James A. Weber
Would you get fed up if your baseball team didn't win a pennant for more than 50 years. The answer is 'yes' if you're Peanut Joe, a peanut vendor at Chicago's Friendly Field who gets so mad that he lays his life and fortune on the line for his beloved Chicago Chicks. Peanut Joe confronts not only the hated St. Louis Catfish but a double-dealing, bean-counting Chicks owner who is more interested in the team's bottom line than its line-up; greedy, bumbling ballplayers who think baseball is all about making money not plays; and long-suffering, loyal fans for whom losing is a way of baseball life. But aided by a mysterious 'angel' who spends millions of dollars to stock the team with high-priced free agents, Peanut Joe does whatever it takes -- and you will be amazed at what it takes -- to spur the Chicks to a pennant-winning season. If you love baseball, you'll love Pennants Ain't Peanuts.
A lifelong resident of Chicago's North Side, James A. Weber grew up playing ball in the city's streets and vacant lots while rooting for the Chicago Cubs as both a fan and an usher at ballgames in Wrigley Field. A lifelong writer, Weber made his first sale with the publication of a baseball short story. Since then, he has published two non-fiction books. He has also written more than one thousand articles in the field of high-tech public relations. Now, he returns to his first love, baseball fiction, with the publication of Pennants Ain't Peanuts.
Joe was taking it out on the fans in the stands, whipping bags of peanuts as the Chicks made one bad play after another on the field. 'Boo if you don't like what's goin' on here,' he hollered at them. 'Let 'em know you're not gonna take it any more. Ask 'em why the Chicks can't find somebody who can play this game. We gotta do somethin' to light a fire under these guys. They're makin' the last 50 years of Chicks players look like All Stars.
The game ground on unmercifully with New York scoring four more runs in the fourth, another three in the sixth, two in the seventh and four in the eighth. In the top of the ninth, the Apples scored two more runs and had the bases loaded with nobody out. Harley Brim came dragging himself out of the dugout and onto the field to bring in his fifth relief pitcher. That's when a fan near the Chicks dugout threw up his hands in despair and, seeing Joe coming down a nearby aisle, hollered, 'They ought to put you in there, Joe. You couldn't do any worse than these bums.'
Hearing the fan's shouted suggestion, Harley Brim wheeled around and came striding back towards the stands. 'That's a heckuva idea,' he snorted, giving Joe the eye. 'C'mon, Joe, get your butt in there.'
The fans sitting in the dugout area laughed uproariously at the thought of Peanut Joe going out on the mound and pitching for the Chicks. But then Joe walked down the steps to the low concrete wall separating the stands from the field, opened a gate, and stepped through it onto the field. Setting down his tray of peanut bags next to the dugout, he began stripping off his peanut vendor's white coat and pants, revealing a sparkling clean Chicks uniform underneath. He pulled out a cap from his waistband and tugged it on his head. And, although it hadn't been noticed before, it suddenly became apparent as Joe strode out to the mound that he was wearing baseball cleats on his feet.
The New York batter watched all this with shocked disbelief. The umpire behind the plate, as soon as he saw Joe cross the third base foul line on his way to the mound, immediately charged the Chicks dugout.
'What's going on here?' shouted the ump, pulling up in front of Harley Brim who had come out of the dugout to meet him.
'We're putting in a relief pitcher,' replied Brim innocently with a big grin.
'That's no relief pitcher,' said the ump. 'That a peanut vendor.'
'I beg to differ,' said Brim politely, pulling a bunch of papers out of his back pocket. 'Here, you see, is a contract for Joseph Ladislaus Kaslowski to play baseball for the Chicks. Here's the telegram we sent to league offices, look, it's even got a time stamp.
And here's a copy of our active list, see, we have a player on the 15-day disabled list, making room for Mr. Kaslowski.'
'This is ridiculous,' the ump stormed.
Brim shrugged.
'That guy,' the ump sputtered, waving at Joe, 'must be 70 years old if he's a day.'
'There's no age limit on playing baseball,' said Brim.
'He's not even a baseball player.'
'Yes, he is,' said Brim. 'He's a good one.'
'When did he ever play baseball?'
'Fifty years ago . . maybe more.'
'Fifty years ago?' the ump replied incredulously. 'That's half a century.'
'Some players never lose it,' Brim assured the ump with a chuckle.
'It's your team so you can do what you want,' the ump barked,stalking away as he added over his shoulder, 'The league president will hear about this.'
Up in the broadcast booth, Curt Pilsen was salivating. 'This is the wildest thing I have ever seen in all my years of broadcasting baseball. Peanut Joe pitching for the Chicks. It's unbelievable.'
The Apples were standing up in their dugout ribbing Joe.
'Hey, old man, don't forget to hold onto your teeth when you throw the ball,' one hollered.
'Whattaya gonna throw -- your social security check?' taunted another.
'Check the ball for Metamucil, ump,' a third catcalled.
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