The Shark Mutiny

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It was pretty damn hot for baseball. Only a light breeze ruffled the sweltering bluegrass paddocks in this big thoroughbred breeding farm along the old Ironworks Pike, out near the village of Paris. And young Dan Headley couldn’t hit Rick Hunter’s fastball to save his life.

“Easy, Ricky…take something off it…I can’t hit that….” But again and again the baseball came screaming in, low and away, and slammed into the base of the red barn wall behind the hitter. And the tall 16-year-old pitcher kept howling with laughter as his best buddy swung and missed yet again.

“You gotta concentrate, Danny.”

“On what?”

“The baseball, stupid.”

“How can I, when I can’t even see it? Nobody could see it.”

“Pete Rose coulda seen it,” said Rick solemnly, referring to the former Cincinnati Reds legend.

“Pete Rose coulda seen a howitzer shell.”

“Okay, one more?”

“Nah. I’m all done. Let’s go back and get some lemonade. I’m sweating like a bull.”

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