Spring Training

Cubs vs Sox

The softball throw happened. How it happened is subject to a lot of debate. Go Cubs.

Flynn stood in the pit. The bell would ring soon. There was talk in the air, the kind of talk before every opening. It was a nervous talk. Today it was baseball. Spring training had begun. Pitchers and catchers reported.

Flynn was a Cubs man. He came from the near west side of Chicago. Most of the West Suburbs pulled for the White Sox. But Flynn went his own way. An Irish kid at the Merc. In 1969, the Cubs had broken him. He stayed true.

Beside him stood Jerry, Peter, Mike, and Morris. Mike had torn the crossword from the Sun Times. He worked it already. If the market died that day, Mike would do puzzles. Jumbles. Word games.

“What is a five-letter word for a woman?” Mike said. His voice was raw from yesterday’s shouts.

“Wench,” a trader called from across the pit.

“Whore,” another said, passing by.

The pit laughed.

Flynn’s mentor, Jimmy, came in. Peter called to him. “Hey Jim. Spring training starts today. You still got your Sox tickets?”

“I got them. How many games do you need?” Jimmy said.

Bill Thomas jumped in. He wore a blue jacket with a gold badge. BJT on it. A Cubs pin on the lapel. A white flag with a W on the other side. “Jimmy, no one wants Sox tickets. I got four Cubs tickets. The Cubs will beat the Sox this year.”

Jimmy said, “Screw you.”

Yra broke in. He was from Brooklyn. His accent was thick. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. The Yankees and Mets will beat the Sox and Cubs.”

“Fuck you, Yra,” Mike said. “You New Yorkers think the rest of us are nothing.”

“You are nothing,” Yra said.

Others heard. BJT muttered, “I hate the Mets. I hate the fucking Mets.”

There was rivalry. New York and Chicago. Markets. Buildings. Sports. New Yorkers were cocky. They hardly looked at Chicago.

Soon, the entire pit chose sides. Cubs or Sox. Since 1917, neither had won the Series. The Sox went in 1959. The Dodgers took them easily. The Cubs last won in 1908. Tigers beat them in 1945. Most players in 45 were still fighting the war or in the Army.

“The Cubs were in the Series in ‘45 and couldn’t be a bunch of 4F rejects”, someone yelled.

A big man came up. Red jacket with white pinstripes. Six-foot-nine. South Side boy. Sox fan. His badge said SOX. “Cubs finish last. They always do. They suck. Sox take second. Oakland is strong.”

Bill Thomas (BJT) looked at him. Sized him up. “I bet a thousand bucks SOX can’t throw a Clincher softball across the river. Who’s in?”

Jimmy’s head turned sharply. “Say that again.”

BJT said, “I bet a thousand no one can toss a Clincher across the River. Not that big galoot SOX for sure. He will trip and fall on his face.”

Jimmy said, “I thought I heard you. Hey SOX, how’s the arm?”

SOX looked at Jimmy. “Feels good. Pitchers reported. I almost flew down to try out.”

Jimmy eyed BJT. “You’re on.”

The bets spread. Like a prairie fire on the plain. Across the pit. The floor. Two hundred thousand was wagered in all.

Jimmy went to the hog pit. Pulled tens from his roll. Took a trading card. “Sollie. You spare Royal an hour?”

Sollie said, “Sure. Slow day. I can handle the deck.”

Jimmy faced Royal. “I got a big job for you. Get Lloyd. Take my car. Go to Morrie Mages. Buy a new Clincher. Check the wrap. Make sure it’s got the tissue paper. Make sure no one’s touched it. Drive back. Get it straight to me. I’ll be in the British pound pit. Hurry.” He scratched a note for Lloyd on the card.

Royal took the cash. He left.

Jimmy walked to the British pound pit. Traders pulled him aside. More bets. In a high voice, GEP asked how much Jimmy had down on the throw. “Don’t be a jagoff forever, GEP. You betting?”

GEP shook his head.

“Get more potato chips,” Jimmy said.

The pit buzzed.

