The Molly Chronicles

My human, I’m sorry to say, has been watching television when she should have  been taking me for walks in the park. I need exercise to keep my doggy figure slim. (My human needs exercise even more than I do - MUCH more than I do.) I felt obliged to tell her this, and I pawed her arm and licked her face and nosed her VERY LARGE STOMACH and jumped up and down to get attention. 

Human’s note:

Molly has been exaggerating as usual. She gets a walk every day of her life, even during baseball season. And I may be a tad plump, but I am definitely not fat. 

Baseball season!  That explains it! She has baseball fever.  Apparently my human is hooked on watching baseball, and she gets all crazy and yells at the TV: “What do ya mean, safe? He was out by a mile. Get some glasses. Where did you learn to ump - in a dog kennel?” (I’m sure she meant no disrespect to dogs living in kennels, but I have to admit, the words did seem particularly insensitive.)

            

             Baseball appears to be a human form of playing “fetch”. I might be interested. I like to chase balls, but I don’t bring them back because that’s my human’s job. In baseball, it seems that all they do is throw balls, and catch them, and run around a lot. I wouldn’t mind doing that.

            I told my friend Shadow about baseball, and he was very interested. You see, Shadow can hold two balls in his mouth at the same time. TWO BALLS!

Can you believe that?  And Shadow is as obsessed about chasing balls as my human is about computer solitaire and watching television. We decided to try out for a baseball team.

A Picture of Some Humans Playing Baseball.

                Right off the bat (that’s a joke- get it????)                 we ran into a problem. It seems that there are rules in baseball about spitballs. And Shadow, I’m sorry to say, throws nothing but spitballs.

(I throw spitballs too, but mine are much more genteel, and have a lot less spit on them.) So we decided that we shouldn’t try out to be pitchers.

            Batting is also a problem for dogs, as holding a heavy bat in your mouth and swinging at a ball requires strong jaw muscles and well-rooted teeth. On the positive side, we canine athletes have a very small strike zone.

            My Boarder Collie work ethic came in handy here, and in no time at all my mouth had become accustomed to the weight of the bat and the jarring thud as the bat connects with the ball. My batting average rose steadily until I was batting .327. Shadow did quite well too, but his forte will always be catching balls in his mouth. I am happy to report that both of us adapted quite well to the switch from tennis balls (which are a lot softer) to baseballs.

      

 

Picture of Human Hitting a Baseball.

Note that he holds his bat the easy way, in his hands and not in his mouth.

            It was time for Shadow and me to visit the various teams for try-outs.

            I’m sad to report that many Major League baseball teams showed a decided bias against canine athletes.

            Shadow and I did not think their “pee-on-the-umpire" jokes were particularly funny. (Although I must  admit that Buddy might just do something like that.)

            And ONE ball player (whose name I won’t mention) scattered sausage chunks in the outfield just as I was making an exceedingly difficult jumping catch with the ball bouncing off of the back fence. I almost made the catch anyway, but the team manager was not impressed. Getting to play major league baseball was going to be harder than I had expected.

The sausage was delicious.

            A gloomy mist settled around us as we got off the plane in Boston, just two crazy kids with a slobbery ball, a dream, and hearts as big as Massachusetts. The Red Sox were our last hope. 2012 had not been their year, and we felt sure we could help them improve their game if they’d just give us a chance. But were they willing to trust us? To pin their hopes on a dog who could hold two balls in his mouth at the same time, and a high-achieving Border Collie batting .327? With everything riding  on this final chance, we hailed a taxi. "Fenway Park," barked Shadow.

            Fenway smelled of old shoes and hot dogs. I am a connoisseur of hot dogs, and these were the best I'd ever smelled.

Manager John Farrell was very impressed with both of us and recruited Shadow and me right then and there.

            Fortunately Dr. Juriceck, the in-house vet for the Red Sox, was an ardent proponent of canine athletics. A brilliant human, he worked as hard and as enthusiastically as any Border Collie. He fitted Shadow and me with special mouth guards for batting. They protected our teeth and distributed the the force of the bat connecting with the ball throughout our whole mouth.  (I was willing to share but Shadow wanted his own mouth guard.) Now free of pain and without the distracting fear of losing all my teeth, I was able to get impressive distance and accuracy each time at bat.

