THE BASEBALL GODS

They passed the door that led to the bullpen, and continued into the thickening shadows of the tunnel.

"Luck is as much a part of baseball as balls and strikes," Whitaker said, his voice low, grave. "It's a game of inches. That inch could mean the difference between being a champion or a bum. And in case you didn't know, the best team rarely wins it all. You need luck to go all the way, and luck is governed by the baseball gods. Anger them, kid, and you're done."

"Gods, huh?" Henderson smirked.

"Yeah, ask any Cubs fan. I've based my career on that mumbo-jumbo. Four straight World Series rings must mean I'm doing something right."

They were well beyond the ballpark when they came to the dead end. A metal ladder ran up the cement wall before them.

"Up, kid."

"Is this some team ritual? Haze the rookie?"

"Something like that."

When Henderson reached the top, he pushed open the hatch and climbed out.

The sun was blinding. Henderson stood in a clearing, shielding his eyes. Then he turned, and greeted his teammates with a wary look. They stood silently, in their uniforms and dark shades. Grass as tall as a man surrounded the clearing, which was in the shape of a baseball diamond.

"I had this place built behind the complex," Whitaker said. "It's my own little shrine, if you will."

Henderson looked around like a nervous rabbit.

"Spring is a time for sacrifice," Whitaker continued as he rested his bat across his shoulders. "Spring is a time for propitiation. And of course, spring is a time for baseball." Whitaker smiled blackly. "The baseball gods are spring gods, Daniel. They need sacrifices. You angered them, you failed to heed the superstitions. Now we must make an offering."

Salazar struck first, firing a fastball into Henderson's left eye. Henderson went down, hard. He didn't even have time to scream. Damn, if Salazar didn't hit ninety-five with that throw, concussion and all. Then Whitaker was on Henderson with the Louisville Slugger, swinging it three times with his good hand. Dark blood spread underneath the rookie, and the golden-brown dirt drank it up. Each member of the team took a turn with Whitaker's lucky bat.

As he led the team back to the ballpark, a path magically parting for them, Whitaker heard soft murmurings in the tall grass. It wasn't unlike the roar of the crowd after a big win. The grass swayed like seaweed at the bottom of the ocean. Whitaker knew the 2021 championship was in the bag. The New England Pagans always won when they made the baseball gods happy.