Johnny Scab Stoops Really Low to Play Ball

Good morning. You don’t know me. My name is Johnny Scab, professional baseball player for hire. I have no scruples. I have no conscience. I have no respect. I have my bat and my mitt, that’s it.

Friday, Feb. 17: I report for duty to my new team. The equipment manager issues me jersey No. 99. I don’t mind. Makes me feel like Gretzky. A coach in the clubhouse yells over: “Why not give him one with a dollar sign on it?” He sounds angry about something. I just laugh.

The little white-haired manager gives me a look, soon as I step outside. He must be 60-something, but they call him “Sparky,” like he’s a pup. I recognize him immediately. He is semi-famous. He has been to the World Series with two teams, Cincinnati and Detroit. He is a very fine man.

“Hiya, Sparky!” I say.

No reply.

“How’s the team look?”

No reply.

I flex and do knee bends. I want Sparky to know I am ready. Third base, first base, pitcher, catcher--anywhere he needs me, I will play. Because that is what I do. I am Johnny Scab, ballplayer of fortune. I care about nobody but myself. I am here to do a job, period. I do not care whose job it used to be. It is my job now. I have mouths to feed, mainly mine.

I swing two bats. I play a little pepper. I grease up the old glove.

“Where you want me?” I ask Sparky.

No reply.

“Shortstop? Center field? Tell me where to go.”

Sparky’s eyes squint in the sun.

“Away,” he says.

I say: “Pardon me?”

“Go away,” Sparky says.

Man, is he ever sore about something. I don’t know what. Later I find out that Sparky has stalked out of camp, gone home, refused to manage, taken a leave of absence, taken leave of his senses if you ask me. How could he give up a good job in baseball? People like me would kill to be in baseball. People like me would run down our mothers to be in baseball.

I don’t know where to go. Someone tells me to go somewhere else. So I go to another camp down the road. After all, I am Johnny Scab, replacement baseball player. I will work anywhere. I will do anything. I am a greedy, selfish, uncaring, no-account, superficial, supercilious, slimy, disrespectful toad of a human being, but I have a bat and a mitt. They give me a chance to play ball, I play ball.

Saturday, Feb. 18--In my new camp, they issue me No. 105. I feel like a freeway.

“Ain’t you got anything smaller?” I ask the equipment guy.

“Yeah. Your heart,” he says.

I laugh. He frowns. I let it slide. Don’t want to make any trouble.

Outside by the dugout, the little Italian manager is looking over his prospects. I would recognize him anywhere. I am happy to see he isn’t acting like Sparky, acting too good to manage the likes of me. No, he is out here trying to make better ballplayers of all of us, trying to teach us to play like major leaguers.

“No!” I hear him call to a player. “First you run to first base! Then to second base! Then to third base!”

I laugh. Amateurs.

“No!” I hear him call to a second player. “When you bunt, you use both hands on the bat!”

I shake my head. Where do they find these guys?

“No!” I hear him call to a third player. “ Catch the ball with the gloved hand! Throw the ball with the bare hand!”

I introduce myself.

“Tommy? Hi. Johnny Scab, professional baseball player.”

He leaves my hand in midair. I have never heard such language.

I laugh. That Tommy, colorful as ever.

“Where would you like me to go?” I ask.

He gives me an answer I am not expecting. Everybody sure seems upset today.

I pick up my bat, my mitt, my chin. I run laps. I shag flies. I hit the cutoff man. The cutoff man hits me back. I drink from the water cooler, same way other major leaguers do. I chomp on a chaw. I turn the green grass brown.

“Tommy,” I say. “I am here to play baseball. I will give you 101% of what I’ve got. On opening day, I want you to write on your lineup card: ‘Johnny Scab, third base, batting cleanup.’ I want to be rookie of the year. I want this to be the year of Johnny Scab, the baseball player you will never forget.”

Tommy rolls his eyes. He says, “By opening day, Mr. Scab, I hope to forget your name, forget your face, forget your address, forget the day I ever met you.”

Man. You think I’d taken his job.