Baseball Audio Book, American English, Male, Sports
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EnglishAccents
North American (General) North American (US Midwest- Chicago, Great Lakes) North American (US West Coast - California, Portland)Transcript
Note: Transcripts are generated using speech recognition software and may contain errors.
I have this dream. It's the seventh game of the World Series bottom of the ninth inning cubs against the Yankees and the bases are loaded. The score is 2 to 1 cubs but the yanks are threatening. The Yankees haven't been a great team for years but they're still satisfying to beat in dreams. Wrigley field boils and churns with cheers, claps and fans on their feet waving w flags. The green field glows the Ivy on the walls gleams under the bright white light and rustles in the Crisp Lake wind. The Cubs are an out away from winning a World Series against all odds, but they've run out of pitchers, Fergie Jenkins carry wood, John Lester Kyle Hendrix, Greg Maddux and Mordecai three finger brown, an improbable all air roster of Cubs. All stars have all thrown brilliantly, but the bullpen is almost bare. The manager, a gray haired knob nosed fusion of Joe Maddon Charlie Grimm and Joe mccarthy is downcast and flummoxed. Then a light goes on in his eyes. It's a crazy idea. I know he tells his coaches but I got a feeling I hear my name crackle over the old tin speakers and echo over the slatted green seats and scuffed concrete stairs. Astonishment rolls through the crowd. The announcers who sound like Joe Buck and Bob Costas are stupefied, if not quite speechless. A move. No one could have predicted. I take slow, deliberate strides over the electrified green grass and look down to see my arms in white sleeves with cubby blue stripes. I reached the mound. Some of the astounded hubbub dies. The catcher. all grit and spit. A grizzled combination of Randy hundley, Gabby Hartnett and David Ross hands me the ball. No need to go over signs. He says through a shaw and a grin, he knows I have just one pitch, a fat slow dodo of a throw that catches the wind like a candy wrapper, darts floats curves and is preposterously difficult to hit. My catcher returns to crouch behind home plate in the broadcast booth. Joe and Bob Sputter to explain this stunning turn. He's a fan but he knows a lot about the franchise and he's been practicing his pitch at the gym and the Cubs must have seen something they liked because here he is the Yankee batter glowers and spits. He's not Derek Garri or the ****, but some malevolent swearing gobs, spitting steel bearded pinstriped brute. In fact, let's call him the brute. He tells our catcher look what the cat dragged to the mound. Then the brute glares at me. Time for batting practice rook. I take a deep breath the seats at Wrigley Royal with 43,000 Cubs fans who take a sudden deep breath at the same time and fall silent. I looked to my right to see the all star cub spirits of Chris Bryant and Ron Santo dance on their toes at third and Addison Russell, Ernie Banks and Joe Tinker at short. I glanced to my right. Javi Baez and Rhino Sandberg are on patrol at second base while Anthony Rizzo and Mark Grace spit and pound the pockets of their gloves. At first, I look into my catcher. I draw back my arms. I twist slightly to put my power into my so ass muscle as my yoga trainer has taught me and bring my right arm through above my shoulder, snapping off the throw with my right hand, all action seems to slow. I see the ball hang in the night air, snag the lake wind and float and weave its red seams whirling the brute spits and swings mightily. The fan of his bat misses by six inches. And I hear 43,000 fans here. His swing with the air like a tree cracking and falling. Steve Reich. The brute steps back to spit and swear he wipes his huge grimy hands across his pinstripes and yells out to the mound. Try that again. Meat. I got your number. Now, my wife Caroline, our daughters, Elsie and Paulina, our dog and my late mother sit together in grandstand seats along the third base line. All but our dog, Daisy have their heads lowered in anticipated embarrassment. Daisy believes my mother tells all nearby. Well, you know, darlings, all that writing stuff came later. Pitching for the Cubs is really what he's always wanted to do. I just hope I shake off my catcher's sign, but it's an act, I'll throw the same pitch and hope you won't see it coming. I rear back, thrust forward and let the ball go from the tips of my fingers. It, Bobs and weaves as capriciously as the flight of a firefly. The brute holds back for an instant addled and confused and then tries to punch the ball with his bat. The gesture looks desperate and pathetic. The brute misses by a foot. The roar of the crowd is so loud. I can only read the lips of the um, as he bellows. Stay right too up in the booth. Bob and Joe agree as one. Nothing quite like this has ever been seen in baseball history. The Chicago Cubs, historically, one of the most beloved but easily the most cursed hexed and chinked franchise in sports history are a strike away from winning the World Series and have bet it all in a long time fan with a freakishly effective pitch. How amazing how utterly cub like Ernie Banks trots in from short to hold up a single slim finger. Just one more scooter one more. Ron Santo and Chris Bryant pound their gloves at third while Javi and Rhino draw their toes around second base, I shake off a first sign. Then a second, then a third. My catcher who knows this plan gives his plump brown glove a last thumb and holds it over the heart of the plate. I rear back and rock my so ass. But this time I don't snap off a last floater of a pitch with the brute, the NSA, the K GB MI-5 and thousands in the stands and 60 million people tuned in at home. Expect instead I bring my right arm through with the power of a rocket burst the seams on the ball whiz and whir in a blinding blur. The crowd inhales the brute rocks back on his heels. Too astonished to even lift his bat from his shoulders. The radar gun flickers before it glows with three numerals, 101 MP H my fastball smacks the catcher's mitt like a crack of lightning. The brute thumps his hitless bat on the ground to defeat and frustration where it leaves an angry gash, the size of a canal. The um cries strike three Joe and Bob sputter. I can't believe it. I can't believe it against all odds. And after more than a century as Ernie Ron Rhino, Chris Jy Gabby David Fergie Kyle John and Carrie Pyle all over me on the mound and a sea of cubby blue fills the friendly confines of the greatest and greenest old brick ballpark with her ivy covered walls.