said his strategy would also help us win the game.

Guessing what Sammie Land would do in left field broke a lot of the pressure the day before.

"I predict he goes to the bathroom on the wall," Arnette Blackwelder guessed.

"I say he climbs it like a mountain climber," Golden Rule guessed. "With rope and suction cups."

"Whatever he does," Cliff Masterson said, grimly and majestically, "I'll be there to back him."

Game day, news of our opener in Boston was on top of the front page, above "good humor man murderer strikes again" and "cost of living index has biggest jump of year," we were that important.

•

I drove over the morning of the game with our owner, McBroom.

He was in fine spirits.

When pressed for a key to victory in the first game, I told him, "If we're still alive in the fifth, we should win it."

He wondered exactly how I meant alive.

I told him I was not sure.

Rudd was pitching the opener of the series with Boston. We probably would have been better off with Golden Rule or Mulebach, since Boston has a ton of right-handed hitters aiming at the runt fence, but Rudd was going to have to pitch sometime over there, and it was best to stay with the normal rotation.

So here is what our line-up looked like:

That's some crew, all right.

Ina flew in for the big series with Boston and brought me up to date about the goings on with the in-laws, like her sister's 16-year-old daughter was named alternate homecoming queen.

There are all kinds of theories about what makes a good marriage, and I have always believed that honesty is the most important thing two people can have going.

"Ina, I don't give a damn about that kid," I said.

She sulked.

She rode with me to Boston with McBroom and his wife and was bored to death as the three of us talked strategy. Mrs. McBroom said she had promised the girls at the club a pennant.

"El Dorado will probably have a great series," McBroom said. "Guys who don't understand what's going on don't choke."

The secret was, Rudd had to keep the ball down so they would hit grounders and not routine flies over the chicken wall.

Sammie Land had requested a light-weight flak jacket that he could wear under his uniform. He had some spectacular trick planned for the wall in left.

McBroom placed a hand on my shoulder and said that whatever happened, I had done a brilliant job and deserved Coach of the Year.

Mrs. McBroom was wearing a low-cut blouse.

When they got a runner on first, she planned to expose her left breast and hope the guy got picked off.

"How much farther?" Ina asked two miles into the trip.

•

Boston is one of those towns where they use gimmick nights a lot, and it was unfortunate that this game had been designated Quarter Beer Night. The way it turned out, with our rivalry, they could have filled the joint charging $20 a ticket. You can imagine what variety of person a 25-cent-beer night would seduce. There is hardly anything meaner than a premeditated drunk.

The Boston management had the courtesy to station extra cops in and behind our dugout and in and around our (continued on page 270)Screwballs(continued from page 192) clubhouse, and throughout the park, for when the riot happened.

As we walked to the dressing room, one little kid asked for an autograph from one of my men and was slapped by his mother.

We took batting practice without incident, because quarter beer didn't go on sale until a half hour before the game.

The strategy was relatively simple.

Our computer tells us that the Boston pitchers throw 83 percent of their pitches on the outside part of the plate to our right-handers because of that horseshit wall. Boston wins a lot in its park because everybody tries to pull outside pitches, which is ignorant.

"Anybody trying to pull an outside one is fined a hundred dollars," I said.

"Why don't you just shut up?" Sammie Land said.

The men scared me a little with their quiet determination.

"It's nothing personal," Sammie Land said. "We know what we have to do."

"What we have to do is murder the sons of bitches," Doyle Legg said.

I heard some loose change in his pocket, probably for the quarter beer.

Doyle Legg was the meanest-looking person I have ever seen. Our bat boy placed Legg's shoes slightly to the left of his locker.

"Don't ever screw up like that again," my big first-sacker said to the kid.

"No, sir," the kid said.

A man named Pine was throwing for Boston. He has a big curve and a not-bad slider, but uses his fast ball only to set up the other stuff.

"Please don't swing at the man's fast one," I said. "It's hardly ever a strike."

Our computer also indicates that when this Pine of theirs smoothed his handle-bar mustache, nine times out of ten, he came with the slider next.

