Gary Varsho stood before the mirror looking for inspiration. The guy who had toiled in relative obscurity in Costa Rican gambling circles for five years was about to become a player. For months he had planned his move away from ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! and now his moment had arrived. This World Series, this game 7, was not about the Cubs erasing their history or the Yankees adding to their own. This was his World Series, his game 7. He was five hours away from his biggest score, five hours away from leaving ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! and venturing out on his own. El Duque versus Jon Lieber, and the odds makers had the Cubs at +130. No one thought the Cubs would win this game, not even at home. Varsho called in every chit he had and had friends, associates, glommers-on, groupies and other assorted derelicts place a million dollars worth of bets on the Cubs-all at ¡Ese Se Jugada Profesional! The $1.3 million he stood to win would cover his start-up expenses for his own establishment, his permanent move to the Cayman Islands, a lifetime of pina coladas, and a Panama hat. Not only that, it would put a big-time dent in the coffers of his soon-to-be ex-employers. He laughed at the thought.
He had only two things left to do: a well-placed phone call and . . .
"Come on, Varsho! Think!" he shouted encouragement to himself. "C'mon. Be my muse.
"Bet With Gary." "¡Gary, Si!" "May the Odds Be With You." . . .
It was a warm October 28 in Chicago--60 degrees and still. Chuck Knoblauch soaked it all in. His past two seasons in baseball were memorable, though wholly unpleasant. Despite the world championship and yet another World Series appearance, Knoblauch had suffered the worst fate that can befall a professional athlete--the yips. It's the unexplainable mental block that causes the world-class golfer to miss two-foot gimme putts, the promising left-handed pitcher to pepper the backstop more than the catcher's mitt, and, in Knoblauch's case, the all-star second baseman to have a better chance of knocking out Keith Olberman's mom in the stands than throwing out a runner at first base. Knoblauch was exiled to left field; only a designated hitter could do less damage defensively.
Despite the outward show of support from his teammates, Knoblauch felt their curious looks, the mistrust in their voices, and faces that communicated, "You don't have it. You're not one of us." Oh, how he wanted to show them, to get even with them.
He shuddered suddenly as he thought of his ordeal, but just as quickly the bad thoughts left him. This was the World Series, game 7. He had been a nonentity in the last World Series, against the Mets, when he was relegated to the designated hitter role because of his defensive yips. This year he was contributing mightily--a .417 batting average through the first six games--and certainly he was a leading candidate for Series MVP. He was enjoying baseball and just feeling good again. It took him a long time to climb from his mental abyss. Now, this was his moment, preparing for game 7 and another championship, one just for him.
"Dammit," Knoblauch said out loud though he was alone outside the batting cage. "I gotta shit." He dropped his bat and scurried back to the clubhouse.
"Dammit," Jack Boomer complained out loud in his hospital room. "I gotta shit. I think I forgot how. . . . Nurse!"
Once again, his male nurse entered. "Mr. Boomer?"
"Holy Lord," Grandpa muttered to himself. "I can't catch a break. One last shit. That's probably all I've got left in me. Just once, I'd like to have some 22-year-old tart wipe my ass. Just once. Instead I get this queer."
"Mr. Boomer? Did you call?"
"I gotta shit!" he barked back.
"I'll get a bed pan."
In the Yankee clubhouse, Knoblauch sat with his baseball pants around his ankles, his Oprah magazine spread to page 89. As he read, "Who Are You, Really?" his mind wandered to the whorehouse he, Paul O'Neill and Tino Martinez had visited in Montreal during the All-Star break. He became erect as he thought about the $200 he spent blindly on what his whore had promised would be something he had never before experienced. He recalled how she had led him to the men's room and into a stall. "Please, Mr. Jeter, sit here," she said to Knoblauch, motioning to the toilet. Knoblauch dropped his pants and obliged. "Now, Mr. Jeter, please try to defecate."
"Excuse me?"
"Trust me, Mr. Jeter. Please try to defecate."
"What are you going to do?"
"Mr. Jeter, please. I promised you something you had never experienced. I assume by your questions I am fulfilling that promise. Please, you must trust me."
