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Big money was being bet on the Gamblers. They were the defending champions, they were at home, and they truly had the better team. The year before, the Gamblers won the seventh game in Portland.
Some members of the media, tired of seeing Las Vegas win the title, gave the Crowns the edge. They noted that the Crowns were the first team to beat Las Vegas twice in a row that year. The Crowns had the momentum, and were due to finally win a championship.
All the gambling and predictions were irritating Jack. No, what was actually keeping him awake was the fear that he had to do something to get his ball club a championship. Visions of Bingo laughing and the city of Portland in tears, haunted Jack throughout the night. He sat up in the hotel bed, his left hand on Djuana’s soft back and his right hand grasping a glass of brandy; the bottle on the floor by the night table.
In complete darkness, he sipped every few seconds, and rubbed the curve of Djuana’s backside. The brandy was an old remedy for the jitters his mother had began when he could not sleep before Little League games.
He wished Denise Newhouse could see him play for money. Like when he was child, all through Little League, Pony League, and High School and on the sandlots in New York, his mother would have been the only one to bother to come to every game. His father was at Jack’s debut in the majors; a sad Father’s Day. Jack struck out six times, and the Crowns lost two games.
Afterwards, his dad said, “They pay you for this?’’
The elder Newhouse came to a few more games that year, mostly losses. He had only seen his son live maybe 24 times in Jack’s six years as a pro.
His sister, on the other hand, brought her two daughters to every game the Crowns played in New York and New Jersey.
The thought of his nieces, the way they would hug him, and called his name, made him smile and caress Djuana’s soft shoulder blade; she turned to face him. Those two little girls worshipped Jack, and they were the only ones that made him feel like a superhero. They owned all the toy figures of Jack that Major League Baseball produced, and all his baseball cards, as well as Oscar’s.
He looked over Djuana’s body. Suddenly, there was something he wanted more than a World Series ring, or to beat Bingo and the Gamblers. He lowered himself down to face Djuana. He tenderly absorbed each one of her parted lips, and Djuana responded by flexing her arms and licking her lips. Her eyes opened quickly, then blinked a few times.
She groggily whined, “You should get some sleep, honey.’’
Jack lowered himself to meet Djuana’s bosom, he nestled his face into her chest, parting her breasts. His lips leading the way. His strong hands fondled her buttocks.
“I want a baby.’’
“Jack?’’ The statement didn’t register.
“I want you to give me a baby.’’
The seriousness in the tone of his voice froze Djuana. She pulled back, lifting his face with her hands to see his eyes. No smile, no grin. He kissed her chest.
Djuana’s lips hung, and her breathing slowed. She gasped, inhaling, then exhaling through her open mouth. She cut her eyes away from the moment. Her heart hurt, like a sharp, slicing.
Jack pulled her even closer. “I want a baby.’’
Djuana couldn’t collect her thoughts, and fright held her speechless. She had to say something, but the right thing. Oh, yes, she wanted to give Jack a baby. What if she lost it? What if doctors found she could never hold a baby? They never said she could. What if God had destined her to rear only one child?
Djuana breathed in the questions, her eyes closed slowly, and she exhaled.
Jack moved Djuana, pushing her shoulders square on the bed. He slid his muscular thighs between her legs, and Djuana spread to receive him. His tongue licked a stream up from her pubic hair to her throat. He listened to her pant and sniff, helping him become more aroused by the second.
Djuana’s wet palms squeezed the top of Jack’s biceps, her nails dug into his muscles. Jack patiently licked the tears from her cheeks. He kissed her chin, and the corners of her mouth.
“I’m scared, Jack,’’ she cried.
“Don’t be.’’
No one in the Crowns locker room spoke before the game. There were no hellos, no jokes. The players got dressed, took batting practice, and refused interviews. To a man, they knew this could very well be their last chance for a ring. So many of them, including Jack and Oscar, were afraid of tomorrow.
