The lowest stat on the Roosters, a Single A ball club, was the shortstop's IQ. Joey 111 Bondeman, the son of the team owner (who recently went to the dugout in the sky) was known for his rifle arm and bullet brain. With no one on base, any hit between second and third was a certain out; but with runners on, Joey got confused and the game would be called due to darkness by the time he decided where to throw. The manager solved the problem by having the catcher raise his index finger to signal a throw to first, middle and index fingers to throw to second, and three or four digits for the other bases. This worked, except for the one time the catcher forgot and gave the finger to the harassing third base coach; Joey threw the ball to the outfield. As a condition in old man Bondeman's will, Joey would stay with the team until "called up to the majors," which was unlikely unless there was a major nuclear attack.

The Roosters was a family business. Joey's mother worked in the concession stand, with mixed results. Some fans came to the counter to hear her giggle when they ordered a wiener. "Can you put mustard on my wiener?" a wise guy asked, and Mama on her mouth like a mad dog. Uncle Louie, in charge of personnel, and cost-conscious, recruited security guards from the prison release program, thinking that he'd double protection with the parole officers at the games. Ball Night was another of his ideas: fans could sit in the upper right field seats if they handed in a new baseball. Grandma Bondeman, an octogenarian, was the ball girl, retrieving foul-ball grounders, but she usually fell asleep on the small bench on the third base side, undisturbed by the line drives bouncing past her.

The clouds had just cleared out and the air had turned cool for the last game of the season. The Roosters had secured last place by mid-season and played the last few games in their home stadium. Joey was on the field tossing a ball to the second baseman, when Guillermo Earp, the outfielder, sprinted by and called to the shortstop: "pato!" Joey took a Spanish-English dictionary from his back pocket and looked up the word. Jorge, the second baseman, came over and asked him what was wrong.

"I'm trying to be nice to Guillermo; I even invited him to play pool after the game, in Spanish, and he called me a duck."

"What did you say, exactly?"

Joey pointed to the words for billiards — billar; "I said, queerez bi-lar?"

"You idiot, pool is bee-yar; you asked him to dance. And pato is slang for homosexual."

Guillermo Earp chuckled on the way to the outfield. That was not his real last name — it was Floresblancas. A scout in his native El Salvador, oblivious to the diversity in professional teams, told him to alter his name and "make it sound middle-American, like movie stars do." Guillermo, a long time fan of American westerns, chose the name of the Tombstone sheriff, Wyatt Earp.

The first baseman, Dave Hoo, ran to his position. From the first day with the club, the announcer would introduce the pitcher, catcher and then the first baseman by saying "Hoo's on first, What's on second and I Don't Know's on third." Dave heard that Abbott and Costello routine so often, he contemplated switching to football. But he was talented, muscular and handsome, and a future major leaguer. Dave had a fan club — three old ladies who dyed their hair the team colors: purple and white (one had purple hair, another a natural white and the third a half purple, half white color job ). They called themselves The Hoo-ers and attended every game in their season seats near first. When asked why they were so devoted to the first baseman, who leaned over on his hands during play, they chimed like the Andrew sisters, "because he bends over a lot."

The dour, inept umpires assumed their positions behind the bases. Uncle Louie hired pallbearers from the local funeral home as umps because "they already have black suits." The rest of the team came on to the field and the official start of the game was the national anthem sung by the team mascot, Reggie the Rooster, a.k.a. Lenny Rider. Lenny was also the groundskeeper and hated when he had to don the rooster costume. Bought at half price, the bird suit was anatomically incorrect — Reggie the Rooster had sewn-on testicles that would make a bull envious. The suit's creator declared, "Hey, I grew up in the Bronx, how did I know?" Even the players razzed him; they called Lenny by the name Guillermo gave him: Cajones.

The Rooster's pitcher was finishing his warm-up; Brian Weaver had a curve that practically turned around and a sinker that could hunt gophers. He had one personal idiosyncrasy that could restrict his career — he was a cross-dresser. During a game, however, the only concession to his preference was that he wore nylons.