            During practice, Shadow and I were the first players on the field each day, and the last ones to go home. Eagerly I anticipated the day when we would play in a real major league ball game.

My First Time at Bat

            An ominous chilling Boston afternoon with fog rolling in from the Atlantic, it was the bottom of the ninth with two outs and the score four to two in favor of the San Francisco Giants.

            We had runners on second and third. I was sent in to pinch hit for Brandon Snyder who had pulled a hamstring while making an amazing save.

            "Don't swing, Molly," the coach told me. "Let them walk you. David Ortiz is up next. We'll pin our hopes on his bagging a grand slam."

            Confidently I strode out onto the field listening for my name to be announced over the loud speaker.

"Pinch hitting for Brandon Snyder - Molly."  A long silence followed. 

"Wait this can't be right. Someone turn off the mike." 

When the mike clicked back on the announcer was dithering. "Folks, I can't believe this. Molly is a dog! A DOG. Is that even legal??? The Giants are challenging her eligibility. Rule books are flying. The Giants' coach is shaking his fist in the air. I can't believe this. I've heard some cussin' in my day, but nothing like this."

The microphone crackled and fizzed with static. Finally the announcer came back on the air again. "They're going to let her play. You're seeing history today, folks, the first canine to play in major league baseball! They're going to let her play. That's right. You heard me, folks, they're going to let the collie play!"

            I gripped the bat in my teeth, crouched into a batting stance, and waited.

 "Unbelieveable! Absolutely unbelieveable! How's he ever going to get the ball into her strike zone? He has the width of a baseball plus, maybe... a foot to spare. Okay, he's winding up; he throws; the pitch is... I can't believe it. He did it! It's a strike! Fast ball, just inside the corner pocket."

            I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. Surely he couldn't do it again. What if I struck out? I couldn't live with the shame.

            But then I remembered a famous poem, "Casey at the Bat" by Ernest Thayer. This was the same situation, - ninth inning, four to two, but instead of Casey at the bat, it was Molly at the bat. I stood up a little straighter, even though it increased my strike zone.

            The pitcher was preparing his second pitch. He wound up; he stretched; he threw. The ball was heading wide; no, it curved, and just made the outside corner.  "Strike two," the umpire called. (He didn't have to yell it so loudly.)

            I looked over at the coach. and he gave me the nod to go ahead and hit.  This was exactly like "Casey at the Bat." Casey had let the first two pitches go by and he swung on the third. Like Casey, I clenched my teeth in cruel hatred, and I pounded the bat violently on the plate (hard to do if you're a dog), envisioning the glory and the liver snacks that would soon be mine.

            But then...oh the horror of it all... I remembered the rest of the poem. Casey struck out! In the last line of the poem, mighty Casey struck out.  My heart was filled with dread such as I'd never known. What if I, too, struck out? I froze.

            There was no time to think. The pitcher threw a thunderous fast ball and his aim was true. I swung. As in the poem, the air was shattered by the force of my bat on the ball. (My teeth were a little jarred as well in spite of the mouth guard.)

            The crowd was cheering and chanting, "Go Sox, Go Sox, Go Sox." And then suddenly they switched: "Go Molly, Go Molly, Go Molly."

"The ball is flying. My goodness, that dog is all heart. You should have seen the force she let loose on the ball! The crowd is hysterical. You can't imagine the crying and the screaming. The ball is high up in the air. It's going... it's going... it's going... and it's gone - A home run! The Sox win five to four. What a thrilling ending to a game! Fenway Park is going to remember this play for a long time."

            I pranced around the bases for the winning run; then I trotted up to the mound and gave the pitcher a nice lick on his nose to make sure there were no hard feelings.

            

            So many wonderful memories of my baseball season with the Red Sox! Cheering for Shadow as he ran the bases and made double plays! The day the squirrel got loose in the bleachers!

            David Ortiz and I formed a very close friendship. I tried his chewing tobacco, and he tried my pig's ear, but neither one of us switched. (There's no accounting for taste.)

            We were a team, first last and always. We had each other's backs. We cheered for the wins and consoled each other through the dry streaks. We hung out together at a place where everybody knows your name, drinking beer and talking about the women and the dogs we had loved.

            As Shadow and I made play after play, our names became known, and the fan mail poured in. I was thrilled to receive a letter from Caesar, the police dog. He said he remembered our brief encounter at the court house, and that he and his human have been following my career with interest.       