"His what?" Doyle Legg asked.

"Slider," pitching coach Ozwald said.

"The bastard has a mustache? A handle-bar mustache?"

"Yeah," pitching coach Ozwald said. "So?"

"So this!"

Doyle Legg kicked a bench over. "Simps with mustaches are a menace to society."

"Easy, Legg," I said.

"Yeah, right."

Rudd said he felt like a million--strong and sharp and full of virtue.

I told Rudd that during this series I wasn't going very long with any starter. If a person couldn't keep the ball down, he was the hell out of there. Jack Roebuck, my starter-reliever, was the long-inning man in the bull pen.

We had some fans in the park. They were easily recognized. They were trying to blend into the woodwork for when the fighting started. Our wives and loved ones sat behind the first-base dugout.

Mrs. McBroom put up a sign Beat Boston that somebody took a knife to before the game even started.

There was a cop stationed behind our dugout.

When we wandered onto the field, this cop yelled. "The hell with you bums."

I got his badge number.

•

The umpire behind the plate was a gentleman named Overholster, and as the managers and their seconds (the captains) met at home plate before the game, Overholster said that he was aware of the importance of this series.

"No bullshit," Overholster said. "Not any."

"Keep the crowd off my people," I said.

"No rough stuff," Overholster said.

"We're going to beat your ass," Fish, the Boston manager, said to me.

I told him to sit on it.

"Have a good game," Overholster said after receiving the line-up cards.

Previously, Overholster and his crew had explained the ground rules particular to this fleabag of a park.

"Any questions?"

"Yeah," I said. "What is it when a ball goes over that outhouse in left?"

"You'll never know," Fish said.

"A home run," Overholster said.

I said I would be damned.

•

Although there's not that much strategy that really goes on during a baseball game, there is some that happens on the perimeter, so that's why we brought up Ferrazano from the triple-A club. Ferrazano is an average player, but I started him at first in a last-second change, in place of Doyle Legg.

Legg went crazy until I explained the strategy, then he settled down.

It was obvious to me that Doyle Legg did not have the type of personality to withstand much sincere abuse from the stands, so I started Ferrazano as the sacrificial goat.

The crowd tries to intimidate you, and I didn't want to have to worry about any of that crap. The bigmouths who yell personal things like, "Hey, first base, your old lady stinks," don't really want to fight. These people are cowards. It's like yelling at car number 54 in the Indianapolis, "Hey, buddy, you're a bum." A ballplayer doesn't have the option to stop the game and defend himself against personal and vile attacks from bigmouthed drunks in the crowd.

Usually.

We went out one, two, three in the first, which really inspired the drunks behind our dugout.

The game started on a rotten note.

Jimmy Netherlands took a strike in the butt.

Umpire Overholster didn't award Jimmy first because he said my man's rear was turned into the strike zone. I argued and the crowd really got on me.

Their pitcher Pine threw all garbage and we pounded it into the ground.

What's one inning?

When Ferrazano went to play first in the bottom half, a drunk really got on him, saying, "Hey, pizza-face wop, how come your wife isn't wearing no panties to the game here tonight?"

Ferrazano calmly placed his glove on the base and charged the stands. He leaped the railing and lunged for the drunk, who was about four rows up. This maneuver caught everybody off guard, including the cop, who was busy calling Rudd names while he was warming up.

The coward drunk about had a heart attack.

What was supposed to happen was Ferrazano would mind his own business and everybody behind the dugout would think the drunk was a real tough guy.

The drunk tried to hide behind several women and children, but Ferrazano got him by the leg and dragged him back down the aisle.

Ferrazano slapped the hell out of the bigmouth and then kicked his ass.

The cops arrived.

I told Ferrazano he would have to give his body up for the cause. The club, of course, would go the bail and provide a lawyer if the drunk pressed charges, which he didn't, since he was a coward.

All that happened was Ferrazano and the bigmouth were separated and umpire Overholster threw Ferrazano the hell out of the game.

Ferrazano might not ever be able to bounce his grandson on his knee and tell him how he hit one over the lights in the top of the ninth to win the world series, but the contribution he made to the cause was, nevertheless, very meaningful.

