The Fix

Outside O’Sullivan’s Tavern in Boston’s Back Bay, a man wearing a Brooks Brothers suit handed Boston Red Sox slugger Jack Kilcommins a brown paper bag that contained exactly ten thousand dollars, all in twenties. No words were exchanged. The man in the suit faded into the busy cityscape, never to be seen again. Jack opened the bag and counted the bills. They were all there.

It was almost like it had never had happened. But it had happened. Jack, a fan favorite especially to the kids, had done the unthinkable. And while ten thousand dollars was a king’s ransom in Abner Doubleday’s day, it was a paltry sum by today’s measurements of monster seats, monster drinks, and monster prices. Jack made 13.5 million per year and needed ten thousand dollars about as much as the average working person needed a penny. Why someone who had so much would conceivably give it all away for so little was a mystery.

In high school, Jack was a star baseball player for the Watertown Red Raiders and college scouts watched him every game from the stands during his junior year. During his senior year at the public high school just a few miles from Boston, major league scouts started showing up to see the switch-hitting shortstop do his stuff. When the scholarship came to play shortstop for USC, Jack jumped at the chance. A scholarship was exactly what he and his parents had hoped for. His education would be paid for and he would still be able to play the game he loved. His parents were teachers and could not afford an expensive college like USC. If the scholarship had not come, it would have been a Massachusetts state school or community college for Jack but it did come and Jack made the most of it.

After college, Jack was drafted by his hometown team, The Boston Red Sox. However, he did not start at the senior circuit. He was sent to the minors in Pawtucket, Rhode Island to work his way up. Even the best major league players need a few seasons of development at the minor-league level gets them ready for the big leagues. After two stellar seasons in Pawtucket learning the craft, Jack was invited to spring training in Winter Haven, Florida with the Boston Red Sox.

Jack tore the cover off the ball that spring and was named the starting shortstop. That was six years ago, and since, Jack had been the starting Red Sox shortstop, averaging 30 home runs and hitting over .300 in each season. Jack could steal bases and field his position of shortstop well, winning two gold gloves.

It was a Thursday and an off day for The Boston Red Sox. The hated New York Yankees were coming to town the next day and the odds makers had the Red Sox as favorites to win two out of the three games. Most assumed the Red Sox would win Friday night’s opening contest in Fenway due to the pitching match-up and Kilcommins’ past success against the Yankee starter, which included several long balls. Those so inclined had already penciled in two hits, one possibly a long ball, for Jack. The Red Sox had their best pitcher on the mound, Jimmy Devaney, against the Yankees journeyman, Boggs Houston.

Veteran Boston Pigeon sportswriter Danny “Dagger” O’Malley knew the stats and knew the numbers. They called him “Dagger” because his words, especially the way he wielded them, often felt like a knife in the back of the unsuspecting subject of his musings. Dagger believed athletes were grossly overpaid and loved to catch them in compromising positions and write about them. He floated trial balloons of innuendo and fans divided into two camps—one felt Dagger was on target and a genius and a second camp thought he was a dirtiest writer in the game, scum of the earth.

There was no gray area—people either loved Dagger or hated him. Some players or managers who got caught in his column crosshairs refused to speak to him or pretended he was not part of the media. He had been punched and pushed and spat upon and death threats came every year. Dagger thrived on being provocative; he loved to stir the pot. He relished playing the role of contrarian and the more a star player was loved, the more Dagger wanted to take him down.

In the Pigeon’s Baseball by the Numbers weekly column, O’Malley predicted Kilcommins was poised to have a monster night on Friday in the first of three games against The Yankees. The scribe postulated the shortstop might park one into the high-priced seats atop Fenway’s Green Monster. According to O’Malley, anything short of two hits would be a disappointment. Jack had a .399 lifetime average against the Yankees, which meant he got a hit roughly two times in every five at bats, which meant that during most games when he had four or five at bats, one could safely pencil Jack in for at least two hits if not three. He was not a streaky hitter like some. Jack was remarkably consistent—so consistent that one could almost bet upon it.

When a baseball player makes 13.5 million per year, it might sound like he can spend money like a drunken sailor and nobody would ever know but that is not how it works, at least in Jack’s case. With a wife and a team of accountants and financial planners, it was as if every penny was accounted for. It was for these reasons that Jack made occasional concessions.