The players understood that Slight was going to break up this team if they lost; especially if the Gamblers blew them out. Hate Slight or not, none of these Crowns wanted to leave Portland. None of them wanted to play elsewhere, with different teammates. Sure, they were spoiled in many ways - the press in Portland was very pro-Crowns. And, the fans loved them because it was truly Portland against the world. A large town, rather than a small city, with only two professional teams.
Oscar would complain, but the two previous times his contract was up with Portland, he chose to resign with Slight rather than go to Las Vegas, New York or Los Angeles; teams that had offered double what Slight could afford to pay.
The Crowns sat in the dugout and studied the Gamblers while they practiced. Bingo looked over into the dugout often, pointing and laughing. When it was his turn to bat in the cage, he would call over to his dejected looking ex-pals and point to where seconds later the ball would land hundreds of feet away.
“I hate that motherfucker,’’ Pugs whispered. None of the Crowns responded verbally, but Pugs knew he had plenty of empathy on that bench.
Oscar wanted to say something, something powerful. Something that would be remembered for years as the rallying cry for a desperate team in a desperate situation. But he couldn’t think of anything that hadn’t been said. And he damn sure didn’t want to sound corny at a time like this. He patted Jack’s leg, not making eye contact.
O said, “Baby, we can do it.’’
Jack was leaning forward, elbows on his thighs. He slowly turned his head back to the direction of the Gamblers. He returned his concentration on the hatred he had for Black and Gold. “Hits, I gotta get hits,’’ he faintly said to himself.
Juris shifted his wad of tobacco from cheek to cheek, spitting every so often. He avoided watching the Gamblers put on a show for his players. The silence in his dugout was wearing on him, although he hoped his team was gearing up for war, quietly. He waited until the Gamblers headed for their dugout, and the grounds’ crew at the Money Dome prepared the field for play to snap the funk.
Juris moved to the center of the dugout, “This is it fellas. Don’t leave shit in this dugout. When you step out there, go with the anger of a team that has never won a championship of any kind.’’
He spat out of the dugout and onto the turf. “Go out there with the memory that no one picked us to come this far. That no one respected us. And that we are the greatest team ever assembled.
“Go to work.”
Lee was chosen to pitch the deciding, and final, game of the season for Las Vegas. An honor, the owner and manager of the Gamblers told him. He was selected over the other highly paid pitchers, most believed, to further the hurt in Portland. Lee had won all his playoff games for Las Vegas, and he wanted, as much as his new owner, to beat Slight for trading him.
Juris had Floyd come back on four days rest, his usual, to pitch for Portland. But he was not sharp. He allowed two baserunners in the first inning, and would have gotten out of trouble had it not been for an error by Pugsley on a sharp ground ball.
In the second inning, the same problem arose. Floyd walked two batters, then Pugs dropped and kicked a ground ball. The next batter hit a slow roller to Pugs, he picked it up without a problem, but then he threw it wide of Don at first.
Before the third inning began, the Crowns were losing, 9-0. The crowd was enlivened, giving Pugs a standing ovation when he batted. With each out, Bingo would laugh heartier at his ex-mates. After the third inning, the score the same and the Gamblers taking the field, Bingo called out to Jack as he passed on his way to the dugout. Jack instinctively looked in his direction.
“You guys are losers!’’
Jack bristled.
Don answered the man he replaced, “You an ass!’’
“Fuck you, Don. You’ll be retiring this year without a ring.’’
Jack lead off the fourth inning thinking Lee would give him something to hit. Lee had a big lead, and Jack had watched him throw down the middle of the plate the previous inning, challenging everybody.
Jack waited for his fastball, the one Lee had thrown him in practice so many times. And, there it was. Jack jumped on it, his sweetest swing of the year. Running down to first, he missed seeing the ball land. He looked for the left fielder, and saw him stop running.
Jack clapped his hands and rounded the bases quickly. He got in the dugout, and found his teammates on the top steps waiting for him.
“Come on, guys! It ain’t over yet!”
