Sky Diving Chant

Chance Of A Lifetime

The game had gone to extra innings. No one dared go home, even on a chilly October work night such as this. The Chicago Cubs, that seemingly goat-cursed team, had ridden a nine game winning streak at the very end of the season to overtake the Saint Louis Cardinals and win the division. Now they were a heavy underdog at the cusp of appearing in the World Series for the first time in generations, battling a mighty Los Angeles Dodgers team that had run roughshod over the entire league all season long.

Antoine Caldwell, the star left fielder was striding to the plate with two outs in the 14th inning to a thunderous roar that shook the darkened Chicago sky. His face gave no indication of the tremendous gravity of the current situation, the Dodgers having scored one run in the top half of the inning to tie the game. His visage was as a stone, determined to weather the coming storm.

The speedy pinch runner Caesar Fernandez had just successfully stolen third base after advancing to second on Jerry Stone's bloop single, giving hope to the long suffering fans that endured the first two batters striking out unceremoniously to the Dodgers ace closer, "Cannon" Collins, who glared now at Caldwell as a lion eyeing his dinner. A rhythmic chant of "Aaaaaay-Ceeeee!" reverberated through the stadium, spilling out into the streets beyond the ballpark where thousands had gathered to witness firsthand this hopefully momentous occasion.

One of those fans was a certain Sean Thompson, thirty nine years along and more than a little consumed by the love of the game. He had vivid dreams of playing professionally while in his teens, though real life had caught up with him. He had taken the noble road and provided for his wife and children, though never giving up his love of the game. More than a few vendors had come to recognize his face among the thousands that had flowed through Wrigley Field's gates.

This night, Sean was with his two best friends, Mike Graziano and Pete Ostrowski, both adult miscreants in every sense of the word. Although good of heart, they continually walked the fine line between decent citizenship and downright boorishness. Neither one was married and continually dragged Sean, most of the time unaware of their intentions, into questionable situations that required Sean to explain in great detail to his wife Debbie.

She had been the anchor in his life that kept him grounded and content, allowing him to be a man but reminding him gently but firmly of how a man was supposed to behave, despite Mike and Pete's best efforts to contaminate him with adolescent behavior. Debbie had also bore him his two boys, Daniel and Chris of whom Sean was fiercely protective. He guided them with a firm but gentle hand, teaching them everything he knew about baseball and dreaming for the day when they would themselves would suit up for the Cubs. It was fortunate indeed that they shared their father's passion for the game. Glued to the television with rapt attention the boys never seemed to notice when their father and his friends appeared briefly, the camera focusing on Mike dancing on his seat without any rhythm to speak of.

Antoine Caldwell had indeed earned his pay thus far with his present at-bat. He had fouled off five pitches, two of by what means he was not even sure himself.

Three balls.

Two strikes.

Full count ladies and gentlemen.

Cannon Collins possessed by what many judged to be by far the most wicked slider in the game which he had given Antoine a full dose of mixed in with a changeup and fastball that the radar gun registered at ninety-six miles an hour. Antoine held his hand up for time which the umpire immediately granted and thus began the batters ritual of backing out of the batter's box, practice swinging the bat, looking around at the crowd, spitting, tapping the shoes and finally digging in with his back foot and tapping the plate twice with the head of the bat. The entire process was designed to calm the batter and focus his thoughts on the task at hand, but it had helped Antoine not at all. Though his face was as stone and he stood as one possessing a backbone of steel, only he himself knew that his guts were jelly and his mind was a morass of adrenaline-driven temporary insanity. He knew that this next pitch would be the ONE, and he also knew he had better do something spectacular with it. He caught himself gripping the bat tight enough to turn his knuckles white, but had that thin sliver of consciousness to loosen them as he readied himself for destiny.

Sean, Mike and Pete stood along with the rest of Wrigley Field, those on the rooftops across Sheffield Avenue, Waveland Avenue, the entire city of Chicago, and a nation curious to see if the curse would be broken and history made. They joined in the mighty chorus of voices seeking redemption for years of being on the butt end of the joke. Pete being somewhat more than legally intoxicated, was screaming in some incomprehensible language that only he could possibly understand though Mike was thoroughly entertained by the gibberish and could not seem to keep from laughing in a manner that would make a hyena proud.

Collins leaned forward on the mound, glaring in at the catcher, waving off three signs before nodding his agreement. He then rose up, his head tilted low and eyes darting towards Fernandez on third, an obvious thorn in Collins' side. Fernandez was being conservative and not leading off the base by much. He knew that a wily pitcher of Collins' caliber would not let him get away with stealing home so he had settled along with his base coach that Antoine would somehow deliver magic.

"AYE-CEE! AYE-CEE!" The thunderous chant shook the very foundations of Wrigley Field and indeed some paint actually chipped off that evening from said thunder. Collins went into his stretch and the ball flew from his hand along with a loud grunt that escaped him with the effort. Fernandez danced along the third base line, ready to explode for home and glory.

