PART I:

Corpus Connie

Coco Gentilly was about to check “Lost and Found,” because her last good nerve was nowhere to be found. The phone calls today had been more unsettling than usual.

Five years ago, she’d figured that taking the job as front-desk receptionist for a Major League Baseball team, the Oakland A’s, would have been a fairly low-stress environment. Perfect gig for a single mom, raising a rowdy, sports-loving boy with ADD. And for the first few years, it had been. Especially with that pandemic.

But 2023 was different altogether. Oakland, the baseball-loving Oakland anyway, was presently an electric rodeo shitshow of hurt feelings, unwavering corporate greed and legislative pandering. Coco fielded dozens of irate, irrational and unhinged phone calls on the daily; everything from sobbing season-ticket holders and power-hungry wannabes to local celebs and politicians, all desperate to save the day, and maybe somehow fend off another Vegas invasion. After all, those no-good Nevadans had already seduced and stolen the town’s beloved Raiders a few years back. And now the A’s, less treasured but still the last kid left in town, were rumored to be abducted and desert-bound. Gertrude Stein’s infamous Oaklandian summary – “There is no there there” — was sadly becoming a sporting prophecy.

Truth be told, Coco hadn’t given two hollers about baseball when she landed this job, but over time, the underdog nature of the team and its fan base (plus repeated lobby viewings of the movie with that delicious white boy Brad Pitt), had worked its charms on her. As a bonus, her son Miles deemed the gear she brought home, in the team’s green and gold colors, “fresher than fresh.”

Even worse than the plaintive voices were the occasional wackadoo walk-ins. Like this one right now, a truly decrepit gentleman with piercing eyes and paper-thin skin approaching her desk in Heritage Hall, wafting distinct hints of mothballs, mildew and… were those diesel fumes?

Nonetheless, she resumed re-watching her favorite Instagram video of the day: a herd of wild goats on a county road, feasting on a buffet of Reddi-Whip cans disgorged from an overturned semi, all thoughtfully set to the tune of Kelis’ “Milkshake”. The oldster was only about fifteen feet away, but judging from his rickety gait, Coco figured she had an eternity of buffer before she’d need to plaster on that fake smile her bosses insisted upon.

However, BLAM.

The seriously senior citizen dropped a piece of gum or something on her desk. As she looked up, he blushed, while oddly clutching his prominent nose against his lean, weathered face. Coco scrunched her eyes and scanned the counter for the offending item. But the gum or whatever was nowhere to be seen. Weird. There was, however, a significant stench about. Old boy doffed his round straw hat, revealing where the vintage vapors emanated from. Although his dark suit, with the severe white collared shirt, no doubt also kicked up some serious funk.

“Apologies, young lady,” he said. “It’s been quite a journey.”

The old man sighed and looked around the lobby, taking in the World Series trophies, and did a double-take at the myriad pristine A’s jerseys prominently displayed on stands, bearing names like Eckersley, McGwire, Fingers, Jackson. The corners of his wide, friendly mouth tugged upward, and his pale seastorm eyes shone brightly under cloudy brows. “Do they launder the fellas’ pants on different days from the jerseys, I wonder? More cost efficient that way, I suppose?”

Coco, gaping at this dignified yet marginally deranged visitor, decided not to answer that one. As a teen, she’d been involuntarily enlisted to care for an elderly great uncle for a few months at the end of his life. Maybe because of those surreal conversations, she could sense when spoken words were not exactly intended for the outside world, and were more like stray dogs, italicized terriers, wandering from their unkempt yards.

Then the gentleman snapped out of his reverie, patted his lapel as if to reassure himself, and cleared his throat. “What I mean to say is… Might I speak to the owner, please?”

Oh lord here we go again. Coco suppressed a sigh and smiled tightly while calculating how best to send grandpa packing.

“Well sir, he’s a little busy right now,” she said. “What with running the team, the vigilante mobs and protestors and whatnot. Maybe you could leave a message for Mr. Fissure, or come back tomorrow?”

