Game Four
Lloyd "Lucky" Creager was up before the crack of dawn, as usual. After donning a pair of sweatpants and a hoodie, he left the InterContinental Hotel and walked three miles to Golden Gate Park for his morning jog. Like most professional athletes, he strictly followed a regimented exercise routine. Rain or shine, at home or on the road, Lucky ran a minimum of five miles a day. Despite there being few people in the park at that hour, he kept the hood up as he ran. He did not want to be recognized. Unlike some of his teammates, he preferred to keep a low profile.
When he finished with his run, the Yankees' ace pitcher returned to the hotel where he showered before ordering breakfast. Then, while he waited for room service to arrive, he retrieved his well-worn Bible from the bedside table and began to read. Unlike many professional sports stars who professed to be believers, Lucky Creager was a man of deep faith who did more than pay lip service to the gospels. He always traveled with a Bible and faithfully attended church services on Sundays whether he was in Boston, Chicago, Baltimore, Toronto or any other city with a major league ballpark. In addition to following the Ten Commandments, he never drank, smoked, took drugs or used foul language.
Many players from both leagues good-naturedly called him a holy roller or a Bible thumper. Some openly ridiculed his strict religious beliefs, but he did not mind their mockery. He was glad of the alterity that set him apart from the sinners.
He who laughs last laughs best, he thought, confident that his soul would be heaven-bound when he died.
Lucky put down his Bible when he heard the knock on the door.
"Room service," a voice announced.
Breakfast. Good. I'm hungry.
"Just bring it right in. Here, this is for you," the pitcher announced, giving the young man a generous tip.
"Thank you. Oh, I almost forgot," the hotel employee said, reaching into his pocket. "There was a letter left for you at the front desk. The manager asked me to give it to you."
When the door closed behind the server, Lucky tore open the envelope. He read the letter, not once or twice but three times. The color drained from his face as he let the single sheet of paper fall to the floor. Having lost his appetite, he ignored the tray of food, crossed the room, picked up his Bible with trembling hands and began to pray.
* * *
While the Cy Young Award-winning starter clutched the Good Book in prayer, the other half of the team's battery, Tim "Rusty" McKelvie, was waking up with a hangover. All the virtues the pitcher exhibited were missing in the catcher. He drank, smoked, swore and cheated on all three of his ex-wives. Worst of all, he was frequently involved in drunken bar fights. Not since Billy Martin, did the Yankees have such a scrapper on their team.
Rusty's one saving grace was that he excelled at what he did. In addition to winning multiple Gold Gloves for his defensive play, he hit over .300 every year and could always be counted on to knock at least thirty balls into the seats for home runs each season.
Forcing himself to get out of bed, the catcher headed for the bathroom. On the sink was a bottle of painkillers. He took two and washed them down with a glass of tap water. They would take care of both his aching head and his sore knees.
Like Lucky Creager, he showered and called for room service. However, his breakfast was not nearly as healthy as the pitcher's. There was no fresh fruit, yogurt or whole grains. Instead, he ate half a dozen fried eggs smothered in ketchup, six rashers of bacon, four sausage links and two slices of sourdough toast smothered with butter. He washed his meal down with three cups of coffee and two Bloody Marys.
After a night carousing at one of San Francisco's bars, Rusty was just beginning to feel human again when his cell phone rang.
I wonder who the hell that is.
He looked at his phone's screen, but the name on the caller ID was unfamiliar to him. His first instinct was to ignore it, but then some inner voice urged him to answer.
"Yeah?"
"Is this Tim McKelvie?" the unknown caller asked.
"Yeah? Who are you and what do you want?"
The answer to his question made him long to run to the nearest bar and get drunk again.
* * *
As center fielder for the New York Yankees, Colton (no nickname) Balsam had big shoes to fill. In addition to Joltin' Joe DiMaggio, the Yankee Clipper, players such as Mickey Mantle, Earle Combs, Bobby Murcer and Bernie Williams had called Bronx's center field their home. A former Rookie of the Year, two-time MVP and one of only fifteen winners of baseball's Triple Crown for hitting, Colton did justice to the position.
When he woke that morning, he saw the dark clouds in the sky and frowned.
I hope Lucky is on his knees praying for the sun to shine, he thought. I'd hate to have the game called on account of rain.
Forty minutes later, dressed in a Giorgio Armani suit, he went down to the hotel dining room to have a late breakfast with Orlando Sorrenti, his Hollywood agent.