They discussed the prevailing wind and whether it would affect the flight or velocity of the ball. They discussed whether there would be sun in SOX’s eyes. Should he throw from the east bank or the west bank? There was trivia on throwing a sixteen-inch cowhide. No one there knew physics. All of them were guessing. But each of them spoke with the confidence of Galileo telling the Medicis about the solar system. Each man turned into a scientist for a couple of hours.

Royal pulled in. Gave keys to the parking attendant, Lloyd. He kept the red box in a stapled shut Morrie Mages paper bag. No tampering. He crossed the floor. Clerks stopped. Traders stared. Guards let him pass. To the British pound pit.

“Jimmy,” Royal yelled.

Jimmy burrowed his head through brokers. “My old pal Royal. Hey—where’s SOX? Better be warming up and not at the bar. Find him.”

SOX was in the yen pit. Twenty feet away. “Okay, SOX let’s go do this.” SOX, Jimmy, and BJT walked out. Jimmy held the bag like a holy object being delivered to a museum.

The floor emptied. Pits were bare but for a few order fillers and pit reporters. Markets froze.

The traders spilled out of the exchange and into the street. The sidewalk was jammed. Traders filtered out into the street. Traffic stopped on the bridge. The traffic jam grew west into the West Loop.

Traders hit the riverside bar. Beers flowed. Drinks for all. Others crossed the drawbridge. They lined the far bank. Sun high. It was a warmish February day in Chicago. The sky was clear.

SOX played catch with Royal. Light tosses. No hard throws. Wouldn’t want to break a finger. He’d go down in infamy if he did. SOX circled his arm. He leaned down and touched his toes. Jogged in place. He tried to stretch his hamstrings and back. Even though it was warmish, it was cold enough to chill the body.

SOX was dressed in khakis. Nike high-top gym shoes. His shirt was untucked. He took his tie off and stuffed it in a pocket. His revo shades reflected blue against the sun.

Jimmy ordered everyone back. Clear the path. Drinks were poured around him. What should they do if SOX started to go over the railing? Should they grab SOX’s shirt if he to stop him from falling in the river?

Questions hung in the air as the tension mounted. Everyone anticipated the throw.

The talk of the traders gained volume and breadth and rose into the air. Not the roar you’d hear in a contained trading floor, but a steady din as loud as the traffic outside. Traffic was dead on the street. Both bridges were packed. Frustrated drivers blew their horns. No one moved. Money and pride were on the line.

“Okay, SOX. Warm?” Jimmy asked.

“Ready as I’ll get, Skip.”

Jimmy touched his right arm like a manager calling a reliever. He handed the ball to SOX.

SOX took the ball. Jimmy stepped away like a manager leaving the mound. Head bowed.

The din of traders became a roar.

SOX wound up. Javelin style. Yards away from the rail. He was going to put his entire bulk into this throw.

Sox skipped twice. The big man leaned back. He hurled the Clincher into the atmosphere. A grunt came from deep inside him.

The roar grew as the ball moved through the air. Then, silence.

The ball sailed. High. Traders watched. Breaths held. Halfway across at the top of its arc, the ball seemingly hung like a planet in its own orbit.

“Told you,” one said. “Won’t make it.”

“Wind,” another said.

But the ball’s momentum seemed to be building, and it started to turn back toward Earth. Arms went up in the afternoon light to shade their eyes so they could see the shadow of the orb flying through the air. Men jumped to see.

On SOX’s side of the river, they rushed the rail. Cops came on bikes and motorcycles to disperse the crowd. The traffic jam choked the Loop.

The Clincher thudded on the cement. Shouts rose. Screams. Joy for winners. Groans for losers.

Done.

Jimmy spread his hands. He clapped. He took a thousand from BJT. Side bets, too. More than he’d make in a day’s trade. Jimmy took a blank card out. He folded the cash in half, and put it in the card. He folded the card in half, and put a rubber band tight around it. Then he shoved it into his right front pocket.

SOX looked at Jimmy. Jimmy grinned. “Good throw, SOX. Knew you had it.”

“With that roll in your pants, looks like you’re happy to see me,” SOX said.

They laughed and walked into the bar.