Other encouraging chatter followed Jack’s words. But the Crowns had seen this scenario too many times. Lee was tough to beat when he had a big lead. Unless he beat himself.
Jack took some Gatorade, and selected a seat next to Oscar.
“You finally hit one, huh?’’
Jack grinned, “I’ma hit another.’’
No one on the Crowns would say it aloud, but they knew they had played well over their heads to get to another World Series. And, across from them was a much better ball club that had beaten them when they had a better ball club.
Pitching was the biggest difference in this squad and the team the year before. The Crowns pitching staff was weakened by trades and free agent defections. Two of their best bullpen pitchers left before the season started for more money elsewhere. When Lee was let go, it left a void that Slight seriously thought rookies could fill.
As in the case of using a rookie to replace Jack, it backfired.
When Juris selected Rod Murphy from the bullpen to relieve Floyd, the players conceded the loss. Murphy had been the worst pitcher in the majors last year. But he was a Crown for life; Slight loved him, but none of the players did. During his warm up pitches, Mike defiantly threw each return into center field.
Jack watched O throw the ball back in.
“That bastard is doing that on purpose!’’ O yelled.
“Yeah. He ain’t crazy about Rod.’’
“Neither am I, but shit, this is the World Series!’’
After Jack’s homer, Lee did not allow another base runner until the sixth inning. Mike started the inning with a single. Bryant singled after him. Lee came back to strike out the next two batters before he walked RJ on a borderline pitch.
Lee wanted that third strikeout in the inning. He knew it would have destroyed the hopes of his ex-teammates. He walked off the mound toward home plate. He asked his catcher where the pitch was and the umpire, standing at the catcher’s side answered him.
“Don’t question my calls,’’ the husky ump said, putting on his mask.
“I didn’t ask you,’’ Lee snapped.
The umpire snatched off his mask. “One more word, smartass, and you won’t be a hero tonight!’’
The catcher took of his mask and tried to talk with the umpire. Lee walked all the way up to them.
“What’s your problem?’’ Lee asked, his arms spread, ball in one hand, his glove on the other.
The ump pointed to the field, “Go back to the mound, pitcher.’’
La’s manager came jogging out of the dugout, and he intervened.
The Crowns dugout became silent. They watched Lee intently, praying this would become one of Lee’s patented tantrums.
“Lee’s losing it,’’ O said, sitting next to Danny on the bench.
“Yeah, he got high last night. Always does before a game.’’
“You sure?’’ Jack asked, looking back to the bench. He was seated on the dugout steps.
“I know him like I know my wife,’’ Danny bent, and spat out a wad of tobacco. “They are both fools for some blow.’’
Mike jogged down the line from third base and called Pugs over while the argument grew. Just as Mike clamped his thick, muscular arm around Pugs’ chubby neck, the crowd erupted in boos. Mike looked back, directing Pugs with his turn. LA’s manager got ejected.
Mike spun Pugs away from the action. “You know how Lee is, that cokehead. Bunt him. He’ll be so pissed he’ll probably throw the ball through the roof!’’
“What if he goes home? It’s two outs.’’
“Pugs, bunt the fucking ball. If he throws it home, I will kill that pussy-ass catcher.’’
The Gamblers argued for another minute or so, before the umpires demanded the game continue. Pugs waited for Lee to stand ready on the mound, but the umpire told him to get in the batter’s box. Lee coiled and tossed a hard fastball. Pugs squared his body, and put his bat on the ball.
Lee seemed unfazed, he hopped off the mound and gobbled up the ball. But when he threw it to first, the ball sailed past Bingo and down the line. Mike and Bryant scored. RJ raced from first to third.
O stepped to the plate next, glaring at Lee. Lee fired him the same fastball, and O dragged the ball down the first base line. Bingo, playing deep, had no chance. Lee ran over to the ball, but when he picked it up halfway between first and home, RJ had scored, Pugs was on second and Oscar was past first.
The score was then 9-4.