The pitch of course was a textbook slider that Antoine very nearly did not pick up. In fact he was so inconclusive that he did not take a usual mighty hack at the ball but only had the wherewithal to throw the bat head in the direction of the outer half of the plate, hoping to foul off yet another pitch and wait for a mistake from Collins. In this instance however the ball smacked the head of the bat in an angle that shot it three feet over the Dodger's first baseman's head. He leaped upwards for the softly hit line drive but as with many first basemen his more athletic years had passed him by and the ball intersected with the outer laces of his glove and skipped into right field.

Pandemonium.

Fernandez did not trot triumphantly home, he made sure there was no chance of anything going wrong this time and he sprinted for all he was worth after seeing the ball squirt past the tip of the first baseman's glove. Antoine on the other hand loped to first base with an incredible feeling of a gigantic weight released from his soul after seeing the right fielder realize the pointless effort of trying to throw out Fernandez at the plate.

Fans erupted from the stands; security overwhelmed against the flood of delirious humanity that poured from it seemed everywhere. Pete grabbed a thoroughly shocked Sean and kissed him full on the mouth to which he replied with a variety of spits and curses. Mike of course was euphoric as well and sought to repeat the offense, but Sean squirted away from his grasp with moves that would make Walter Payton jealous. He instead reached for the pretty blonde that stood directly behind Sean and laid a passionate kiss fully on her surprised lips. Her boyfriend who also was giddy, did not seem to mind for this was an occasion where the love flowed from Chicago Cubs fans as mighty as the Mississippi to the sea.

The celebration rang from the streets of the North Side for the entire night, and the police were quite relieved that it was a mostly peaceful one aside from the usual drunk and disorderly shenanigans. It took nearly a week for the tumultuous celebrations to die down as Cubs fans from all over the country reflected on where they were when Antoine Caldwell's half-hearted swing saved Chicago.

The radio in the car was Sean's best friend on the way to work, and the local A.M. sports channel that he had listened to for years was abuzz with talk of the Cubs and the upcoming World Series against the seemingly invincible New York Yankees who were a heavy favorite to add another championship banner to their already unsurpassed collection.

As the commercials blared their usual monotonous songs of how everyone should part with their money for one reason or another, at the verge of resuming the live talk, there came a commercial that caught Sean's rapt attention.

"Listen up Cubs fans! Keep your dial right here on WGN720 radio with Pat Hughes and Ron Santo for your chance to be the lucky winner of an opportunity to sit on the Cubs bench during this historic World Series as an honorary player! Be the ninth caller this week when you hear Harry Caray sing "Take Me Out To The Ball Game" and you can be one of our qualifiers! DON'T LISTEN TO ANNNNNEEEEONE ELSE HERE IN CHICAGOLAND!!"

"I won't." Sean whispered with a wide grin.

It was the last rainout makeup game of the Thursday night slow pitch softball league, and Chicago weather in late October was unpleasant at best. Both sides had properly ingested various amounts of "softball antifreeze" otherwise commonly known as beer, as dictated by time honored ballplayer tradition. Temperatures hovered in the upper thirties and there was even a hint of frost on the grass. Sean, Mike and Pete played for a team feared far and wide by none known as The Underthinkers and their foe this evening, Slimdawg's Pub, were both vying for the fall league crown. Both teams had a history of dislike for each other, having met many times on many different fields, the outcomes bringing the victor bragging rights until the next meeting. The number of conquests was nearly even for both teams, which helped fan the flames of the rivalry.

The game itself, unlike the temperature of the air, was quite heated. There had been a misplayed ground ball to third that had resulted in a hurried throw to first, tailing to the third baseman's right and planting squarely into the side of the batter streaking down the line to first base. Words had been exchanged though cooler heads had prevailed, getting play re-established.

The next inning contained a hard slide into second base and although steel cleats were not allowed, the impact had bruised the shortstop's calf attempting to turn a double play quite deeply. That time both the shortstop and the runner had to be separated and the umpires called both team managers to the pitcher's mound to inform them that any more incidents would result in the immediate removal of anyone participating in antisocial behavior.

In the seventh inning the Underthinkers found themselves in a favorable position by scoring five runs and taking an 18 to 16 lead in the top half with a timely double by Pete to the right field fence with the bases loaded. Feeling confident with a two run cushion going out to play defense, there were smiles and springs in their steps as they took their positions.

As pitcher, Sean looked around the field to ensure that everyone was ready, took a deep breath and turned towards home plate. His opponent had singled twice in the game, a skilled and versatile batter who was capable of hitting the ball anywhere despite his smaller size. A further danger to consider was his speed, having proven through the season that he could turn singles into doubles given the opportunity. This was evidenced by Sean's first pitch smacked low and hard along the third base line, and a slight bobble by the third baseman was all it took for the opposing batter to beat the lightning throw by half a step.

Next up was the Slimdawgs number seven batter, and older fellow who now relied on savvy as a young man's strength had come and gone. Sean was familiar with him and knew not to give him an outside pitch that would easily be driven to right field and advancing the runner to third or home. He held the ball in his hand lightly with his index finger covering the seam. Aiming towards the outer half of the plate, Sean released the ball with a twisting motion and upon nearly reaching the plate the ball took a dive towards the inside corner. The batter took a mighty swing and made contact on the small of the bat, which sailed weakly to the shortstop.

