April 7, 1904
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Field of the Whales
Young southpaw Ocie Stibbs, who pieced together a reasonably successful 1903 campaign under the tutelage of backup catcher James ‘Doc’ Talmadge, has looked shaky in preseason workouts. Nevertheless, Whales manager Marques Williams has scheduled the youthful pitcher to start the fourth game of the opening series against the New York Bakers. The series has not gone to plan when, after an opening day win, the Bakers took games two and three of the series, putting the Whales at 1-2. Williams is under tremendous public pressure in light of the recent scandal that has seen seven of the Whales’ players—including most of their pitching staff, a former MVP, and the engine of their offense—forced into early retirement. More critical than the public pressure, though, Williams just hated to lose.
The gargantuan Whales’ manager paced back and forth in his office ahead of Game Four of the 1904 season. 1-2. Not good. Not what was expected.
His heavy steps threatened to carve a path into the concrete below where he walked–maybe all the way to the center of the earth. The only thing bigger than him in his office at the moment was his temper.
“Oates! Oates, you yellow fuck! Where the fuck are you? Get your ass in here if you know what’s good for you,” the manager bellowed for his bench coach through his open office door. At the sound of their manager’s screams, the players loitering in the locker room, noting the obvious hostility in the air, scattered like roaches at the sudden intrusion of a switched on lightbulb.
After a moment, Carmello Oates, the Whales’ bench coach, appeared in the irate skipper’s doorway.
“You called, Skip?”
“Where the fuck is Doc? That loony asshole didn’t show for preseason workouts. Where the fuck is he? Has it been a God damned full moon all month?”
“Uh. I am not sure, Skip. I don’t think so. But, I couldn’t say for sure. It’s been pretty cloudy.”
“You fucking idiot. You know what? Get out of my office.”
The bench coach hesitated for a moment and, seizing on his slight hesitation, the Whales’ manager continued, “Get the fuck out of my office and go find this missing asshole. And when you find him, tell him he’s fired. And then, bring him to me so that I can fucking fire him again.”
“Uh. Sure thing, Skip. I will see if anyone’s heard from him.”
“God damn it,” his voice took on on stratospheric levels of animus. “I did not ask you to find out if anyone’s heard from that asshole. I told you to find him and the to fucking fire him. And then, I want you to bring him to me so that I can fire him again. Christ. Now, get the fuck out of here.”
As Oates turned to leave, Williams added one last menacing note to his irate melody.
“And tell Ford to get his ass in here next. If this fucking kid can’t pitch without Doc, I am going to send his ass right back to the reserves list. I don’t have time to fucking babysit some little pisspants. I need to know what his God damned plan is. I’m trying to win a pennant with fucking chickenwire and yarn. Have you seen this fucking ballclub this year? Fuck, we are fucked.”
“Uh. You got it, Skip. I’ll send him in right away.”
Too good, too funny