It was like a morgue behind first where the drunk was.

You could have heard a beer drop.

The drunk was so humiliated at having his number called and having his face slapped like the punk he was, he slinked out of the stadium.

So, naturally, I put Doyle Legg in as a replacement.

When this was announced to the crowd, everybody but the drunks by first screamed and booed.

After leaving the dugout, Doyle Legg stared at those behind our dugout like a lawyer getting ready to speak to the jury.

When nobody said anything personal, Legg trotted to first.

Somebody had conked Ferrazano on the head.

Doc Cooper said it was only a flesh wound.

"Good job, son," I said.

•

Sammie Land's display of contempt for the left-field wall about brought the house down.

This also happened in the bottom of the first.

Nobody had any idea what Sammie had planned. When he left the dugout, there was a gleam in his eye. He wasn't carrying anything.

After Ferrazano slapped out the bigmouth and Rudd completed his warm-up, Sammie Land called time out by waving his arms to the second-base umpire.

As everybody watched, Sammie Land removed a blindfold from his back pocket. He held it up for the people to see. You should have heard them. Some beer cups came from the stands behind Sammie Land. The public-address announcer asked that this practice be stopped.

Sammie Land motioned for Bone to come out from short.

My men spoke for a moment.

Sammie Land then removed his cap and Bone put down his glove. He tied the blindfold around Sammie Land's eyes. Land had been quoted in the Boston paper as saying that wall was so ludicrous and had so reduced the skill required to play left field, an idiot could play the position. To show how the wall had defamed the game of baseball, Sammie Land was going to play left field blindfolded!

After the initial reaction of comedy and catcalls and hysteria, the crowd became very quiet.

It was no trick.

My man was going to play left field blindfolded.

When Boston's first hitter stepped into the box, Sammie Land was positioned so that he was facing center field, not home plate.

Our men in the dugout were going crazy, laughing.

The Boston lead-off batter was so upset with being treated so contemptuously, he struck out on three pitches from Rudd. The Boston guy had been trying so desperately to hit one Sammie's way, he fanned on a pitch in the dirt, as did the second hitter.

"Watch this," pitching coach Ozwald said.

He called time with umpire Overholster and trotted to left.

Ozwald tapped Sammie Land on the shoulder. Sammie Land jumped.

Ozwald then turned Sammie Land so he was facing home plate.

The crowd then about ripped the place apart, and they booed so long the game had to be stopped ten minutes.

Umpire Overholster came to our dugout and asked what the hell was going on. "This is a circus."

I told him there was nothing in the rulebook preventing a man from playing left field blindfolded and the game resumed. Boston's third hitter tried to get a fly to left so hard he about threw his left shoulder out of its socket. He fouled one toward Sammie that curved foul. Sammie didn't move. The Boston guy also struck out.

At the completion of the inning, Bone went out to left to bring Sammie Land in.

Our guys mobbed him.

Sammie Land removed his blindfold and went up to bat to lead off the second. The Boston pitcher, Pine, was so mad he hit Sammie in the leg. Sammie Land was wild-pitched to second and was singled in by Edgar, bless his old, bruised heart, so it was 1--0, us.

Cliff Masterson hit one into the Bay of Fundy, which is up by Nova Scotia, in the third.

It went out in dead center.

The circus ended in the fourth, when a guy from Boston popped one to left. The crowd rose. Sammie Land sprinted in and put the out away, easy as you please. He removed the blindfold and held it up so the people in the left-field bleachers could see tiny eyeholes. The game was postponed 15 minutes to clear off beer cups.

Sammie Land's diversion let us get ahead 2--0 after four.

We had two normal innings, the fifth and sixth, then the beans hit the fan in the seventh.

•

Between innings, Mrs. McBroom and a couple of the wives climbed onto our dugout and led cheers for our fans.

Between halves in the sixth, I heard somebody behind our dugout make a less than complimentary comment about me.

"They're a bunch of hoodlums. Moss couldn't manage his way into a whorehouse."