One out.

Number eight and nine batters up and one out; things looked favorable still.

A tall young blonde college student type swung the bat lazily at the plate, not being experienced he did not display the behaviors of veteran players whose mannerisms sometimes did affect the way the defense lined up to them. This one however was all business. Sean craftily recognized his aggressive stance and for three series gave him only pitches with an arch on the extreme edge of legality. The batter fouled off two of them to the far left, his swing more accustomed to a blazing ninety mile per hour fastball from his high school days, far ahead of the pitch.

Two strikes.

One to go.

As soon as Sean released the next pitch he knew he had made a grave error. His leaning curveball was designed to appear to aim straight for the head of the batter then curve viciously back over the strike zone. This particular one however was aimed too far to the left and broke out over the outer half of the plate, meeting the barrel of the bat and rocketing its way only ten feet from the ground out into left field. The Slimdawgs bench erupted as the runner on first advanced speedily to third and a jubilant batter stopped at first.

Face pinched in irritation, Sean received the ball flicked back to him from the shortstop, who pounded his glove to indicate his readiness to end this threat of defeat to a hated enemy.

Now the situation had changed considerably.

Two runners on base and the winning run coming to the plate.

Number nine batter for the Slimdawgs was another young fellow, though far shorter in stature his eyes blazed with determination to not let down his mates. The entire game he had been far too aggressive at the plate, swinging at nearly every pitch that was even remotely close. Sean saw this as a golden opportunity to end this once and for all with a double play. His first pitch was flat and short, hardly an arch on the pitch and as expected the batter took a mighty hack at the ball, fouling it off almost straight down, nearly missing bruising the ankle on his right foot. Sean smiled slightly, he knew this fruit was ripe for the plucking. The batters emotion would take care of the hard part, all he had to do was put the ball in the proper place. His next pitch sailed at a high arch, though just a tad short of the strike zone. With a grunt the batter swung at the ball as if he were trying to place it in the next county. What it did however was lazily dribble back to Sean who looked back Speedyman at third then threw the batter out quickly at first base.

Two outs, number ten batter up. The odds were swinging to the favor of the Underthinkers.

The batter in the tenth position was usually the most substandard on the team and the vast majority of coaches placed them in said position on the batting order, and now Sean gazed upon a new face coming to the plate. Muscles tightened by tension started to ease in Sean as the batter strode to the batter's box. His appearance lent more to one perceiving him as a librarian or a high school English teacher. No more than five foot five inches tall, thin, balding and seemingly devoid of any muscle tone whatsoever, this situation appeared to Sean to be in the bag. The batter stopped in the batter's box with and ungainly stance and took two ghastly uncoordinated practice swings before readying himself. Sean felt no need to do anything out of the ordinary with his pitches as this guy would be lucky to hit the ball to the edge of the infield grass. His first pitch was a batting practice beauty and the batter hacked dreadfully at it with what appeared to be an ax swing.

Strike one.

The very next pitch was very similar to the first, a bit higher on the arch. The result of the swing was also similar in that the swing was hideous and contacted only air.

Steeee-rike two.

Oddly enough the Slimdawg bench did not appear to have the manner of a team that was on the precipice of a humiliating defeat. Of course there was some concern in the player's faces, but downfall was not displayed on any of them. They yelled encouragement to the batter, who had stepped away from the batter's box to lower his head towards the ground as if in prayer. His shoulders rose with a deep breath and he then proceeded to take his place in the batter's box once again.

"Meat", Sean thought to himself.

He released the pitch with ease, his only concern being that the ball crossed the strike zone.

Something was not quite right.

The batter, instead of being in the clumsy stance that the Underthinkers had been presented with, had quickly assumed a position of readiness that any veteran slow pitch softball player would be proud of. His swing was as sweet as Sean had ever seen, and when the ball contacted the bat he knew from the ping as well as the grunt from the batter that this was bad.

Very bad.

He watched in horror as the ball sailed well over the left center field fence. Turning back towards where the batter was walking nonchalantly down the first base line Sean saw him turn to glance at one deflated pitcher. What was even more heartbreaking was watching him mouth the word "Gotcha." The Slimdawgs had erupted in joyous celebration, fairly running out to meet the vanquished Underthinkers and shake their hands as softball etiquette dictated.

The week passed by with Sean listening and dialing constantly, his ear tuned to the sound of Harry Caray's oh so familiar voice much to Debbie's consternation and scolding. Near the end of the week Sean himself was becoming quite wearied of hearing the song. Of course the boys sided with their father and had even awakened him from a much-needed nap on the couch to dial the radio station. This had resulted in a nicely bruised shin where Sean had leaped into awareness and attempted to run through the coffee table next to the couch on a mad dash to the telephone.

Debbie had scolded him profusely after that.