                               

           

            But my fan mail was nothing compared to Shadow's. He received bags of mail every day, and all kinds of  presents from squeaky toys to tennis balls. One fan even sent him a large bucket of liver snacks which he did not share.

            And the baseball groupies! In every city we  came to, Shadow was met by a pack of admirers sniffing around and licking his nose.  There's no denying it - Shadow is an amazing ball-catcher, and one handsome dude - and I fear it all went to his head.

            They say that there's always love on the road, and in Shadow's case it was absolutely true.  Many was the night when Shadow hung a necktie on the knob of his hotel room door indicating that he did not want to be disturbed.

            One groupie  in  particular, Leticia the Rottweiler, developed quite a crush on Shadow, and followed our team bus from city to city. I didn't trust that she-dog,  not for a minute. Suddenly Shadow began skipping practices, claiming that he needed to visit a sick grandmother.

            One night I walked into his hotel room with a Beggin' Strip for a peace offering, and there he was, on the floor with Leticia, their noses half-buried in a liver-snack bucket. Shadow jumped up, startled. He pointed his tail straight to the ceiling - a doggies sign of dominance. And he snapped at me, and  growled, and gestured with his paw toward the door.

             I left, but from the hallway I could hear Leticia's voice, smarmy and oily. "Oh, Shadow, you don't need all that practice, and you certainly don't need that stupid Border Collie. You're the star of the team. Everyone knows it. You're famous now, but I could make you a super star. I have the connections. I know all the big wigs in Hollywood. Think of it - Nike commercials, guest appearances with Jay Leno, maybe even a movie. You'd be bigger than Lassie, or Rin Tin Tin, or  Spuds MacKenzie. Heck, you'd even be bigger than Snoopy.  I can see it now - Oscar night, you up on  the stage hugging the Oscar in your paws. 'This award really belongs to Leticia the Rottweiler without whose encouragement... "

          
How could Shadow fall for that..that pack of squirrel chatter? Where was the Shadow that I used to know? Where was the puppy-like innocence?  The ecstatic, tail-thumping delight in slobbery balls?   I couldn't listen to any more of it. I walked back to my room and consoled my heavy heart with a well-chewed piece of rawhide.

            The next day, Shadow and I had it out. "We're a team," I told him. "We work as a team. We play ball as a team. And when you grandstand, and skip practice to play chase the Rottweiler,  you're no good to the Red Sox, and you're no good to yourself. As for that Leticia, that...that...Spaghetti-Letty, she doesn't care about you. She's nothing but a cheap liver-snack digger!"

            Shadow dropped his head because he knew I was right. After that, he acknowledged his fans, but never let fame go to his head. And that's when his career skyrocketed.

            Watching Shadow was an amazing experience- what baseball should be about. With Shadow at bat, you never knew what to expect-a sizzling shot to right field, a ball blasted clear up into the bleachers. But his strength was always on defense.  In a blur of paws and dog hair, he'd zoom around the field making catch after incredible catch, play after seemingly impossible play. 

 

            The climax of Shadow's career came in the seventh game of the World Series. It was the bottom of the ninth, the score tied three to three, one out and Matt Holliday of the St. Louis Cardinals on third base, threatening to score.

            Batting for the Cardinals, Yadier Molina.

            There was bad blood between Yadier and me.  Once he had stepped on my tail almost  preventing me from running to first base, and I believe he did it on purpose. A tail is a very delicate part of a dog's anatomy.

            Anyway, as he came up to bat, I felt  the anger boiling in my blood. He just  had a bad smell about him.

            Yadier shot a wicked line drive aimed  between first and second base. The whole stadium was on their feet  screaming. Yadier let out a whoop loud enough to be heard in Texas, threw the bat in ecstasy, and ran for first base, with the smuggest look you've ever seen on a human.

            And seemingly out of nowhere, Shadow was there. He often recounts that game saving catch.  He lunged at the ball, still in the air,  and caught it just before it passed by second base.  He snapped around for the throw to home plate for the final out, but there was no one to throw to. Our catcher was down. Dan Butler was lying in a daze just behind home plate. In spite of the padding, Yadier Molina's bat had struck him in the back of the head, knocking him out cold.  Meanwhile Matt Holliday had tagged third base, and was now barreling toward home plate.

