The One Hoppah

“Chick’s Tavern.”

“It’s the type of place you’d find yourself when it’s getting late and you’re desperate for some grub after you’ve been driving around for a little too long that day.

“Mediocre French fries. Burger cooked a little too well.”

“But the tap? It never runs dry, because the fine taverniers (as I affectionately call them) know it’s the tap that keeps ‘em coming back.”

“It’s their lifeblood, and by their’s I’m not just talking about the lifeblood of Chick’s itself which it needs to keep that shithole afloat, but also the lifeblood of the people who rely on that tap after a long day or week from the grind.”

“I’m one of those people.”

“The name’s Sport. Well, that’s what Paw Paw called me growing up out here in The Sticks, and it’s one of those names that embodies its subject so much better than its actual name that it, for lack of a better term here, just sticks.”

“Every night for the last two or so decades of my wasted life I’ve sat here drinking Milwaukee’s Best Light on this same leather-covered bar stool made of the highest quality wood just down the road to the southwest in the great town of Gardner.”

“And as a side note for all you tourists, it’s pronounced Gahh-d’nah. It’s the last bastion of quality-made wood furniture (pronounced furr-nit-chah) in the northeast. Those who know, know.”

“Anyways, as I was saying, it’s been a direct, steady stream of The Beast flowing from that tap right into my stomach for the last two decades or so. That is, when I’m not at work chopping the northeast’s finest wood down in Gardner from nine to five.”

“See, I’ve always had an affinity to the lumber: I’m a ball player, and when the game was on the line you could do much worse than me walking up to the batter’s box. Rest assured, I’d be putting that ball in play for a chance to win.”

“I could swing the lumber with the best of ‘em. But as a shortstop, my defense is what I was known for.”

“Ground ball? Your boy right here was a vacuum with that perfect button-to-button technique.”

“Pop fly? I’d be calling for that ball faster than you could say “Massachusetts,” ked.”

“Need a double play to get out of the inning unscathed? You’ll find me stationed next to second base ready to turn two at the drop of a hat.”

“And I did that. Many times.”

“Matter of fact, the Winchendon Wapiti varsity baseball team went all the way to the state championship my senior year.”

“Like, guy, I was a local legend.”

“My teachers adored me, even when I accidentally skipped class now and then.”

“Girls threw themselves at me.”

“And collegiate scouts followed me from game-to-game, tracking my stats like I was gonna be the next Nomar.”

“Let that sink in.”

“The next Nomar.”

“Nomahhh Garciaparra, ked!”

“All because this guy right here could flash a fahkin’ glove.”

“But what I couldn’t have known was that all that fame and promise would be gone…”

“In a flash.”

“It’s funny, it’s like any time you try and get the fuck outta The Sticks…”

“The Sticks sends a one hopper your way.”

__________

We’re taken back twenty years ago to the mid 90’s. We’re on the cusp of summer, and it’s one of those nights.

Crystal clear, fresh air.

The aroma of expertly-seared hot dogs and freshly-popped corn in the air.

No swarms of mosquitoes buzzing around just yet, just the occasional dragonfly or bumblebee wafting from dandelion to dandelion in the outfield.

And theres was a buzz in the air that only the promise of summer combined with the prospect of a state championship trophy could manifest.

Lights cast down over the ball field appropriately to showcase the top two teams left in the spring classic:

The hometown team, and number one seeded Winchendon School Wapiti in green and gold…

And the visiting number two seed, the Mount St. Charles Academy Mounties in white and red.

From the look of it, it seems as if the whole town of Winchendon is in attendance, and then some. The stands were packed with locals in green cheering on the hometown team. Sporadically you could see patches of red-adorned fans who travelled all the way from Rhode Island too. Regardless, everyone’s colors and support were really the only two things that set each camp apart, because if you lent an ear to the crowd you’d be assaulted by the full-thickness of that Boston accent from any vantage point.

“Come ahhhhn, Wahhpiti!!”

“Let’s fahkin’ go, Mounties!!!”

The battle cries were shrill, even desperate, matching the intense atmosphere at hand here in Winchendon. It was the top of the sixth inning, the final inning, and Chuckie “Two Shoes” McNally just batted in two runners with a monster (pronounced MON-stah) two-bagger (pronounced… ah you get my point) with two outs and runners on first and second in the bottom of the fifth for the Wapiti.

Winchendon was one out away from their first state championship in over two generations. Last time they won it all Teddy Ballgame still played left field for the Sox.

Winchendon was starving for that title.

And as you could imagine, the anxiety at that field was palpable

This was it. Two outs. Bases loaded. Little Jimmy Murphy just got the hook after a questionable call from the umpire that walked the Mounties’ ninth batter and loaded the bases.

Little Jimmy was known for painting the outside corner like Bob Ross in his prime, and with that last happy, little pitch everyone in attendance thought the batter got caught looking at strike three.

… But there was never any “STEEEE-RIKE” to be heard, just a muted “bawwl” as the batter quickly tossed his dust-covered bat towards his dugout and quickly jaunted to first like he was getting away with grand theft auto, needing to cross state borders— and fast!

