New teeth, p.13
New Teeth, page 13
And Mr. Dunn put his head in his hands and groaned, and I’ve never heard anyone ever sound so tired. And I asked him if it was too late to make it to the game that day. And he reached through the bars and patted me on the shoulder and told me I wouldn’t get to play games anymore. The league had a “morality clause,” and the commissioner was going to kick me out for breaking it. And I asked if I could still hang around and help the team practice, or maybe be the ice boy. And he said he didn’t think that was a good idea, and it would probably be safest for me and the citizens of Baltimore if I just went back to St. Mary’s. And I started to cry, because that was the thing I was most afraid he’d say.
And then the door swung open, and it was Junior, and he was dressed to play, and he said they better go, or else they’d miss the game. And Mr. Dunn said, “What happened? How did you lose him?” And Jack shrugged and said, “I tried my best, but he’s incorrigible.” And Mr. Dunn wandered off into the hallway in a kind of daze. And Junior was about to follow him, but I reached through the bars and grabbed his wrist, because I realized it was my very last chance to say goodbye.
And I said I was sorry about last night, I didn’t mean to get lost. And he said, “It’s fine, Babe,” and he tried to walk away, but I held on tight because I had some more to say. And I told him how happy I was that we had met, and that if anyone deserved to make it to the big leagues, it was him, and that I would follow his career the best I could, even though we didn’t get newspapers at the orphanage, other than the scraps they put out for wiping in the shitter.
And he swallowed and said, “Thanks, Babe.”
And then I said, “There’s one more thing.” And I looked around the jail, to make sure no one was listening, and then I fessed up that I had one other secret to baseball, and it was an even better secret than the “mustard” one, and I’d never told it to anyone before, but since my career was over, he could have it. And he leaned in close, and I whispered the secret through the bars, and this is what the secret was:
“You don’t always want to hit everything with mustard.”
And then I smiled and leaned back, like, “You’re welcome.”
But I could tell he was confused like before. So I kept going.
“It’s like this,” I said. “When they give you an easy fastball, sure, you always want to hit the thing with mustard. But when they give you a nasty screwball, the way that spins, you’ll never hit it over the fence, no matter how much mustard you give it.”
“So, what do you do?” Junior asked.
“You lay off the mustard,” I said. “And you shift your body, and you tap it over to the other side. See, that’s the big secret to baseball! Don’t swing at the pitch you wanted. Swing at the pitch you got.”
And I wasn’t sure if Junior liked the secret, because he was silent for a while and kind of looking off into the distance.
And then the cop came back with Mr. Dunn, and they said it was time to write up my confession. And I said I was happy to, but they would have to help me because I didn’t remember doing anything.
And then Jack took a step forward, and he had a look in his eyes I’d never seen before, kind of like a hitter when he knows he’s got the pitcher’s number. And he said, “That’s because you didn’t do anything, Babe.” And he turned to the cop and said, “I did.”
And he said that the cops had the wrong guy, and that the Orioles uniform everyone saw belonged to him! And Mr. Dunn whispered to him, “Son, you don’t have to do this.” And Junior ignored him and took out a pen and said he was willing to sign any confession. And the cop shrugged and said, “All right, but we need to go through the counts, one by one, and put them all in the public record.” And Junior said, “Go right ahead.”
“Public intoxication?”
“That was me.”
“Public nudity?”
“Me.”
“Public urination?”
Junior hesitated. By this point, some newspaper peo- ple had come over so that they could photograph his face.
“Public urination?” the cop asked again.
“Yes,” Junior said softly. “That was me.”
“Shitting in a mailbox while shouting out, ‘Special delivery.’”
“Yes,” he said. “Me.”
And the cop added up all of the fines and said that the Dunns owed sixty dollars. And then Junior turned to me and smiled. And I said, “Why are you smiling? You have a serious drinking problem. Last night should be a wake-up call for you to get help.” And then Junior laughed, and I did, too, because I was just so happy we were friends again.
And the cop let me out of my cell, and Junior checked his watch and said, “We better hurry, Babe’s pitching in an hour.” And I thought Mr. Dunn might be mad at his son for all his crimes, but instead he threw his arms around him and tousled his hair and slapped him on the back, like he’d just hit one out of the park.
Junior got kicked out of the league, but even though he couldn’t play anymore, Mr. Dunn kept him in the clubhouse. And Junior started using his mathematics book to help the rest of us play better, like figuring out when in the order we should bat, and which pitchers we should steal on, and when to shift the infield, and we started winning games by even more runs than before. And Junior got so busy that one time Deek shouted out, “Ice boy!” and Mr. Dunn said, “Not now,” because, you know, his son had more important things to do.
And we got back into first place, and one day, after beating the Bisons, three guys in suits walked up to the dugout, and they said that they were from the Red Sox, and they wanted to have a chat with Mr. Dunn.
And Junior turned to his dad and said, “Congratulations.” And Mr. Dunn said, “I couldn’t have done it without you, kiddo.” And he turned to the Red Sox men and said he couldn’t wait to bring his “first-place spirit to the major leagues.”