Knoblauch was taken by her dark hair, squeezed unnaturally into tight curls. He was taken by her eyes, rich and brown. He was taken by her voice, sweet and smothered in a French accent. He gave into her and began to try to squeeze out his portion of the Buffalo wings and beer. As his face clenched and his energy focused on the business end of his digestive tract, he began to make progress. The feces moved south, his face relaxed and he let out a sigh. Desiree seized the moment. She grabbed his cock with her right hand and moved in with her head and swallowed his cock whole. She worked vigorously with both hand and mouth as Knoblauch continued to move his bowels, cooing to this combination of sensations. Desiree didn't stop until the second baseman with the yips was spent at both ends. As shit floated beneath him and a load of cum rested on his stomach, he looked at Desiree and asked through labored breath, "What . . . what do you call that?"
"That, Mr. Jeter," she answered with a smile, "is a blumpy."
"A blooompy," Knoblauch said, smiling as he mimicked her accent and his mind returned to Chicago in October. "I love how she said that. Blooompy."
Before leaving the toilet, Knoblauch acknowledged his latest erection and masturbated. As he gathered himself and prepared to return to the field, the clubhouse phone rang. He gave it a curious look and then picked up the receiver and held it to his ear.
"Chuck?" the voice said through the phone.
"Yeah."
"You ready?"
"Yeah."
"OK, my friend. This is it."
"The girl is safe, right?"
"Yes, the girl is safe."
"OK, we're on."
"Good luck."
As the male nurse finished cleaning Boomer's asshole, Boomer became noticeably aroused. Immediately after, he became embarrassed.
"It's OK, Mr. Boomer," the nurse comforted him. "It's quite natural."
"Will you please tell me what's natural about having a man's finger up my ass and me lying here with a hard-on!?"
The nurse finished, smiled, and left the room. Boomer switched on game 7 from his remote control and then masturbated.
"Ladies and gentlemen, it has come to this: the Chicago Cubs are three outs away from their first World Series championship since 1908," Sean McDonough told his viewers as the Cubs took a 5-3 lead into the ninth inning. "No other professional sports team in North America has gone so long without a championship. It's a day many of us thought we would never see. This crowd has been on its feet and making noise since well before the game began. Now, they are at a fever pitch.
"Jeff Fassaro has been called in to face Jorge Posada, Scott Brosius, and Luis Sojo. Here we go. Posada steps in and looks at ball one."
Tim McCarver: "I won't even try to describe the feeling in this ball park. I've never experienced anything like it."
Posada rolled a ground ball to Cubs shortstop Ricky Gutierrez, who threw across to first base.
"Two outs away," McDonough said.
Gary Varsho sat alone in his apartment, pacing back and forth with his fourth vodka and tonic in his hands. He quickly made a fist and thrust it subtly forward. "Two more. Let's go," he said to the TV.
Just three minutes later, the face of the game had changed. In the television set at Varsho's apartment, Mark Kotsay's image filled the screen. His head was bowed and he stood with his hands on his hips. The graphic at the bottom of the screen read like a police blotter: "Mark Kotsay, Cubs, 2 errors this inning, 3 in series."
"As much as your heart goes out to this young man and as tough an inning as it's been," Tim McCarver's voice carried through the TV set, "he is still one error away from Willie Davis' World Series record set in 1966."
"For one inning," McDonough corrected.
"Yes, for one inning."
A 5-3 Cubs' lead had quickly transformed into a 5-5 tie. With two on and one out in the ninth inning, Knoblauch had hit a fly ball to Kotsay, who first dropped it and then threw into the Cubs' dugout trying to get Sojo at third. Both runners scored and Knoblauch stood on third base with the go-ahead run as Mariano Rivera warmed up in the Yankees' bullpen. With Knoblauch at third, Fassaro stared down at the next Yankees' hitter, Derek Jeter. "Fucking Kotsay," muttered Fassaro, the unlucky recipient of Kotsay's misfortunes.
"Fucking Kotsay," Knoblauch muttered at third.
"Fucking Kotsay," Varsho said to the TV.
Fassaro gathered himself and delivered to Jeter, who lifted a fly ball to center field. Kotsay didn't move as he waited for it to come down from the Chicago sky.
"I don't believe it," McCarver screamed. "Here we go again."
"Kotsay's under it," McDonough said evenly. "And I must admit I'm rooting for him. Either way, it's deep enough to score Knoblauch."
A roar grew from the crowd and funneled in stereo through Varsho's TV.