Friday came and Sean still had not succeeded in getting through to WGN720, not even to be informed that he was a late caller. At this point he had come to the conclusion that the whole scenario, which he had envisioned a thousand times in his head would indeed only exist there in the realm of his imagination. The softball defeat the previous night had only further dampened his gloomy disposition.

It was nearly quitting time and the thought of the whole thing had nearly escaped his conscious thought, but as the tiny radio quietly oozed out its gout of information, the unmistakable intonation of Harry Caray's voice pinged his eardrum. He glanced at the phone with disdain but then sighed, "What the hell."

Fumbling fingers punched the numbers that had now been branded into his brain. His first attempt resulted in the painfully accustomed busy dial tone. Sean hesitated a moment wrangling with the idea of just setting the phone down and retiring the thought altogether but his fingers with a mind of their own dialed the oft-accursed numbers one last time.

It rang.

"At least I made it this far", he thought, hearing the words grumbling inside his mind. The ringing kept going and just as he was once again ready to throw in the towel...

"YOU ARE CALLER NINE! WHAT DO YA THINK ABOUT THAT?!!"

Somewhat in shock Sean managed to get out "Awesome!" with a slight flutter in his voice.

The D.J.'s voice was far too cheery, Sean's impression was that either his disposition was entirely forced or the guy had just completed three lines of coke.

"WHAT IS YOUR NAME FRIEND?"

"Sean...Sean Thompson."

"OKAY SEAN YOU ARE REGISTERED TO SIT ON THE BENCH DURING THE WORLD SERIES AS AN HONORARY PLAYER AND YOU ARE GOING TO STUDY YOUR SIGNS RIGHT?"

Sean hesitated, not quite sure what to say with the incredulity of the moment.

"Uhhhh...yeah!"

With a hint of annoyance at such a lively caller the D.J. rambled on, "STAY ON THE LINE SEAN AND WE WILL GET YOUR INFORMATION AND GOOD LUCK TO YOU MY FRIEND! YOU ARE THE VERY LAST PERSON TO BECOME ELIGIBLE!"

Sean fairly beamed.

The next week was agonizing once again for Sean, as over fifty people had become registered for the contest and only seven would be chosen, even with that if the Series only went four games it was a long shot. Day after disappointing day other people's names were announced and to Sean the majority of them were the type of people who had no real appreciation for the game of baseball, just a desire for fifteen minutes of fame.

Friday arrived featuring a Sean Thompson nearly insane from thoughts of lost opportunity residing alongside thoughts of finally realizing a long desired dream. With shattered nerves he completely ignored his work, spreadsheets and reports be damned.

The station had broadcast that the final winner that would be sitting on the Cubs bench for Game Seven of the World Series was to be announced sometime after lunch so naturally Sean had skipped going anywhere and was transfixed on the radio. His co-workers were somewhat annoyed by his constant nervous finger tapping but knowing of his passion for baseball they merely shook their heads as they walked past his desk or grinned amusedly at the folly. They also admired the fine art doodles that had been produced instead of production figures and graphs.

One-fifteen rolled around and no announcement. Sean had been somewhat lucky in the fact that his supervisors, of which there were seemingly far too many, were too busy to notice his blatant lack of production to this point of the day. He had however, been joined at his desk by a few of his co-workers that were taken in by Sean's agitation and the suspense of the moment.

Finally a supervisor took notice of Sean's lack of enthusiasm and the crowd, dispersing people and doing his best impression of an authority figure in informing Sean that he needed to get his work done "or else". Ten minutes later as Sean was about to finish a spreadsheet the radio came alive to his ears with a boorishly loud "THIS IS IT! THE LAST SPOT ON THE CUB'S BENCH FOR THE WORLD SERIES!" accompanied by standard canned radio drum roll music.

"SEAN THOMPSON!"

"YOU ARE THE HONORARY PLAYER TO SIT ON THE CUB'S BENCH DURING GAME SEVEN OF THE WORLD SERIES AGAINST THE NEW YORK YANKEES! CALL US HERE AT THE STATION TO CONFIRM AND CONGRADULATIONS!"

It seemed to his coworkers that Sean had been electrocuted. He danced a very bad Irish jig around his desk and whooped like desert Bedouin warriors about to engage in battle with the infidels. It took several minutes and several bosses to dissipate the crowd that had gathered around Sean's area, partially because they too had joined in the celebration. For the next week the smile never left his face.

World Series Game One had resulted in the expected Yankee domination, a twelve to two drubbing. Game Two had started in the same fashion but Antoine Caldwell had once again worked magic with a three run homer in the fifth along with timely base running and solid middle relief pitching had led to an unexpected one run victory for the Cubs in Yankee Stadium. Game Three at Wrigley, the first in a very, very long time was another pounding by the Yankees much to the dismay of Cub fans everywhere. Game Four was nearly a mirror image of Game Two with the exception being the hero of the day was Tony Castagliano, a reserve utility player coming off the bench to smack a late inning three run bomb to give the Cubs the win. Game Five at Wrigley was a classic pitcher's duel with the final score being one to nothing in favor of the Yankees. This game was also pivotal in the aspect that the competition became quite heated with hard slides and a few hit batsmen. The umpire very quickly took control of the situation when a pitch sailed at ninety miles an hour behind the head of Yankee star Josh Goodwin. Stern warnings were issued to both sides and bench clearing was avoided by a narrow margin.