And the main Red Sox guy said, “There’s been a misunderstanding. We aren’t here to hire you. We’re here to sign Babe Ruth.”
And Mr. Dunn pleaded with them that he deserved a shot, because he had coached his team into first place, by a lot. And they said they didn’t “doubt his coaching abilities,” but in their view, the Orioles’ success had less to do with coaching than with the fact that they had found a “once-in-a-lifetime baseball freak.”
And Mr. Dunn started talking really fast, like a chicken auctioneer, and he said he didn’t have to be the manager, he could be a pitching coach, or a first-base coach, and the Red Sox guys sighed and looked at each other and shrugged, and eventually one of them smiled tightly and said, “How about this? You give us Babe Ruth, and you can come up to Boston and be sort of like an ‘honorary coach.’ You can sit in the dugout and wear a cap, and the whole thing. And, hey, your boy looks like a ballplayer! Maybe he can come up to Boston, too? And we’ll give him a tryout, and a uniform, and you can both say you’re major leaguers!”
And Junior said, “Dad, I’ve got an idea.” And he told me to wait with the Red Sox men while they talked in the next room.
And when the Dunns were gone, I turned to the three guys and asked them straightaway if they’d ever met Cy Young. And they said they had! And then I asked them if they’d ever met Ty Cobb. And they said they had! And then I asked them if they’d ever met Walter Johnson. And they sighed and said, yes, they had met all the famous baseball players. So I asked if they had ever met Homerun Baker. And we talked like that for a few more hours and it was a really fun afternoon.
When the Dunns came back, Mr. Dunn said that they could sign me to the Red Sox, and they didn’t have to let him coach or give Junior a tryout.
And the Red Sox men looked confused and said, “Well, what do you want, then?”
And Mr. Dunn said, “Twenty thousand dollars.”
And the Red Sox men got angry and said, “What the hell do you need that kind of money for?”
And Mr. Dunn nodded at his son and said, “Jack, you tell them.”
And Junior flipped through his notebook and listed all the stuff they were fixing to buy, like a new dugout, and better uniforms, and “modern training equipment,” and an “automatic ice machine,” and everything else they would need to turn the Baltimore Orioles into a winning ball club. And the Red Sox men could tell that the Dunns weren’t about to back down, so they wrote them a check, and that’s when I found out I was going to get to ride another train. And it was going to be first-class this time, which meant all the food I wanted, even if it cost more than three dollars. But I was pretty nervous, because I’d never been to a big city like Boston before, and I didn’t want to go there by myself. So I asked the Dunns if they could come with me, at least for a little while. But they said they couldn’t, because that’s not where they belonged.
And I started to get worried, because what if the Red Sox were making a mistake by signing me? And what if I screwed up and let everyone down? And Mr. Dunn told me not to worry, because the Red Sox didn’t go around signing just anybody. But I was barely listening by then, and my hands started shaking, like when my daddy left me at St. Mary’s and I realized he wasn’t coming back. And I was just about ready to lose it when Junior put his hand on my shoulder and said, “Don’t worry, Babe. They’re going to love you in Boston.”
And I said, “How do you know?”
And he looked me in the eye and said, “Because you’re Babe Ruth. And you’re the greatest player in the world.”
And all of a sudden I wasn’t afraid to ride the train. So I gave the Dunns a hug and told them both to write to me, care of the Boston Red Sox. And I turned to the baseball men and said, “I guess I’m ready.”
And now it’s five years later and everything is different. I only play baseball in big stadiums, and when I leave the field, the crowds all come and follow me around. And it is a pretty swell life, like, for example, sometimes they’ll put up a billboard of me, or put me in a picture show, or build a statue of me out of bronze. But no matter how much fun I’m having, I never forget about my friends, the Dunns, and whenever I think of it, I write them a letter, care of the Baltimore Orioles. And last month, they wrote me back and sent me a picture of them holding up a trophy. And they said that they missed me in the lineup, but it seems like they’re doing all right, like they figured it out, like they found a way to win.
1921 Champion Baltimore Orioles
119 Wins
47 Losses
1st Place, AA International League
Jack Dunn, Manager
Jack Dunn Jr., Co-Manager
Everyday Parenting Tips
We’ve all been there. The teeth are brushed, the pj’s are on, and the blankie is juuuust right. You’re tiptoeing out of the nursery when suddenly you hear, “Mommy, Mommy, there’s a monster under my bed!” You let out a sigh. Looks like that new episode of The Bachelorette is going to have to wait. :(
Children have always been afraid of monsters. But lucky for you, our experts are up to the challenge. So let’s open up that mailbag!
Is it normal for my child to be afraid of monsters?
Yes. If anything, it’s evidence of a healthy imagination.
How do I convince my child there’s no such thing as monsters?
Just be patient. By the age of five, your child should understand that the monsters she’s afraid of are not real.
What if the monsters she’s afraid of are real?
Unfortunately, this is becoming increasingly common in the aftermath of the Great Monster Uprising that took place earlier this year. Ever since the creatures descended from the Dark Place, their presence on Earth has become an unavoidable aspect of our daily lives. If your child is afraid of an actual, real-life monster, such as Gorgog the Annihilator, or Ctharga the Eater of Souls, try to explain to her that, although those monsters are obviously real, the likelihood of them attacking her is only moderate.
