A Season in Hell
"Strike!" the umpire shouted, and pandemonium erupted in Fenway Park as fans stormed the field to celebrate the Boston Red Sox becoming the American League champions.
Irwin Dahlberg, the autocratic owner of what has often been called the greatest team in the history of baseball, looked away in disgust.
"Strike three," he grumbled to Farley Remington, his general manager. "And a called strike three at that. Miguel Mendez is the highest paid player in the majors, and in four years with us, he's only batted in one run in post-season games."
Remington shook his head, sharing the owner's frustration at yet another failed attempt to win the pennant. Just four years earlier Remington had scored quite a coup by signing the two-time MVP to a ten-year contract, a move he believed was sure to earn his team another World Series ring. But the slugger's bat, hot during the course of the regular season, cooled drastically during the play-offs. Had it only been one blown opportunity, just one post-season defeat, the loss might not have been so bitter. However, four straight years of lackluster play come October had left a sour taste in the general manager's mouth.
The Dropkick Murphys' baseball anthem "Tessie" played victoriously over the stadium's public address system as more than forty-six thousand people exited the park. In the Red Sox locker room, bottles were uncorked, and the triumphant players doused one another with champagne as sportscasters nudged their colleagues out of the way to interview the victors.
"Somewhere in this favored land the sun is shining bright," Dahlberg morosely quoted from Ernest Thayer's famous poem, "Casey at the Bat." "The band is playing somewhere, and somewhere hearts are light, and somewhere men are laughing, and somewhere children shout; but there is no joy in Mudville—the mighty Mendez has struck out."
Then he rose from his chair inside one of Fenway's luxury suites, feeling exhausted and old beyond his years.
"When I first bought this team," he said over his shoulder as he walked toward the exit, "it had just finished in fourth place for the sixth straight year. I swore I'd make it great again."
"You won three world championships in ten years," Remington reminded him. "That's not bad."
"Not bad for the Red Sox maybe, but I own the best team in baseball. Next year it better be us uncorking the Dom Pérignon, or there will be major changes throughout the organization."
Remington silently watched his boss walk away. He knew Dahlberg was not a man to issue idle threats. If the team did not win the pennant the following year, heads would roll. No one would be safe—not the manager, the coaches, the players or even Farley himself.
"If we lose again," he decided with a heavy sigh, "there will be hell to pay."
As it turned out, truer words were never spoken.
* * *
The hired chauffeur stood beside the limousine door with a solemn look on his face. He did not want his illustrious passenger to know that he was secretly delighted the Red Sox had won. It might, after all, affect the size of his tip.
"The Omni Parker House, sir?"
"No," Dahlberg replied. "I don't want to go back to the hotel just yet."
He could not face the horde of reporters who would shove microphones in his face and ask him questions about what changes he would make during the off-season. Or worse, they would inquire how he felt about losing to the Red Sox.
How the hell do they think I feel? My payroll equals the gross national product of a small country, and the team ended the season in second place. We only made the playoffs because we were the wild card.
Over the years he had been criticized for offering ballplayers large contracts. Some detractors even accused him of ruining baseball. He had often been told that he could not buy a championship team. At first, he had proved them wrong. Now ....
"Where would you like to go, sir?" the driver repeated his question.
"I'm sorry. My mind was wandering," Dahlberg admitted. "Go anywhere, preferably out of the city. Just drive until I tell you to stop."
The chauffeur pulled out of the parking garage and headed north. As the vehicle slowly inched through the heavy traffic around Fenway, Dahlberg poured himself a Scotch from the limo's bar. Unfortunately, he could not drink away his problems.
"Damned called strike," he griped, putting the empty glass back on the bar. "He didn't even swing at the ball."