So now it was the top of the order, and Winchendon’s best-kept secret got the call from the bullpen: junior Richie Campanana, Jr. Richie’s father played AAA ball for Pawtucket back in his day, and after a surprisingly dominant season for JV the boy got the call-up for a spot on the team in the state tournament.

Richie didn't throw exceptionally fast like his father did, nor could he hit for beans. But Richie had control and a secret weapon:

His sinker.

Whenever Richie found himself in a jam he relied on that pitch to lure the batter into a false sense of knocking it out of the park, because just before that pitch reached the plate it broke in a downward motion, getting just underneath the swinging bat, leading to a ground ball that any shortstop worth their pay could make a routine 6-3 groundout.

To anyone uninitiated, putting in a JV pitcher with a state championship on the line would seem like a ludicrous idea. But those who knew the situation knew that the Wapiti basically had this game in the bag, because who better than Mr. Routine himself, Sport McCallister, to nab up that ground ball with the game on the line?

The phantom-gloved phenom was better quality than a Hoover vacuum at cleaning up the infield. Anything hit to or near him was an automatic out.

Littered throughout the stands were some of Sport’s greatest supporters:

Mee Maw, his adoring and hard-working single-mother who never missed a game he’s ever played in.

And Paw Paw, father of Mee Maw, the man who gave Sport his namesake, and the closest thing to a father figure Sport had ever known.

Friends, fans, teachers, prominent local figures, Mitch from the corner store (pronounced cawnah stahh), Lawrence from Lowell, Lowell Peabody—

They were all there to witness this momentous occasion, because they knew that if ever there would be a chance at the title, well, this was it.

The collegiate scouts were all there, too. They’d been closely following Sport the past two seasons, going as far as all but guaranteeing this state championship for Winchendon back in the offseason, and with Sport not committing to any college yet in a gamble to get a full boat to a division 1 university, you could bet your bottom dollar this game attracted more scouts than any high school baseball game in history.

Everyone wanted a piece of Sport. Some because they genuinely cared about him and wanted to guide the young man towards success. Mee Maw and Paw Paw were careful to foster a loving, supportive environment at home for him. His teachers took extra care to ensure the talented young man stayed on track with his academics. Local figures such as Barry Feinstein used their sway to point Sport in the right direction. And Mitch? From the corner store? He made damn sure Sport wasn’t getting mixed up with the wrong crowd.

You know how impressionable young men can be, with their fake ID’s and the alcohol, and such.

Speaking of impressions, there was one young lady who caught Sport’s eye in the crowd that night.

Josie was wearing her spandex pants in the aptly named phys ed class that day, and ever since then it’s been allll over for Sport. The way the tips of her long blonde hair bounced effortlessly off the top of those black pants has lived rent-free in his head for the past two and a half years, and Sport made it his mission to make her his everything ever since.

School dances, Valentine’s Day, you name it— he never missed an opportunity to be with her. If you asked Sport his favorite activity aside from baseball, unless you were Mee Maw or Paw Paw, he’d immediately answer parking at Quabbin with Josie.

Those who know, know.

Anyway, just as Sport had quite the interest in Josie, she also had a vested interest in Sport.

Coming from a lower-class, hard-working blue-collar family she knew what was at stake with this game. He was her ticket to a better life, where in contrast to her current situation she would never want or need for anything again. And that’s not to say she didn’t have mutual feelings for him the way he had them for her… but let’s just say that when it came to looks, Josie was way out of Sport’s strike zone.

And when this handsome, specimen of a figure named Richie Campanana, Jr. walked up to the mound, let’s just say that he may or may not have caught Josie’s eye.

Maybe Sport noticed that, up in the stands on the first base-side of the field, sitting in plain sight of him as she does, Josie’s attention fully turned towards the younger pitcher as he walked to the mound.

Maybe that image of Josie intently watching Richie walking up to the mound nested into the back of Sport’s mind at that moment, that crucial moment, and changed the course of destiny that night.

Maybe that threw Sport off his game just long enough to take his his eye off the ball.

Because when Richie threw that sinker, the Mountie hitter did exactly what every Wapiti fan was hoping—

He rolled over the pitch.

And where did he hit it?

Directly at Sport.

It was exactly the way they drew it up.

Sport was going to gobble that ground ball up and lob it over to Markie Mark Jones at second base, the smoooooothest second basemen ever to grace a Wapiti infield, to turn two and win the game.

The Winchendon Wapiti were finally gonna win the state championship.

The crowd was gonna absolutely erupt.

Sport was gonna get that full boat and his pick of a division 1 university, and would be well on his way to getting drafted to the big leagues.

And when Sport got signed, Mee Maw was finally gonna get that pink ‘92 Miata out of the Motor Trend magazine she pinned to the cork board in the kitchen.

And if the Red Sox signed him?

You know Paw Paw was finally getting those season box tickets he’d been dreaming of since he was a boy.

This. Was. It.

But that’s when it happened.