"Today's the big day," the agent declared, signaling the waitress to bring a pot of hot coffee to the table.
"If it doesn't rain," the center fielder said. "You planning on going to the game?"
"Are you kidding? I wouldn't miss this one for the world."
The Yankees had made baseball history that year, winning 147 games and losing only 15 all season. That .907 percentage beat the 1875 record set by the Boston Red Stockings of .899. If that wasn't enough, they swept both the division series and American League Championship and won the first three games of the World Series.
"If you beat the Giants today, you'll sweep the series!" Orlando declared. "You'll be the world champions, and a lot of that success is thanks to you, my boy."
"Let's hope I'm as successful in my next career," Colton said. "Speaking of which, how did your meeting with Michael Bay go?"
The agent smiled as he filled his client in on the details.
"He's got a part for you in a movie he's planning on doing with Mark Wahlberg and Idris Elba. It's only a supporting role, but it's a lot bigger than the cameo you did for Scorsese."
"That's fine. I still have another two years left on my contract with the Yankees, so I wouldn't be able to take on any big acting roles just yet."
In addition to being a gifted athlete, the center fielder had a handsome face and muscular physique that was tailor-made for the film industry. In a sport where many players retired in their early thirties, Colton, at thirty-eight, was nearing his expiration date. He had to consider his future. In the past, Hollywood welcomed former football players, wrestlers, martial artists and bodybuilders who went on to become popular action stars. With Orlando's help, Colton would do the same.
For the remainder of the meal, the topic of conversation alternated between baseball and moviemaking. As the agent was about to pour each of them a third cup of coffee, the center fielder glanced at his watch.
"No more for me," he said. "I've got to get over to Oracle Park for batting practice."
"This early?"
"Traffic getting to the stadium is bound to be a problem."
"Good luck today. I'll call you when I hear more about Michael Bay's project."
As Colton headed toward the elevators in the lobby, he passed by the front desk. An attractive young woman called to get his attention.
"A package has been delivered here for you," she said, smiling shyly at the handsome athlete.
He took the unopened FedEx box up to his room. Before opening it, he looked for a return address.
Los Angeles. It must be from Mira, he supposed.
A smile lit up his face as he envisioned the beautiful actress he had been seeing for more than eight months. When he opened the box, all thoughts of Mira, Game 4 and his future movie career left him.
* * *
After taking batting practice, the Yankees returned to the visiting team's locker room.
"We're gonna win," rookie shortstop Tariq Jeffers predicted as he adjusted his cap in the mirror. "It's inevitable. No team in the history of baseball came back from losing the first three games."
"You're forgetting the 2004 Red Sox," Dwayne "Doc" Utley, the first baseman, argued. "They were down three and then beat the Yankees four in a row."
"I'm talking about World Series play. The Sox were the comeback team during the American League playoffs."
"Maybe it would be better if we lost today," Mark "Moose" Maddow, the third baseman, opined.
"You can't be serious!" Doc cried. "I want to get home to Oklahoma to see my wife and kids. I don't want to have to go back to New York."
"But isn't it better to become the champs at the stadium, in front of our fans? Don't you agree with me, Rusty?" Moose asked, appealing to his teammate.
The catcher, who had not been following the conversation, did not reply.
"Hello? Earth to Rusty," the third baseman laughed.
"What?" the catcher asked, confused.
"Wouldn't it be better to win at Yankee Stadium in front of our fans?"
"I suppose so," Rusty replied with no conviction.
"Hey, what's up with you today?" Doc wondered. "You still hung over from last night? Maybe you ought to take a page from Lucky's book and stay sober."
"You hear that, Father Creager?" the shortstop teased. "Doc wants you to lend Rusty your Bible."
Neither the pitcher nor the catcher responded to their teammates' taunts.
"What's up with you two?" Doc asked. "Neither one of you has said a word since you got here."
"Knock it off," Rusty said in a threatening voice.
"Sure thing. We don't want anybody getting upset. We got a game to win today. Ain't that right, Colton?"
The center fielder, like the catcher and pitcher, remained silent.
Not him, too! the first baseman thought. What the hell has gotten into everybody today?
* * *
The Yankees and the Giants lined up on the field and removed their caps as country music sensation Tyrus Bittner sang the national anthem. When the song came to an end, the Bronx Bombers returned to the dugout. Colton Balsam looked down at his cleats as the announcer read the starting lineup over the PA system.