"Wait a minute!" McCarver screamed again. "Knoblauch lost track of the outs!" As Kotsay waited for the catch, Knoblauch was past home plate and headed for the Yankees' dugout. As every other Yankee player and coach flailed his arms trying to direct Knoblauch back to third base, Kotsay made the catch and fired a one-hop strike to Bill Mueller at third. Knoblauch tried to scramble back but was confused as to whether he had to retouch home plate. He slipped as he desperately raced for third, lost his shoe, and was out by 30 feet. End of the inning.
"Atta boy, Chuckie," Varsho said.
"I . . . do . . . not . . . be-lieve what we've seen this inning," McCarver screamed as the crowd's roar grew louder in Varsho's TV and Kotsay was greeted with joy in the Cubs' dugout. Knoblauch knelt on all fours, between third and home, head bowed, one shoe on, one shoe near home plate.
McCarver continued his rant: "Do you remember Fred Merkle? The last time the Cubs won the World Series, it was 1908. The only way they even made it to the World Series was because of the most famous base-running blunder in baseball history. The New York Giants' Fred Merkle failed to advance all the way from first to second on what should have been a game-winning hit late in the season. The quick-thinking Cubs turned it into a force play and went on to win the pennant. Ever since, it's been known as Merkle's Boner. Well, Mr. Merkle, wherever you are, there's a new boner in town."
The bottom of the ninth started seemingly uneventful. "Short fly to left," McDonough called with the all the routineness the play deserved. "Knoblauch waves off Jeter . . . he dropped it! Eric Young is at second base and Knoblauch is beside himself." More crowd noise through the TV. Varsho sat and sipped in his apartment. "Very good, Chuck."
McCarver again: "Ladies and gentlemen, all those cards and letters of encouragement you had planned to send to Mark Kotsay, please send them to Chuck Knoblauch instead. . . . Unbelievable!"
McCarver drew out more dated trivia and related the story of Fred Snodgrass, also of the New York Giants, circa 1912. Snodgrass had dropped a fly ball in the final game of the World Series that led to a series-clinching victory for the Boston Red Sox.
"That was known as Snodgrass' Muff. So tonight we've had Knoblauch's Boner and Knoblauch's Muff."
McDonough again. "Chuck, my friend, my heart goes out to you."
The sound of empathy came only from the two broadcasters. Every other sound within range of a Fox microphone was of sheer joy. If Chuck Knoblauch had to suffer a nervous breakdown on national television for the Cubs to win the World Series, so be it. Here's an organization, the Yankees, with championships coming out of every pore and the Cubs--the Cubs--all they want is one every hundred years or so. So if Chuck Knoblauch's mental health has to be sacrificed for the benefit of all of Chicago, well . . .
"Fuck you, Knoblauch!" "Hey Knoblauch! What size straightjacket do you wear?" "Hit another one to Chuck!" "Knoblauch, you can't catch and you can't throw. Can you at least suck cock?" "What position will you play next? First base coach?" "Fuck you, Knoblauch!"
The jeers rained down on Knoblauch from the left-field bleachers as the inning evolved: a strikeout from Ricky Gutierrez, an intentional walk to Sammy Sosa, and a pop out from Rondell White. McDonough set the scene for the viewers: "Runners at first and second, two outs, bottom of the ninth, and we're in a 5-5 tie in the wildest finish to a World Series anyone can remember. Now it's the left-handed hitting Brent Mayne, acquired from Colorado in August after Todd Hundley went down with an injury. Mayne will hit for Fassaro."
McCarver: "What a situation for Brent Mayne. His first at-bat in this World Series, in any World Series, and he's facing Mariano Rivera with two outs in the bottom of the ninth inning of game 7."
Back to McDonough. "Rivera, working very deliberately, takes a walk behind the mound. This crowd has been in a constant roar since they opened the gates . . . and it's only grown louder in conjunction with the unbelievable events of the most improbable inning in World Series history."
"Improbable!?" McCarver answered. "This is pure fiction."
From his hospital bed, Boomer barked, "McCarver's an asshole!"
McDonough: "Two and two now to Mayne. I have never heard 39,432 people sound so loud. We'll let them tell the story. . . ."
The shrill grew as Mayne sneaked a look back at Jorge Posada and saw the Yankees' catcher slide to the outside part of the plate. "Slider away," Mayne thought. "He's been tipping it all Series." Rivera looked back at Young and then dealt to Mayne. Slider away at the knees. Mayne locked in and drove a hard line drive between Brosius and Jeter, one that was headed directly toward Knoblauch in left field.
