Vaudeville

Imagine you live in a different time. Same planet, different world… if that makes sense. There’s less to worry about because we know most of us aren’t living past 50. The threat of disease or war surrounds you but you’re not fully aware of that. Maybe you make a living working at a gas station, or you own a grocery store, or maybe you’re a master of a trade. Electrician or plumber or something mundane. And you’re happy. 

Talking to girls is fairly easy. You meet her at a dance, tell her she’s beautiful, propose to her on maybe the first or second date, because you know she’s the one and you both know there’s not much time. And she believes in you. Life is pretty simple. 

You’re an average sized guy, but you’re young so you’ve got a lot of energy. You decide to try your hand at this new game they call “baseball.” It’s fun because you get to entertain people. There’s pranks, there’s hijinx, there’s fun and games within the game. And they pay you a little for this nonsense. Not enough to quit your day job, but hell, it’s a good side hustle. You get to meet other girls on the side, you make friends in other towns, you get all the smokes and greasy food you could ever want. 

There’s not much strategy to this base-ball game really. Just go out there, try not to get overheated. Get the kids laughing and make sure the business men get their dime’s worth by squawking at you and your teammates. It’s all just vaudeville. No one’s taking it seriously… except for this one guy. 

He plays in Detroit. And the stories about this son of a bitch are a bit over the top. But even your local newspaper writes about him. So when he comes to town, you’ve already got him on your list and you’re ready to take him down a notch. Your buddies want to do the same. 

When any other team from any other city in America comes to town, it’s all in good fun. You trade stories about the different trains you’ve been on, the clubs you’ve been to in different sanctuary cities of a thriving, strong, industrial America… hell, you’d probably do this stuff for free. 

But whenever that team from Detroit comes to town, you know to watch out for him. He doesn’t play around. It’s not a game to him. He’s just here to fight with people. He’s got something to prove… nobody told him it’s not for real? It’s just a silly game… but this prick is changing what we love. This kid’s game you’d do for fun, on the side, is not how you make a living. But this guy… this fucking guy - he’s acting like it is.    

You’re the third bagger today, and the grandstands are more full than usual. They almost seem bloodthirsty. It’s much more crowded than usual this afternoon because the papers have been writing about this punk coming to town. And it ain’t right, really, because he turns every expedition into a boxing match. 

There wasn’t much talking with the other team before the game today. Rumors are that he sharpens his spikes beforehand to intimidate you or piss you off or get in your head or something… it's just one more thing to make you cross your eyes. 

Eventually he comes up to bat and there’s no name or number on the back of anyone’s sweater, but you know it’s gotta be him because people start standing up, throwing trash and heckling him. And he’s into it. He’s fully embracing the villain role. His face is raw, his little baked-bean teeth grinning at your pitcher… it’s okay if he talks to you, but not the other way around. 

He’s not here to play, he’s here to kick your ass. He’s here to make a dent in your town. And he’s scarier than the locals who you’ve seen every sunny day but come to not even recognize because of the bloodthirst in their eyes.

Ty Cobb looks like a bully. Naturally, he gets on base and he’s talking the whole time. He’s howling at your first bagger so much that the veins in his neck are bulging and spit is flying from his foul mouth. Your teammate is outmatched. 

Cobb does the unthinkable and steals the second bag. All you see is a giant cloud of dust and your other teammate to the ground. He’s been knocked over by a tornado and he spits a little blood out of his mouth, as the official gets in between the two of them and issues Cobb a warning. But he doesn’t give a shit. He curses him out too and says something crude about his mother. This Peach takes no prisoners, an army of one, he’s ready to fight everyone in the whole damn town if he has to.  

You swallow hard and start to sweat. You’ve barely moved today, but you are drenched with your own fluid because you know you’re next. You have to fight him, and if you don’t you’re not a man. All eyes in the park are on this cyclone of a character and the sky is raining with a hissing noise from the crowd. You can’t even pay attention to the pitch count. This game is serious now and it’s not supposed to be. 

Imagine a train. 

Now imagine it engulfed in flames.

Now imagine it coming right at you.

Your eyes are on what’s in front of you, so you only see it out of the corner of your left eye. It’s gaining fast. Gotta do something. But how do you stop a speeding bullet that’s aimed at you? 

Your catcher makes eye contact with you, but he’s doing you no favors by throwing you the ball and expecting you to tag him out. 

You look at Cobb, you look at your catcher, then you look at Cobb again. The ball can’t get to you fast enough. Every fraction of a second feels like an eternity as the closeness of his strides just get louder and louder. 

Finally, the tightly-wound leather token finds its way to you, so you turn your body and brace yourself for a fight with a wild animal. He slides, knives first, and rams right through you. You’re upended and discombobulated in a ball of dust and spit and blood all at the same time. The ball spins out of your glove and away from the action. He’s clearly safe and now you just hope you don’t land on top of him and piss him off. 

You’ve just been had by the man who will one day be known as the greatest baseball player of all time… and here you were, trying to be an entertainer.