See, it wasn’t just a grounder that hit off that bat that night—

It was a one hopper.

And maybe it was the excitement of such a big moment…

Maybe it was the violent, fizzing topspin that caused the baseball to dip a millisecond before reaching Sport…

Or maybe the thought of Josie gawking over the handsome up-and-coming Richie caused a mental lapse.

But regardless of the reason, when the batted ball ricocheted off Sport’s glove into the the outfield, the audible gasp from the crowd would imprint itself in Sport’s brain forever.

The runner on second came around third and scored, and that runner on first blew through the stop signal from his third basemen coach and rounded third, sprinting like a buck who’d just seen a bullet graze right by his eyes out in the sticks. And when Johnny Rockets out in left field realized it, he hummed it like Bo Jackson in his prime right to the catcher, Tricky Nicky Price, and with the game already tied up, there was a play at the plate—

CRASH!!!

Price had the ball…

BUT THE RUNNER CRASHED INTO HIM—

…

“SAFE!!” shouted the umpire, as the ball rolled away from them towards the backstop, having fallen out of Price’s glove.

Just as fortune had fallen out of Sport’s grip.

Everyone there saw it all. Sport’s family. His teachers. Even the scouts.

And worst of all: Josie.

The Mounties won the state championship after they struck out the side in the bottom of the sixth that night.

And who was on deck after the final out?

You guessed it.

Sport.

Without even a chance to redeem himself, Sport stood helpless in the on-deck circle as the Mounties celebrated on Wapiti turf.

Sport lost them the game, but as you’ll soon see, he lost much more than that…

That’s the day Sport lost everything.

__________

We’re back at the bar in Chick’s Tavern now, and it’s revealed that Sport’s wearing his green high school Wapiti jersey, number 5 like his idol Nomar.

Sport spins around in his barstool to face the camera.

“Y’know what’s funny? Nomah, the Sox’s hahht and soul for nearly a decade, was on that 2004 team that finally broke the Curse of the Bambino.”

“The Sox won the series that year… but he got traded away before the postseason.”

Sport swishes his pint of The Beast around.

“Put all that work in, was the face of the franchise, and he nevah even got a ring to show for it.”

“He was so close… and then he basically just,” Sport snaps his fingers, “lost everything.”

“I lost my scholarship that night. And my girl. And any semblance of self respect.”

Sport looks down dejectedly, shaking his head.

“Since that night, I’ve spent two decades being ridiculed and beaten up by the same group of thugs who tortured me for being a bastard child since I was in first grade. And I never had the spirit to fight back, because when you lose everything… nothing matters anymore.”

“The only university that came calling for me was Bunkah Hill Community College, and I flunked outta there after the first semestah.”

“Paw Paw’s heart couldn’t handle the devastation that wreaked havoc on Winchendon, and soon after I flunked outta college an NSTEMI took him down.”

“And as I was grieving him, I caught Josie fooling around with fahkin’ Richie Campanana out in Quabbin.”

“Just one year before that, I was at arms length of greatness… and now I hit rock bottom.”

“But then, sitting right here on this barstool I saw something on the TV…”

“A wrestling match.”

“Prime Wrestling. It was the sleekest production I’d seen since the ‘04 World Series broadcast. And there was this one guy… named Crash… they said he was always at arms length of competing on professional wrestling’s greatest stage… and y’know what? I saw myself in that kid.”

“And if he could make it…”

“Fahk it. I could fahkin’ make it.”

“So I took up some Ka-ra-tay, and educated myself on “Fred Dick’s finest mat-grappling maneuvers” and I started fighting back against those thugs. And in those fights, I lost— a lot. Like, two dozen times at least. But after countless broken noses and a few cracked ribs— I started winning. And the fear of “what if” started to wear off.”

“What if I had just kept my eye on the ball?”

“What if I had one more shot to chop the lumbah at the plate??”

“What if… what if—”

Sport shakes his head.

“Nah. No more what ifs.”

“So when I saw I was fightin’ Crash, it brought me full circle, all the way back to that crash at the plate when we lost the state title game, all because I just couldn’t fahkin’ handle the one hoppah…”

“Nah, that’s not true. I could’ve…”

“…But I didn’t. I fahkin’ didn’t.”

“Tonight, tho?”

Sport chugs the rest of his Milwaukee’s Best Light.

“That all changes.”

He slams the empty pint glass on the bar.

“Tonight, I take my last drank of The Beast.”

Sport pulls his green Wapiti jersey over his head and holds it at arms length towards the camera.

“Tonight, I finally take what’s mine. You see, not only has success been at arms length to me this whole time— it’s been inside of me. And now, thanks to you, Crash, and thanks to you, Prime Wrestling, I found my spirit to take back my life.”

Sport pauses a moment, displaying the Wapiti deer logo directly into the camera. Then abruptly, he drops the jersey and stares into the camera.

“The Wapiti is within me, and that’s all I need to handle you, Crash.”

“I might just look like some hick from The Sticks…”

“But this hick? Sitting right here in Chick’s?”

“He’s about to field a one hoppah, clean.”