THE BASEBALL GODS

by James Aquilone

Al Whitaker thought he handled last night's catastrophes pretty well. He only punched his office wall. It hurt like bloody hell when he broke his hand, but he didn't need his hand to do this job. He needed Boyd Salazar and Manny Lopez. His All-Star pitcher and MVP third baseman, however, were both on the disabled list after an accursed inning that saw Salazar knocked unconscious by a line drive and Lopez break his ankle fielding a routine grounder. They lost the game, too, their tenth in a row. It was the expansion team's worst spring training in its five-year history. Things weren't boding well for the upcoming season. And it was all because of that idiot rookie.

There was a knock on his door.

"Come in," Whitaker said after the third knock.

Danny Henderson looked like a ballplayer: tall, muscular, square-jawed, clean-shaven. But the kid didn't know the first thing about baseball. Whitaker saw that the first day of camp, when Henderson ran onto the field and stomped on the foul line like he was a Sasquatch. Whitaker would rather cut off his leg than step on that white chalk.

"You wanted to see me?" the rookie said.

Whitaker kept a Louisville Slugger, blackened and scarred from age, on a rack beside the door. Everyone who entered rubbed it for good luck. Henderson did not.

The kid looked nervous. Of course he did. It was the last week of spring training and here he was in the manager's office on an off-day, the rest of the team enjoying the last of the Florida sunshine before heading back up North.

"Don't sit," Whitaker said, rising. "Come with me."

They passed through the empty locker room and entered a gloomy tunnel that ran under the ballpark.

"You have a hell of a swing," Whitaker said. "You could be one of the greats. But I think you're still a little green."

The kid was silent. Their footsteps clanged hollowly off the cement walls. "Are you cutting me?" Henderson said in a timid voice.

Whitaker laughed. "I can't cut the team's best hitter, can I?" He patted the kid on the butt with his cast. While most of his teammates were mired in slumps, Henderson was leading the league in most of the batting categories. In fact, he hit two home runs in that nightmare game. "Besides, we're going to need you now that Lopez is out. Rotten luck, that was, last night."

"Yeah," Henderson said. He sounded concerned, but Whitaker thought he saw a tiny smirk on his face. "And losing the no-hitter like that. Tough game." The toughest Whitaker had ever seen as manager. Before he punched the wall, he did everything he could not to punch Henderson. The kid broke the biggest taboo in baseball: He talked about the no-hitter to Salazar, who was pitching the damn thing. The next inning, his two star players were down.

"You know anything about the baseball gods, Danny?"

"I don't pay any mind to that superstition mumbo-jumbo."

"Uh-huh," Whitaker grumbled, and tapped his ancient Louisville Slugger against the floor three times. Henderson looked at the bat, surprised. He probably hadn't noticed Whitaker slip it off its rack before they left the office. He probably hadn't noticed Whitaker tap his doorknob three times either. All his superstitions ran in threes.