Fiction by Mary Helen Stefaniak
“Sorry to throw this at you, gentlemen, but the Office was flooded this week with urgent calls for a meeting to discuss the New Pitch. Looks like we’ve got pretty good attendance here, for a last-minute thing.”
“Owner reps from all but one club, Commissioner.”
“Well, everybody likes a breakfast meeting. Jet in, jet out. Wait. Is that Cookie ‘Krumz’ Krzscrmwieczski, Manager of the Blank City Blankity-Blanks?”
“Impressed you got my name right, Commissioner—and you’re not even from Milwaukee!”
“Correct me if I’m wrong, Krumz, but wasn’t it you and the B/Blanks that introduced the New Pitch to the majors?”
“Damn right we did. We had a pitcher throwing it for over a year before some egghead put it on YouTube, so that every pitcher of sufficient size and finger length could learn to throw it, which is not all that many pitchers, I hasten to add, but at least a few and more of ‘em every damn day. Now I would be the first to admit that my feelings on this subject have been intensified by our tragic loss (just last month in a rock-climbing accident on Madagascar) of the first pitcher ever to throw the New Pitch, but that doesn’t change the reality of what is happening today. Instead of talking about ‘risks and ramifications’ of the slowest pitch thrown in the majors, I believe we should be putting the kibosh on these New Pitch training videos that are promoting at absolutely no cost whatsoever what ought by rights to be a trade secret.”
“A question for Manager Krumz.”
“The Office of the Commissioner recognizes Dr. Polk A. Dott, majority owner of the Ellipses. Dr. Dott?”
“Thank you. Do I understand you to say, Mr. Krumz, that the New Pitch is proliferating?”
“Ah—yes, I believe it is, and as you can see by the way he’s nodding his head like a bobble-head doll, my pitching coach Red Hotz agrees.”
“And do you and Mr. Hotz also agree, as this stack of officially registered complaints would suggest, that to hit the New Pitch is, in a word, impossible?”
“Twirls around and scoots through the zone every time. It’s a sweet pitch, Dr. Dott.”
“Theoretically, then, if opposing teams each have at least one pitcher capable of throwing the New Pitch with some consistency, we could find ourselves in a game that cannot move beyond a score of 0-0, no matter the number of innings? A mutual—and perpetual—no-hitter, as it were?”
“Theoretically, maybe, that could happen. Anything’s possible. They’d be quick innings. Three up, three down.”
“Commissioner, can you imagine what will happen to attendance as fans begin to notice that baseball games have become literally interminable? We could be looking at the end of baseball.”
“Aw, don’t listen to Dott, Commissioner. He’s just sore because he’s stuck in 2nd place—how many games behind us now? I’ve lost count.”
“Excuse me. May I say something? Do I raise my hand, or what?”
“The Office of the Commissioner of Baseball recognizes—actually, I don’t recognize you. How did you get in here?”
“I’m Ms. Anonymous Posh of Knight-and-Day Stock Apocalypse. I came in with the caterers.”
“Anonymous Posh! Are you the one who—?”
“Yes, Dr. Dott. I texted all the club owners—”
“It’s a conspiracy!”
“Including your absent owner, Manager Krumz. I am here, gentlemen, to add two facts to the fire. Fact #1: Although it’s extremely unlikely that anyone will ever hit the New Pitch, statistically speaking, it is possible to hit.”
“Ha! There you go! Like I said, anything’s possible.”
“Quiet, Krumz. And may I ask how you came by this knowledge, Ms. Posh?”
“I know because I invented it, Commissioner.”