"You shut your filthy mouth," somebody said.

It was Ina.

•

The spark from Sammie Land's fool's play carried us into the seventh, leading 2--zip.

Rudd had been cooking along like a champion, throwing everything at their ankles. Three of them had managed lousy singles was all. In and out, up and down, Rudd had looked like he had a string on the ball and could jerk it away from their bats whenever he wanted.

It was the top of the seventh when Doyle Legg went berserk.

The fact that a man would wear a handle-bar mustache in public had been gnawing away at Legg's better judgment all evening.

Several times he asked men on our bench, "You know why a person covers his face with hair, goddamn it? I'll tell you why. It's because the man is ashamed of the way he looks. It pisses me off so bad, I can't stand it."

He believed that people who wore beards and mustaches were an inferior breed, and he thought they should be punished for it.

"It's against God to change your looks," Legg said once. "Plus, it pisses me off."

He wanted to rip Pine's handle bar off so much it hurt.

He called him every name in the book, and when that didn't work, he did it again.

"God had a beard," our Christian Rudd said.

"Yeah, well. That's because they didn't have electric razors then. They shaved with glass. It's different now."

Doyle Legg explained how most short men had beards, and how most bald men had beards, and how all short, bald men had beards.

"Now, what does that tell you?" he asked Mulebach, who shrugged.

"It tells you they are not man enough to live with the way they look, that's what."

When Doyle Legg led off our half of the seventh, he was in a foul mood. He pointed his finger at Boston pitcher Pine, who pointed back. Usually, you see a man charge the mound after he has been offered a high, inside hard one, a brush-back pitch. You hardly ever see a man throw down his bat and rush the mound after being thrown a strike, but that's what Doyle Legg did.

It caught the entire city of Boston off guard.

Pitcher Pine saw batter Legg charging. Pine didn't know quite what to do, so he stood there. Doyle Legg went right for the handle bar and managed to grab some of it. Pine put his fists up in a classic boxing pose to defend himself, but Doyle Legg didn't throw a punch; rather, he went right through Pine's fists and grabbed at the mustache.

Both men fell backward off the mound.

The Boston infielders ran to the mound and piled onto the two warriors.

Our bench emptied and piled onto the Boston infielders.

The Boston bench emptied and piled onto our bench.

Hats and gloves and shoes flew in all directions from this mass, which rolled along the ground toward first base, like The Blob.

The police did a hell of a job keeping the fans in the stands.

The umpires diligently ran up to the ball of bodies but decided it would be ignorant to try to separate 32 fighters, so they backed off.

There wasn't much I could do, so I stayed by our dugout and said hello to Ina and McBroom.

McBroom's head was in his hands and he was weeping slightly.

After about three minutes, which is a long time for 32 men to fight, the city police got organized and they charged the pile and began prying bodies off.

The tangle of bodies had moved from the pitcher's mound to right on top of first base.

The public-address announcer was saying, "For the love of God, break it up out there," it was that bad.

One fan leaped out of the left-field stands and tried to steal Sammie Land's cap and got punched in the nose.

The commissioner of baseball came onto the field from his box by the third-base dugout and was promptly arrested by one of the cops.

Nobody was killed.

A picture of the altercation half of the front page ran in the Boston paper the next morning beneath the headline "the national pastime."

After the bodies were pried off and separated by the police, Doyle Legg and pitcher Pine still had a grip on each other. Legg's shirt had been ripped off and he was bleeding from the skull. His left shoe was missing. Pitcher Pine's upper lip had been stretched about down to his belt, but the mustache remained intact. The handle bar drooped pitifully, however.

Head umpire Overholster threw Doyle Legg out of the game.

The mayor of Boston threw Doyle Legg out of the city.

The governor of Massachusetts threw Doyle Legg out of the state.

The commissioner of baseball fined Doyle Legg $5000 and suspended him for two additional games.

A call had allegedly been placed to the President of the United States, and there was some question as to how long Doyle Legg would be permitted to remain in this country.

Two cops led Doyle Legg to the showers.

