July 4, 1903
Field of the Whales
The Whales’ young lefthanded hurler sat despondent in the home locker room alone on a wet morning in Brooklyn. The trip back from Baltimore was long—not so much in terms of the distance, but rather in the Sisyphus-ian mental reliving of his pitching performance that such a journey allows.
Ocie Stibbs had been pitching well since Jimmy Talmadge had joined the Whales and had subscribed to some of the new catcher’s strange advice. Stibbs had won five starts in a row and picked up a win and a save in relief. Prior to his most recent performance, Stibbs had struck out 38 and walked 11 across 58.2 innings while allowing only 43 hits and 12 runs. His ERA over that time was 1.69 and his confidence was soaring. So impressive was his recent streak that Whales’ manager Marques Williams was even speaking to the hurler on occasion.
In Baltimore, however, Stibbs had walked seven Clippers and allowed a two-run homerun, a triple, and 4 singles. It was—obvious to all involved—a disastrous performance and poorly timed given the tightening race for the Ivy Division crown.
He arrived early to the Field to start his calisthenics and begin the process of clearing his memory of the ugly day in Baltimore. Besides, despite the holiday, he did not feel in the mood to celebrate.
Sensing the despair in his young charge, Jimmy ‘Doc’ Talmadge arrived to the Field shortly after Stibbs but still in time to catch him before he took left the locker room for his workout.
“What’s got you down, Old Boy? Surely you are not still torturing yourself over Carroway? The season is long, my friend, and not without its ups and downs.”
“It’s just,” Stibbs began before hesitating. He wasn’t quite sure how to continue.
Talmadge interrupted the young man’s silence. “You didn’t eat the blueberries?”
Ocie gasped and, responded perplexedly, “How did you know?”
“Dear boy, the cracks in your defenses were obvious to everyone. I told you that it was simply imperative—that you truly, truly must—that you coat your innards in the color of your would-be vanquishers. But, nevertheless, it’s no matter. Nothing that cannot be repaired. Lucky for you, my boy, I have seen this all before and know the prescription for your affliction. Simple thing, really. But, you must trust me, dear protégé, and stick to the regimen exactly. Do you promise me that you will so subscribe? Surely you now understand the consequences to deviating even slightly.”
“Jimmy, I will do whatever you think is best. I am sorry that I skipped the fruit. I was just pitching so well that I thought I might not need them any more. Besides, that many blueberries was causing me some… problems.”
“Yes, yes. Such is the price of excellence, Old Boy—a little gastrointenstinal discomfort. A small cost, if you ask me. But, truly, that’s a discussion for another day. Instead, it is the hubris that concerns me most, if I am being honest. But, fortunately, I know the cure. It is no problem. No problem at all. But, you must listen and trust me.”
“Sure, Jimmy. What do I need to do?”
“Right. Splendid. First, you need to strip down to your skivvies. We need to humble ourselves before those most cruel and malevolent deities of baseball.”
Slightly worried, Ocie was nevertheless desperate to recapture the form that had made much of his 1903 season a success. “You’ve got it, Jimmy. Are you sure this will work?”
“Of course, my good man. It’s strictly a matter of science. Basic, really. But, I assure you, my methods have been rigorously derived and tested nonetheless.”
——————————————–
The two men, the young pitcher and the eccentric catcher, sat facing each other on the Field of the Whales. Stibbs sat cross-legged on the pitcher’s mound facing Talmadge who was sitting behind home plate.
Each man was completely naked save the modest undergarments that they wore.
Each man’s body was covered in mud gathered from the pitcher’s mound.
Each man had strange symbols removed from the mud such that their skin peeked through in relief.
Talmadge chanted incantations.
From the home dugout emerged Whales’ manager Marques Williams. Per his tradition, he had arrived early to exorcise his own demons before the Whales’ series against their Ivy-rival, the Providence Angels, began. Aghast at what he found, the old manager ambled over to the singing catcher at home plate.
“Jesus fucking Christ. You are one sick fuck, Doc. Do you know that? Just what the fuck do you think you two are doing on my God damned field? You trying to summon the fucking Devil himself, you crazy assholes?”
The catcher continued his ritualistic chanting.
“Well, fuck it. Do what you have to do to get that fucking kid right. In Baltimore, he sucked more than a mining town hooker after a new deposit is struck.”
And, with that, the Whales’ manager departed for his office in the locker room to continue his exorcism in peace, and the Whales’ battery continued their own exorcism in place.