Jim Stodges, Hall Of Fame Broadcaster-- Final Inning

Jim Stodges, Color

Scott Long, Play-by-play

SCOTT: So we go to the bottom of the ninth. New York needs two runs to tie, three to win. Here's the pitch, Ackerman swings, hits it in the air down the right field line, Shaw gets there... but he can't make the play! He got there in time, but he dropped it like Brad dropped Jennifer. His third error in four games. Oooh, that's gotta hurt. Gimme an 'E'!

JIM: The 'cranks', or 'fans', who populate the right-field bleacher-seats are giving him quite a razzing. 'Highball Shaw' some of the wags have dubbed him, after his preference not only in pitches to sock but in post-game refreshments as well.

SCOTT: I love it when you call me Big Poppa! JIM: Ah, Dame Fortune is a fickle mistress.

SCOTT: That's right, old-timer. Shaw and his agent just finalized the terms on a new 3-year deal. With incentives he could make up to $5.65 million a year. Wouldn't mind some of THAT suga' sprinkled on daddy's pancakes!

JIM: And like many of his fellow Kentuckians, or 'Goldenrods', he no doubt spends his off-seasons mining bituminous coal from dawn 'til dusk.

SCOTT: Probably! So Randy Ackerman is standing on second. Stan Moses on the mound, looking in at the next batter, Duke Shalen, who is an absolute STUD. He's got THIRTY-FOUR Johnsons this year -- for a rookie, that is just SIIICK! And listen to what the P.A. cranks when he walks to the plate: 'Big Poppa' --the Notorious B.I.G., baby! Much love, Biggie. Respect!

JIM: Shalen is a strapping young quadroon who can hit the ball a Texas mile in a New York minute. He has a square jaw, a firm handshake, and a reputed weakness for toffee.

SCOTT: Here's the pitch, swung on, hit deep to right... Forget about it, BAY-BEE! [singing] Ding-Dong, the pitch is dead! That's Shalen's 35th Jimmy-Jack of the year, and it ties this game at 5 in the ninth inning! The fans are going BANANAS! [singing] I love it when you call me Big Poppa!

JIM: Ah, Dame Fortune is a fickle mistress. The visiting Chicago nine seemed to have secured the ball-game with their 'rally' in the eighth inning. In said frame, thirty Windy City toes danced the Charleston across home-plate, a result of the club's time-tested 'a base-hit slap, a stolen-base thunder-clap, and a base-on-balls for lagniappe' brand of ball-play. But now the New York nonet has settled the balance with that monster of modernity, the 'long-ball'.

SCOTT: And look who's coming up to bat now. Boom-shaka-laka! It's big, bad Kyle Terrowski, who's got 32 Johnsons and almost as many tattoos. Bro, ya DON'T wanna mess with this dude. The P.A. is blasting Creed, and the fans want to see some rock'n'roll from Terrowski, they want to see another money shot.
First pitch low, ball one.

JIM: Can the burly Pole duplicate the feat of his predecessor in the lineup, that being young, toothsome Mister Shalen? Can he thrill the 'cranks' by delivering yet another cork-and-hide parcel to their peanut-shell-littered domain?

SCOTT: There's a called strike, the count is one-and-one. Terrowski steps out of the batter's box. That pitch was brought to you by Grey Goose—The World’s Best Tasting Vodka. Terrowski steps back in. Moses deals... that ball is swung on, hit pretty deep to left, Greer going back, at the wall, looking up...
THAT IS SOOOO NOT COMING BACK! GOODBYE, GET LOST, NO WE CAN'T BE FRIENDS.

JIM: Magnificent! Simply magnificent! A splendid conclusion to a valiant battle. One can do naught but stand in one's place and respectfully applaud these bat-and-ball warriors.

SCOTT: [singing, dancing] I like to move it move it, I like to move it move it...!

JIM: What drama! What glorious theater! Oh, this grand national past-time of Base-Ball: will she ever be challenged as our fair nation's most belov'd spectacle?

SCOTT: For Jim Stodges, I'm Scott Long saying: This is how we roll.