King Kong and the Alabama Slammer

Dalton Davis, manager for the last-place Cleveland Guardians, nervously spits out a volley of sunflower seeds. Paunchy, greying, and perpetually concerned for his job, the sixty-year-old field general is considered a superb strategist who identifies with his players.

Dalton checks his two baserunners. Flint Concannon fidgets at third base, while Chase D’Amico takes a conservative lead off second base, scanning the stands.

Once an All-Star, injuries have eroded thirty-four-year-old Flint’s skills, but the sandy-haired, affable center fielder is still considered a smart ballplayer.

A rambunctious twenty-two, Chase’s sculpted physique, and blonde surfer looks have made him a favorite among female fans, resulting in lapses in concentration.

Dalton checks the scoreboard. Angels 7, Indians 5. The count against Kenny “King Kong” Klein is two balls and two strikes.

Reno Foxx moves alongside Dalton. The lanky, well-groomed thirty-six-year-old pitching coach is continually amazed and embarrassed by the Guardian’s poor grasp of the game’s fundamentals.

“Think Klein can catch up to Scott’s fastball?” he asks.

“A fastball’s the only thing he can hit,” Dalton replies.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you Dalt. Why’s he called ‘King Kong?’ He can’t be any taller than five foot eight.”

“He’s as hairy as an ape. Maintenance has to unclog the drain every time he showers.”

King Kong steps back into the batter’s box. Squat, with the build of a sumo wrestler, and a blacksmith’s bulging arms and calves, the thirty-four-year-old first baseman with a penchant for striking out is nevertheless the Guardian’s best run producer.

The Angels’ pitcher, Rydell Scott, winds up, throwing a fastball down the middle. Klein swings late, barely fouling the pitch off.

“No outs. This could be our inning,” Dalton notes.

Scott slings another fastball toward the plate. Klein swings early. The ball rockets toward the left field line.

The Guardian’s bench erupts with cheers as both runners take off. Klein lurches out of the batter’s box, bounding toward first base.

The ball twists toward the left field corner. It appears to have enough height to be a home run, so Klein goes into his home run trot.

MacDonald Valentine, the Angels All-Star left fielder, runs toward the corner. Extending his glove over the wall, he catches the ball, hushing the crowd’s ecstatic cheers. Regaining his footing, he throws the ball on a straight line to second base.

Flint jubilantly touches home plate, trotting toward the dugout.

“Go back! Go back to third!”

It takes a moment for Dalton’s message to register before Flint turns around. Chase, who’d been on his way to third, runs back toward second base. He passes King Kong, who, unaware he is out, is still in his home run trot.

Chase is easily tagged out by the Angels’ second baseman. The second baseman throws the ball to the Angels’ third baseman, who waits for Flint to return to the base. Laughing, he nonchalantly tags Flint before he can touch third.

           “A triple play!” Dalton groans.

With two out in the sixth inning, Chase lines a single to center, and Pigpen Ball flies out. With King Kong Klein at the plate and the pitcher concentrating on getting him out, Chase easily steals second.

The throw to the shortstop covering the base is late.

Bouncing up, Chase trots back toward first.

Dalton’s eyes bulge. “What’s he doing?”

The Angels’ second baseman tosses the ball to the first baseman, who tags Chase out.

Red-faced, Chase trots back to the dugout.

Dalton meets Chase at the dugout steps. “I gotta hear this. Was it a blonde or a brunette that distracted you? Did you think you were out, son?”

“No, coach. I thought King Kong had fouled the ball off, so I was going back to first.”

In the next inning, Howard ”Hoagy” Carmichael draws a bead on a high fly ball. His worship of food, which earned him his nickname, has taken away what little athleticism the husky forty-year-old right fielder has left.

Hoagy braces himself against the right field wall, preparing to leap.

The ball bounces off his head and into the seats for a home run.

Reno turns to Dalton, who is spitting sunflower seeds like machine-gun bullets.

“He’d have caught if it came with fries,” Dalton says.

Richard “Pigpen” Ball snaps his bat in half over his knees after striking out to end of the Guardians’ seventh inning.

A blubbery 270 pounds, thirty-four-year-old Pigpen’s fireplug shape, and slovenly appearance have led the press to describe him as looking like “an exploding couch.” He is crude, profane, ornery, and universally disliked by his teammates.