Jack walked away from the park, clutching the brown paper bag as if it contained a million dollars instead of ten thousand. He ducked into a pub not far from his apartment, which was not far from Fenway Park. He ordered a beer, and took a booth in the back by himself. The place was dead except for a few regulars. He opened the bag and stared at the wad of cash. Maybe he would go have a good steak somewhere and some expensive whiskey. The wife was out of town for the weekend so the possibilities were endless.

The bathroom door opened and out came O’Malley, the last person Jack had expected to see.

“Nice day, isn’t it Jack,” O’Malley said to the slouched slugger, catching him off guard. “Nice day for a walk in the park, wouldn’t you say?”

“I wouldn’t,” Jack said.

Jack tried to conceal the brown paper bag.

“I suppose that’s your lunch,” Dagger motioned to the bag.

Jack suddenly did not feel so good. The energy was draining from his body and he wanted Dagger to leave.

“The hometown team is going to lose tomorrow and you, my friend, will have an off night,” O’Malley smiled between his yellow teeth. “One could even say, it’s in the bag.”

Jack fumbled for a comeback but no words came out. And then O’Malley, like the man in the suit earlier, disappeared into the Boston city streets. Jack no longer wanted to do anything with the money. He wished he had never agreed to take it in the first place. But he had taken it in exchange for certain concessions to be made later. Jack finished his beer, paid for it, and left. He went straight home and to bed. He no longer wanted to celebrate. He just wanted it to be over.

It was a blustery Friday in Boston and the first three- game series between the Red Sox and Yankees was just hours away. The butterflies churned in the stomach of one Jack Kilcommins as he prepared for what he would not do that evening. Contrary to what O’Malley had predicted in Wednesday’s Pigeon, the switch-hitting slugger would not get two hits and a home run was simply not in the cards. Jack had ten thousand reasons to make O’Malley a liar.

Most games between the two squads were close, often ending in scores such as 3 to 2, 4 to 3, or 2 to 1. Extra inning contests were common and made for exciting finishes and tired fans the next day. Those in the gaming industries, both legal and illegal, knew this. And by proxy, these odds makers knew if the home team star had an uncharacteristic off night and was off by just enough, it could swing the pendulum in favor of the visiting team stealing one against all odds, or against all odds that had been evened.

The Red Sox took the field so the visiting Yankees could come to the plate in the opening frame. Jack took his place at shortstop and contemplated holding the ball in his glove just a second too long in the event a ground ball came his way with a runner on first and less than two outs. One extra second or a derivative thereof would be just enough time mismanagement to turn a 6-4-3 double play into a fielder’s choice (a 6-4 and no 3). In a contest between two evenly-matched teams, not turning a double play might just be just enough subterfuge to allow the Yankees to score a run that they otherwise had no business scoring. And nobody would ever know. Well, almost nobody.

The score was 0-0 for the first eight innings, a pitchers’ duel in the making. One timely hit or one hanging curveball might be all it would take. To not get a hit, Jack employed a strategy, which might seem counter-intuitive. He tried to hit a home run on each swing versus going for the line drive. He purposely over-swung and went for the fences. The strategy worked, resulting in two strike outs and a weak pop-up to the Yankee shortstop.

In the top half of the ninth inning, The Yankees sandwiched a stolen base between two singles and had runners at first and third with one out. The Red Sox had a sinker-ball pitcher on the mound, one well-versed at serving up ground balls to the shortstop, which when fielded correctly most often resulted in a 6-4-3 double play. The shortstop (6) flipped the ball to the second baseman (4) who then fired a missile to the first baseman (3) for the textbook twin killing. Boston fans had watched Jack turn these like a well-oiled machine for years. He seldom failed to deliver the 6-4-3 when the ground ball came his way.

The pitcher fired a sinker-ball low and away and the Yankee hitter hit a ground ball right at Jack. It was a made-for-order double play grounder. Everyone in the stadium, every player on both teams, and every fan watching or listening to the game expected the 6-4-3 to be turned flawlessly and nothing less. As the ball dribbled his way, Jack tuned out everything but the essentials—the ball, the grass, the dirt, and his glove. He hit mute on the stadium remote control and silenced all background noise. Time came to a near standstill and the sounds of the ball making its way through the infield grass and onto the dirt were amplified. The fans and other players all went still and quiet; it was just Jack and the advancing ball. The rest of the world was on pause.

Jack fielded the ball cleanly and then held it in his glove for a count of one one-thousand, before flipping it to the second baseman who still had a chance, be it a remote one, at turning a double play. But that extra second, one carefully crafted, put the Yankee runner into prime position to take out the Sox second baseman with a hard slide and that is precisely what happened. No throw ever made it to first base. It was a force out at second and a run for The Yankees. The scoreless deadlock was broken. Jack Kilcommins had held the ball.