Like his general manager, Dahlberg had been delighted when Miguel Mendez signed with his team four years earlier. He was to have been the mortar that cemented the team together. There was no denying that Mendez was one of the best hitters in the majors, possibly the best. But those hits came at a price, for along with his powerful bat came a huge ego. When he went into a highly publicized slump the previous season, the fans booed him and the reporters lambasted him. His pride injured, Mendez sulked and pointed the finger of blame for his own failures at his teammates. Dissension quickly spread through the club. Thankfully, the start of spring training brought a renewed sense of purpose to the team. Mendez got over his slump and enjoyed one of the best years of his career—until post-season, that is.
Dahlberg sighed. Farley Remington had his work cut out for him. He would have to sign a clutch hitter that would pick up where Mendez left off. Hopefully, there would be a good selection of players filing for free agency.
* * *
The chauffeur stifled a yawn. He had been driving around northeast Massachusetts for several hours, and Dahlberg had yet to express any desire to return to Boston. He looked down at the gas gauge. It would not be wise to let the tank get too low this late at night. The driver switched on the intercom and informed his passenger that they would be stopping shortly.
When they arrived at a Sunoco station that appeared to date back to the days of Mickey Mantle and Ted Williams, Dahlberg decided to step out of the car and stretch his legs. From out of the office came a mechanic with oily hair, a grease-stained uniform and an idiotic, toothless grin.
"What can I do for you fellas?" the man asked.
The chauffeur handed him an American Express card and told him to fill the tank with premium. Then he turned to his passenger.
"Is everything all right, sir?"
"Yes," the owner replied. "I guess you can head back to the Omni Parker House now."
The chauffeur nodded. He turned on the limo's GPS system, but it was no longer working.
"Could you tell me where the closest highway to Boston is?" he asked the mechanic.
"Well, the closest is Route 1, which is just on the other side of those woods," he replied, indicating a dirt road directly across from the gas station. "But the best way to go is to take this road north to Portsmouth and pick up I-95 South there."
Dahlberg saw no reason to drive north when they wanted to head south.
"We'll go through the woods," he instructed the chauffeur.
"I wouldn't do that if I was you," the toothless mechanic advised.
"Why not?" the chauffeur asked.
"Most folks around here stay clear of the area at night. Legend has it that Daniel Webster met the devil in those very woods."
Dahlberg laughed.
"The only devils I've ever met play hockey in New Jersey."
"It's not funny," the mechanic said defensively. "People have disappeared in those woods, never to be seen or heard from again."
"Thanks for your concern," the team owner said, "but the devil be damned. We'll take the quicker route back to Boston."
* * *
An hour later, as the chauffeur attempted to maneuver the large limo along the narrow, winding, pothole-ridden dirt road, he wished he had followed the mechanic's advice and driven to Portsmouth. When he finally came upon an open stretch of road, he put his foot down on the gas, hoping to make up for lost time.
Suddenly, he saw a deer in the headlights. He put on the brakes and turned the steering wheel. The limo swerved and slammed into a massive tree, causing the chauffeur to hit his head on the windshield and slip into unconsciousness.
Dahlberg, who had been dozing in the back seat, was jarred awake by the impact. He looked out the window and saw flames in the road ahead, so he opened the door and got out to investigate.
A tall, bearded figure in a crimson silk suit stepped out of the fire and bowed before the owner.
"Good evening, Mr. Dahlberg," the devil greeted him. "I'd shake your hand but ...."
Wisps of smoke came from the devil's fingertips as his skin began to cool in the chilly night air.
Dahlberg was speechless. First the Red Sox and now Satan. What a day he was having!
"I've wanted to meet you for some time now," the devil continued.
"You have?" Dahlberg managed to utter.
"Yes, I'm a big baseball fan—have been since Ty Cobb's day."
"You're familiar with Ty Cobb?"
"Isn't everyone? I saw him get his eight hundredth stolen base, but that wasn't nearly as exciting as seeing the Babe hit number sixty."
"No. I suppose not," Dahlberg muttered.
"Of course, things aren't like they were back in the Babe's day, but it's still the greatest game ever conceived by man. My one regret is that I never had the chance to play."
