The cougar in the Louisville Racers’ gray-and-blue uniform stood at center field, waiting.
        A tod-fox wearing the uniform of his team’s arch-rival, Cincinnati, strode up to the plate and cheerfully thumbed his nose at the pitcher.  He then took his stance as the crowd (made up of hometown partisans as well as fans who took the train south from Cincy) variously cheered and hooted.
        The pitcher wound up and threw a sizzling fastball, and to his credit the fox really tried to hit it.  All he got for his pains was the smack of the ball into the catcher’s glove as the umpire sang out, “Strike one!”
        The Reds batter scowled and dug in, and the pitcher threw again.
        “Strike two!”
        With a growl audible in the right field bleachers the fox readied himself again.
        The pitcher threw a slider.
        CRACK
        The ball went high and long, and the fox’s cleats dug gouges in the Kentucky clay as he raced for first base. 
        The cougar had started moving even as the tod-fox swung the bat, backpedaling fast.  The ball reached the top of its arc and started to descend as he slowed and reversed direction.
        He leaped.
        “You’re out!” the first base umpire yelled, and the fox threw his cap down disgustedly as the hometown crowd cheered.
        The Louisville players in the dugout cheered just as loudly.


        “A baseball game?”  Schoenstein set his coffee cup in its saucer and shook his head.  “Either I’ve gone crazy, Maxie, or you have.  Did you say – “
        “Yes, I said baseball game.  There’s nothing wrong with your ears, already.”  Grau grinned. 
        “You have me wondering about that.”  He looked suspiciously at his cousin.  "So you schlepped me all the way out here to watch a ball game?  I could have gone to Brooklyn for that."
        Max waved this away with a contemptuous snort.  “Meh.  The Dodgers are still losers.  Think of it as a vacation, Joey."
        "Hah.  I could have gone to Nevele, and you could have saved your money."
        “It was my money to spend,” Max said in an unequivocal tone.  “Now, you’re here, so why not come?  You worried you won’t enjoy yourself?”
        Saul, at nine the oldest of the three children, piped up.  “Please, Uncle Joe?  It’ll be great fun.”
        Joe’s expression softened as the children looked up at him hopefully.  He recalled his own uncles, and spending exciting afternoons at the ball park, watching the Yankees play.
        Before watching games became his job, and much of the fun went out of it.
        He sighed.  “For you, Saul, and your brothers, how could I refuse?
       