As the games progressed Sean became increasingly excited with the prospect of his sitting in the Cubs dugout and religiously sat with his boys in his living room analyzing every play and every coaching move on the television. It seemed to him more and more like it was his destiny to see the ivy from a different perspective. Debbie was in good spirits to see him this excited, like a child awaiting Christmas morning but she also hoped that this phase passed quickly as his time with her had suffered indeed. She smiled gratefully at him and the boys as they were enraptured with Game Six, realizing that she should count her blessings. He was such a good father and husband she thought to herself.

"He deserves a little distraction."

With a loving glance that Sean never saw, she stepped back into the kitchen and checked on the chicken farfalle that filled the house with a pleasant smell.

Game Six at Yankee Stadium could easily fall into the category of one of the classics. The first scoring occurred in the Yankee second inning by a broken bat single that fell just out of the reach of a diving Cubs second baseman Chris Heller with a runner on third. Then a double off the left field corner scored the wielder of the broken bat single, Yankees third baseman Tyus Lee. Yankee Stadium was at fever pitch until the Cubs struck back immediately in the top of the third inning with a leadoff walk off of Yankees starter Oscar Mendez followed two batters later with what appeared to be an easy pop fly in right field that carried three hundred and fifteen feet to a two run homer. No more runs were scored until the eighth inning but there were spectacular defensive plays on both sides that kept fans attention riveted. Yankees second baseman Karl Holmes stymied a Chicago threat in the fifth inning with a truly memorable play, racing to cut off a seeming single up the middle only to make a bare handed stab and starting a double play with a throw to the shortstop between his legs, the only angle remotely possible for success. Yankee Stadium had erupted as never before. For the Cubs it was a nearly backwards diving center fielder Benny Kattke that snared a two out two men on screaming line drive that appeared to be a sure two run scoring double or triple had he not retained possession of the ball in his webbing by the thinnest of margins.

The teams traded runs in the eight from solo homers by the Yankees right fielder Feliz Hernandez and the Cub's hero from the fifth inning Benny Katke. The ninth and tenth innings followed with little drama only routine defensive plays the kept the game tied.

The eleventh inning turned the heads of the baseball world.

At the top of the inning the Cub's first two batters were retired on easy ground balls to the shortstop and second baseman, but then the wheels fell of the train. The first fastball from the Yankee's closer mistakenly placed in the fat part of the plate promptly ended up in the upper deck in left center field of Yankee Stadium courtesy of John Krystowiak, sent in to pinch hit at the last moment.

Bottom of the eleventh with a leadoff walk and a scorching single past the Cub's closer left the Yankees with no outs, two men on and millions of New York fans smelling blood in the water. The Cub's coach Bud Whittaker, a bulldog faced man of sixty years made a crucial decision that would change everyone's destiny. Pointing his finger in the direction of the bullpen, he stomped out of the dougout and made his way to the pitcher's mound. Coming out of the bullpen was a surprise, the Cub's normal ace starter Kenny Hill. Bud took the ball from his dejected closer, slapped it into Hill's hand and if lip readers were correct, uttered more than a few profanities then turned back to the Cub's dugout.

Hill got the next batter to fly to shallow right field and the tremendous throw to the plate froze the Yankee baserunners where they were. The next batter grounded to the Cub's Ishimuri Yokoshiro at third but the tying Yankee run advanced to third with the failure of the Cub's to turn a double play due to a nearly errant throw from Yokoshiro.

Two outs and two men on.

Yankee fans screamed when their best power hitter Josh Goodwin strode to the batter's box seemingly attempting to influence the outcome of the contest merely by their united will.

The first two pitches from Hill were foul balls, one flying high into the New York night straight backwards. The next was a bullet line drive towards the left field foul pole that had Yankee fans screaming in anticipation of victory. The ball hooked foul and missed history by two feet. Hill then changed his approach and instead of attempting to overpower his opponent he threw a change up inside that just missed being strike three much to the dismay of Bud Whittaker who was quite vociferous in his disagreement with the call. A slider well outside the strike zone resulted in ball two.

Two and two.

Hill shook off the catcher four times then nodded. He went into his delivery and a sweeping curveball missed high.

Three and two.

Hill was starting two show the stress he felt inside as beads of sweat trickled down the sides of his cheeks as he shook off the catcher four more times. The earth underneath Yankee Stadium shook with the thunder of thousands of voices as Hill delivered his next pitch, a slider that hung and erupted from the bat of Goodwin. Rocketing towards the left field seats, the ball was just clearing the fence when the glove of one Antoine Caldwell reached a height it had never achieved before and with a pop of leather upon leather the Yankees were forced to game seven by mere centimeters.