Lucky Creager, sitting between Tariq Jeffers and Moose Maddow, began to pray. This was nothing new. The pitcher always prayed before games and often during them as well. Many times, Moose had seen him standing on the pitcher's mound with his eyes closed and his lips moving.
Who knows? the third basemen mused. Maybe that's why he won thirty-two games and lost only three this season. Somebody up there might be listening.
But as he glanced over at his teammate, Maddow noticed something was different. That benign, peaceful expression Lucky usually wore when he was conversing with his maker was missing. Today, he looked worried. Perspiration beaded on his brow despite the cool San Francisco temperature.
He must be feeling the pressure.
Lucky was not the only one who was sweating. As Tariq, the leadoff man, stepped up to the plate, Rusty McKelvie removed his cap and ran a dry cloth over his shock of red hair.
After the rookie shortstop grounded out, the Giants pitcher struck out the next two batters. Colton, the cleanup hitter, who was standing in the on-deck circle, took off his batting helmet and returned to the dugout for his fielding glove. He was relieved that he would not have to bat this inning. Still, he could not put off the inevitable much longer. He would have to lead off the second inning.
As he made his way out to center field, he passed by Lucky who was throwing a few warmup pitches to Rusty. He failed to notice that the pitcher's lips never stopped moving as he prayed.
The bottom of the first, unlike the top, was not a three-men-up/three-men-down inning. The Giants' leadoff man walked. He then stole second base and scored when the first baseman singled.
"They only scored one run," Tariq announced optimistically when the Yankees returned to the dugout at the end of the first inning. "We've got nothing to worry about. We haven't been shut out once this entire season!"
With designated hitter Umberto Valenzuela in the on-deck circle, Colton slowly walked out to the plate. There was applause from the crowd despite his playing for the opposing team. Often referred to as "the Tom Brady of baseball," he had a loyal following across the country. Today, however, he took no pride or joy in his reception. His handsome face was grim as he looked out to the pitcher's mound.
The first pitch was a called strike. The second was a long foul ball that sent the right fielder to the warning track. The third was a swing and a miss. Out in three pitches, he returned to the dugout with his head down. It was not a good showing for the highest-paid player in baseball.
Two more batters went down swinging, and Lucky Creager returned to the mound. As was the case in the previous inning, he never stopped praying.
"What the ...?" Moose muttered after the next two batters walked and the third hit a home run. "We're down by four, and it's only the bottom of the second!"
"Somebody get Father Creager his Bible!" Tariq joked.
"This is no laughing matter, kid. Something's not right. I've never seen such a poor performance from Lucky."
* * *
The third inning was uneventful, but at the top of the fourth, the Yankees had bases loaded with no outs when Colton, their best hitter, came to the plate.
"Are you praying for a homerun?" Moose asked when he noticed Lucky's eyes shut and his lips moving.
The pitcher, his face grimacing in a pained expression, ignored the third baseman's question.
"A swing and a miss," Tariq said. "That ball was way too high. Why did he swing at it? Look 'em over, Colt!"
The second pitch was popped up behind home plate, resulting in another strike. The third pitch was a fastball that was delivered right over the plate. Had Colton made contact, he would have tied the game, but the future action star never swung at the ball. He was out on a called strike.
"What the hell?" Moose cried with frustration.
The next batter, the powerful designated hitter, drew a walk, forcing in a run. Rusty, who was known as a clutch hitter, stepped up to the plate with bases still loaded and only one out. In the Yankees' dugout, Lucky prayed, Colton sulked and the rest of the players cheered their teammate on. A home run would put the Yankees ahead by one. A double or triple would tie the game. A single would score two more runs. Even a long fly ball would bring the runner on third home.
After taking three straight balls, Rusty gritted his teeth and tightened his hands on his bat. The batting coach relayed the manager's instructions: take the pitch. Under normal circumstances, the catcher would have done just that and hoped for a walk. But this was no ordinary game. This was undoubtedly the most crucial at-bat the catcher would ever have. When the pitcher released the ball, he ignored the coach's signals, swung and hit it right at the shortstop who turned a double play, ending the inning.
"Unbelievable!" Tariq exclaimed. "We had bases loaded with no outs, and all we got was one run."
As the Yankees took the field, it began to rain. The first batter hit a double; the second was intentionally walked. Despite two men being on base, the game was delayed due to rain. Groundskeepers covered the infield with tarps, and the players returned to their respective locker rooms.
Pablo Cabrera, the Yankees' manager, walked into the room and took three of his players aside to speak to them: Colton Balsam, Rusty McKelvie and Lucky Creager.