Order was restored after only 48 minutes. Boston went to its dressing room and sent a message back that it refused to play with heathens. The commissioner of baseball talked Boston into finishing the game for the good of America.

I searched the bench, found a bright and eager face and said, "All right, son, go out there and get them."

The bright face blinked and said, "Horseshit to that."

"Please, Matsudo," I said. "We're out of first basemen."

I had called Matsudo up for assistance because I figured somebody might harelip Doyle Legg. At the time, Matsudo was batting .666 for our farm team down South.

"I hate this," Matsudo said, taking the field.

He thought first base was jinxed.

Needless to say, we didn't get a smell after the riot in the top of the seventh.

The altercation gave Boston new life and pitcher Pine fluffed up his handle bar and threw some nice curves at us.

The crowd did not want a mere victory; they wanted a rout.

Even Rudd's faith and inner strength were severely tested.

The crowd was so loud he got the hiccups.

As the game went into the bottom of the eighth, it was time for a storybook ending.

The lead-off man for Boston banged one off the wall that almost took Sammie Land's hat off. That was a double. I called time and went to the mound. It was so loud I had to yell instructions to Rudd.

"Pray for rain."

I had Mulebach, Jack Roebuck and Golden Rule warming up in the bull pen.

The next man hits two foul home runs and then lines out to Masterson at third. It was a wicked shot that turned Masterson's glove hand purple.

Runner at second, one out.

We are clearly on the ropes.

The next man walks.

I went out to talk to Edgar.

"How is he?"

"All right. He just missed an inch with two pitches. The last one was a strike."

"Bear down," I told umpire Overholster.

"Sit down," he said.

First and second, one out, 2--0, us.

The next man pops one up behind first that Matsudo chased like a real trooper. It fell foul one inch.

"That was a good sign," I told pitching coach Ozwald.

"What I am wondering is how are we going to get out of this park alive?" he asked.

The guy who hit the foul then ripped one to right, a clean single, scoring a run. But our religious combo was hitting on all cylinders and Jesus El Dorado threw the man on first out as he tried to take third. Gregory Peck Masterson was spiked on the arm, but he held on to the ball and tagged the bum out for the second out.

Two outs, man on first, 2--1, us.

Before I could say "What the hell?" a man had a single and the next man had a walk to load the damnable bases.

The crowd was beside itself.

"What do you think?" I asked Ozwald of a possible pitching change.

Ozwald leaned out of the dugout and said, "Mulebach just threw one that bounced."

Ozwald said he would just as soon go with God as anybody.

Edgar called time and came to the dugout.

"He stays in," I said.

If I went to the mound, Rudd would have to come out.

"Fine," Edgar said.

Edgar went out to talk with Rudd, patted him on the shoulder and returned to his position behind the plate.

Bottom of the eighth, 2--1, us, bases loaded, two out.

Rudd stepped off the mound, straightened his cap, looked to the heavens and fogged a nice little slider for:

Foul behind the plate into the seats, strike.

Ball.

Another foul, this time into the seats behind third.

Ball.

Two balls, two strikes.

The Boston hitter was named Sands. He was a right-handed batter with minimal power, but a scrapper. He was hitting about .280. Very competent. The way he fouled those two good sliders off, it didn't look like Rudd could sneak one past him. He was choked way up on the bat.

Curve his ass, I thought.

Edgar gave the signal.

Rudd shook him off.

Edgar gave another signal.

Rudd shook it off.

Batter Sands stepped out.

Edgar gave two more signals.

Rudd shook them both off.

Batter Sands stepped out of the box and yelled something at Rudd.

Edgar called time out and went to the mound.

He removed his mask and listened intently as Rudd explained something, then Edgar threw his glove to the ground and stomped off the mound toward our dugout.

The crowd really let us have it.

"What in the hell is going on out there?" I asked, meeting Edgar at the steps.

Edgar was flustered and red in the neck. "You won't believe this."

I swore I would.

"He wants to throw a screwball to this guy."

"A what?"

"Screwball."

"He doesn't know how to throw a screwball," pitching coach Ozwald said.

