Chapter 7

 
 
 
 
 
 
Chapter 7
 
 

 It was the bottom of the ninth.  The Kentucky Jaguars were up by one run, but the Nashville Manifolds had the bases loaded with no outs.   The Jaguars pitcher, Skipper Magee, had pitched 8 great innings, but now he was fading, giving up a double and two walks at the worse possible time. Jaguars manager, Diggy Davis, called time out and walked to the mound.  

As he made his way across the perfectly manicured grass, his eyes found their way to the bullpen across the field and he touched his left arm. That could only mean on thing: Bulldog White would climb the mound to close out the game.

When he reached the mound, Diggy held out his hand to take the ball from Skipper. He slapped the hard working pitcher on the rear and patted his head as he told him “good game, Kid”.  The crowd cheered as Diggy exited the field, but the sounds of appreciation for Skipper were soon overwhelmed by the celebratory stomping and growling Kentucky fans executed when the bullpen doors opened for Bulldog White.  

Most pitchers sprinted to the mound to psych themselves up; not Bulldog. Always prepared for action, he routinely strolled, conserving his energy and mentally channeling all his body’s speed to his arm. Bulldog finally reached the mound, and Diggy tossed the ball to him. 

“Bulldog,” said Diggy. “I know you pitched a perfect game yesterday and did five innings of long relief the night before, but we need you. Three more outs and we’re going to the World Series.”  

“So much for my day off, huh, Boss?” Bulldog joked with a sly grin. 

Diggy chuckled nervously and walked back to the dugout as Bulldog warmed up.  If anyone can get us out of this mess it’s that clever hillbilly, thought Diggy. As he cautiously took his seat next to the bench of concerned players, the Nashville batter stepped up to the plate.  

Diggy watched Bulldog’s wind up carefully….and the first pitch…high and outside.

“Ball!” shrieked the umpire.

Diggy slapped a hand across his forehead in agony. Perhaps he had finally overused Bulldog. Maybe that golden arm of his had finally lost some of his luster. Diggy walked to the end of the dugout for some water as Bulldog prepared for the next pitch. 

“What I really need is a bourbon,” Diggy mumbled as he leaned against the wall, his back to the action.  Reluctantly chugging the water, Diggy suddenly heard a whistle from the crowd. Then a cheer. Then the cracking sound of uproarious applause and celebration!  

Diggy whipped his body around violently to face the field, choking on his water in surprise. The whole team had swarmed onto the field, completely mauling Bulldog and obscuring Diggy’s vision the instant replay on the TV screen. 

“What happened?  What happened?” he yelled incessantly as he ran out to join the team.

“Bulldog struck out three batters in less than three seconds!” shouted the catcher, Shorty McGurt.  

Diggy laughed as he shoved players aside to get to the mound, pushing through the muscular mass of bodies that formed an impregnable fortress around Bulldog.

“You did it Bulldog!” cried Diggy, his arms stretched high above his head and a glimmer of a tear in his eye. 

“That’s right, Coach! Hey, sorry about that first pitch. I tried a curve to start, but then decided to go with nine fastballs in a row!!”  

“Fantastic!” wailed Diggy with delight.  

 “Hey, Coach…now that the series is over, do you think I can have tomorrow off?” Bulldog teased as he tossed Diggy the game-winning ball and looked out at the crowd with pride.


Story By: Bulldog White

Written By: Scott White
Edited By: Jordan McMillian
 
Illustration By: Penny A Booher Jones

Story dedicated to Rusty Staub


Penny's Website:  http://www.pennyjones.wix.com/pbjartStudio

Please Support Bulldog:

https://www.patreon.com/bulldogchronicles



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