Trudging back to the Guardians’ dugout, his jaw clenched in anger, he storms over to the bat rack.

Pulling out a bat he bashes the water cooler, destroying it with three wild swings.

Dalton turns to Reno. “He finally got a hit.”

With Guardians down to their last out, King Kong Klein steps to plate.

Vern Tessier notices Dalton gazing strangely at Klein.

With thick, glasses, an undernourished build, and spindly legs, the forty-three-year-old Tessier is an unlikely candidate for batting coach.

`“Something wrong?” Tessier asks.

“What’s up with Klein?”

“Oh, you mean his teeth. He took them out. Says it makes him look meaner.”

King Kong laces a hit toward the left field corner.

“Holy crap. It worked.”

King Kong rounds first, heading for second. MacDonald Valentine cuts the ball off, firing a strike to second. The ball arrives before Klein, forcing him to slide.

Standing over a prostrate Klein, the umpire calls him out. The game is over.

Klein’s agonized scream can clearly be heard above the boos of the crowd.

“What’s he done to himself now?” Dalton asks.

“Could be his hamstring,” Vern replies.

Vern, team trainer Gordon LeBlanc and the players follow Dalton onto the field. Some of the players shake their heads, others mutter an assortment of disparaging remarks, including “Dumb moose,” or “This team’s cursed.”

With a bald streak down the center of his otherwise bushy hair, an oversized, crooked nose, and a consistent look of bewilderment, the sixty-seven-year-year-old Leblanc resembles Larry Fine of the Three Stooges, and he often feels like his job plays out like a slapstick movie.

The coalition of concerned players and coaches surround King Kong. He looks up at them, his eyes wide in horror.

“Are you in pain?” Dalton asks.

“Yes! Yes!”

“Is it your hamstring again?” LeBlanc inquires.

“No!”             

“Good. Help me stand him up, boys.”

The players help pull King Kong to his feet. Leblanc notices the back of Klein’s pants are torn open.

“What’s wrong with him, Gordon?” Dalton asks.

“He’s going to need stitches. He’ll be out at least a week. He had his teeth in his back pocket. When he slid . . .”

Dalton stops LeBlanc before he can finish his sentence.

“…I get it….”

The players stifle their laughter.

“How are you going to list this on the injury report?” Vern asks.

Dalton sighs. “Dumb ass bites his own ass.”

After nine straight losses on the road, the Indians return to their home stadium facing more bad news. King Kong’s replacement, Darrell “Dr. Strange Glove” Garrett, had a violent sneezing fit, throwing out his back.

Following the announcement of Garrett’s injury, Dalton gathers the team together in the locker room.

“I wasn’t pleased with what I saw today. We hit into six double plays. Six! But I was proud of you guys when we clawed our way back to within a run...”

“Then Pigpen fell asleep behind the plate…three passed balls in a row,” Chase mutters.

“Shut up, you sawed-off playboy,” Pigpen snaps back. “If you’d had your eyes on the plate in the eighth inning instead of that bimbo in the stands you wouldn’t have taken that third strike.”

“Says the man whose batting average is so embarrassing they won’t even post it on the scoreboard,” Chase replies.

“Shut it!”

“I apologize, Pigpen. You’re batting a thousand against water coolers.”

Dalton breaks in. “Okay, that’s enough. More good news. King Kong pulled a hamstring while recovering from his butt bite. He’ll be out a little longer. With Darrell’s injury, we’ve had to reach out to our Triple-A affiliate for a first baseman…”

Dalton points to a young man standing in a corner at the far end of the room.

“Gentlemen, this is our new first baseman, Cleg Hoyt.”

A collective “Cleg who?” circulates throughout the room.

The shy, 6’ 3”, 230-pound twenty-two-year-old waves at his teammates.

“I’ve heard about you. You’re the Alabama Slammer,” Pigpen says. “You go into a trance whenever there’s pressure. I thought they were gonna send you back to Bugtussle or whatever country mud hole you come from.”

“Easy, Pig,” Dalton whispers.

“There’s somethin’ seriously off  in this hayseed.”

“This hayseed’s hitting .455 for our Triple-A club,” Dalton says.

Pigpen sneers. “Triple-A. That’s a kiddy league. I bet I could hit over four hundred in Alabama.”

“I’m glad you said that, Pig,” Dalton replies. “I’ve got your plane ticket right here.”

