“You’ve got to be kidding me,” said Max. “Our reserves are monkeys?”
A banana peel bounced off of his head.
“They are excellent pitchers,” Lord 6-Dog pointed out.
“I trusted you,” said Max coldly.
“They are but reserves. They were bored at the zoo, so I brought them along. They will not be called upon to play.”
“How can you be so sure? Where is our team?”
“They will be here soon.”
“We need them now.”
Someone banged on the door. “HOME TEAM! TIME TO GO!”
“We’ll have to go on without them,” said Lola.
She put her fingers on her lips and made some little chirruping noises.
The spider monkeys chirruped back excitedly.
“I told them to spread out on the field,” said Lola.
Neither Max nor Lola looked at Lord 6-Dog as they walked sullenly out to face certain mockery—and equally certain death.
Ever since he could remember, Max had daydreamed about how it would feel to walk out on the field at Fenway wearing a Red Sox uniform. But he had never imagined the humiliation of walking out with a team of spider monkeys behind him.
When he and Lola emerged from the tunnel, they were rewarded with another roar from the crowd. But when the monkeys came out after them, it went very quiet.
Then began the nervous giggles and the heckling.
Lord 6-Dog directed the monkeys to sit in the dugout.
“Everyone’s laughing at us,” said Lola.
“Hold thy head high,” said Lord 6-Dog.
“Don’t tell her that!” snapped Max. “You’ve made fools of us!”
Max and Lola angrily turned their backs on Lord 6-Dog and stood, arms folded, surveying the field.
“Maybe we should surrender,” said Max. “There’s no way we can win.”
Behind them, a commotion began in the stands. It started quietly and built to a crescendo, with people yelling, chanting, and clapping:
“LET’S-GO-GOOD-GUYS!” Clap, clap, clap-clap-clap.
Max and Lola turned toward it. What they saw was mind-blowing.
It was everyone.
Everyone.
All the empty seats around Lucky and Lady Coco had been filled with friends and family, all madly waving. There was Hermanjilio and Raul. There was a whole section of Max’s friends from school and Lola’s student friends from Itzamna. Lucky’s entire family was there—his mother, brothers, and sisters. There was Eusebio, Och, his brother Little Och (looking fully recovered from his accident), and assorted villagers from Utsal; Oscar Poot from the Maya Foundation and Victor, the head waiter from the Hotel de las Americas, both of whom Max had met on his first day in San Xavier; Santino Garcia, the law student from Spain, and his distant relative Doña Carmela, who ran the hotel in Polvoredo where Max and Lola had stayed; Fabio the gondolier from Venice, and the posse of fishermen who’d killed the octopus that had tried to drag Max down to the underworld; Blue, Rainbow, Phoenix, and a big crowd of campers from Cahokia; of course, a huge archaeologist contingent in a swathe of khaki; and even the poncho family from the Grand Hotel Xibalba—innocent tourists who’d gotten caught up in Max and Lola’s first ball game against the Death Lords and had now turned up to support them in this second bid. They still wore their bright yellow rain ponchos.
Everyone was there. And they were all waving and chanting and whistling furiously, even the normally dour Doña Carmela.
“I guess we’re not on our own anymore,” said Lola.
Nasty Smith-Jones had done a very good job of getting the word out. But where was she? Max was scanning the faces in the crowd for her. And then he saw some people he had certainly not expected.
“Look!” He gripped Lola’s arm as some late arrivals took their seats behind home plate. Surrounded by a brigade of Maya guards were Frank, Carla, Uncle Ted, and Zia.
“That stinks!” said Lola, with tears in her eyes.
“Aren’t you happy to see them?” asked Max.
“That pig Ah Pukuh has brought them here to watch us die.”
“Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls,” came the announcer’s voice. “Welcome to America’s most beloved ballpark.”
A blast of organ music was drowned out by the earsplitting ker-rang of electric guitars. In place of the national anthem, the bogus Plague Rats banged out a truly horrible cover of “Highway to Hell.” The fog machines belched out dry ice, and laser lights sent colored beams spinning around the stands.
As the distorted guitars howled to a screeching crescendo, the ballpark reverberated with a massive bang as simultaneous explosions of fireworks shot balls of fire around the field. This was the cue for the Death Lords to burst onto the field doing wheelies on their motorbikes, like the Death Riders of the Apocalypse.
It was all too much for the monkey reserves. The noise, lights, and sheer chaos of the moment sent them fleeing from the dugout in terror. Max lost sight of them as they scampered up the supporting poles and disappeared onto the roof deck.
“Great,” he yelled over the noise. “Now we’ve lost the reserves. Could this get any worse?”
The answer was yes, it could.
It could get a lot worse.
And it did.
The Death Lords circled Max and Lola on their motorbikes, spinning their tires and spraying them with earth, grass, and sand.
“So much for charm school,” said Max.
Laughing maniacally, the Death Lords zoomed back to their dugout to get ready to bat.
“I think I’m done here,” said Max. “Face it, Monkey Girl, we’ve lost. This is hopeless. Let’s just get out of here.”
“No!” Lola pulled him back. “What about our parents?”
“We can’t save them. We can’t save anyone. We can’t even save ourselves. The Death Lords have won.”
Lola sighed. “We can’t give in, Hoop. Everyone’s depending on us. We have to think of something.”
“Like what?”
“I don’t know. I … I …” Lola was looking around the grounds for inspiration, and suddenly she paused. “Hoop! Look at Lord 6-Dog! Why is he smiling to himself like that?” Her voice was getting more and more excited. “I think he has a trick up his sleeve!”
