Introducing The Baseball Gods Part 1: Bean Ball

Larry is a Baseball God sent to Earth to help swing the tide in the final game between the forces of good and evil - The New York Yankees vs. The Boston Red Sox. Which is which? Larry hasn’t figured that out yet. 

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The Baseball Gods is a novel I’ve had in my head for over a decade but it never really came together for me until the past few months. I’ve always loved the strange history of superstition in the game and The Baseball Gods is my homage to this weird tradition of funny phrases, routines, and rituals that permeate through time, even into today’s modern game. 

The story follows a left-handed pitcher (of course, lefties, am right?) named Larry who starts having weird visions during tryouts his senior year in high school. Things escalate quickly.

The following passage is the first introduction to the Baseball God Bean Ball.

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Everyone dispersed and I stood on the mound in my thoughts for a second. I’ve never really had a lot of thoughts in my life but this was a time I had thoughts. The fans murmured, the dog barked, the scouts scouted, and Johnny Buckets wouldn’t quit looking at me. Friggin’ Johnny Buckets.

I looked at the ball. “Am I crazy?” I asked it. “Have I finally cracked?”

“Nah, chief” it said, “you’re golden.”

“Thanks, baseball,” I said. “I can always rely on you.” 

I got back on the mound and looked in for the sign. It was the worst possible moment for the baseball to turn into a chatty catty.

“Hey handsome,” the ball said.

“Not now, baseball,” I said. “It’s time for me to throw you.”

“Ignore it,” said Dottie Henson’s voice behind me.

“I’m ignoring you, imaginary Dottie Henson,” I thought inside my head. I may have said it out loud because the umpire pulled off his mask and took a couple steps in front of home plate.

“You good out there, Larry?” he said.

“I’m fine, Phil, just be ready to call strikes,” I said.

“This ain’t gonna be a strike, chief,” the ball said.

“Of course it is,” I said.

“No,” the ball said, “I think I’ll hit ‘em”

“No,” I said firmly. Sometimes you have to tell the ball who’s boss. “You’re going to get him to swing and miss and that’s final.”

“Nah,” the ball said. “I think I’ll hit 'em right in the tuchus.”

I looked at the ball. “What’s the tuchus?”

“It means butt,” the ball said. Did it have lips and a face? I can’t really remember. The Baseball Gods work in mysterious ways like that, I guess.

“You want me to hit him the butt?” I asked.

“Yeah” the ball said as if it was looking right at Conner, sizing up the perfect spot to hit him, “right in the tuchus."

“But I want to strike him out."

“Imagine the look at his face,” the ball said. If I didn’t know any better I would have guessed he was smiling like a maniac.

“Yip!” said a voice behind me.

“ARF,” barked dog.

“Ignore it!” Dottie Henson yelled. Uncle Charlie prepared me for a lot of scenarios on the baseball field, but my sixteen year old shortstop turning into Dottie Henson and barking orders at me wasn’t one of them. 

“The look on his face,” the ball repeated. 

“I would actually kind of like to see that,” I said back to the ball. 

“This is gonna be wicked fun,” said the ball.

Why does the baseball have a Boston accent? I thought.

“Humma it in there nah,” Neebs said behind me, hitting his mitt. I was glad he wasn’t Dottie Henson anymore. “kid, he can’t touch your heat, kid can’t touch your heeeeeat!”

“Or maybe in the face,” the ball suggested.

“The face,” I repeated.

“Yip!” the large imaginary 1920s first basemen said. 

ARF! barked the dog, much angrier this time.

“Hummaaitherenaaaaaah!”

“Right in the kisser,” the ball said as I released it.