Satan wanted to play baseball! Had Dahlberg hit his head in the accident, too? Surely this was all a bizarre dream.
When the devil's skin cooled to a comfortable ninety degrees, he put his arm around the owner's shoulder.
"I was watching the game today," he said. "What a shame your team couldn't rally and beat the Red Sox. I was rooting for you all the way."
"If you're such a fan, why didn't you give us a hand—you know, work a little black magic."
The devil smiled, and a shiver ran down Dahlberg's spine.
"That's why I'm here now."
"What? Can you reverse time and let us play the game over? Maybe our manager could send in a pinch hitter for Mendez this time."
The devil chuckled.
"No. Last season is history. I'm going to help your team get to the World Series next year—and you'll walk away the champions."
"How do you propose to do that?"
"A trade. You'll get the best hitter and fielder in baseball history for a player to be named later."
"You want Mendez, right?" Dahlberg asked. "All the teams do, but few can afford him."
"Maybe, maybe not. I'll make my decision at the end of the season."
Lucifer reached into the pocket of his flashy suit and took out a contract.
"Have we got a deal?"
"What do I have to do? Sign it in blood?"
"No, ordinary ink will suffice," the devil laughed as he snapped his fingers and a fountain pen appeared out of thin air.
* * *
"Here we are, sir," the chauffeur announced as the limo came to a stop in front of the Omni Parker House.
Dahlberg opened his eyes.
"I must have fallen asleep," he said, looking around in confusion.
"Yes, sir. You slept all the way from Portsmouth."
"I had the damnedest dream."
"What was that, sir?"
"Nothing," Dahlberg replied, as he reached into his pocket for his wallet.
He gave the chauffeur a generous tip and headed in the direction of the elevator.
* * *
On the first of March, baseball players from across the country and as far away as Taiwan and Japan reported to spring training camps. Farley Remington joined the team in Florida. He and the team's manager would make the final decisions concerning the twenty-five-man roster after they had a look at what the players did during pre-season play.
Surprisingly, the first player dressed and on the field was Miguel Mendez, the team prima donna.
"Something's up with Miguel," Remington told Dahlberg.
"Do you mean he's hitting again now that post-season is over?"
"No. He seems to have lost some of his swagger. You know how he used to strut around the clubhouse like he was God himself."
"If he were God, he wouldn't have struck out with bases loaded in the ninth inning."
Remington ignored the owner's sarcasm.
"He's not acting so arrogant now. Look."
Dahlberg watched the team's star player—at least its highest paid one—respectfully waiting on the sidelines as his teammates took batting practice.
When it was Miguel's turn at bat, Remington noted, "That's not his usual batting stance."
Mendez swung on the first pitch, and the meat of the bat made contact. Whack! Moments later the ball was in the bleachers.
"Why the hell couldn't he do that last October? If he had, we might be the world champs, not the Red Sox."
Whack! The second pitch was hit harder and farther than the first.
"What a shot!" Remington exclaimed.
"Sure, he can hit now," Dahlberg snapped. "It's spring training; there's no pressure to perform."
Eight more pitches were thrown; all eight were hit out of the park.
"I told you there was something different about him," Remington declared.
"Yeah, the last time we saw him, he didn't even swing at the ball."
* * *
Dahlberg sat at his desk reading the sports section of the Daily News, when there was a knock on the door.
"Come in."
"Do you have a minute, Mr. Dahlberg?"
The owner was surprised to see Miguel Mendez standing in the doorway.
"You want to see me? I thought you let your high-priced agent do all the talking for you."
Mendez looked the owner directly in the eye. Dahlberg cringed when he saw what appeared to be flames in the player's pupils.
"Now you remember me, don't you?" the devil asked.
Dahlberg began to tremble.
"But it was a dream."
