By Steve Levine
Published in the Spring/Summer 2025 edition of Aethlon: the Journal of Sports Literature
The first time, it didn’t matter. Nothing fucking mattered. Mid-September. The Team was 20 games out of first. Eliminated from the postseason. Long ago eliminated. Bruiser had been damn good that year. Almost perfect. Take away the two homers the Cubs hit that cold night at Wrigley – two off-speed pitches that didn’t break – and he was fantastic. Converted 32 straight save opportunities. This team didn’t give many opportunities. He didn’t let them pass. Bruiser was the only star in a firmament of has-beens, never-beens, and never-will-bes. The skinflint owner won the lowest-payroll-in-MLB title. Three years running. Let good players slip away. Hell, pushed them out the door. Told the GM to trade for salary. Bruiser was a first place reliever on a last place team. A legitimate Cy Young candidate. ERA and WHIP both under 1.00. Control was astounding. Lots of pitchers painted the edges. Nobody used such a fine-point brush. No one could hit his slider. No one but those two Cubs. That night only. Fastball was just in the mid-90s. He could make it cut or not from the same slot. He struck out half the batters he faced. He was bored.
Up 4-2 on the lowly Orioles in the top of the 8th, coach asked him to get six outs. His walk-up music blasted. He jogged in from the bullpen. The maybe 6,000 fans in the stands stood. Cheered. Bruiser decided to make it interesting. Give himself a challenge. A challenge he was pretty damned sure he could meet. Get an out first. Keep things manageable. Allow a few baserunners. Maybe a run. Then shut ‘em down.
He was overthrowing with the first guy. Too excited. Fastball high. Fastball high. Fastball higher. Didn’t matter. Poor shmo swung at the first two. Didn’t see ‘em. Sure couldn’t hit ‘em. Bruiser froze him with the change-up. Inside corner. At the knees. Lefty had no chance.
OK, now. Throwing to Reyez, the O’s speedy lead-off batter. 3-2 count. Bruiser threw a slider he knew wouldn’t break. Reyez watched it float out of the zone. Ball four. Cool. Bruiser rarely worked with men on base. Rarely worked out of the stretch. Rarely held runners close to the bag. Reyez stole second right away. Yup. Feeling a little pressure. Loving it. Bringing out his best competitor.
Still not enough.
A fastball with just a little less oomph. That should do it. Reyez broke for third. Batter connected with the low-oomph fastball. Single to center. The tiny crowd gasped. Reyez scored to make it 4-3. Fastball low and way outside to the next batter. Yup. Screws turned just enough. Tightness in the chest. Perfect. Time for the perfect breaking ball. Hard grounder to short. Tailor-made double play. 6-4-3. Inning over.
The Team got the run back quick. First man up. Carlsson hit his first home run since last decade. Then the usual three quick outs. Bruiser back on the bump. Do it again.
He tossed another low-oomph fastball. First pitch. The O’s left-handed-hitting first baseman lined it into right. Anyone with any wheels would have had a double. The lumbering lump turned back after taking just a few steps toward second.
Bruiser fanned the next batter – a rookie call-up in his second Major League game. Four pitches. The last one a power curve that made the hitter bail. Came back to nip the inside corner.
He let the next guy work the count to 3-2. How about he make the next pitch clip the batter’s back foot? Damn, he’s good. Don’t show it. Angrily grab the catcher’s toss. Walk around the back of the mound. Shake your head. Mutter. Stomp back up to the rubber. Feel that fear-excitement storm. Feel it in your balls. Like old times.
Just a bit more fun. Then shut them down. He uncorked a wild pitch, his first in almost two years. Both runners advanced. Catcher walked halfway to the mound. A “you ok?” look. Bruiser only scowled. Next a fastball low and running outside – always just in the zone. Not tonight. Ball two. The batter swung awkwardly at an exquisite slider. Watched a change-up. Strike two. Fouled off a high fastball Bruiser was counting on for strike three. Two more fouls. The guy has the nerve to slap a Wrigley SLIDER, hard, into right field. Runner scores. Men on the corners. Still up 5-4. Mound conference with the pitching coach and catcher. Even that sniveling shortstop. No matter. The banjo-hitting second baseman dropped a gopher ball just over the left field fence. Now it’s 5-6. Fuck.
Adrenaline overload. Bruiser struck out the next two on six fastballs. The home team garnered a walk but nothing else in the bottom of the 9th. His second blown save of the season. His first loss.
Bruiser lectured his swollen ego until sunrise. Never again, asshole. Never, ever again. Drained half a bottle of good bourbon. Three terrible summer shandies someone left in the fridge. It hadn’t mattered to the Team. Of course. Nothing fucking mattered to this team. “Making it interesting” gave up four runs. Bloated his ERA. Out went the Cy Young. Might lose Fireman of the Year to Bernie, that sonfabitch southpaw Cuban with the blazing fastball. Stung his pride. Likely cost him millions in salary down the road.
Never again, asshole. His mantra for the rest of the season. Never again. Grabbed all four saves the Team tossed his way. One of 13 batters reached base. An infield single. Struck out nine.
Never again, asshole. All off-season. Bury it. Make sure it stays buried.
