FanPost

Boog Powell Ballpark Mystery: The Curse of the Bleacher Creature

Bleacher_Creatue

The Curse of the Bleacher Creature, 1975, Random House

"Strike Three!" the home plate umpire yelled, sending the hometown Indians to their twentieth defeat in an suddenly lost looking 1975 season.

Angels hurler Dick Lange had outdueled an ineffective Don Hood in front of a paltry crowd of just over six thousand at Cleveland’s Municipal Stadium.

The Indians trudged off the field and into the clubhouse, looking a bit forlorn only thirty-three games into another long season on Lake Erie.

"Boog! Boog!" A boyish girl rambled into the locker room with nervous excitement. This was Boog’s personal batboy, uh, girl, Shirley Buckles. Shirley was a runaway from Baltimore who had quixotically followed Powell to Cleveland that spring to help him bring the long-lamented Indians a pennant. The strawberry-haired slugger was nearly finished dressing. A surprised and confused Charlie Spikes quickly covered himself with a towel. Duane Kuiper laughed to himself. This was so Boog.

"I just overheard Mr. Seghi talking to the cops! Something’s definitely up!"

Boog knelt down next to the fair-haired girl, who cut her hair short (by herself) and temporarily changed her name to Gus in a Mulan-like gesture to go unnoticed as a bat-boy for first the Baltimore Orioles and now the Cleveland Indians. You could possibly find Shirley’s picture next to the word precocious in Webster’s Dictionary.

"Shirley, what did I tell you about addressing me off the field?" Boog said, as he casually slipped a fedora on his rotund head.

"Sorry, Mister Powell." Shirley struggled with the words, kicking at the locker room floor.

"Boog is my baseball name. People love me for it. But, whenever I leave the field and put on my detective hat, I’m known as Mister Powell. It lets people know they can take me and my amazing sleuthing prowess seriously." Boog said, adjusting said hat in the mirror.

"Yes sir, Mister Powell."

Boog led the girl out of the locker room into the underbelly of the cavernous Municipal Stadium.

"Now, let’s go get some hamburgers and milkshakes and you can tell me about this exciting new case!

Shirley knew that Boog, er, Mister Powell could never solve a crime on an empty stomach.

The two gathered in a corner booth at a local greasy spoon. Across from the considerable ginger, Shirley let loose, using a bent french fry to punctuate her report.

After absorbing Shirley’s tale, Boog rubbed his stubbly chin. He made a mental note about shaving before the next road trip, and then returned to the details of the suddenly interesting case.

"So, let me get this straight—Someone is scaring people in Section 206?"

THE CASE

"Some thing is scaring people in Section 206." said Bob Descalso, security manager, clearly emphasizing ‘thing.’ "At least that’s what people have said. Eyewitness reports and such."

Boog, Bob, Shirley and a Balinese cat named Socksalexis— Shirley’s unofficial team mascot—stood in the evening gloaming as the lights over Municipal Stadium flickered to life.

"206? Where is that?"

Bob pointed upward, towards the heavens and squinted. Boog squinted, too, not really seeing what Bob was pointing at.

"It’s way up there, right behind that pole." Bob explained.

"You mean people actually sit there?" Boog wondered.

"Not really," said Bob "sometimes, like when the Yankees are in town."

Boog suddenly turned bright red. Well, a brighter red than normal. Steam poured from his ears. Uh-oh, Bob had accidentally uttered Boog’s trigger word that would send him into a blind rage spiral. Boog lashed out at Bob, but tripped into the dugout, collapsing in a heap on a now-broken bat rack.

"Calm down, Mr. Powell." Shirley suggested.

"Yeah, it’s only the Yank-" Shirley quickly stomped on Bob’s foot. "Ow!"

Powell struggled back to this feet and wiped his eternally sweaty brow. Shirley quickly hung up the dugout phone.

"Did you order us a pizza? All that anger got me famished!"

"No, Mr. Powell, I called Sheriff Calhoun. He should be here in no time to help us crack the case of the Bleacher Creature!"

Socksalexis mewed.

BOOG TIME

Shirley, Socksalexis, Sheriff Calhoun and Bob Descalso all sat in silence on the bench.