Lord 6-Dog was standing serenely, gazing at the Green Monster. He’d replaced his Stormtrooper helmet with a Red Sox cap. When he sensed their eyes on him, he grinned and gave them a thumbs-up.
“Maybe he switched sides. Maybe he’s working for Ah Pukuh,” suggested Max.
“You don’t seriously think …”
“Tonight’s game is between the Death Lords and the Hero Twins.”
There was a blast of organ music.
“Tonight’s umpires are the Paddler Gods.”
A hush settled over the crowd as the two umpires were carried out on bamboo litters. They were dressed in the typical polo shirts and chinos of the American League—but they didn’t look like any umpires Max had seen before. These were two wizened, wrinkly old men with no teeth and pointed chins. One of them had black jaguar markings on his skin and wore a jaguar-patterned baseball cap. The other one sported a stingray spine through his large hooked nose and wore a baseball cap with a shark’s head on it, like something you’d get at a joke shop.
“I know them,” said Lola. “They’ll be great umpires.”
Max looked dubious. “Why do you say that?”
“They’re known for bringing cosmic order—so they have to be fair and balanced. They’re like night and day, yin and yang. Their main job is to ferry the corn god down to Xibalba every night. They must have dropped him off and come straight here.”
Max shook his head slowly as if he thought she was crazy. “Do they even know the rules of baseball?”
“Um … I doubt it.”
The Paddler Gods stood at home plate and called for each team’s manager.
Lord 6-Dog adjusted his Red Sox cap. “Remember this?” he said to Max. “It is the same cap thou didst give to me that morning we first met in the strangler fig tree.”
“I didn’t give it to you. You stole it from me,” Max corrected him.
Lord 6-Dog winked at him. “Wish me luck.”
He strode out with as much dignity as he could in the body of a howler monkey and bowed low to the umpires.
After another wooden trumpet and conch shell fanfare, Ah Pukuh rode out on a three-wheel motorcycle, his corpulent mass undulating like jelly under its Yankees suit as he skidded to a stop in front of the umpires.
“How d’ya like the show so far?” he said to them.
“It is time to set the ground rules,” they said in unison.
“I’ll tell you the rules,” said Ah Pukuh. “No team, no play. The Hero Twins forfeit the game.”
“Lord Ah Pukuh makes a valid point,” said the Paddler Gods.
“But the game has not started yet,” said Lord 6-Dog. “Please carry on. I assure thee that the team will be here.”
Ah Pukuh snorted scornfully. “He’s bluffing.”
At a nod from the Paddler Gods, the announcer began again.
“Leading off for the Death Lords tonight will be the designated hitter, Lord One Death.”
The huge video screen flashed up a picture of a grinning corpse in a wig made of rat tails.
“Batting second will be the left fielder, Lord Seven Death.
“Batting third will be third baseman, Lord Scab Stripper.
“Batting fourth will be the shortstop, Lord Packstrap.…”
And so on, through the roster of ugly, moldering so-called ballplayers.
The more the crowd booed them, the more Ah Pukuh laughed. “I hope the TV cameras are getting all this,” he said. “Middleworld once dared to forget about us—they won’t forget again!” He was enjoying himself tremendously. “Now it’s your turn to introduce your team,” he said to Lord 6-Dog. “Good luck in telling those monkeys apart!”
Lord 6-Dog ignored him. He was looking over at the Green Monster, seemingly riveted by some lingering fog patches from the dry ice.
“Leading off for the Hero Twins tonight …,” began the announcer. His voice faltered and he began again. “Leading off for the Hero Twins tonight will be center fielder Dom DiMaggio.”
The crowd gasped.
Lola clapped a hand over her mouth. The fog was forming into human shapes.
The announcer fought to keep his voice level.
“Batting second will be the right fielder, Babe Ruth.
“Batting third will be hall-of-fame shortstop Joe Cronin.
“Batting fourth will be designated hitter Ted Williams.
“Batting fifth will be third baseman Johnny Pesky, Mr. Red Sox.
“Batting sixth will be catcher Hick Cady.
“Batting seventh will be first baseman Jimmie Foxx.
“Batting eighth will be second baseman Max Murphy.
“Batting ninth will be left fielder Lola Murphy.
“Pitching will be Cy ‘Cyclone’ Young.”
As every name was called, the figures solidified further until standing next to Max, Lola, and Lord 6-Dog were eight ballplayers in their original Red Sox uniforms. The video screen flashed up old photographs of their greatest triumphs.
The crowd erupted into a roar that shook the ground and was heard all across Boston. Some said it could be heard as far as Yankee stadium.
“How did you get them?” Max asked Lord 6-Dog.
“The Red Sox have always played with their hearts. Once I explained the situation to them, they were more than willing to fight for the good guys.”
Lola was cheering the apparitions wildly. “Who are they?” she whispered to Max.
“Only eight of the greatest players in Red Sox history. It’s unbelievable.”
“It’s a scandal!” shouted Ah Pukuh, getting off his motorbike. “Umpires! Throw them out! They’re cheating!”
The umpires stepped forward.
“All is in order,” they said. “These players’ names were on the roster filed by Lord 6-Dog. The paperwork is correct. The rules say that we should start the game. Please leave the field, Lord Ah Pukuh.”
“Whose side are you on?” fumed the god of violent and unnatural death.
“We ferry passengers between both worlds. We must be impartial.”
“Just you wait till you need a new boat license,” shouted Ah Pukuh, knocking both their caps off. He plopped himself back on his motorbike, revved the engine, and roared back to the dugout, leaving a gash in the turf.
“Let’s play ball,” said Ted Williams, the greatest hitter who ever lived.