A week later, Flint is smiling as talks with Dalton in the locker room. “Some homestand, eh, Skipper? Six in a row!”

“Yeah, with Cleg at first base we’re starting to look like a professional baseball team… I’ve got some good news to tell him.”

“There’s something you should know before you do.”

“What is it?”

Flint waffles, looking away.

“Out with it, man.”

“He’s really superstitious.”

“All ballplayers are,” Dalton replies.

“There’s don’t step on the white line superstitious, and there’s let’s sacrifice a chicken superstitious,” Flint says. “Cleg is beyond that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let me show you.”

Flint dodges potholes as he pulls his car into the Chicken Pickin’ restaurant’s driveway.

Flint and Dalton gape at the restaurant’s bizarre poultry motif, manufacturing a smile for the hostess in the chicken outfit.

Flint nearly walks into a giant screaming chicken mannequin. “I’m going to have nightmares about this place.”

“Yeah, providing the food doesn’t keep you up all night long,”  Dalton replies. “He eats in this joint every day?”

“Yep. Pigpen was right about one thing. Cleg’s wheels don’t turn all the way 'round.”

The two men spot Cleg. Flint and Dalton take the two seats across from him.

“Hi fellas, join me for dinner,” Cleg says. “I really appreciate your allowin’ me to stick to my daily routine, Mr. Davis.”

“Sure, kid,” Dalton replies haltingly.

Cleg begins to rearrange the silverware.

An enthusiastic, dark-haired waitress in a bonnet comes to the table. She has an undeniably charming, syrupy southern accent.

“Good afternoon, gentlemen. I’m your waitress, Jenny. I hope you have a chicken pickin’ good time! The usual, Cleg?

“Yes, Miss Jenny.”

“Twenty-seven different styles and you have fried chicken every day. I swear, Cleg, you’re gonna sprout drumsticks one of these days!”

Cleg and Jenny share a down-home guffaw.

Turning to Flint and Dalton, Jenny asks, “How about you gents?”

“Chicken Masala if you got it,” Dalton replies.

“Chicken Parmesan,” Flint says.

Smiling, Jenny departs.

Dalton’s look is all business. “As you know, Cleg, King Kong Klein was due back tomorrow...”

Cleg politely interrupts. “Excuse me, Mr. Davis.”

Cleg bows his head, reciting a prayer. Opening his eyes, he rises from the table.

“Be right back, fellas. I gotta wash my hands before dinner.”

“Can’t you wait a sec? The skipper’s got something important to tell you,” Flint says.

“Gotta stick to my routine. Be right back.”

Flint and Dalton stare at Cleg in wonder as he heads for the men’s room.

“We were warned,” Flint comments.

“I had no idea he was this bad. He seems okay during the games. Quiet, just hits. But he makes me nervous because he’s so nervous.”

Jenny returns with a basket of bread and three salads. She gives Flint and Dalton their salads, putting down an assortment of salad dressings. She puts Cleg’s on the table, covering it with Russian Dressing.

“How do you know he wants Russian Dressing?” Flint asks.

“That’s all he takes,” Jenny replies. “He likes me to pour it too; won’t put it on himself.”

Jenny puts a roll on a small plate next to Cleg’s salad. “Always takes two pads of butter for his roll.”

Jenny smiles, exposing her oversized teeth.

“You seem to know the Alabama Slammer well, Jenny,” Dalton notes.

“We’ve become really close the last week or so. Close enough to know he hates that nickname.”

“What do you think of him?”

“Sweetest, most naive country boy I’ve ever met. He’s a real good soul. And he loves baseball. But it’s a real struggle for him. Everything in life is. He’s a prisoner of his habits.”

“One of the reasons we’re here, Jenny, is to understand those habits,” Dalton says. “We’re also here to break the news to him that even though our original first baseman is coming back, Cleg’s still going to be our starting first baseman.”

“He’ll be tickled, so long as it don’t mess with his daily routine.”

Cleg returns to the table. Pulling the chair out, he circles it twice before sitting down.

Once he’s seated, Cleg picks up the salt shaker, throwing some salt over his shoulder.

“Dinner should be ready now,” Jenny says. “You fellas make sure you stick around for coffee and ‘Oh Susannah.’”

“Is that the lady in the chicken outfit?” Flint asks.

Jenny chuckles. “No, silly. Me and Cleg sing ‘Oh Susannah’ after every meal. We sing it together ‘cause we’re both from Alabama and it reminds us of home.”