"I've watched you guys for four innings now. None of you is acting right. What's up?"
"I don't know what you're talking about," Rusty said gruffly as though challenging Cabrera to disagree with him.
"You swung at that 3-0 pitch when you were told to take it. You," the manager said, turning to the center fielder, "took a called strike three with bases loaded and no outs. Didn't you see the coach signal to swing away?"
"It looked like a ball to me," Colton said lamely.
"The hell it did! And you," the manager cried, directing his anger at the pitcher. "You look like one of the Walking Dead out on that mound! What is wrong with you today? With any of you?"
Lucky, the former Nebraska farm boy, was the first to crack.
"I got a letter this morning," he answered with tears in his eyes.
Rusty and Colton stared with astonishment at their teammate.
"The sender threatened to kill my wife if I didn't throw the game."
"What?" the manager screamed. "And you fell for that?"
"It was probably the same guy who phoned me," Rusty surmised.
"This isn't the first time some crackpot made threats," Pablo said.
"This was no harmless crackpot. He said he had my son and he knew things about my boy no stranger would know."
"And what about you?" Cabrera asked the center fielder. "What's your excuse?"
"I got a package. It contained Mira Laroe's cell phone and a note telling me if the Yankees won today, she would be killed. I called all her friends; no one has seen her since yesterday afternoon."
"Did any of you notify the police?" the manager asked.
"I was told not to," Lucky replied.
"By the time the cops discover the kidnapper's identity, my son might be dead," the catcher explained.
"The note that came with the iPhone assured me I was only required to throw Game 4," the center fielder explained. "We could go back to New York and win Game 5, and nothing would happen to Mira."
"One game—that's all!" the catcher cried. "What's one game weighed against the lives of those we love?"
The manager, who was happily married for twenty-seven years and had three children, two grandchildren and one on the way, sympathized with his players. He would hand over the next four games to the Giants if someone from his own family was in danger.
"The fans will be happy if we win the championship in New York," Pablo said and walked away.
After a two-hour, forty-three-minute rain delay, the sun came out, the tarps were taken off the field and play resumed. The Giants scored two more runs in the seventh inning and another in the eighth. All the Yankees had to show for their outing was their one run in the fourth inning.
* * *
When the plane touched down at the Yankees' private terminal in New York's LaGuardia Airport the following morning, all the players were looking forward to an off day before playing Game 5. Lucky Creager was disappointed that he had not returned to the city having won the championship, but at least his wife was safe.
Praise be to God! he thought.
The pitcher unlocked the door of his customized Ford F150 Platinum Super Cab pickup, got behind the wheel and started the engine. Once in the privacy of his truck, he took out his cell phone and instructed Siri to dial his home number. The phone rang five times before going to voicemail.
Where is she? he wondered.
On the drive to his Franklin Lakes, New Jersey, home, he tried at least a dozen more times to get in touch with Betty Lou but had no luck.
Meanwhile, Rusty called his ex-wife in Florida and told her to put their son on the phone.
"Hi, Daddy," eight-year-old Jamie McKelvie said. "I watched the game yesterday. I thought you would win, but you didn't."
"Maybe we'll do better next time."
"I hope so. All my friends are counting on it."
"Which friends are those?" the catcher asked.
"My classmates at school and my teammates at Little League."
"Have any adults shown an interest in the outcome of the game?"
"Sure. Everybody wants the Yankees to win, especially Mommy. She says if you win the Series, she'll buy me a new bike and take me to Disney World."
Isn't that just like Barbie? She's already planning how she'll spend the money.
"Jamie, think carefully. Have you met any strangers lately?"
Thus, Rusty questioned his son, hoping to discover the identity of the person who had made the threatening phone call, but the boy knew nothing. Neither did Barbie.
Unlike his two teammates, Colton did not call anyone when he got off the plane. As he unlocked the door to his apartment at the famed Dakota, his iPhone rang.
"You're all right!" he cried with relief when he heard Mira's voice.
"Why shouldn't I be?" she laughed. "I was a little upset that I didn't hear from you yesterday, but then this morning I noticed that I misplaced my phone. I looked for it for hours before I finally gave up and went down to the Apple Store and bought another one."
"Could someone have taken it?"
"I don't know why they would want to. It's two years old already. In phone years, it's practically an antique!"
"Did you go anywhere where you might have left it?" he asked, hoping she would not realize he was interrogating her.