"No, it wasn't. I met with you in the woods not far from the New Hampshire/Massachusetts border. We made a deal, a trade, if you prefer. We agreed that in exchange for a player to be named later, I would make your team the world champions. Well, here I am to fulfill my part of the deal."
"B-but you're the d-devil. Can you play baseball?"
"Weren't you watching batting practice?"
"That was you?"
"Yes. It was me inside Miguel Mendez's body."
"And where is Mendez?"
"Don't worry about him. He'll be fine."
The devil looked at the clock above the owner's desk.
"Oh, I'd better get going. Infield practice starts in ten minutes."
Dahlberg could not believe he had actually made a deal with the devil. How could he trust him? Satan was notorious for driving hard bargains—but then so were some of the players' agents.
The owner looked at the large framed photograph that adorned the wall of his office. It had been taken the year after he bought the team. It was the first world championship the team won in over fifteen years. It was to have been the start of a new dynasty, and Miguel Mendez was to have been an integral part of it. That was why Dahlberg agreed to his agent's exorbitant demands.
The owner rose from his desk and walked to the window. His team was out in the field, and one of the coaches was hitting ground balls at a number of the players. Like a Gold Glove winner, Mendez fielded everything hit in his general direction.
The owner raised his eyebrows and nodded appreciatively. He had to give the devil his due: that S.O.B. could sure play baseball!
* * *
It was a season that would long be remembered by sports fans and would come to be known as the year of Miguel Mendez. From opening day on April seventh to the final game in September, the two-time MVP owned the game. He broke every single-season record for hitting and fielding and catapulted his team to the top of the division. From game one on, Dahlberg's team reigned at first place, never relinquishing the lead. Come October, however, the press, which had praised Mendez all season, expressed apprehension about his post-season performance—his Achilles heel.
Dahlberg was worried, too, not just about the outcome of the play-offs and World Series but also about his deal with the devil. Their agreement had specified the devil was entitled to "a player to be named later." It was a common baseball practice, but this was no mortal Dahlberg was dealing with. The player named at the conclusion of the World Series would not be traded to Baltimore or Oakland. The unlucky player chosen would lose his immortal soul.
Of course, if Satan chose to whisk Mendez off to hell, it would not bother Dahlberg too much. As far as he was concerned, Mendez's agent and the devil were pretty much the same. But what if Satan should demand the team's ace closer, its rookie prodigy who won over twenty games or—God forbid!—its All-Star shortstop, the most beloved player on the team?
Unlike his performance in previous years, Mendez shined in post season. Due largely to his phenomenal hitting and outstanding fielding, the team swept both the Indians and—ironically—the Angels to win the American League pennant.
As the World Series neared, Farley Remington was undoubtedly the happiest man in baseball. After all, it had been his decision to sign Miguel Mendez in the first place. Many people doubted his wisdom in doing so, but the past year brought him vindication.
"Here it is," he announced prior to the start of game one. "This is the beginning of our new dynasty."
Dahlberg did not reply. He had been unusually quiet and pensive since the close of the regular season.
"Is something wrong?" the general manager asked. "Don't tell me you're still worried that Mendez will choke under the pressure."
The owner longed to confide in his general manager, to tell him about the deal he had made with Lucifer and about his dread over the identity of the player the devil would demand as payment. But good sense prevented him from doing so. Remington was a man with his feet planted firmly on the ground. He believed in trades, draft picks and free agents, but little else.
"I'm not worried about Mendez at all," Dahlberg declared. "Why should I be? He's not the same man he was last October."
The owner's faith in Satan's ability to win the World Series was justified. In four games, he hit six homeruns, stole five bases, drove in fourteen runs and assisted in making over thirty outs.
When the corks were popped in the locker room after the fourth game win, the catcher, shortstop and left-fielder were eager to douse Mendez with champagne, but their teammate was nowhere to be found. The left-fielder shrugged and emptied the bottle over the starting pitcher, and the celebration continued long into the night, regardless of the fact that Mendez never showed up.