The pitching coach, now acting as manager, came to the mound hoping to calm his team.
Lee greeted him, “Don’t say shit to me. I got this.’’
“Walk Newhouse, and get Don Cruz,’’ the coach said, agitated.
“I can get Jack.’’
“Do as I say. Walk him.
Lee looked back to the Gamblers’ bullpen to see two pitchers warming up. He bit back his anger, and glared past Jack into the catcher. When Jack was set, the catcher sprang up and stood outside the plate with his arm extended to signal an intentional walk. Lee lobbed the ball out to him.
Jack looked at Lee in amazement. “Pitch to me, baby!’’
Lee snarled a curse, then rolled his eyes from Jack.
“Do this!’’ O shouted among the boos.
Jack could not make out what O said. Feeling it must be important, he kept eye contact with him while tapping his cleats with the bat.
O, standing on the bag, tapped his right thigh, then pointed his chin to right field, “Do this!’’
Jack smiled. He looked out to right, the right fielder was walking toward center as if to talk to the center fielder.
Lee slowed his pitching motion and lobbed the next pitch outside to the standing catcher and Jack lunged his arms across the plate and tapped the ball in the air toward first. Bingo moved late, but the ball was out of his reach anyway. He stuck his glove up, and the ball landed on the turf and skidded away from him.
The right fielder raced to the ball, which continued to bounce away from him. Pugs was running as hard as he could, his meaty legs churning and his arms flailing as he rounded third. O, who was off with the pitch, caught up with Pugs at third and ran a step behind him all the way home.
Jack slid into second before the right fielder’s throw. He stood up, asked for and got time out. He wiped the dirt off his uniform, proud that he silenced the crowd.
The Gamblers changed pitchers, and Don was ready at the plate. He was angry, and tired of being disrespected. Lee was going to walk Jack to pitch to him. The whole league was watching, and he was determined not to give them the satisfaction of seeing this aged superstar fail.
He could hear the sound of his girls cheer, they would yell “Daddy!’’ together, and he would tell them after games who he heard the most. He would make sure neither won more than the other.
He gave them plenty to clap for when he hit a high and long home run to bring the Crowns within two runs of the Gamblers.
The score remained 9-7 for one inning.
Bingo hit a blast that landed over 600 feet from home plate, a two-run homer that changed the mood of the Gamblers’ fans. They began chanting good-bye to the Crowns. But the relief pitcher the Gamblers put in was wild.
He walked two, then gave up a hard single to RJ that loaded the bases for the Crowns.
Pugsley strolled up to home plate trying not to think; telling himself to just hit the ball hard, somewhere. He knew he was a key batter; the Gamblers had to get him out before they faced O, Jack and Don in succession.
Just hit the ball hard, just hit the ball hard. That’s all I have to do.
“You the best, Pugs,’’ Mike called from the dugout.
The thought that helped Pugs relax was the fact that he had made five errors in the World Series, and still the Crowns were close to winning it.
Tidrow threw a blazer to Pugs, and the round, short second baseman connected with a beautiful, compact swing. Before the ball landed in the left field bleachers, barely clearing the fence, Pugs was jumping up and down. He slowly jogged around the bases, savoring every moment. He dove into the waiting arms of each and every teammate. They slapped his helmet as hard as they could, making the celebration last.
Pugs’ grand slam tied the game, 11-11.
“It’s on, now,’’ Oscar said as they walked back to their dugout. “Look at them, they don’t know how it feels to be challenged. They gonna fold.’’
The Las Vegas Gamblers had breezed through the American League. They had won a record 117 games, had winning streaks of 31, 24 and 18 games. They had four hitters with more than 30 home runs, three pitchers with 20 or more wins. and, more importantly, the Gamblers had never lost a game they were winning after the seventh inning all year.
The Gamblers did not give up. No, they kept coming, hitting the ball hard. But the Crowns were playing with fire, and the zest of a team that could smell victory. Every ball the Gamblers hit, a Crowns’ fielder caught. Some were spectacular, some routine, either way the plays were made. And, the Gamblers frustration took its toll.
