Crowbar’s Last Stand

by Scott Ostler

High and outside, ball two. Miller was taking all the way. You won’t see him hack at many pitches out there unless he’s behind the count and can’t afford to be picky.

Two-and-oh the count. This big crowd is quiet right now, but they’ll make some noise if the Dodgers can get something going. Junior Billings tucks the ball into his glove and strolls around the back of the mound, having a heart-to-heart talk with the resin bag. Miller waits patiently.

Miller’s average has dipped to .236, he’s hungry for a hit. Interesting fellow, Hugh Miller. His hobbies are golf, hunting and pleasuring himself to exercise-equipment infomercials. You know, those ab rollers, Bowflexes, Thighmasters. Loves to talk about it in the clubhouse, give graphic replays of his little jerkfests, it’s quite humorous in a perverted way. Hugh says he wishes he could get his fat-ass wife Sheila onto one of those machines but says she’d probably break ’em.

Billings is back up on the slab now, gets the sign, rocks, fires. Strike, a little slider at the knees that caught Miller by surprise. Two-and-one the count, and Miller is just looking for a pitch he can put into play, get himself on base. The Dodgers trail 3-1 here in the bottom of the eighth, nobody out, and boy do they need a baserunner.

Cincy’s infield plays Miller slightly to the left, they know he’s apt to slap the ball the other way. Here’s the pitch, swung on and nubbed toward third, and Miller’s gonna beat this one out! No throw! It was a little dribbler off the end of his bat, and incidentally, that’s Miller’s clubhouse nickname—Little Dribbler.

So the Dodgers have a man aboard and that brings up Mel Cruise, working on a perfect night—walked in the first, doubled home the Dodgers’ only run in the third, singled in the fifth, and in the seventh he got the phone number of the 14-year-old groupie with giant knockers sitting next to the dugout. Mel is batting .309, and as always he takes his time digging into the box.

Cruise hits Junior Billings well, .366 lifetime, but Pel-Mel Cruise isn’t going to get anything fat from the Reds’ crafty veteran here.

Mel Cruise has what you might call a musical background. He can fart entire songs. Which is why you never see any teammates standing near him in the dugout during the National Anthem.

Billings is ready, gives Miller a long look to keep him close to the bag, delivers. Just low! Ball one. A quick reminder, fans: Saturday is Meet-the-Players Day. Kids are invited to come down to the field railing before the game and get autographs, take snapshots, get to know the players. And kids, if your dad wants to bring you to that game, you tell dad to go shit in his hat.

That’s an old baseball expression, kids. Trust me, you don’t want to meet these players. Go hang out with homeless crack-smokers, who at least have some character.

Billings doesn’t want to get behind the count to Cruise here. The lanky lefty nods at his catcher, checks first, comes to the plate. Swing and a miss! A change-up, that evens the count at one-one.

Jeep Johnson is flashing signals from the Dodger dugout, he might be giving Miller the green light here. Jeep isn’t the smartest manager in baseball, but everyone in the game agrees that he is the fattest.

Cruise waggles his bat. He prides himself on physical conditioning, Cruise does, believes in taking care of his body, going to bed early. I’ve stayed in hotel rooms next to his and I can assure you, Pel-Mel Cruise goes to bed early, and often!

Billings is ready...the pitch. And Cruise fouls off a high fastball. One-and-two.

On deck: Rusty Warner! Who happens to be leading the National League in RBIs and steroids. You don’t think he went from 10 homers a year to 37 this year on spinach, do you? Rusty’s got the back acne, the enlarged head, the mood rages, the whole ’roid package. He showed me the pills he takes, I can give you the names. I’m told Rusty’s nuts have shrunk to the size of M&Ms. I don’t know if they melt in your mouth, you’d have to ask the shortstop, Jimmy Slater. Yes, I have photos. Yes, they are now posted on the internet.

Funny, you wouldn’t think a guy taking four different steroids would need to cork his bat, too, but maybe Rusty just likes to tinker with long, hard objects.

Know what Rusty calls me? “Dipstick.” Ain’t that something? I’ve worked hard to earn some respect in this game. You fans know that Eldon Crow has been calling the play-by-play from up here in the Crow’s Nest for 24 years now, and that my nickname is Crowbar. Not Dipstick, thank you very much.

But Rusty sure knew my name when he went to management and bitched about how I second-guess his so-called hitting strategy on these broadcasts. He knew my name when he told the Dodgers he wouldn’t sign a new contract unless they fired my ass.

Here’s the one-two pitch, it’s just outside, good eye by Cruise, two-and-two. The Reds’ infield is at double-play depth, the outfield deep and straightaway.

Not to single out Rusty, though. Management asked all the players about me and they all bad-mouthed the Crowbar behind his back. They don’t like the way I critique ’em, nosir! Guys making ten fucking million dollars a year, you’d think they could endure a little honest reporting. You’d be wrong.

Even the skipper, Jeep Johnson, tossed old Crowbar under the proverbial bus! I could have put my kid through college with the money I spent over the years picking up bar tabs for Jeep, but would he put in a good word for me? He told management I’ve lost my fastball. Well, at least I didn’t lose my wallet when it was time to pay the hooker down in Juarez last spring, like one manager I could name.
I’ll say this, though, the players and the manager have been good to my trusty broadcast sidekick here, Goosey. Maybe that’s because Goosey kisses their asses up one side and down the other, never criticizes, and that’s why I’ll be eased out after this season and Goosey will be eased into my chair. Right, Goosey? Oops, Goosey McGraw is passed out face-down in his nachos. I tell ya, you never know when someone might slip something into your Irish coffee....