A speechless, ecstatic and elated Sean Thompson was headed to New York to sit on the Cub's bench tomorrow night.

Overwhelmed could best describe Sean's demeanor as he stood against the far wall of the visitor's locker room at Yankee Stadium, leaning as nonchalantly as he could attempting to give the impression that he was not actually about to scream with delight comparable to a little girl just receiving a pony on her tenth birthday. To him he was standing among giants thought the giants themselves never really thought they held that mythical title. They were just guys playing baseball.

Bud Whittaker placed himself in the middle of the locker room and all eyes focused on him, waiting on the pudgy bald headed skipper's grizzled words of wisdom that would be remembered for generations to come should they prevail. He did not speak immediately, turning and eyeing each and every one of his players. Finally with a grunt he exclaimed, "Just win the damn game." He then turned towards the tunnel leading to the dugout with smiles, laughter and a team retaining far less tension following closely. Sean took up a spot at the back of the pack and tried to soak in every second, imagining what it was like to experience this every day, every summer. He spied the field approaching his vision and as he entered the dugout he was simply awestruck by the moment and the panorama. The dirt that he had seen so many times on television was right in front of his face. He could smell the grass and it was sweeter than anything he had ever imagined. This was heaven incarnate to him.

Coming somewhat to his senses, he milled through the players to the rear of the dugout and sat down. After the players settled in, the starting lineups were announced and they all stood for the National anthem. It was a seeming whirlwind to Sean, all happening far too fast for his taste. After all he wanted to savor every minute. He wondered if Debbie and the boys could see him and given the number of cameras everywhere, there was no doubt that he would garner some attention.

Just as the thought occurred to him a microphone appeared out of nowhere and very annoying voice belonging to a far too metrosexual reporter shrilled, "I understand you are the winner of the contest to sit on the bench with the Cubs tonight! How do you see the game shaping up?"

Sean hesitated for a moment, somewhat awestruck still then responded thoughtfully, " If our pitcher can keep it inside and low on the Yankees number two and three batters and keep his pitch count to around thirty to forty for the first three innings then we should be okay. We will also have to challenge their catcher tonight as I understand he has had some issue with his throwing shoulder. Even more important is to keep level heads in the batter's box and watch for that slider rotation on the ball as it leaves his hand."

The reporter and his cameraman were rendered speechless with Sean's insight but that didn't last long.

"Alright folks there you have straight from Coach...what was your name again?"

"Thompson...Sean Thompson." A wry grin started to form on Sean's face.

"Back to you in the studio."

When the first pitch left the Yankee starter's hand Sean was electrified. Here it was all unfolding before his eyes. The game progressed somewhat as Sean had predicted, the Yankees building a one to nothing lead through the fifth inning with the Cubs starting pitcher hitting his spots and keeping the power of the Yankees stymied. A stolen base followed with a long single to right field had resulted in the only scoring thus far. The Cubs had opportunities to score but had not capitalized with two inning ending double plays and an easy fly to centerfield quashing any chance of offensive damage.

Innings six and seven saw the Yankees score two more runs off of a tiring Cubs starter, making mistakes with pitch placement. After a run-scoring double to the right centerfield wall by the Yankees Josh Goodwin, Bud Whittaker trudged out of the dugout and pointed the dreaded finger to the bullpen. He felt that in this instance he was going to need some fiery pitching so out trotted the infamous reliever Felix Alexander, known to be exceedingly aggressive and quite successful at it. His temper was legendary throughout the league, his non pitching hand broken twice after blown saves and some property damage to boot as well as more than a few hit batsmen. He took the ball from Bud's hand while the coach was patting his starter on the back with a look of pure ferocity. Bud smiled. "Go after em' kid."

With two outs already, it only took one ninety-six mile an hour fastball and one perfect slider popped straight up to retire the Yankees. Still the Cubs were down three to nothing with two at bats to go. In the eighth it seemed as if they would break through, the leadoff batter hit by a pitch obviously aimed at his torso followed with a successfully stolen base, a ground ball through the gap between the shortstop and third baseman with no outs put the Cubs in favorable shape to mount a rally. Unfortunately the next batter hit the ball on the ground very hard right to the Yankee second baseman positioned perfectly next to the base and instead of conceding the run for the double play the shortstop fired the ball home after getting the first out and in a very close play got the out much to the dismay and agony of millions of Cubs fans and Yankee haters. The next batter smacked a deep fly ball to left center but it hung in the New York breeze and was caught easily ending the Cub threat.

Sean's heart raced. He had decided conclusively that being this close to the action was infinitely more gut wrenching than watching the game on T.V. He had kept fairly quiet, taking in the sight and smell of it all and not bothering anyone. No one had bothered him either, as the players and coaches were far too focused to socialize with guests. His brain was on fire with the tension and his muscles were actually starting to ache. The players didn't even notice that he was adding to their shouts of encouragement and groans of dismay when things looked difficult.

