Brad Dood (pronounced “dude”) settled into
a smirk. “Right place! Right time! Right stuff! No one more
deserving,” he thought. “I’ve paid my dues!”
Humiliating dues for someone so talented; he’d
spent four months in this godforsaken place, just so he could get his foot
in the sportswriting door. He’d even suffered a degrading day job
selling shoes to the local farm boys so he’d be free to attend the
minor-league Thunder Crows’ games at night.
Brad Dood was a “stringer,” meaning that
he’d phone in the results to a wire service after the game. He always
gave them a column’s worth in the grand style of It was a hot Appalachian night with no summer breeze. Then
a stadium-shaking wind roared out of the mountain sky — a 92-mph
fastball from the muscled right arm of John Sampson, the. . . .
The grand style never found print. At most, the next
day’s newspapers would read: Class A
Appalachian League results: Thunder Crows 5, Bearcats 1. John Sampson pitched a two-hitter
for the Crows. Usually they just listed
the score in small print, page 37. Brad Dood vowed that they’d pay
for slighting his prose. The wire service paid Brad Dood $10 a game for his
stringer work.
Now his time in jerkwater purgatory was over. He was
“destined” to return to civilization, to become the celebrity
writer he was fated to be.
He’d been suggesting an idea to the wire service
from day one. He’d have “Rhubarb” Mills, the Crows’
coach, tape-record his 55-year adventure in the low minor leagues. Dood
would write it, submitting a piece of it everyday.
They didn’t buy it! But he’d lied to
Rhubarb, told him Sports Illustrated was interested, that this could be Rhubarb’s
legacy, his gift to the game. Rhubarb agreed to the legacy. It was a ruse
well placed, for the old goat could weave one hell of a tale, with stories
that were surprisingly insightful at times. Dood had heard a few —
told over stale beers, in stale bars, after stale games. Once primed,
Rhubarb drained words for hours on end — an open faucet of great
entertainment.
“No tiring clichés,” he instructed
Rhubarb, “and we need some ‘serious.’ Try it as
introduction, maybe why you stayed so long in the game — especially
given the hand-to-mouth miserable pay. Think about it before you ramble on.
Of course, we need the bar stories, too. They’re
priceless.”
“You mean like in ’78 when Chili-Boy
Barnes was slidin’ into second — and a mule deer jumped the
fence and . . . ?”
“Exactly!” said Brad. “Perfect, my
good friend.”
“Good friend” was far from truth, for Brad
Dood was thinking, as he said it, “There’s no mystery why
Rhubarb lived hand to mouth for 55 minor-league years: He’s an idiot!
Just like all the other idiots hereabouts — ought to be illegal for
them to reproduce.”
Two months later, the bough finally bent Dood’s
way. Opportunity walked in and gifted him a byline wrapped in gold print.
Rhubarb kicked the bucket: heart attack, during a game, during a
“rhubarb” — a heaven-sent lede.
Brad Dood pretended concern on his outside, even as
his inside smiled ear to ear. Other folks stood teary-eyed as Rhubarb spent
his last breath, but Brad Dood went to Rhubarb’s locker to get his
“tape to fame.” As luck would have it, Rhubarb told him, just
before the game, he’d finished his recording.
This time Dood didn’t have to call the wire
service — they called him. They’d heard of Rhubarb’s
demise and wanted a half-page story, pronto.
Payback time. Dood told them where they could
“pronto” their half-page. He didn’t need ’em any
more, for what he had here, on tape, in hand, really was of Sports Illustrated value, at
the very least! A little editing, a little embellishment (wasn’t as
if a “stiff” could rat him out), and Dood pictured a book. Add
gratuitous sex, saturate it with hip-hop, and there could be a sophomoric
movie over his rainbow horizon. And what a title he’d divined: The Last Rhubarb.
He’d sell to the highest bidder — and, as
good luck would have it twice over, he’d not have to share a dime of
it with a dead idiot.
Brad Dood sat back, lit the cigar he’d purchased
with his last $5, and played the tape, opening the faucet to his celebrity.
Raymond “Rhubarb” Mills spoke from the
machine:
“Ya got a round bat and a round ball —
just hit the sumbitch square!” A silent minute, then: “When ya
think about it, that says it all. No need to ramble on. So that’ll be the last. Rhubarb.”
With the cigar smoking to ash, Brad Dood muttered the word “dude” several times as he listened to the tape play through two long painful hours of not another word.
With the cigar smoking to ash, Brad Dood muttered the word “dude” several times as he listened to the tape play through two long painful hours of not another word.