From the press box, O’Malley’s fingers danced on his keypad with a purpose. The ghost of Johnny Pesky had inhabited the body of Jack Kilcommins, causing him to hold the ball just a second long enough to turn the tide. Many years ago, a famous Red Sox second baseman, named Johnny Pesky seemed to hold the ball just a second too long and this led to a critical Red Sox loss. The cloud of doubt remained over Pesky for decades later and O’Malley was elated at a possible repeat of baseball history. O’Malley made an outbound phone call.

“It’s done,” he said. The person on the other end hung up.

The Red Sox sinker-ball pitcher struck out the next batter and the inning came to an end. Jack felt dead inside but at least one part, the part of not turning the 6-4-3 double play, was over. O’Malley played with headlines such as “A Pesky Proposition” and seemed to be having a grand old time in the press room.

The Red Sox had one more chance to tie the score and force extra innings or even win the contest with two runs. However, The Yankees closer was the best in the business and seldom blew a ninth inning lead. Even though the Sox had the top of the order coming up and Kilcommins hitting fourth, fans sensed the game was already out of reach. Fenway Park got eerily quiet and a collective gloom and anxiety swept through the crowd. One might have wondered if someone had just died.

The between inning music stopped and all fans could hear were the sounds of The Yankees flamethrower firing warm-up pitches into the catcher’s mitt. In silence, the fans watched the perfect throw from the Yankees all-star catcher to the second baseman to simulate a runner caught stealing. There was no delay in this transfer of the ball from glove to throwing arm—it was perfectly executed and the imaginary runner was thrown out.

The Yankees closer struck out the table setters—the Sox one and two hitters on six pitches. His fastball was near 100 mph and had movement and ferocity. As the number three hitter approached the plate, Jack took his swings in the on-deck circle. On the first pitch, the number three hitter leaned in just enough to get hit and was awarded first base. This meant that Jack Kilcommins was going to get one more at bat.

As Jack approached the plate, the fans broke out of their collective stupor and erupted into applause. Jack knew he was not supposed to get a hit and that a deal was a deal. O’Malley stopped typing and watched. He did not know for sure what Jack would do but he expected him to keep his part of the deal.

The fans chanted “Jack, Jack, Jack” in unison as Kilcommins dug into the batter’s box. He screwed his spikes into the dirt and stared out at the flamethrower. It was power against power— The Yankees best versus The Red Sox best. The game was on the line. The fans came to their collective feet and cheered for Jack to work some magic. They did not think Jack was going to get another chance to hit and now that he had, they started to believe. A glimmer of hope took hold in the stands.

Seeing the fans come to their feet caused the stomach butterflies to churn in Jack’s stomach and anxiety washed over the beloved slugger. Should he make good on the deal he made earlier that week, or make all things right in the world with one swing of that bat? The first pitch came in and Jack closed his eyes at the last second—so fast that nobody, he hoped, could see it—and swung through the pitch. Strike one.

O’Malley thought he saw something unusual occurring in the batter’s box and grabbed his binoculars. As the second pitch came in, Dagger watched in 7x magnification. He saw for himself the eyes close of one Jack Kilcommins for the spit second during the swing, and second miss. Strike two. O’Malley put the binoculars down. His work was done and he was confident Jack would close his eyes a third time and swing through strike three, making the Red Sox loss official. He closed his laptop on this deal done.

As the pitcher settled into his stretch to throw pitch three, Jack closed his eyes immediately. He listened to the sounds from the mound to guess when the pitch was coming. This way if he missed, he missed and if he somehow connected, it would be an honest mistake, one that those who gave him the cash he hoped would forgive. All sounds went mute except the infield music. Time slowed and Jack kept his eyes closed. He saw the pitch coming in his mind and heard it with his ears. He swung the bat at where he guessed the ball was in the batter’s box.

The ball hit the bat right on the lettering and shattered it into shards. Pieces of splintered wood coated the infield as Jack ran full speed toward first base. He thought it would go off The Green Monster and had already decided to go for a double if he were right. But the ball climbed into the outfield and kept rising. It went into the Green Monster seats and Jack kept running.

He rounded all the bases, at peace with his decision. He touched home plate and pointed up to O’Malley in the press box who sat still, unable to speak, and unsure what just happened. His teammates rubbed his head and jumped up and down at home plate. Joy filled the air in Fenway. Jack Kilcommins had hit the ball.