She figured politeness would probably work with this brittle beanpole, seeing as how he’d actually tipped his hat on the way in, like some Charlie Chaplin movie or something. And she’d also clocked that his posture was about 1000% better than Miles’s, so elder-berry was at least raised right.

“I’m afraid that won’t do, my dear. I was overly patient with Roy and Earle at the end, and that’s how we’re all in this fine mess today,” the man said. “No, no, from what I read in the morning edition of today’s paper, the sooner we speak, the better. Unless of course he’s out scouting the bush leagues somewhere, to shore up this lackluster roster of yours.”

The silvery senior winked, and Coco could’ve sworn that his nose shifted ever so slightly on his face when he did so. Like false teeth, only… a nose.

On top of that, the Oldest Man in Oaktown was now up in here playing the dozens on her team while her job was in jeopardy? Hell naw. 

“Sir. My apologies, but that really isn’t possible. Look, what’s your name? You can put it on this list right here.” She offered a clipboard tattooed with serpentine scrawls and bilious felt-tip epithets. “I can even do it for you, if it’s a bad arthritis day.”

The gauzy geezer self-consciously touched his nose, then drew himself up– he really was a tall drink of water, Coco noticed– and theatrically reached under that lapel into his jacket pocket, waving off the clipboard.

“My dear, this is a rather urgent matter. You can please inform your employers that Mr. Mack is back. And, for now, the move should be off.”

With that, the elderly gent pulled out a small, battered cardboard box that looked like it might hold a few cigars. Mr. Mack plopped it dramatically on the desk, whereupon a small metal knob and some kind of wire nudged open the lid and dangled from inside. Did he say urgent matter? Coco’s eyes bulged, and her bedazzled index finger snaked to the underside of the desk, finding the red “security” button.

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^

A vigorously blazered security man had taken the headache baton from Coco and tried to run with it. But a hernia happened.

“Old-timer, I don’t care if you’re two days from the grave, that don’t mean you get a free pass to come into my house and play the fool! This ain’t no terrorist Make-a-Wish situation, now is it?”

Demetrious Adair warily eyeballed the suspicious box, now on the table in the bay-view conference room of the team’s Jack London Square offices. The team’s security supervisor had been frazzled these past couple months. The “Reverse Boycotts” run by groups of protesting fans hadn’t been violent, it’s true, but he knew how simmering tempers could boil over. Jokes turn into jabs turn into arson. And let’s face it, there were tons of crazy A’s fans making weird and sometimes incendiary comments and phone calls all around town.

The organization had already received a package of “bloody” money (turned out to be ketchup), with a stuffed horsehead and A’s-themed poker chips in a package that the FBI deemed threat-level worthy. The security supervisor stared more intently at this box, which probably was just full of old ticket stubs and expired Crackerjack, but you never know. Why wouldn’t an old diehard A’s fan like this dude wanna go next level– take himself out, get on the news, and shame the management on his way to the hereafter? Demetrious didn’t want to have to speculate, so he tried to interrogate. “You got a bomb in there, or what, Farmer Hoggett??”

“Young man,” the old man said with the utmost dignity and umbrage. “The contents of that box are not explosive in the least. I am no Bolshevik. However, I do believe they are sufficient to offer legal proof that I, as the previous owner of this ballclub, could very well be the next owner. I wish to come to an amicable resolution with management and the League President.”

Demetrious blinked, swallowed and then blew a beautiful raspberry that made the older gent’s eyes flash.

“You tryna tell me you Charlie O’ McFinley?!” Demetrious said. “I mean, c’mon, Gramps, I may be dumb, but I ain’t stupid! I grew up in Oaktown. I know all about these A’s! That crazy ol’ coot died over 20 years ago, and his orange balls are buried six feet under! What’s your angle here? You lookin’ for free tickets or some shit, is that it? Or what, I got it– you want to take home the bleacher seats you and the missus macked out in back when Vida Blue was doin’ the do??”