“Nothing odd about that,” Dalton says sarcastically.

Jenny heads back to the kitchen.

“Cleg, we’re here to tell you that even though King Kong is going to be back in the lineup, you’re still going to be our starting first baseman. Klein’s more than happy to switch to designated hitter.”

“Every day?” Cleg asks, swallowing hard.

“Every day.”

“I thought I’d be goin’ back to Alabama. Change makes it hard to stay in this world, hard to control myself.”

Cleg’s expression freezes. He stares straight ahead.

Dalton waves his hand over Cleg’s eyes.

“I hate to say this, but Pigpen was right again. He’s gone.”

“I hope you can hear me, Cleg,” Flint says. “Your teammates are all behind this decision. You’ve got what it takes to be a big star in this league.”

Jenny returns with their meals. She places Cleg’s in front of him, noticing his somnambulistic state.

“Oh, sweet Jesus, he’s left us again. Cleg? Cleg!”

Leaning down next to Cleg’s ear, Jenny begins to sing “Oh Susannah.”

Cleg’s frozen countenance begins to melt and his eyes flutter.

“You brought him back to us, Jenny,” Dalton notes. “Do you like baseball?

Vern turns to Dalton. “Can you believe it? We’re up 7-1 and the Alabama Slammer has two homers.”

“Guess I’m not used to such good fortune,” Dalton replies.

“C’mon, the Alabama Slammer’s been tearing it up since he’s been with us. He’s hitting close to five hundred and the team’s won nine in a row. The only time this team’s seen nine in a row is nine losses in a row.”

“I can’t help but feel it’s all too good to be true,” Dalton admits. “I keep expecting the devil to pop up and take my soul.”

“You’re being a worrywart, Dalt. We’re about to hit the road. If anything, Cleg should be better. He won’t have the press or the fans hounding him. He’ll be able to concentrate.”

“Did you make arrangements for Jenny to be at the games?”

“She’ll be sitting where he can see her.”

“I guess you’re right, Vern. A good road trip and we’ll be only a few games out of first place. What could go wrong?”

Dalton notices Cleg’s absence during practice the next day in Tampa Bay.

He pulls Flint aside.

“Have you seen Cleg?”

“He might still be in the locker room.  He muttered something about feeling off earlier.”

“And you didn’t think to tell me? C’mon!”

Dalton and Flint rush toward the locker room.

They find Cleg half-dressed in front of his locker, staring into oblivion.

“Get Gordon and Jenny,” Dalton says.

Gordon LeBlanc studies Cleg’s frozen visage as Jenny paces the floor.

“Medically, he’s fine. But he’s shut down mentally,” LeBlanc says.

Jenny looks into Cleg’s blank stare. Hugging the frozen first baseman, she quietly begins to sing “Oh Susannah.”

Cleg remains motionless.

“Did he have his pre-game meal?” Jenny asks.

“You mean that nasty fried chicken?” Dalton asks. “No offense.”

“It’s a big part of his daily routine.”

“We didn’t think this through,” Flint says. “I can see the headlines now. ‘Hoyt chickens out.’”

“Is there a Chicken Pickin’ here in Tampa Bay?”

“Closest one is in Miami,” Jenny replies.

“That’s nearly four hours away,” Flint says.

“It’s quicker if you fly,” Dalton says.

Spitting sunflower seeds, Dalton checks the field.

“Tie score. This the game, right here,” he says to Vern. “Cleg gets a hit here, we hold them in the bottom of the ninth, and we two games out of first.”

“And we owe all to a bucket of chicken,” Vern replies.

“That, a few choruses of ‘Oh Susannah,’ and Jenny being able to make an empty room at the V.A. look like a Chicken’ Pickin’ Restaurant.”

Cleg’s eyes meet Jenny’s. He nods at her as he steps into the batter’s box. Jose Oliva, Tampa Bay’s best reliever, throws a low slider. Cleg swings, sending the ball into the right field stands for a grand slam home run.

Jumping, shouting, the Guardians rush out to meet Cleg at home plate.

Cleg runs past his teammates, past Dalton.

He keeps running until he’s out of the stadium.

Despite being four runs ahead with only three outs to go, the Guardians lose the game when a throw gets past first baseman King Kong Klein.

The Guardians go into a tailspin, finishing third.

Cleg and Jenny are ever seen again.