Should I restrict my child’s media access to keep her away from upsetting imagery?
Most parents agree it’s wise to shield kids from scary content. At the same time, experts warn it may be futile to try to stop your kids from seeing monsters altogether. After all, they are on the front page of the New York Times every single day, usually striking a menacing pose. They also frequently commandeer the airwaves during Saturday-morning cartoons in order to make threatening pronouncements. Short answer: try your best.
What if my child is having nightmares?
Again, this is completely normal. The exception, of course, is when your child has been “marked” by a monster who is using her dreams to try to form a covenant with her. Ask your child for details about her nightmare. Did the monster address her by her Christian name? Was she asked to “sign his book”? If the answer is no, then reassure her it was only a dream, probably.
Should I let my child use a night-light?
A night-light might seem helpful, but experts warn they can do more harm than good. Even a small light can disrupt a child’s circadian rhythms and serve as a bull’s-eye for the Gauntwings, who cannot hear or smell, and hunt their prey using only their hyperdeveloped sense of sight. The only way to evade the Gauntwings is to live your life in total darkness.
My child is also afraid of the drain. Is that normal?
I am going to assume you mean the Drain of Ga, and yes, it’s normal for her to be afraid of it. After all, it’s a giant, swirling portal in the sky that looks like a screaming mouth. Ever since it first replaced the sun last week, it has been growing in size and anger. Nobody knows where it came from or what’s going on with it. It’s terrifying.
When my daughter gets upset about monsters, my husband makes jokes to try to cheer her up. I am worried that he is making the problem worse. What do you think?
Your husband is probably a monster. Drug him at dinner, and when he’s unconscious, strip his body naked. If he’s been “husked,” he will have the Mark of Corthar on his chest (see link). If he has the mark, cut off his head.
How long will this phase last?
Experts agree that the Age of Monsters is just getting started. There is no end in sight. This is simply the “new normal,” and we all have to accept it.
What do I do if I’m feeling overwhelmed?
Don’t beat yourself up about it. In these scary haunted times, it’s normal to occasionally feel stressed. If possible, try to carve out some daily “me” time. Maybe it’s a glass of wine in the bath while your daughter watches an educational cartoon in the next room? Maybe it’s a full bottle of whiskey on the roof while you fire your shotgun at the sky, screaming at the monsters to “just kill me already”? Regardless, it’s important to do what you can to manage your anxiety. Otherwise, you might end up “modeling” nervous behavior for your child, which could in turn cause her to experience stress of her own.
Or maybe you should just be straight with her.
What do you mean?
Maybe, when your child asks if something’s wrong, you should just tell her the truth: “Yes. Something is very wrong. Monsters are real and they are out there everywhere, trying to kill us.”
Won’t that freak her out?
She’s freaked out already. And she should be. The world as we know it is over, and it’s never coming back.
So, what are you saying? What am I supposed to do? Just give up?
You could give up.
Or you could fight.
What are you talking about?
I’m talking about taking those monster bastards down.
Whoa, whoa, whoa—hold on. Isn’t that impossible?
Maybe. But isn’t it worth a shot? Isn’t it better than just sitting there, waiting to die?
I can’t!
You can.
I’m scared!
I know. But you’re stronger than you think. You can do this.
How?
Research the monsters. Learn their weaknesses. Develop a strategy. Stockpile weapons. Train obsessively. Strengthen your body and your mind.
And then what?
When the moment comes, look your child in the eye. Tell her that the stakes are high, but you’re not giving up. Tell her that you will do anything you can to protect her, and even though it’s possible you’ll fail, you’re going to fight for her with everything you’ve got. Tell her, “If these motherfucking monsters think that they can fuck with my family without me shooting them first in the face, they need to get their heads examined, because I’m going to come at them so fucking hard right now.” Watch the strength return to your child as she sees you’re in no way fucking around. Listen with pride as she vows to fight the monsters by your side. Look out the window and stare down the monsters together. Dare them to fuck with your family. Dare them to fuck with the people that you love. Take your child by the hand. Arm her to the teeth. Tell her you love her. Open the door.
Acknowledgments
When writing historical fiction, I always make sure to research the time period extensively and adhere wherever possible to primary sources, except when I want to make a joke or something, in which case I just go ahead and change whatever. The story “Screwball” is a good example of these methods. The premise is true: Jack Dunn really did sign Babe Ruth straight out of St. Mary’s, and his nineteen-year-old son, Jack Dunn Jr., really did have the misfortune of competing against Ruth for a roster spot during their joint rookie season. There’s no way to know what kind of relationship Dunn Jr. had with Babe Ruth, but when I saw their names printed side by side and looked up their statistics, I couldn’t help but try to imagine it. I can’t say for sure what percentage of “Screwball” is true, but if I had to put a number on it, I’d guess it’s higher than Dunn Jr.’s lifetime batting average, but probably lower than Ruth’s. I’m grateful to the following sources for the insight they gave me into Ruth’s upbringing and baseball’s “dead-ball era.”