"This reminds me of The Case of the Batting Cage Bandits." Boog paced through the dugout, his cleats clicking on the cement.

Shirley puzzled at the shoes. Boog noticed. "These are my detective cleats. They help me dig in to the mystery, run right at it … And spike it if it dare blocks me!"

Sheriff Calhoun and Bob Descalso shared a look. Like Boog ever really ran the bases. At most, he sauntered.

"It was my first case, back in seventy-two. After a light breakfast of a nineteen egg omelet and a half-gallon of buttermilk, I came to the stadium ready to swing the ol’ stick. But much to my chagrin, the entire batting cage had been stolen!"

Boog looked absently out into the center field seats.

"It wasn’t easy, it took three days and at least eleven good meals before I tracked it down "

Boog turned back to the group.

"A cadre of destitute but innovative crabbers were using it as a crab trap! Now, that was a Maryland country boil I’ll never forget!"

The Sheriff laughed.

ON THE TRAIL?

"I say we split up and search for clues." Boog suggested. Boog always suggested they split up and search for clues. He repeatedly told Shirley that it was better to "divide and conquer" than "not divide and not conquer" whatever that meant. Shirley really admired Boog, but sometimes felt that he was not being completely truthful with her. Their relationship, however, was better than nothing. Having a part-time pseudo Dad with health issues and no position was way better than being abandoned on the streets of Ednor Gardens as a nine year old girl.

So off they went. Shirley and Socksalexis headed to the press box, Sheriff Calhoun sped toward the bullpens, and Boog, well, Boog disappeared.

Shirley combed over the darkened press box, but found nothing but old boxscores and Bit-O-Honey wrappers.

Dejected, Shirley sulked out of the press box and back along the mezzanine. Socksalexis ran ahead, driven by cat-like curiosity.

Socksalexis found Boog at a concession stand, enjoying a Sugardale hot dog. Socksalexis rubbed against Boog’s leg, startling him. Shirley appeared around the corner.

"Hey Mister Powell." Boog was halfway through the dog, a big drop of Bertman’s spilling down his chin.

"I’m not sure you’d find any clues at the hot dog stand." Shirley lamented.

Boog sighed. This again? "Shirley, one of the first rules of detectiving is to look in the place you’d think was the least likely place in the world, like a hot dog stand."

"But you’ve never found a clue here before. And believe me, you’ve tried. Like ninety times! Shouldn’t we be snooping around Section 206?"

Boog polished off the last of the dog, and grinned. "Of course, Shirley. If only we could figure out how to get there. I mean, it’s so far away from the field!"

SECTION 206

A sweaty and heaving Boog fell to his knees at the top of the long cement ramp leading to the upper deck. Beet-red, more beet-red than normal, and panting heavily, he breathed "Are these seats reserved for decathletes or something? Does each season ticket come with a Sherpa?"

Shirley helped Boog to this feet and the trio stepped out into the fading light.

Boog trembled as he looked out over the vast expanse of grass in the Cleveland outfield. "You need opera glasses just to see who’s playing first base." Shirley and Socksalexis combed over the empty cheap seats, scrounging for any hint of the "Bleacher Creature’s" existence.

Suddenly Shirley exclaimed "I found something!"

In the last row at the very top of the section, a space in the wall had been replaced with a wooden board!

"This must be where the creature goes when it’s not game time!"

Boog pulled out the board and turned it over in his large milky hands. "Masonite. What crap!" Boog reared back and chucked the board over the edge of the stadium.

Down below, in the employee parking lot, the Masonite board crashed through Mr. Seghi’s Cadillac’s windshield.

"Boog!" Shirley cried. "That was evidence you just threw away!"

"No, Shirley. That was a cheap imitation wood material that has no place in the hallowed halls of The Indians of Ohio Baseball Stadium!" Boog ranted.

Shirley rolled her eyes, then crawled through the space. "Boog! Look!"

Boog squeezed his giant, sun-burnt head through the hole. It barely fit. There, in a small space behind the last row, was a secret hideaway, littered with soft pretzel wrappers, well-thumbed game programs, and a faded, wrinkled post card of San Francisco stuck to the wall with chewed gum.