While many people commented on the star player's absence, no one noticed that Dahlberg had not gone to the locker room to congratulate his team. Not even the general manager knew that as the last of the fans left the stadium, the team's owner was boarding a private plane bound for Boston.
* * *
The chauffeur was waiting at Logan Airport, amazed that so prominent a man as Irwin Dahlberg would remember him and request him by name.
"Hello again, Mr. Dahlberg," he said with a slight bow. "Congratulations on your team winning the World Series."
"Thanks," the owner replied and then got down to business. "As I told you on the phone, I want to go back to those woods across from the Sunoco station. You do remember how to get there, don't you?"
"Not exactly, but I'm pretty sure I can find it again," the chauffeur replied, wondering why on earth Dahlberg wanted to go to a deserted woods in the middle of nowhere instead of celebrating with the members of his organization.
Oh, well, it isn't any of my business, he concluded.
"Good," the owner said and climbed into the back of the limousine.
Close to three hours later the chauffeur spotted the old gas station.
"This is the place," he announced. "And here's the dirt road that leads to Route 1. Are you sure you want me to turn here?"
The chauffeur had no recollection of previously driving through the woods or of crashing the limo into a tree. He honestly believed he had heeded the mechanic's warning and driven to Portsmouth.
"I'm sure."
Just as he had done during the earlier journey into the woods, the chauffeur picked up speed when he came to the open stretch of road, and once again he swerved to avoid a deer and struck a tree. Dahlberg got out of the limo and patted the unconscious chauffeur on the shoulder.
"Don't worry. You and the car will be fine, and you won't remember a thing tomorrow morning."
Dahlberg then turned and walked toward the flames in the middle of the road.
"I'm here to honor my part of the bargain," he shouted into the night.
Suddenly, Satan walked out of the flames. Dahlberg recognized the dark beard, the smoking fingertips and the crimson suit.
"You're a man of your word, I see," the devil said respectfully. "How refreshing! So many humans over the centuries have tried to go back on a deal after it was struck."
"You won the World Series for us," Dahlberg conceded. "We probably couldn't have done it without you."
"Thank you for saying so. Now—for the player to be named later."
Dahlberg shook his head.
"I've been giving this matter a great deal of thought. I had no right to bargain with another man's life or soul."
"But we had a deal," the devil protested.
"Yes, and I intend to uphold it. I only ask that you take me and not one of my players. I was the one who wanted a winning team, regardless of the cost. It's my soul that should be forfeit."
The sound of the devil's laughter echoed through the still woods.
"I don't want your soul," he declared. "I don't want anyone's soul. For the first time since the dawn of creation, I had fun. It's a shame that professional athletes seem to have forgotten that that's what baseball was all about. They've become so obsessed with salaries, incentives, contract clauses and options that somewhere along the line their love of the game was lost."
"Baseball has become a multibillion-dollar business, and it must be handled as such if it is to survive."
"I suppose you're right," the devil admitted. "You're a businessman, after all, and so am I. And as a businessman I'm going to—what do you call it?—opt out of my contract."
"Opt out? I don't understand."
"I don't want any payment in return for helping win the championship. In fact, I'd like to thank you for allowing me the honor of playing on your team."
Those were the words every owner dreamed of hearing. Who would have believed they would be spoken by the devil?
"What about Miguel Mendez?"
"I'd rather not go into details, but you'll no doubt find him more ... cooperative in the future. After all, he's just sat out the season in hell. I'm sure he'll find New York more to his liking."
Dahlberg turned toward the limo, but the devil called him back.
"I almost forgot to give this to you."
Irwin Dahlberg looked down at the uniform Satan had proudly worn all season long.
"Why don't you keep it?" the owner laughed. "Those blue and white pinstripes are much more becoming on you than that red suit."
"Casey at the Bat" written by Ernest Lawrence Thayer, first published in the San Francisco Examiner on June 3, 1888.
Salem was once a pitcher; his specialty was hurling the fur ball!