        “So, tell me about baseball out here in Rain Island,” Joey said a few days later.  He, Maxie and the boys had crowded into the family car and headed out to Seathl Field.  “Tell me everything you know.”
        Max rested an elbow on the sill of the open car window.  “Well for starters, we only have ten teams.”
        “Ten?”
        “Yeah, two leagues.  East and West.”
        “Hmm.  With only ten teams, you must have a short season.”
        “Right.  Only fifty-five games.”
        “When does the season start?”
        “May first,” and Grau smiled as he added, “today’s the last game of the season.”
        “Yeah!  It’s the championship!” said the youngest son, Daniel, a bit too loudly.  Schoenstein felt his ears flatten out of reflex.
        “Brookshire’s gonna beat ‘em this year,” the middle son, Isaac, said with some authority.
        “Sez you,” Saul put in.
        “Yeah, sez me.”  A scuffle ensued in the back seat as the discussion swiftly began to descend into personalities.
        Max struck up the swords by growling, “Enough.”
        “He started it, Pa!”
        “Did not.”
        “Did so.”
        “Did not.”
“I don’t care who started it, I’m finishing it.  Hush, all three of you, or I turn the car around now, and we’re in sight of the field.”  At the threat of being so close and denied their prize, the children fell silent.
        “So, Brookshire, eh?” Joey asked.
        Max nodded as he made another turn.  “Yeah.  Brookshire Lumberjacks, West League.  They’re playing the Seathl Salmon today for the trophy, and why not?  They won the West by ten games.”
        “Ten games?”  Schoenstein was impressed despite himself.  “You’re kidding, right?”
        “Does it look like I’m kidding?” Grau riposted.  “Here we are,” and he pointed as he swung the wheel and the Fjord sedan headed into the parking lot.
        Seathl Field took up the better part of a large, square lot on the outskirts of the city.  The stadium looked fairly new, and Schoenstein commented on it as he rubbernecked, looking around.  “Nice place,” he said as they got in line for tickets.
        “Not the Polo Grounds, but then what is?” Grau said.  “The collective who owns the team built this place about two years ago.  The old place – meh, what a hole that was, I’m telling you.  All rickety wood bleachers, and the fence was too close.”
        Schoenstein insisted on paying for the tickets, fending off his cousin’s attempts to pay.  They argued for a while in Yiddish, which confused Max’s sons but raised a few knowing smiles from a couple who were behind them in the line.  Finally they bought the tickets (“Fine,” said Grau, “but I’m buying the refreshments, already”) and made their way inside and to their seats.
        Inside, comfortably seated along the third base line, Schoenstein took the opportunity to look around.  The field was well laid out, with the center field fence 375 feet away from home plate.  It seemed that almost everyone had a good view of the action as the two teams trotted onto the field.  “Okay, so who’s who?” he asked.
        “Seathl’s in sea blue,” Max said, “and Brookshire’s wearing the brown pants.”  He pointed over at the Lumberjacks as they started warming up.  “Gebst du gut Acht auf Nummer Zehn, nu?” he said, tapping the side of his muzzle as he grinned.
        The Weimaraner cocked an eyebrow at his cousin and squinted across the field at #10.  The man was a lean, rangy cougar, and Schoenstein consulted his program.
        Marvin Griggs; center fielder.  Twenty years old and like a lot of his teammates he worked at a lumber mill when not playing.
        “Looks like a good boy,” he said absently, folding up the program and settling back to watch the game.
        The game started with a recording of Rain Island’s national anthem and the umpire yelled “Play ball!” as the Lumberjacks, who had lost the coin toss, took the field for the first inning.  Griggs took his position deep in center field as the Salmon’s leadoff batter, an otter, stepped up to the plate.
        The otter got a base hit on the first pitch before the pitcher settled down.  Before he pitched his third out the Salmon had scored once, and to scattered cheers the Lumberjacks got ready to bat.
         The Salmon’s pitcher was a horse, and he struck out the first two batters in quick succession before giving up a double, the struck ball bouncing between the first baseman and the right fielder.  The batter, a gray-furred tabby, dusted her uniform off after sliding into second.
        “I don’t like it,” Joey declared.  “Having women playing – just not right.”
        “Relax,” Max said.  “They’re good players, aren’t they?  That little kitty there at second – could you have hit the ball like she did?”
        Joey grumbled as he conceded the point.
        The gray tabby was tagged out at home plate two batters later, and the sides changed.
        As the game continued hawkers (some of them actually avians) circulated around the stands, selling cold drinks that ranged from fruit juice to Orca-Cola to chilled beer while others sold various treats.  Schoenstein noted with some amusement that they sold flavored salt licks for the elk, deer and caribou in the audience.  The licks were cast in the shape of small ice cream cones, right down to the ‘waffle’ cross-hatching on the cone portion of the mold.  Flavors ranged from sweet or fruit flavors for children to Italian for adults, the salt seasoned with oregano, basil and garlic.
        Joey pointed at the tray of salt licks as they went past.  “They kosher?”
        Max snorted.  “And why should you know?  Of course they’re kosher – unless you buy them from a guy named Lot.  Then,” he added with a chuckle, “it’s cannibalism.”
        Joey laughed along with his cousin, as they bought beef franks for themselves and the boys.  The sausages were plump and well-steamed, and the mustard a deep and spicy brown.
        By the seventh inning stretch (an occasion marked by a performance of native dancers in traditional dress) the score stood at 8-7 in favor of the Salmon.  The eighth inning went by quickly with the Lumberjacks' pitcher, a mare with a devastating curve ball, striking out the side and the Salmon’s pitcher returning the favor.
        The top of the ninth inning had the mare giving up a run to the Seathl team’s best batter, a badger whose swing seemed to start somewhere underground.  She rallied, however, and thanks to some good fielding succeeded in limiting the score at the bottom of the ninth to 9-7.
        The Lumberjacks managed to get two runners on base before their first out, and the bases were loaded with two outs by the time Griggs stepped up to the plate.
        The cougar peered out at the pitcher from under the bill of his cap, and Schoenstein noted that the Salmon outfielders had stepped back. 
        The first pitch was a fastball and the umpire yelled “Ball one!” as Griggs stepped back and out of the ball’s path.  The thin feline stepped back up to the plate, taking a few experimental swings before settling back into position.
        One strike later, the stallion checked his catcher’s signal, nodded and wound up.  He threw a sinker, the ball curving downward.
        CRACK
        Griggs’ swing sent the ball arching high into center fielder, higher and farther as the center fielder backpedaled.  The fielder stopped as her back struck the wall, the ball flying over the ten-foot-high center field wall with five feet to spare.
        The Brookshire fans roared their approval as Griggs trailed the other three runners around the bases, touching home before taking off his cap to acknowledge the cheers.
        As he applauded and his sons yelled and whooped, Grau turned to his cousin.  “Now you know how they won their league by ten games, nu?”
        Schoenstein merely gaped openmouthed.



to be continued