At the hospital, Jack Boomer watched Mayne's drive sail toward left field and immediately became erect. He momentarily let his glance dart from the TV to his happy member and he thought, "Hee-hee, Merkle's Boner; Boomer's Boner."
Knoblauch acted even quicker than Grandpa. His baseball instincts took over and he instantly processed the geometry of the situation: "Charge hard. I can't catch it on the fly but I'll get it on a perfect hop. Chest high. I gotta shot. I can throw him out."
Young's thought process was much less involved. "Two out, ball headed toward the outfield. Score."
The ball got to Knoblauch before Young touched third base. Knoblauch was right: he got a chest-high bounce with all his momentum directed toward home plate. As Mayne watched the flight of the ball, he thought, "Fuck! Hit it too fucking hard!" Young began to cut the turn at third base. Knoblauch released the ball as Young hit third . . . awkwardly.
"Noooooooooooooo!!!" Ron Santo screamed over WGN radio.
Young stumbled, fell, and somersaulted toward the Cubs' dugout.
"Young fell!" McDonough screamed through the TV.
As Young scrambled to his feet, looking for an escape route, he saw it sailing overhead. Knoblauch's throw went over Brosius, over Posada, over the backstop, and into the stands.
"Knoblauch's throw is in the grandstand!" McDonough screamed. "Young scores the winning run and the Cubs are World Series champions!"
Jack Boomer screamed, "Hooray!" and then ejaculated at the same moment. "Hey! Wait! Not yet!"
The TV showed the Cubs in a pile around home plate . . . the unbridled commotion in the crowd. And then Knoblauch, on his knees and by himself in left field.
"That poor man," McCarver finally said.
"May no athlete ever again experience what Chuck Knoblauch has experienced in the past 30 minutes," McDonough added.
In his apartment, Varsho kept his emotions in check. He swallowed the last of his cocktail and smiled. "Nice touch, Chuck."
In the 20 minutes since Knoblauch's throw landed in the grandstand, Ron Santo had said three words on the air: "I," "unbelievable," and "holy." Personal gratification went head-to-head with professionalism and the former not only won, it easily covered the spread. Twice Santo had yanked off his headset and looked to join in a celebration that was not happening, not in the oh-so cramped WGN press box. His partner, Pat Hughes, had been left to draw the pictures for the listening audience. "Once we reign in Ron, I'm sure he's going to be happy to share his thoughts with us," Hughes said, laughing at his color man. Santo even excused himself ("I think Ron wants to join in the fun down in the clubhouse," Hughes guessed). Alas, Santo sought a thorough release of his emotions. Following the first-ever World Series victory celebrated in Wrigley Field's 87-year history, Ron Santo deposited his semen into stall No. 2 in the press box men's room.
"Chuck, anything you'd like to say?"
Nothing in the Yankees' clubhouse was more noticeable than the quiet. Joe Buck of Fox had the unenviable assignment of interviewing the losing team, and no losing team had ever felt as low as the Yankees on this night. Knoblauch stared straight down and shook his head. Joe Torre entered the camera's view and began fielding questions and shielding his left fielder. Torre was stoic and calm.
"Things like this happen. Unfortunately for us, it happened tonight in this situation. That's baseball. But we can't overlook everything the Yankee organization has accomplished, not only this year, but in the past six years. Four world championships and five American League pennants. I'm proud of all these guys. There are nothing but professionals in this locker room." As Torre finished speaking, Paul O'Neill finished masturbating in the shower.
The clubhouse phone rang. "Hello."
"Hey, Chuck."
"Yes . . . ," Chuck Battilio answered quizzically. Battilio was a Yankees' clubhouse attendant who made road trips only during the postseason. He dutifully answered the phone, but he couldn't understand how the strange voice on the other end had recognized his.
"Great work, my friend."
"Huh?"
"We're in. We're all set up. Varsho y Amigos. Way to go. We couldn't have done it without you. I owe you. Big time."
Chuck Battilio finally figured it out.
"Asshole!" he shouted back into the phone and then slammed it down.
Torre walked by and stopped when he heard the mild-mannered Yankee employee slam the phone. "What was that?"