"He said God just told him to throw it," Edgar said.

"You're kidding," I said.

"No."

A screwball to a right-handed hitter in this situation would be very good strategy, as it would break away from the hitter, if, of course, the pitcher knew how to throw it.

Each team scouts the other's habits with the computers.

Batter Sands knew Rudd was coming with his best, the slider, when it was all on the table.

"He has never thrown one," I said to Edgar.

"It doesn't seem to matter to him," Edgar said, gesturing to the mound, where Rudd stood with his hands on his hips.

"What's going on here?" umpire Overholster asked. "I've had enough of this crap."

I explained that our little chucker out there was just told by God to throw a screwball, which he had never thrown before.

"So be ready," I told Overholster, the ump.

"You know," he said, "I believe you."

"We're going with it?" Edgar asked.

"Why in the hell not?" I said.

"I'll ask when I get down there," Edgar said, trotting back to the mound and then back behind the plate.

All our men stood at the edge of the dugout.

A screwball is a very unnatural pitch. The guy who threw it best, Carl Hubbell, had an arm that looked like an elephant's trunk, all curled up and distorted. With a curve, your wrist and arm rotate outward, which is natural; but with the screwball, your wrist and arm rotate inward, so if you throw it a lot, your arm falls off about the age of 37. It puts terrible pressure on the elbow.

The screwball is the weirdest, ugliest pitch in baseball.

Somehow, this screwball piece fit right into this puzzling team.

Batter Sands about lost his pants.

He was expecting the slider and got screwed.

He took a half-assed swing when the ball was about a foot from Edgar's glove. Sands looked like he was fighting off a very big mosquito.

He was the hell out of there.

The men mobbed Rudd.

"It broke this far," Edgar said, holding his bruised old hands a foot and a half apart. "I barely could catch the damn thing."

Now, if that isn't enough to frost you, there was even more frosting, the bottom of the ninth.

We went out one, two, three in the top of the ninth, so the "game" went into the last half inning, 2--1, us.

The lead-off hitter for Boston banged one off the whore in left for a double. Poor Sammie Land was on the verge of shell shock. Playing a ball off that wall was like a game of handball. Sammie managed to step on the ball and hold the Boston guy to two bases.

Then it rained.

Usually, rain starts.

This rain began in the middle and it came down hard in waves, causing "thuds" on the infield. The wind kicked up and blew Edgar's mask off. After a minute, you couldn't see the left-field wall. Our men ran for cover. The Boston manager, Fish, protested to umpire Overholster because we left the field of play during a "sprinkle."

Play was suspended.

The men eyed Rudd with a combination of admiration and fear.

"I swear I didn't pray for rain," he said.

Home plate disappeared in a pool of water. The puddle at first had whitecaps.

"We'll give it five more minutes," umpire Overholster announced.

"Then send for boats," pitching coach Ozwald requested.

The game was officially called after lightning hit very near first base.

"See," Matsudo said of the jinx.

All of left field was under water.

So we won, 2--1.

The Boston guy who had doubled refused to leave second base until the last minute.

"Hey, fool," Arnette Blackwelder yelled. "You don't get credit for that hit. The official books stop, last inning."

The poor guy waded to his dressing room.

If this didn't take the spunk out of Boston, they were stronger people than I gave them credit for.

Our men stood in the downpour in front of our dugout and then wandered happily to the dressing room.

The stands had emptied. We had no trouble staying safe.

"It was like none of it happened," Edgar said, looking at the empty seats.

I had to admit things felt funny, but that feeling lasted only until we hit the clubhouse.

"We got them by the ass," Doyle Legg was yelling. He watched the last couple of innings from the right-field bleachers with a hat pulled down over his eyes.

The front-page headline in our paper was: "Screwball Beats Boston."

I heard the newsstand edition of this paper sold the most copies since World War Two; everybody wanted to see which screwball it was who had done all the good.

"Sammie Land had requested a lightweight flak jacket that he could wear under his uniform."

"Doyle Legg did not have the type of personality to withstand much sincere abuse from the stands."