In the ninth inning, with Bobby Lyles pitching for Portland, Bingo jumped on a fat pitch, driving it into right-center. Before he dropped his bat, he saw a streaking Oscar leave his feet and catch the ball. O slid on his chest for a few feet, jumped up and fired the ball in. Bingo threw his bat to the ground, cracking it.
The game went into extra innings, and the longer it went the more the Crowns confidence grew. The opposite happened with the Gamblers. Bingo, as he was prone to do, was barking at his teammates. But those guys were the best in baseball, they didn’t take kindly to him berating them. The Las Vegas players were arguing in the dugout in the 10th and 11th innings.
Jack had his first chance to win the game in the top of the 11th with Tidrow pitching. There were two runners on and two outs, and Tidrow threw Jack a serious curveball with two strikes. Jack struck out meekly The fans cheered wildly.
Going back on the field, Jack felt tired for the first time that night. The walk to right seemed to take too long. He refused the warm up tosses to rest instead. When Oscar saw him sitting on the turf, he jogged over quickly.
“You all right?’’
“Yeah.’’
“You tired?’’
“A little.’’
“You fucked last night?’’
Jack smiled. “What? Shit, that wore off. You know, I had a hard on last inning.’’
“That chick in the halter above the Gamblers dugout?’’
“Yeah, you saw her?’’
“Think I didn’t?’’
Pugs called the men back to duty.
With one out in the top of the 13th, Pugs hit a booming shot off the top of the wall in left. The ball hit off the wall and bounced back to the infield rapidly. Pugs rounded first, but thought better of trying for second.
After the game Las Vegas’ coaching staff, which had to manage the team when their skipper was ejected, admitted that they were shocked the game went on so long. They used that as an excuse for using Tidrow so long. The prized reliever was into his fourth inning, he usually pitched to three or four batters. They finally thought to get another pitcher ready when Pugs, of all Crowns, drove a Tidrow fastball.
LV’s pitching coach went to the mound and asked Tidrow if he could get Oscar out. The thick, unshaven white man nodded slowly and evenly.
Oscar trotted to the plate confidently when the pitching coach left the field. He dug in, looking for nothing but a belt high fastball. He wasn’t going to swing at anything else, so he thought.
Tidrow blew away O with three high pitches that were clocked at 101, 103 and 104 miles per hour respectively. O threw his bat at his dugout, missing the batboy by inches.
“Pick me up, New,’’ Oscar said, tears in his eyes.
Tidrow waited for Jack, and when he saw Jack look into his eyes, he pumped his body into a ball and unleashed a pitch Jack did not see. Jack missed the next one also, and was in the hole with two quick strikes.
Jack stepped out of the batter’s box, mumbling to himself.
“Can’t hit what you can’t see,’’ the catcher said.
Jack stepped back in, glaring at Tidrow, biting down on his bottom lip. Tidrow unleashed another fastball and Jack froze. His heart ached. He thought he was out, but the umpire was silent and he heard a chorus of boos. He looked back at the same time as the catcher rose.
“Outside,’’ the umpire snarled.
Jack swallowed his heart back into place. He released a deep breath. The next pitch should have surprised him, as it did two innings previously, but he wasn’t thinking, just watching Tidrow. Watching his arm, watching his hand, watching for the ball.
He followed the rotation of the breaking pitch, holding his body for the last second. Jack’s hips moved first, then his arms and wrist poked the bat outside. The ball carried high and lazy into right center.
“Shit,’’ Jack moaned immediately.
He dropped the bat, and trotted slowly down the line. He watched the center fielder go back on the ball, his movements fluid and easy. Miss it, you bastard! Jack dropped his head and continued to first.
I suck.
When Jack reached first, he looked up, a deep grimace on his face, and he saw the center fielder still backing, but slower now, and his neck was bent far back, looking to the roof. The building fell silent as the ball disappeared.