The gntleman stared intently at Demetrious, trying to sift through the vulgarity and incomprehensible modern jargon. He was contemplating the best way to make his intentions clear and his seriousness understood. Also, did he say ‘Macked out?’ 

He plucked his hat off the table, plopped it on his head, and leaned over and opened the box, despite his host’s protest. A rattled Demetrious half-dove under the conference table, banging his elbow in the process and cursing up a storm. But no ka-boom. Course not! Broke-down broke-ass A’s fans can’t afford nitroglycerin, shoulda known.

Undaunted, the gentleman extracted a few old hotel napkins with some writing and signatures upon them. There was also a gold pocket watch with a dangling Albert chain and a winding crown nob that may, to a frazzled eye raised on Batman reruns, have resembled some kind of detonator.

“I am not this O’Finley, fellow sir, nor Arnold Johnson, wherever that carpetbagger might be. Now, as I told the exotic young beauty out there– I am McGillicuddy. Cornelius Alexander McGillicuddy. ‘Slats’ back in my playing days. But in the public sphere, I am known as Mister Connie Mack. For 50 years, I was manager of the five-time world’s champion Philadelphia A’s. Now, if you’d be so kind as to let the owners know that I am back, albeit for reasons not entirely clear to me, and hereby request a word about the transfer of the A’s.”

Demetrious looked at the napkins. Studied the man’s suit, even taking the herringbone lapel in his meaty hand– what the hell– then pulling it in close and sniffing it. Earth. Diesel fumes. Demetrious leaned further in, flicking a glance up at the security cameras in the corner, knowing that they didn’t have working audio. Then he shuddered. On account of how it seemed like the man’s nose slid down his face ever so subtly.

“So you sayin’… Back from the grave, huh?” he whispered. “That’s one baller move… but for a real shitty team, Mr. Mack.”

The old man shrugged and sighed. “As I said, something of a mystery. But, just like yours truly, the A’s have been counted out before, Mr. Adair,” he said, taking the moment to set the gold pocket-watch to match the time on the wall clock. A wistful smile flicked across his face. He showed the watch to Demetrious, rather proudly– “a gift from some civic leaders in Buffalo to a young Irish backstop on his way out of town.” The guard grunted his compliments, and for a moment in time, the pair admired the sweep of the second hand.

Abruptly, Mr. Mack turned to face his host. “So, will you help me arrange a conference with the front office?”

Demetrious eyeballed this slow-motion man with the migrating nose. Pondered hard. What the fuck. He watched all those zombie shows. Say this whole undead thing was legit. They been cloning sheep for decades now, so why not? This antique human would be hella better to work for than these greedy soul-less suits looking to skip town to Vegas. He decided, at the very least, to not fill out an incident report, because a) what the hell would he write in it? and b) fuck his bosses.

Demetrious nodded agreeably and started to thump Mr. Mack on the shoulder in solidarity, but caught himself just in time. This dude one flimsy zombie. He fastened on a smile instead, nodded. “Why don’t you come on back here tomorrow? But, this train is movin’ fast, Old-time. Between you and me, better do yourself a favor and bring some kind of lawyer up in here to back your old Irish ass up. I’ll make sure you talk to somebody in charge.”

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Look for Part 2 of “Return of The Mack” next Sunday, exclusively on Bardball

About the author: Michael X. Ferraro is a Philadelphia-area native who only goes back as far as Danny Ozark, but still yearns in vain for all baseball managers to wear suits and ties. His satirical sports novel Circus Catch explores how the ideals of competition and sportsmanship have become thoroughly corroded in America’s Golden Age of Cheating.

 For “Return of the Mack,” he owes a debt of gratitude to the real-world research and writing of Warren Corbett for The Hardball Times and Connie Mack biographer Norman Macht. And also, a massive tip of the inspirational cap to Chris Bachelder for his ground-breaking and hilarious novel of re-animation, political extremism and pop culture, U.S.!