In the Yankee half of the eighth inning is when the fireworks began. Felix Alexander's first fastball registering at a blistering ninety eight miles an hour passed the leadoff Yankee behind his head. Immediately the home plate umpire issued a stern verbal warning to both teams with Felix at the center of his wrath. The rest of his pitches for the inning were far less threatening though extremely well placed and he managed to retire the side without any further damage.

In the top half of the ninth inning, the Cub's last chance to grasp destiny, Caesar Fernandez managed to wile his way to a walk on a very close call by the umpire with a three and two count. Antoine Caldwell strode to the plate calmly though no one really realized what a train wreck he was inside.

"This is it man." He breathed silently to himself, then dug in.

With a grimace Jeff Ignasiak, the Yankees closer, let loose his first pitch, a fastball intended on catch Caldwell by surprise. To a degree he did as Antoine's swing was a mite on the slow side and ball met bat at an angle that sent it sailing toward the right field fence. Upon impact with the ground a puff of white chalk on the foul line swirled into the air and the first base umpire vigorously signaled a fair ball sign. Speedy Caesar Fernandez easily scored and Antoine trotted into second base. Sean and the rest of the players pumped fists into the air, clapped and shouted their approval. The Cub's still had a long way to go as they were still down two runs, but it seemed as though the momentum had indeed shifted in the Cub's direction.

That momentum seemed to fall apart when the next two batters flied weakly to center field and left field respectively, holding Caldwell on second. The city of Chicago prepared itself for yet another disappointment.

Up next was a pinch hitting Jack Paige, strode confidently to the plate, glaring in the direction of the Ignasiak who returned the stare equally. As Paige dug in there were obviously unkind words exchanged between him and the Yankee catcher to which the umpire raised his hands signaling time out and reprimanded both players. The little group of three at home plate then settled into their positions.

That's when it happened.

Ignasiak fired the ball with all his might and his true intentions may never be known, but his fastball screamed in high and tight to slam into the Paige's batting helmet, so hard that the ball ended up almost to the Cub's dugout. Paige immediately fell in a heap, unmoving.

Immediately the Cub's bench emptied and rushed in the direction of the pitcher's mound where the Yankee infielders had already moved themselves when they saw Paige go down. The Yankee bench immediately followed their rivals and the mass of humanity met violently at the grass in front of the mound. Fists flew and curses rang, the umpires attempting in vain to control the melee. After what seemed longer than it really was, cooler heads prevailed and the major combatants were pulled to their respective sides. Jack Paige had recovered, sitting woozily in the batter's box and was being attended by the medical staff that got him on his feet and gave him the green light to walk down to first base.

Sean had not moved from his standing position from the rear of the dugout, though when the incident happened his natural reaction was to go pummel the senses out of Ignasiak. He had caught himself and realized he was far out of his league by about thirty pounds and six inches. Debbie would have whacked him upside his head anyway, he had thought to himself.

When the dust had cleared and the teams had gone back to their respective benches they were missing more than the usual number of players as the umpires had had their fill of the ugly behavior. Ejections had claimed enough players on both sides that the coaches were scrambling to get their lineups back in order.

Bud Whittaker and the other coaches were talking in low voices at the other end of the dugout, peering intently around the dugout and glancing down at the lineup card. Nervous and agitated, they were shaking their heads and their lips were tight with concern. Finally Bud shrugged his shoulders and headed up the stairs out of the dugout, striding slowly and thoughtfully towards the home plate umpire who was obviously in no mood for any shenanigans. Bud calmly spoke with the umpire and pointed in the direction of the Cub's dugout briefly. The umpire nodded thoughtfully at Bud's words and then waved for the other umpires to join him in a conference. They formed a circle with arms crossed and exchanged words and various facial gestures suggesting a dilemma of some sort. If one was watching on television the words "It's your call." were plainly visible coming from the first base umpire to which the others nodded in agreement. The home plate umpire shrugged and nodded in the direction of Coach Whittaker.

Bud turned and walked back to the dugout, never raising his head. He descended the steps and without hesitation made a beeline to the rear of the dugout, players moving out of the way. To Sean's amazement, he stopped directly in front of him, took his hat off and breathed heavily. "Son, here is the situation. We don't have enough players left and I am gonna have to put you in there batting right now. Can you hit at all?"

Sean nearly choked.

"Uh."

"Yeah."

"Alright then, I know you don't really have time to warm up, but here is what I want from you. Do your best to draw a walk from this guy and don't try to be a friggin' hero. I need men on base and let the other guys hit you around. Got me?"

"Yes."

Sean was nearly ready to collapse with nervousness. He was definitely not ready for anything like this. Placing a batting helmet on his head that had been offered him, he went to the bat rack and began examining bats. Taking out one after the other and swinging them halfway to check the feel, he finally settled on a black bat that belonged to one Antoine Caldwell, who was now sitting on second base. Sean made his way up the steps and lightning energy raced through him as he stood on the grass.

"Oh my God" he breathed, soundless. He strode slowly to the on deck circle, staring in every direction at the thousands upon thousands of eyes that seemed to bore holes through his skull.

