How I Got on SportsCenter

I noticed something about the fellas on our ballclub. When we nod to a teammate, our chin goes from low to high. When we nod to an opponent or maybe an ump, our chins go from high to low. That being said, after a series and half in identical uniforms, we still nodded high to low to Blake Mondale … if we bothered to nod at all.

A major-leaguer finishing up a rehab stint, Blake’s five-year contract dwarfed us all. Hell, with his signing bonus he could’ve bought all our homes, knocked them down, and rebuilt ’em. Twice. So you can imagine how stunned we were when Mr. Bigshot All-Star joined us at this joint called The Frog-Bear after a 2–1 win against Columbus.

Most surprised was our right fielder, Chipper Flannigan. Flanny and me are both Triple-A lifers. Now that I think about it, we’ve been teammates since before the guys in the clubhouse called him Flanny. A player has to be around a long time to replace a nickname like Chipper. Flanny’s been called up to the bigs half a dozen times, while I’ve only seen the bright lights twice. I’ve long since accepted the ceiling of my destiny, Flanny not so much.

So anyways, we’re standing around the Frog-Bear pool tables knocking back the local microbrew selection when the great Blake Mondale grabs a cue and calls “next” right as Flanny lines up a shot on the 8-ball. Without even a blink, Flanny handles the shot like a routine flyball.

I should mention that Flanny specializes in two things: stealing bases and hustling chumps. So when Signing-Bonus-Baby Blake Mondale slapped down a C-Note, Flanny made sure he lost the first game.

And the second.

And the third.

The rest of us gathered around because we knew this move better than a rookie’s pickoff attempt. Flanny was setting Blake up like a pitcher sets up an inside fastball after a trio of sliders. Sure enough, a few games later the hundreds scattered across the green felt. “One more game,” Flanny said. “And let’s make it a grand.” Blue dust snowed as he grinded the chalk against his cue.

“I don’t know, man.” Blake shifted his monstrous stature against the corner of the table. “I’m scheduled for a few more at-bats tomorrow, and then I gotta head back to the show pretty late.”

That’s all our games were to Blake: At-bats. Rehab. Batting practice. He showed no emotion whether we won or lost, he just worked on getting his timing back. By my count, he could’ve stretched a gap single into a double at least twice, but he would’ve had to slide on that precious rehabbed wrist. We weren’t worth it. And forget about taking the field. Big Shot was just here to DH.

Flanny ignored Blake’s attempt at an exit and racked the balls as the loose cash drew eyes from outsiders.

Blake noticed the audience too. “Make it two grand.” He smiled at us, thinking we were allies.

“Two it is,” Flanny said emptying his wallet.

Flanny broke and knocked a stripe in. “I’ll take solids,” he said. “You can have that fifteen.” His next shot banked in the two-ball.

Then she walked over. We didn’t get her name. We didn’t need her name. She was in every city. Thirty something dressed like twenty-something. Or twenty-something dressed like she wasn’t old enough to drink. Blonde, brunette, redhead, older, younger, dangerously younger, may I see your ID? younger, Flanny was game. She eyed both men, but noticed the stack of cash sitting atop the corner pocket as Flanny drained three straight balls into it.

By the time Blake got off his stool to approach the cue ball, he knew he’d been sharked. He gave the gal an up-and-down, but she was charmed by Flanny and the cash. Two crafty bank shots allowed Blake to salvage a little dignity, but Flanny quickly finished off the 8-ball with a behind the back shot that had his newest fan giggling like a schoolgirl.

“That’ll make SportsCenter tonight,” our catcher Chops said.

Instinctively, we all looked up at the television as a familiar face appeared in the graphic behind the anchorman. “The Yankees expect Blake Mondale back as soon as this weekend as he finishes his recovery from a broken wrist. Scranton finishes a series with a day game in Columbus tomorrow where Mondale will take his final few at-bats before returning to the Bronx.”

I thought the broad’s head was gonna snap off the way she looked back and forth from the TV to the man in front of her. And Flanny? He was just a discarded towel on the clubhouse floor.

Blake owned the room again, like an older brother taking over his little brother’s treehouse.