Jack was puzzled. His body kept going, rounding the base and moving toward second; Pugs was running around the bases and was near third. Jack looked to the second base umpire who was out toward center. He turned to the infield and raised his right arm to signal home run.
Jack leaped and screamed. He exploded into a spirited run, dancing and pumping his fists as he touched second base. He looked up into section 109 and he thought he could hear Djuana. She was clapping, in the midst of the only people cheering. When he reached third, all of his teammates were out of their third base dugout. The third base coach slapped Jack hard on his back and followed him down the line.
Mike was crying and shoving his way to home plate. He had to be the first to touch Jack. Gray uniforms surrounded the base, Juan fell to his knees and wiped it clean with his cap. Once Jack touched it, they mobbed him.
Mike grabbed him by his waist, squeezing Jack as hard as he could.
“We got these mofos!’’ Mike cried, his tobacco spilling out of his mouth and down his chin and jersey. “They dead! Those bastards are dead!’’
Juris, burning inside to hug somebody, pushed and shoved his players back into the dugout. He pumped his fists together, holding his joy.
“Not yet, girls!’’ Juris shouted, “We ain’t there yet!”
The Gamblers were now losing, 13-11. Tidrow was taken out of the game, and his replacement struck out Don easily to end the inning. Don walked to his spot at first with a wide grin though. “Yeah, boy,’’ Don turned to his dugout and pumped his fist as the Crowns raced to their positions with renewed life. “One-two-three. And it’s all about us!’’
The Gamblers walked off the field in a stunned, sober state. Cameras showed Tidrow knocking over the Gatorade jugs and tossing his glove into the stands. Bingo sat on the bench, eyes wide, speechless.
Once the inning began, all any of the Crowns thought about was the fact that Bingo batted third in the inning. None of them wanted him to be the one to beat them. Rookie Steve Bartkowski was on the mound, his first appearance of the World Series.
Bartkowski, a bundle of nerves, started off poorly. He fell behind the first batter of the inning, two balls and no strikes. Mike bolted up from his crouch, and raced to the mound.
The young pitcher, sweating profusely, reached out his glove for the ball. Mike punched it into the dark brown mitt.
“Walk him and I fuck you up.’’
The rookie nodded. Two weak fastball strikes followed, then the batter grounded to Pugs. Pugs ate the ball up and fired it to Don at first, who squeezed it in.
“Yeah, Pugs!’’ Jack yelled. “We can do this, we can do this!’’
Two more outs to go, almost every Crown thought in unison.
“Come on, kid,’’ Don chatted from his position. “We behind you. Just let ‘em hit it.’’
The number three hitter in the Las Vegas line up was a singles hitter, no power. Jack cheated in on him, a right-handed batter, hoping he would hit it his way. The batter pulled it to RJ instead, and Jack watched the ball into RJ’s glove. Jack pumped his fist and looked over to O.
Oscar bowed his head and prayed for one more out.
Bingo stepped to the plate, and Mike kicked dirt onto his cleats.
“Ain’t this fucking ironic,’’ Mike chuckled. “You about to make the last out and us losers are about to do what you won’t.’’
“Shut up, you wife beating faggot.’’
Mike bristled, then laughed uneasily. He fell into his crouch. “Yeah, ain’t that funny. Some women like it when I spank them. Your wife didn’t complain.
“How is her ass, by the way?’’ Mike said looking up from within his mask. “Oscar said it was getting wider.’’
Bingo let the head of his bat tap home plate, and his eyes fell on Mike.
The umpire, bowed his head, biting his laugh, “Come on, let’s go.’’
Jack watched Bingo. This was the ball he wanted to catch.
Bingo turned his anger toward the pitcher, exploding on the rookie’s first pitch. The ball was on a line to right. Jack moved in instinctively, thinking he would have to dive to catch the sinking liner. But suddenly the ball vanished. Don had leaped high off his feet, arching towards the outfield and snagged the ball out of the air.
