Seventh Inning Stretch

Seventh Inning Stretch

By Zvi A. Sesling

“Joe-ey, Joe-ey.” The baseball crowd is alive with electric excitement flowing in waves through the stands. The chanting beginning in left field picks up along the third base line. “Jo-ey, Jo-ey,” as the chanting moves behind the net at home plate toward first base and out into right field. Even the bleacher fans are in on it. “Jo-ey, Joe-ey.”

Sam Waring probably would enjoy the game except he is on a job. It is a shame. The Yankees are one game ahead of the Red Sox in the standings and the two traditional rivals are in a scoreless duel after six innings.

Everyone wants Joey, a self-appointed cheerleader in some kind of uniform, to jump on top of the home dugout and lead them in cheers to inspire the Red Sox to victory.

Sam Waring, in the box seats overlooking first base, is sitting directly behind the man he followed to the ballpark, Frank Vitalli. Vitalli joins in the chorus yelling, “Jo-ey.”

The game is now in the top of the seventh inning and the Red Sox hurler, an aging, crafty right-hander who was throwing his assortment of deceptive pitches at the powerful New Yorkers is doing his best to keep the game scoreless. So far only three Yankees have reached base, two on singles.  The other hit is a bunt which dies while rolling down the third base line allowing the batter to reach first.

Waring thinks about Vitalli again knowing he is a nice sort with a wife and three children. Waring knows Vitalli has a preference for blue three-piece pinstripe suits, white shirts, and polka dot ties, preferably red with white dots.

Vitalli has a nice house in a Boston suburb. Two of his three kids are in high school and the third in college down south. His wife is not an unattractive woman, though Waring does not like bottle blondes. From his inquiries Waring gathers she is a good mother, good wife, and active in her church.

If Vitalli has a fault it is his fondness for six-figure imported cars. Usually they are red, flashy ones, too conspicuous for Waring’s taste or Vitalli’s position. If someone were to ask, Waring would say Vitalli is better off with a black limousine.

A cheer rumbles up from the more than thirty-five thousand fans who jam Fenway Park on this warm spring night since the Sox pitcher has struck out the lead Yankee batter.

Now the Yankees powerful left-handed hitting right fielder steps to the plate and everyone grows silent. Here is a guy who is the most dangerous hitter in the lineup and

probably one of the richest players in the game, if you believe the sports writers and press agents who promote athletes the way others on television promote products.

The Boston right-hander throws a low pitch and the umpire’s right hand remains motionless, round of boos from unhappy fans who want a strike.  Waring watches as Vitalli slaps his thigh and groans.  Today he is casually dressed in a sport shirt and slacks and slip-on shoes.

Waring knows that like his wife, Vitalli is a good parent and active in his church. He is also an astute businessman who is comfortable even if he does not add substantially to his income by helping the syndicate launder its money. Although he is good at laundering, he is dumb when it comes to skimming a thousand or so off the top here and there, leaving his associates more than a hundred grand in the hole. Those associates, all in the North End of Boston, are not happy about missing cash, especially when Vitalli cannot come up with the scratch in three days as they tell him.

This explains the contract on Vitalli and the reason Waring owns it. Waring thinks, why shouldn’t I. It’s good for an easy twenty-five grand and it will keep me in good shape for a while if I do not overspend.

It is not Waring’s first job. His first was six years ago in Los Angeles. Each year after he had one—in Chicago, in Dallas, then in Kansas City. Two years ago he took two contracts and last year back to just one. He decides this will be his only one this year. Too many is dangerous. 

He watches as the Yankee hitter flies out to right field, a natural thing for a lefty hitter to pull it there. Everyone stands and cheers as the Boston outfielder hauls in the ball and flips it back to the infield. Vitalli yells loudly, then suddenly stops, flagging down a vendor hawking beer. He hands the man a ten dollar bill, gets his change and sits down, gulping thirstily as he settles back to watch the visiting team’s catcher try to hit one off the pitcher who, despite his age, seems stronger now than in the first inning.

Boston’s shortstop cups his glove and bare hand around his mouth and shouts encouragement to the pitcher. Vitalli jumps and cheers with the crowd.

The next pitch is a fastball. The Yankee hitter swings late and sends a high pop-up toward Vitalli and Waring, Everyone jumps to their feet and stares skyward, arms uplifted, hoping to catch a treasured souvenir.

It is only a few seconds, an instant frozen in time as the ball completes its arc and begins to descend toward the two men. The Boston catcher and first baseman race in the ball’s direction, converging in front of the dugout in an attempt to nail down the last out. All eyes are on the ball.

Waring’s hand comes out of the pocket of his windbreaker as he flicks a button and the blade swings out from the knife he is holding. It is hardly noticeable even if someone is watching. He remembers the switchblade technique he learned on the streets of the Bronx. It is now as natural as sticking a fork in food, so in one continuous motion his arm moves forward and upward thrusting the blade into Vitalli’s back. Vitalli shivers, drops his arms, spilling his beer on the ground. The ball is caught by the catcher who is now almost directly in front of the two men.

Waring can tell the knife is in the right place. It enters between two ribs and pierces the heart as Waring thinks, I’d bet three-to-one he was dead before he slumped back into his seat. It does not really matter to Waring because he is already making his way toward the exit.

Waring glances back and sees Vitalli slumped in his seat, people still standing for the seventh inning stretch. It will be a few minutes before anyone realizes Vitalli is done for.

For entertainment the instant replay camera captures the final out and shows it on the forty-foot wide, twenty-foot high electronic scoreboard and screen.

Waring, at the runway leading to the street, stops in horror. There on the screen is not only the instant replay, but the murder of Frank Vitalli.

Zvi A. Sesling, Brookline, MA Poet Laureate (2017-2020), has published poems and flash/micro fiction and published four volumes and three chapbooks of poetry. His flash fiction book is Secret Behind The Gate (Cervena Barva Press).

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