It didn’t even take eye contact. Blake adjusted his gold Rolex which may as well have been the dangling pocket watch of a hypnotist. “You ready to get outta here?” he said in the gal’s direction.

When she nodded yes, he still wasn’t looking. He didn’t have to. They disappeared arm in arm while poor Flanny stood there looking like a victim of the hidden-ball trick. Even the fistful of cash didn’t help.

Giving Flanny a whole night to plot his revenge is like a pitcher allowing a giant lead-off without throwing over. All game, I could tell he was still sore about the night before, but he was taking it out on the opponents. Heading into the sixth inning he was already three-for-four including a triple. Columbus was on their fifth pitcher while we all batted around for the second inning in a row.

I saw Blake approach our skipper, so I listened in.

“I’ll take one more at-bat, but give me a pinch runner if it stays in the park.” Just like with his groupie from last night, he didn’t make eye-contact. He just told him how it was.

None of us dared to command our manager like this, but then again, none of us would be wearing the trademark pinstripes in the Bronx that weekend.

Flanny led the inning off with a single to short left, and it appeared we were on our way to another crooked number while already up eleven runs. Chops and Billy both flew out to right before it was Blake’s turn to hit. It was evident this at-bat was the only reason Columbus fans were still in the park. Maybe he’d send a souvenir to the left field seats.

Blake intended to make the most of this final big-fish-in-a-small-pond adventure and took his sweet time strutting from the on-deck circle to home plate. I coulda sworn I saw the pitcher look at an imaginary wristwatch as Blake dug into the box.

And then I conceived Flanny’s scheme.

The kid on the mound went into his stretch and Flanny took a lead the size of Texas.

“Uh oh,” I mumbled. I had a hunch of his scheme.

“Is he trying to get picked off?” our skipper groaned. A pickoff would rob Blake of his final at-bat … or keep him around another inning. A small thorn in the star’s side for the previous night’s humiliation.

I shook my head no. Flanny had much worse in store for our stud.

The pitcher tossed over to first, but Flanny raced back without a slide.

Blake stepped out of the box and looked back to us like we had answers.

The pitcher gathered himself and peered at the catcher’s signal once more. Every single man in the dugout knew what pitch was coming. High and tight. Sure enough, Blake stumbled backwards out of the box glaring. As the pitcher walked back to pick up the rosin bag, we realized Blake’s scowl was on Flanny instead of the man who threatened to take his chin off.

Flanny took another huge lead at the 1–0 count, but this time as the pitcher delivered a fastball, Flanny took off towards second.

I’ll admit, the crack of the bat from Blake Mondale sounds different than the rest of ours. Like it’s got a microphone next to it. He sent the ball a mile towards the horizon, but foul. Meanwhile, Flanny stood on second base before trotting back to first.

Now both teams knew the ploy. Hell, I’d guess even most of the fans suspected. Flanny was violating one of baseball’s sacred, unwritten rules and attempting to steal a base with a double-digit lead. The scapegoat of this penalty stood at the plate armed only with a bat and a plastic helmet.

A smirk slipped from Flanny’s face. He took another massive lead. The pitcher threw over once more while Blake shot a few more daggers from the batter’s box.

Our rather pugnacious dugout rose to its feet now, ready for the ensuing brawl once Blake got beamed. “Here we go again,” I heard Skip mumble.

The pitcher quickly went to his stretch. No signal was needed for this pitch. The only question was how high he was going to throw it.

Most of us were to the dugout steps by the time he unloaded what had to be a hundred mile-an-hour fastball that split Mondale’s shoulder blades with a thud. He grimaced, slammed his bat down and sprinted towards the mound like a madman. The poor pitcher put up his dukes and stepped stutter-stepped towards his dugout. But here’s when we all got a dose of surprise. Blake Mondale ran right past the opposing pitcher and continued towards the instigator of this chaos, his teammate Chipper Flannigan. Ol’ Flanny didn’t stand a chance as Blake pounded him into the ground. As a squad, we didn’t know whether to break it up, or let nature run its course. I ran up to the scene as close as I could, and for the first time in my baseball career, I saw myself on SportsCenter that night.