Jack kept coming. He headed for Don, who had gained his footing, and was now jumping up and down. Pugs got there first and knocked Don down. The Crowns piled up on the veteran, hugging and groping one another.
Bingo stood, near first base watching his ex-teammates. He wanted to look away, walk away, but he was frozen.
During the celebration in the clubhouse, Slight hugged each one of his players individually into a warm embrace. He saved Jack for last. When he took the taller man into his arms he thanked him.
“You are the best player this franchise has ever had,’’ Slight said. “We were nothing until you got here.’’
Jack, a smiled stamped on his face, shook his head. “No, you and Honeywell deserve the credit. You brought us together and taught us to depend on one another.’’
Slight looked into Jack eyes, ignoring his words. He wanted to say the word, but it wouldn’t come up from his guts. But he was deeply sorry for the way he treated Jack Newhouse that year. Right then, he planned to make him the highest paid Crown ever. To sign Jack for the rest of his playing days. And, he dared anyone, Oscar Taylor, Mike Colbert or Danny Gross, to question it.
Djuana came into the clubhouse with the other wives and children. She searched the wide grins for that handsome smile she loved. She was taken into a hug by Oscar, and let him kiss her on the cheek.
“Your man did it!’’
Djuana blushing, quietly replied, “I know.’’
She looked over at a makeshift platform, with a white backdrop in the middle of the locker room and saw Jack being interviewed by NBC. Jack’s jersey was out of his pants, and it looked soaked. He had on a white cap that read: World Champions.
Another man, well dressed, joined them. He was carrying a long, wide gold trophy. It had a batter as its top piece, and a four bar base.
“I must say I am very proud to be giving you this Most Valuable Player award,’’ the suited man said.
Jack accepted the trophy and turned to the cameras. His teammates whooped it up behind him. Djuana clapped and cheered. The reporter moved closer to Jack.
“This has been some season, hey Jack?’’ the smiling, tanned man said, point the microphone in Jack’s face.
“Oh yeah,’’ Jack said his eyes fixed on Djuana. “Most definitely.’’
Jack turned to the reporter, “It was trying, and for a time I thought I was not going to be playing again, but I’ll tell you Bob, I wouldn’t trade this year for the world.’’
Mike sprayed the reporter and Jack with champagne from behind, then stepped up on the stage and sprayed the cameras. Oscar jumped up on the stage, and handed Jack a bottle.
“We getting’ fucked up!’’ O yelled into the camera, before kissing Jack on his ear.
The reporter begged the station to switch out of the locker room.
Jack handed the bottle and trophy to O. “Hold this for me.’’
He stepped down from his dancing teammates to hold his woman.
“And you thought we couldn’t do it,’’ he whispered.
Djuana’s mouth gaped open, her smile continuing. “I never said that! I outta pop you, Mr. Newhouse.’’
Jack hoisted her off her feet, “Come on, pop me. Right on the mouth.’’
And she did. With a long, wet kiss.
Back in Portland, the city went wild. It was the first championship in over 30 years for a city with only two professional teams.
Cal, his running partner, Ed, and Devon shook up beer cans and popped them open. They sprayed each other in the crowded living room in their version of a championship party.
Marla, Cal’s wife, was the first to tell them to knock it off.
“Who is going to clean this mess, there’s no ground’s crew here!’’
Emma popped the cork on a bottle of champagne she had bought for the occasion. Tia was the first on line, with her glass. Emma spread it thinly throughout the house full of family and friends.
She raised her glass, stopped suddenly when she saw Cal sipping. She hit her brother on the shoulder with the bottle.
“Your ass can’t wait?!’’
Cal, smiling widely, licked his lips. “Well, stop stuttering and make the toast.’’
Emma waited for all eyes to meet hers. Devon took a quick sip of his bubbly.
“To my new son, I hate that son-in-law nonsense,’’ Emma said, blushing. “To my second son, the champion.’’