"I never left the house yesterday."
"Did you have any visitors?"
"Hey, what's with the third degree? Do you think I'm seeing someone else while you're away? Don't you trust me?"
"Of course, I do."
Since he kept his part of the bargain and helped throw Game 4, he had to trust the mysterious person who had sent him her phone that no harm would now come to Mira Laroe.
Across the Hudson River, in Franklin Lakes, New Jersey, Lucky pulled his pickup into his garage and entered the house.
"I'm home," he called, his voice echoing back to him. "Betty Lou?"
He looked in the kitchen, but no one was there.
"Honey? Where are you?"
He searched every room of the six-bedroom house as well as the attic, the basement and the backyard. There was no trace of his wife anywhere. After calling the police, he grabbed his Bible and fell to his knees in prayer.
* * *
Once the Yankees won Game 5, Colton, champagne dripping from his hair after the usual cork-popping celebration, took a shower and called for an Uber to take him to LaGuardia.
"You're not gonna miss the ticker tape parade, are you?" Umberto asked.
"No. I'll fly back for that," he replied as he removed his belongings from his locker.
Only three people on the team knew the hell that Lucky Creager was going through: Rusty, Colton and Pablo Cabrera. Both the center fielder and the catcher, upon hearing of Betty Lou's disappearance, worried for the safety of their own loved ones. Thus, McKelvie took a plane to Florida and Balsam boarded another one to Los Angeles.
"What's wrong?" Mira asked when she opened the door and saw the expression on Colton's face. "You look like someone ran over your puppy."
"We have to talk," he muttered.
"Uh-oh! That doesn't sound good. When a man says he wants to talk, it only means trouble."
"This is serious."
He reached into his pocket and took out her old cell phone.
"Where did you find it? Outside somewhere?"
"It was FedExed to me in San Francisco."
"What? By whom? And for what reason?"
"Sit down and I'll explain everything."
The actress listened, her face void of emotion.
"You threw the game because you thought I was in danger?" she asked when he stopped speaking.
"Yes, and I was hoping that after we lost the game, that would be the end of it."
"You mean it's not?"
"Lucky Creager's wife is missing."
"Holy shit! And she was just here the other day!"
A warning bell sounded in Colton's head.
"Betty Lou was here? Why?"
"Well, you know some of the Yankee wives hold charity events to raise money. She came here to ask me if I would donate something for their silent auction to benefit ALS."
"She flew all the way from New Jersey to California for that?"
"Not exactly. She was on her way to San Francisco to be with Lucky, so she stopped off here while she was on the West Coast."
"I'll be damned!" the center fielder exclaimed as some of the pieces in the puzzle began to fall into place.
"What is it?"
"Betty Lou Creager never went to any games, not even the home games in New York. Oddly enough, she hated baseball."
* * *
On the night before the Yankees took that celebratory ride down the section of Broadway often referred to as the Canyon of Heroes, a route that began at the Battery and ended at City Hall, an emergency meeting was held at Yankee Stadium. In attendance were Laird MacGavin (the organization's general manager), Francis Steynmets (the team's lawyer), Pablo Cabrera and the three players who had been coerced into losing Game 4.
"How the hell did this happen?" MacGavin asked after the facts were laid before him.
Lucky Creager, who was toting his Bible and occasionally mumbling a prayer, hung his head, knowing his wife was the cause of the legal and public relations disaster.
"It happened," the lawyer said calmly. "There's nothing we can do about it now. Our only concern at this point should be damage control."
"What are our options?" the general manager inquired.
"We only have one. We keep our mouths shut."
"That's it? We let that devious little bitch ...."
"Hey!" Lucky objected, stopping his prayers momentarily. "That's my wife you're talking about."
"Your wife who walked out on you after making a fortune when you along with Tweedledum and Tweedledee here threw a World Series Game. Why the hell didn't one of you phone the police when she contacted you? If you had ...."
"That's enough," Steynmets warned. "This isn't getting us anywhere."
"You're right," MacGavin agreed with a sigh of resignation.
"As I said, our best course of action is to remain silent. If we go public, it will cause a media storm that will surpass the Black Sox scandal of 1919. Colton's career would most likely go the way of Shoeless Joe Jackson's. The same goes for Rusty. And as for Lucky, he'd be fortunate if his only punishment was to be banned from baseball like Eddie Cicotte. I'm sure there would be people who believed he was his wife's accomplice, her partner in crime."
