In 500... (or less)

The Septuagenarian Sub

I had to admit, those hayseeds were really putting up a fight. We thought we'd roll all over these farm boys.

There were a few fellas who looked to be in their 40s, probably good ballplayers back in their day. They huffed and puffed just making their way back and forth off the field.

"See if you can hit this one, ya bumpkin!" Mays said as he flung a fastball toward the plate. Didn't matter to Mays that the batter was a pimple-faced boy in overalls with feet so blackened with dirt you'd swear he was wearing shoes.

You had to admire their fight. They'd gone down 2-0 in the first inning, but hung tough and clawed back into the game. We led 4-3 headed into the ninth inning. 

"Let's get an insurance run," the skipper barked. "You can't let these yokels show you up, you bums." You could almost see the sawdust trickling from our bat handles as we got ready to really pour it on in the final inning.

King batted leadoff, stroking a line drive plumb square off their hurler's kneecap. He crumpled to the ground like a heap of bricks, screaming in pain.

"That oughta do it," Mays yelled from the dugout to our opponents. "You only got eight guys now!"

The team, from some speck-of-a-town in Ohio, pleaded with someone from the small crowd to come out to play the last inning. These fellers just didn't know when to quit.

To our surprise, and great amusement, and old timer in a straw hat hobbled out onto the field.

"I'll play," he said. "It's been awhile, but these old bones got at least one more inning left in 'em."

We thought the farmers would turn down to old geezer, but to our surprise they welcomed him onto the field with an evil grin. It was like these goobers were puttin' something over on us. He trotted over to mound and picked up the ball.

"Just a couple of warmups, Billy," he said.

We all had a good laugh. If this guy ever had a heyday, it was 50 years ago, he had to be pushing 80.

He flicked the ball with a gentle ease to the plate. We were gonna chew this old codger up and spit him out.

Collins was up next. He chipped away at the batter's box with his cleat and glared at the old-timer.

"Let's see what ya got, gramps," he sneered.

The old farmer rocked back and fired in a hard strike. Collins was taken by surprise, he never even got a swing off.

"Do that again!" he hollered to the mound.

"Yessir," the old man answered.

The next pitch was even harder. Collins didn't even come close. He swung so hard at the next pitch he nearly screwed himself into the ground. Strike three.

The old fella threw another six pitches, all strikes, all mighty whiffs. He wasn't half-bad.

Mays took out our frustration on the first batter, some lumbering oaf who held a bat like he was holding a pitchfork. He didn't say nothin', just trotted down to first, rubbing his backside. Mays was never afraid to plunk a guy to send a message.

The old timer was next to bat.

"I can't rightly run all that well," he told Mays. "So I plan on hittin' it a long ways."

Mays fired one right at his bean, but the old man ducked out of the way.

"Come on there, young feller," he said, "you ain't afraid of an old farmer are ya?"

Mays fired one right over the plate, harder than I ever saw him throw. There was a mighty crack. We watched in awe as the ball sailed into a cornfield well past Collins in left field.

"If you're gonna get the best of me," Mays said as the old guy trotted around the bases. "You at least gotta tell me your name."

"Denton," he answered. "Denton Young. They used to call me 'Cy' though."