At home in Chicago a shrill scream emitted from one Thompson household, as the boys had rushed to the kitchen and dragged their mother into the living room. There on the wide screen was Sean standing in the on deck circle looking as a deer in headlights.

Pete and Mike were jumping on their chairs and Booger's Sports Bar and screaming to anyone who would listen."That's Sean! That's our buddy Sean! OH MY GOD!"

Cub nation as a whole was in shock. Everywhere across the country people were Googling Sean's name as it appeared on the screen along with every stat at the bottom of the television screen at zero.

The announcers for the game commented, "Now this has got to be the strangest thing I have ever seen in a World Series. Apparently this guy is an honorary guest player thrown in there as the Cub's have no one else left to put in the game! I sure hope this works out for Bud Whittaker and am not sure if it is even legal!"

The other announcer received a paper rushed to him and after quickly glancing at it stated loudly, "There seems to be no rule against this action as the young man was on the roster albeit honorary. Let's see how this plays out, shall we?"

Jeff Ignasiak had been ejected and in his place was one of the most feared Yankee pitchers of all, virtually unhittable all season and a solid starter thrust into the closer role due to the present circumstances. Daryl Bell had command of his pitches and also commanded a huge paycheck along with a comparable ego. By his side was the Yankee pitching coach who informing him of the situation resulted in a carnivorous smile from Bell. "Meat, " He thought to himself, chuckling.

The Cub's third base coach stood next to Sean and said, "Son don't be nervous, just keep a cool head and you'll be fine. You play at all?"

Sean replied, "I play in a slow pitch softball league but haven't seen a fastball in years."

"Good enough then, go do what you need to do."

Just then Sean's eyes lit up with recollection.

"Hey Coach, I have an idea, just play along with me."

Puzzled, the coach cocked his head to the side slightly, "Do not do anything dumb, got it?"

"No problem!" Sean smiled like a kid in a candy store.

He strode up to the plate at the umpires direction and stood in the box much like a Little League player determined but obviously not physically equipped to handle the situation.

Daryl Bell did not shake off the catcher on iota and nearly smiled at what was facing him. "Three pitches and show me da money, " he chortled quietly. He set himself to deliver the first pitch.

Sean watched the windup and guessed correctly that he was going to get nothing but fastballs. When the pitch came in the swing he presented was not even worthy of a Little Leaguer. Awkward and clumsy, it brought a roar from the Yankee throng, and scream of anger from Bud Whittaker and the coaches and groans from every Cub fan watching across the country.

The second pitch came in as the first, ninety six miles an hour and straight down the middle of the strike zone, and Sean gauged the timing carefully before taking an even uglier hack at the ball.

One strike left.

One pitch and it would be done.

Bud Whittaker stomped angrily out of the dugout calling for time. His eyes were filled with rage as he approached Sean, and seemed ready to strangle him. Sean stood back from the batter's box and strode to meet Bud.

"What in the name of God are you doing? Did you not hear a damn thing I said?" Bud's teeth were clenched in rage.

"Coach, trust me on this one, that's all I ask."

"Huh?"

"Just trust me and everything will be fine. I got him right where I want him."

"Oh you do, do you?" He noticed something in Sean's eyes.

"Alright smart guy, do whatever it is you were gonna do, but I will skin you myself if it doesn't work. Got me?" His finger nearly touched Sean's nose and there was fire in his eyes. He glared at Sean one last time and turned back to the dugout.

Confidence that had previously surged through him was now tinged by a shade of doubt. "God help me, I hope this works."

His feet planted firmly in the batter's box, resuming the clumsy crouch from the previous two pitches Sean readied himself for the next pitch that he had bet the farm on.

"Knees bent slightly, back elbow up, head down, keep your eye on the ball, level swing."

Daryl Bell began his windup and at that instant Sean's stance changed to something more akin to a true baseball player. A ninety seven mile an hour fastball roared directly towards the strike zone.

Sean had guessed correctly.

With a grunt he swung mightily, pivoting his hips to access more power and those who witnessed the swing claim to this day it was one of the sweetest they had ever seen. There was very little sensation when Sean made contact with the ball and his follow through was a perfect circle, so he knew then it was a good one. He hesitated running, forgetting where he was and watching his ball go. When he had realized the enormity of what he had done he began screaming and whooping as a madman, starting to trot towards first base.

Those in attendance screamed as one as the ball rocketed into the New York night straight towards the left center field fence. The Yankee left and center fielders raced to where the ball was heading, but it soon became clear to them there was no retrieving it and they simply stopped, dropped their heads and started a defeated trudge back towards the infield.

Yankee fans everywhere felt the wind leave from their chests and the lamenting began. Long suffering Cub's fans across the globe however were screaming in jubilation and the thousands in attendance at Wrigley Field watching on the Jumbotron rushed to the grass and danced in the aisles delirious with victory energies. Sportscasters and writers were already proclaiming this the greatest moment in sports history.

As Sean began rounding first base his and Daryl Bell's eyes locked. Daryl took one memory from this historic World Series to the grave with him and it was the amateur that had fooled him and the rest of the world completely mouthing one word.

"Gotcha."