"I never did anything illegal in my life!" Creager insisted, jumping to his feet during the emotional outburst.
"No one here is accusing you of anything," MacGavin assured him.
"The entire team will suffer because of this," Steynmets continued. "Suspicion will follow the Yankees for years, possibly decades. The Commissioner of Baseball might even take the championship away from us. There are five members of this team right now who stand a good chance of being enshrined in Cooperstown. They can kiss that honor goodbye if people learn the truth."
"And if we remain silent?" Cabrera asked.
"Then no one will think that Game 4 was anything other than a normal loss. Hell, nobody wins all the time, not even the New York Yankees. They'll think you three," he said, indicating the players sitting at the table, "just had a bad day. And since you came back and won Game 5, no one will care."
"And what about ... Betty Lou?" Lucky asked, finding it difficult to say his wife's name.
"You'd better do whatever she asks," the lawyer advised.
"She wants a divorce."
"Give it to her. Don't dare contest it."
"But we promised before God to remain together until death parted us."
"Your wedding vows be damned!" MacGavin yelled. "Let her take her ill-gotten winnings and run off to Miami or Paris or wherever the hell she wants to live. Don't upset her. She has to keep quiet, too, if we're to get through this unscathed."
* * *
Gianni Locavelli walked into the empty restaurant on Mulberry Street in an area of Lower Manhattan known as Little Italy. Normally, the popular Italian eatery was packed with diners, but Gianni demanded it be closed that day so he could speak to his guest in private.
"He's not here yet?" the mob boss asked the owner, his cousin Marcello, one of the few men he trusted.
"No. I haven't seen him."
"Get me a glass of wine, will ya?"
"Sure thing," Marcello said and returned with an entire bottle.
A few moments after the cork was popped, one of the mobster's bodyguards opened the front door, and Lucky Creager entered the restaurant. The pitcher did not carry his well-worn Bible in his hand; rather, he had a small one tucked in his jacket pocket.
"You had a good year," Gianni said when the pitcher took a seat at his table. "World Series champs!"
Lucky nervously nodded his head.
"I'm curious as to why you wanted to see me. You have a reputation for being an honest man with no vices. You signed a hundred-and-fifty-million-dollar contract with the Yankees, and that doesn't include your post-season earnings, so you probably haven't come here to borrow money."
"I'm not here to ask you for anything. I'm here to do something for you."
"You sound like John Kennedy, 'Ask not what your country can do for you ....,'" Gianni laughed.
Lucky, who was in no joking mood, remained stone-faced.
"Okay, what is it?" the mobster said. "What are you going to do for me?"
"I understand that you lost quite a bit of money on Game 4."
"Me and every other poor slob who took bets against the Yankees. Who would have thought anyone would wager against you!"
"I can tell you who did. My wife, and she made millions doing so."
Gianni stared at Lucky, a menacing look that sent a shiver of fear down the pitcher's spine.
"Only a few people know this," the pitcher continued, "and they've all been sworn to silence, but I think you're a man who knows how to keep a secret."
Lucky then told the mobster about Betty Lou's scheme to pressure three players, including her own husband, to throw the game.
"So, what you're telling me is that Game 4 was fixed?"
"Yes, but Rusty, Colton and I never made a dime from it. We're not criminals. All we wanted to do was protect our families."
"And you had no idea your wife was behind it all?"
"None. I honestly thought she was a victim."
"And why are you here telling me about her guilt?"
"Because the Yankees don't want to do anything about it, and I'm an Old Testament type of fellow. I believe in an eye for an eye. And who better to extract that eye than one of the men she cheated!"
* * *
The entire team turned up for the funeral. Six of the widower's teammates volunteered as pallbearers.
"There I thought you two were getting a divorce," Moose Maddow said as the mourners filed out of the church.
"We were having some marital trouble," Lucky lied, "but we decided to try to work things out."
"And then this had to happen. What a damn shame! You have my sympathy."
"Any word on the hit-and-run driver that caused the accident?" Rusty McKelvie asked.
"No," the pitcher replied. "I doubt we'll ever know who was responsible for Betty Lou's death."
As he entered the limousine that was to take him to the cemetery for the inhumation, Lucky took out his Bible and began to pray.
'Til death do us part, he mused, believing God would approve of his actions, for not only had he kept his wedding vows, but he had also gotten revenge on Betty Lou without actually committing murder.
When Salem was a kitten, he joined a Little League. But he was kicked off the team when he chased down a ball in the outfield and wanted to keep it.