            "Holliday's tagged the base. Holliday has gone back and tagged the base; he can score.

  "And that's the game right there folks.  Holliday will score. The Cardinals will  win it all, the inning, the game and World Series,  four games  to three. A shame folks. You hate to see a game won by because of an injury. But wait. It's not over yet. Here's Shadow running for home plate."

            Now the announcer was screaming into the mike - one beat shy of a heart attack. " Impossible! My bats and baseballs, look at that canine run! Folks, he's pouring everything he has into it. But can he possibly get there in time? The Red Sox's only hope rests on the back of that brave Labrador Retriever running the race of his life."

            My heart was in my mouth as Shadow raced towards home plate,  the ball clutched fast in his teeth.  He was lighting fast, but he had so much ground to cover. Could he make it?

            "And it looks like that's the game, folks. Shadow gave it his all, but there's just too much ground to cover. Holliday will score."

            But I had faith in Shadow. Faster still, he ran. Now he was just a furry blur racing towards home plate. With a final supercanine lunge, he pawed the plate a nose ahead of Matt Holliday and tagged him out.

            "He's done it! Shadow's run has put the Red Sox back in business. And so the game goes into overtime."

            The tenth inning was scoreless.            In the eleventh inning, Shadow hit a double, then scored on a  David Ortiz sacrifice fly. Burke Badenhop, our pitcher, threw the kinds of curves and fast balls that legends are made of, and kept the Cardinals without a base hit in that final inning.

            "That's the game folks. Congratulations to the Boston Red Sox, the 2013 World Series Champions! And the stadium has exploded. Red Sox fans are screaming and hugging each other!

            "Meanwhile the Red Sox's dugout looks like a volcano erupting. Players are pouring onto the field, shouting and barking. Champagne corks and liver snacks are flying everywhere. What an experience!"

            Shadow often recounts that game saving catch of the low line drive and his race to home plate. Of course such inhuman feats are quite possible for him!

            We'd won the World Series - Heroes in the eyes of the nation. All of us together - a team of champions! What a feeling! Better than the finest liver snacks at Pet Smart.

            Such good times! Those were the days of wine and doughnuts. They were not to last.

            Dr. Juriceck approached me in the locker room, and I could read from the look in his eyes and the tightness in his jaw that he had something terrible to say.

            I licked his nose, trustingly, and he rubbed the fur on my neck. "Molly," he began, then broke down, sobbing unashamedly.

            "Molly, your jaw can't take it. Even with the mouth guard, those supercanine smashes - those jarring hits - the bat against the ball. If only you'd held back just a little,  but that's not your style, is it? I can't, in good conscience, let you play next year." The tears flowed unchecked down his cheeks, and he buried his face into my neck.

            I hung  my head, my ears pressed flat back in sorrow. But I knew, even as my soul rebelled,  that he was right. I remembered my mouth throbbing for days after some of my more powerful hits....  Only a week ago, I'd refused a ham bone; the pain was too intense."

            "What about Shadow?"  I asked.

            Dr. Juraceck shook his head. "Maybe, some years down the road when we've perfected the mouth guard, there will be canine baseball players again. But, as for you and Shadow, your careers are over."

            Now as I reflect on my season with the Sox, I know that I was one of the lucky ones. I had my days of glory. It's right that the baton be passed to some young human, some crazy kid with nothing but a ball, a dream, and a heart as big as Massachusettes.

            But Shadow's amazing accomplishments will not be forgotten. He is to be inducted into Baseball's Hall of Fame in Cooperstown, New York, where the baseball greats are immortalized.

             We'll always remember them: Babe Ruth, Joe DiMaggio, Willie Mays, Hank Aaron, and Shadow.

Photo of Shadow for the Baseball Hall of Fame.

Human's Note: Apologies to the Boston Red Sox, the San Francisco Giants, the St. Louis Cardinals, and to baseball in general. It seems that Molly got carried away again. The Boston Red Sox won the 2013 World Series in six games, and without any help from Molly and Shadow. Yadier Molina never stepped on Molly's tail, nor did he ever, to my knowledge, knock out a catcher. Dogs are not eligible to play on major league baseball teams (spitball issues aside.) Shadow can, however, carry two tennis balls in him mouth at the same time.