"Some asshole calling to congratulate Knoblauch," Battilio said, accenting "congratulate" by miming quote marks with his fingers. Torre paused and stared directly at Battilio. "Don't do that," Torre said curtly. "I hate that."
Varsho, Brant Brown, and Matt Mieske met the following Wednesday at the Piano Man on Clark and Grace. They had taken their own--now former--employer for $1.3 million. To all but one of their accomplices, those who placed the wagers, they had paid a 5% commission. Their last accomplice, their inside man, Chuck Knoblauch, received $235,000 and 20% of all future earnings of Varsho y Amigos.
"How did you ever get him?" Mieske asked.
"Talk to this guy," Varsho said, motioning to Brown.
Brown smiled, tipped back his pint of Sam Adams and fielded a question from the waitress with the Russian accent before answering Mieske.
"Would you like anything to eat?" the waitress asked, staring directly at Brown.
"Do you have any Russian pussy?" he shot back.
The three laughed and the waitress quickly walked away. "He wanted out," Brown said. "He couldn't take it anymore. He hated left field. He hated how his every play, good or bad, ended up on ESPN. He couldn't win. If he made a good play, they would say, 'Hey, look at Chuck Knoblauch playing some good defense,' as if surprised. If he made an error, it was 'Knoblauch's at it again.' He just hated baseball. And he grew to hate the Yankees. He said O'Neill was the worst. He said the others tried to hide it. But O'Neill would pace up and down the dugout, screaming, 'Why do we keep that guy? He's a fucking head case!' Screaming it, like no one was around."
"I always thought O'Neill was an asshole," Varsho interjected.
"But where did you meet him?" Mieske asked. "He threw the World Fucking Series. He's not going to do that for just anyone."
Brown told the story of Yes I'm Professional Still--YIPS--the support group for athletes with serious mental blocks and those who had suffered shame and embarrassment on the field. "They were all there," Brown said. "Me, Wohlers, Ankiel, Knoblauch, Sax, Dale Murphy, Buckner, a few golfers . . . Bobby Clampett. A strange group. We just sat around and talked how we fucked up on the field. That was supposed to make us feel better. Knoblauch and Ankiel, those guys are really fucked up. They really just had no clue. I felt sorry for them. Knoblauch said he knew, he knew, that he had no chance of making a good throw. The ball was going to go anywhere but to Tino Martinez. He said it was like he had no control of his right arm, like it wasn't even attached to his body."
"Twilight Zone, man," Mieske said.
"Yeah, he just wanted to quit. So we got to talking about a month ago and I told him about Gary's gig."
"That's when it all came together," Varsho said. "I've been wanting to go out on my own for some time. It's just crazy to kick all that money upstairs. Those stooges don't do anything. Set the lines, my ass. They just read the paper and get their odds from there. All they did was come up with the cash and move out of the States. Hell, any asshole can do that."
The three raised their glasses and drank.
"I needed one more big score," Varsho continued. "Brant told me about Knoblauch and I knew we could parlay that. He makes an error or two and no one blinks. 'Hey look, Knoblauch fucked up. Who knew?'" he laughed.
"The throw to end the game, that was brilliant," Mieske said.
"No, no," Brown answered. "That's the funny part. He got caught up in the moment and wanted to throw that sonofabitch out. He really thought he had a chance and wanted one last shining moment. He fucked up on his own."
More laughter. "And the girl?"
"That was his final condition," Varsho said. "A nice chunk of change to start and then a stream of money--tax free--for the rest of his life. But he said he wouldn't do it without the girl."
"Get this," Brown interrupted. "The guy's hooked on vicodin and he's popping them like they were Chiclets. We're getting high before game 2 and he's all over Gyp. Can't keep his hands off her. So they finally go back to my room and she gets him off and he falls in love. Comes out screaming, 'Best sex I've ever had! Ever! Best sex! Best sex!'
"I was laughing my ass off. That is one fucked up dude."
"Fuckin' Knoblauch," Varsho said, laughing. "Here's to Chuck." And they raised their glasses again.
On a secluded stretch of beach on Key West, Knoblauch and Gyp walked hand in hand. They sipped drinks festooned with paper umbrellas. They talked about nothing and they talked about everything and felt like they were 18 years old again. Knoblauch stopped and turned to Gyp.
"Have you ever given a blumpy?"