Boog sniffed the air. "Smells terrible in here. Like Aqua Velva mixed with late career failure."

Shirley clambered back out to see Boog, doubled, over, his hands on his knees.

"Let’s get down from here. I’m getting sky-sick."

Shirley puzzled. "How do you fly on road trips, then?"

"I always remember to travel with my good friends Jim Beam and Johnnie Walker." Shirley never recalled meeting either of those men. And she knew all of Boog’s friends.

CREATURE FEATURE

Boog, Shirley, and Socksalexis met back up with the sheriff and Bob Descalso to compare clues. Bob had found an empty bottle of Carling Black Label beer and a note reminding a man named Al Sherber to pick up some Polish Boys on his way home. The sheriff spent most of the time in the bullpen with a rolled-up copy of Penthouse letters. Shirley excitedly talked about the secret lair in the upper deck while Boog feigned snoring.

Shirley shook her head. "We are all terrible detectives. We couldn't find Parma with a map and a compass."

"Parma? That's easy. It's in Italy." Boog exclaimed proudly. "See. We are detectives after all." Boog adjusted his detective hat with a smile.

Suddenly, Socksalexis jumped into action, darting through the box seats toward the visitor's dugout.

A shambling figure slid over the top of the dugout and out onto the field, in a half-run, half-limp.

"That’s him! That’s the culprit!" Sheriff Calhoun yelled, his flashlight bouncing around as he took off after the dark figure.

Once on the mound, the creature turned, a garish sight to behold with his gargantuan ears, furry brow and hooked nose. The ghoulish beast stopped behind the rubber, and instinctively reached down …

"He’s going for the rosin bag?" Sheriff Calhoun wondered as he absently drew his pistol.

Boog saw his chance. "Hold your fire, Sheriff!"

Boog charged at the creature, sending them both crashing to the dirt. "He’s hiding behind a horror mask!" Boog tugged and yanked at its hideous face. "That’s a heckuva tight mask!" Boog yelled as Bob Descalso finally pulled him away.

"I don’t think it’s a mask! It think it’s … it’s … Don Mossi!" yelled Shirley.

Shirley was right. It really was Don Mossi, former Cleveland Indian bullpen ace and ugliest pitcher of all time.

Mossi sighed, and collapsed on the rubber.

"I’ve been trapped up there for … for… "

"Ten years!" Shirley exclaimed, flipping through a sudden stack of baseball cards.

"No wonder you were stealing people’s food! You had to survive somehow!"

"This place is so big, and so … cold." Mossi offered, his voice feebly trailing off.

"I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to scare anyone. I was so scared myself that I would never be able to leave this place."

"Tell it to the judge!" Boog snapped, his finger in Mossi’s grotesque face.

"Boog! Please!" Shirley pleaded. Boog answered with a fiery glare. Shirley slightly rolled her eyes. "Mister Powell, please. Can’t we just let him go to extended spring training and work with some young arms?"

"Are you kidding me kid? One look at that mug and they’ll forget how to pitch. This guy belongs behind bars … the kind of bars that you can’t see through. More like a solid wall, actually." Boog asserted.

Shirley sighed. The Sheriff returned his pistol to its holster, folded up his handcuffs, and clipped them back on his belt.

"I’m sorry, Mister Powell, but I’m afraid I agree with Shirley. I mean, you did a heck of job, again, of cracking the case, but what Mr. Mossi needs is to retire in comfort, somewhere far away from here, perhaps with a low-stress job, like a supervisor at a Masonite factory in California."

Boog shrugged. Fine. Let another criminal back on the streets. He had other things to deal with. A one-for-nineteen slump and more importantly, a grumbling stomach.

The sheriff and Bob Descalso escorted Mossi to the clubhouse for a much-needed shower and a change of clothes.

"For a moment there, after seeing those hairy elephant ears, that crooked nose, and those troll eyes, I thought I had lost my appetite." Boog said.

"Now I’m sure you could find that at the hot dog stand!" Shirley bellowed.

Shirley, Boog, and Socksalexis all shared a laugh as they headed out of the stadium.

Don’t fret! Boog will be back with another exciting Ballpark Mystery … The Case of the Missing Mustache with special guest Rollie Fingers.

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