[SelzShoes]

For what felt like most of his baseball life, Hal Anderson had been in Columbus. Managing and playing for the Redbirds he had grown to like the sleepy in summertime city. The fans would come to the park and cheer the budding heroes of Saint Louis.

When Columbus bought into the Contential League, the fans were ecstatic. Especially when the club went and signed men like Bobo Newsom and Myrill Hoag. This was a team built to win right out of the gate-none of this slow going that Minneapolis and Buffalo offered. They might not battle for the pennant, but they would battle. With all this experience, third place seemed a reasonable goal for the Clippers. Unfortunately, the wine had turned to vinegar.

Nothing was giving the team a spark. This was the most veteran club in all of baseball and all the old pros knew this was not a club that could be rallied to victory. The old bones could not deliver anything but leftover guile.

Trying to win small battles in a huge war is how Anderson came to view his job. Not enough tools to do the job; frantically cobbling men in various combinations hoping enough of them would be able to fool the baseball gods long enough to scrabble a win. Old bones and flesh looking for an untapped vein of youth. He would look toward the locker door hoping for a miracle and only finding heartache. A win today would win a series on the road good news to build on. Something to buck up on when the going gets worse.

To Anderson's relief the squad went about their job with solid professionalism. The grim determination of men with a job to do settled over dugout and clubhouse. Quietly suffering together; the security of a paycheck assured their all on the diamond, no matter how low the expectations begun to delve. Until today.

It began innocent enough, telling Jack Salveson to go down to the bullpen for the day. Salveson had not pitched in five day since a disastrous start against the Yanks. Jack had show promise in relief; it was in the team's best interest, thought Anderson, to not start Salveson again.

As Anderson handed out the bullpen assignments, Salveson did not budge. As the rest of the pitchers slated for the pen walked from the dugout, Jack Salveson stood his ground.

"Jack, better get going," the manager helpfully suggested.

The hurler refused to budge, "Yesterday was my turn. I'm ready to go."

"It's not the time for this Jack, get to the pen." The group heading to the bullpen had stopped hoping to see if Salveson could push Anderson for more innings. Hal tried to get away from the righty, but Jack was following him like a shadow.

"So I got ripped by the Yankees, what pitcher doesn't get ripped by them?" Anderson continued to address the line up, giving clichéd advice to drown out the complaints. The words grew more and more acidic. "Look at me you coward," Salveson escalated.

"Jack, if you don't go to the bullpen know, it will be even longer before you get in a game."

"Say it to my face."

Anderson kept his back to the pitcher, fully expecting to be blindsided by the angry man behind him. "I don't have to say it to your face Jack; just get down to the pen and we'll talk about it later."

The genie was out of the bottle.