Two seasons later, two all-star seasons for Bruiser later, what a difference for the Team. Excitement in the preseason clubhouse. Sportswriters called it “buzz.” Two of the club’s premium draft picks finally blossomed last year. One was second in Rookie of the Year. The fans, the players, even some of the other owners shamed management into opening its wallet. Signed the reining National League RBI champion as a free agent. Nabbed a veteran catcher. Traded two prospects for a back-end-of-the-rotation starter. Plus a kid who either whiffed or sent the ball into the seats.
Late in January, they even picked up Bernie. Once the game’s most feared closer. Same heat. Less control. Scared the shit out of even more batters. Still the best left-handed 12-6 curveball since Barry Zito. Had become the 103-mph-throwing set-up guy for Barnie Adams, the closer for last year’s AL pennant winner. “Bernie then Barnie and this game’s over,” bleated the team’s octogenarian radio guy. Not exactly “Spahn and Sain and pray for rain.” But what did this generation of fans care?
Now Bernie was Bruiser’s 103-mph-throwing set-up guy. The two growled at each other a few times early in spring training. Then Skipper assigned them side-by-side lockers. The Florida sunshine burned off any animosity. Bernie’s English and Bruiser’s Spanish were both awful. Except when they talked ball. They laughed. They competed. Played practical jokes on each other. On the rookies. On a few of the cocky veterans. Shared (Bernie’s) fine Cuban cigars and (Bruiser’s) fine Kentucky bourbon. Agreed to play the same bone-rattling walk-up music so lights out would officially start in the 8th. Collaborated on the most comprehensive notebook of batter tendencies ever.
The Team started the season hot. 8-2. Bruiser had five saves. Bernie had four holds and a save. Mostly kept rolling as April turned to May. Bernie couldn’t hold two holds. Some walks and hit batsmen. Bruiser blew one save. A Wrigley slider at home. (But the Team roared back with two quick runs in the bottom of the 9th. Bruiser notched the W.)
Otherwise they were automatic. Bernie. Bruiser. Good night Irene. “Bernie and Bruiser and you’re a loser,” crooned The Team’s rowdy color announcer. At least that rhymed.
For the first time since that September night against the O’s, Bruiser got that bored feeling. Fought it. Pushed it away. Buried it. Never again, asshole. Never again.
Bruiser and Bernie climbed out of the shower after another one of those two-man shut-‘em-downs. Pulled on their jeans and boots. (Bernie called himself a “cowboy Cubano.” Bruiser was a small-town Texas boy.) Sat shirtless at their lockers. No hurry to leave. Smoked cigars. Sipped whiskey. Swapped tales. Compared biceps bulges. Skipper walked out with the clubhouse manager. “’Night boys. Hit the lights when you leave if you don’t mind.” Alone, they replayed every pitch of the last three nights. Minus one Bernie walk, they’d been perfect. Six up, six down. Seven up, six down. Six up, six down. Tonight they’d done it in 17 pitches. Four strikeouts between them.
“This is getting too easy, man,” Bruiser said. His sore arm and shoulder said otherwise. “No pressure. No fun. Fucking boring.”
Bernie jumped back. Eyes wide. “Don’t say that, Jimmy,” he said. (He called every white boy “Jimmy.”) “Mala suerte, Jimmy. Mala suerte.”
Silence claimed the usually boisterous clubhouse. Eerie. They pulled on their shirts. Closed their lockers. Headed for the door. Halfway out, Bruiser remembered. “Be right back. Forgot to hit the lights.” Outside, his white F250 sat alone in the parking lot. Bernie’s red Corvette Stingray was gone.
At the All-Star break, the Team was a half game out of first (behind last year’s World Series champs). A comfortable lead in the wild card chase. Bruiser and Bernie both made the mid-summer classic. So did one of the blossoming kids. Stefan, the journeyman catcher, too. Having a career year. The buzz grew national. Sports Illustrated touted the skipper for manager of the year. People profiled Bruiser and Bernie. A piece titled “So Lights Out.” Illustration a photo shot in a dark room. Single harsh bulb illuminated Bruiser’s beefy right arm. Bernie’s awesome left.
Won the next 12 in a row. Knocked the champs into second place. Bruiser threw two immaculate innings. Two! Pitcher of the weak. Of the month. Invited Bernie over for an off-day dinner. He kept the house when his wife split last year. (She got the kids.) Put in a new pool. Custom outdoor kitchen. Calm night. Warm, not hot. Crickets. Tangy tomato plant aroma. Juicy steaks. Bourbon. Cigars.
Bernie brought it up. “Been thinking, Jimmy. You are right. I am bored.” Bruiser had been thinking too. A lot. Had it all worked out. Competition. Ease up. Shut it down. A game within the game. One point per base runner allowed. Five for each run. Automatic zero for the night if the other team ties it up. Minus 5 if they take the lead. Minus 10 if they keep the lead and win.
Bernie came up with their secret signs. Each man could opt in. Or out. Depended on the game situation. On how their stuff played in warm-ups. As Bernie left the bullpen in the 8th, he’d say, “Un cigarro,” if he was in. “Salud!” if not. Bruiser would answer “a cigar” if he was in. “Bottoms up,” if out. Neither, both, or just one could take the dare for any game.
“You decide what’s more important,” Bruiser explained. “The thrill. Or your stats. You decide when it’s time to put it back together.”
“If it’s not too late,” Bernie laughed. Hard. Cigar smoke escaped his mouth and nose like a chugging steam engine.
“Yeah. If it’s not too late.”
Bernie got in three games the first week. Bruiser in four. They were careful. First game, they both flashed the drinking sign. “We got no huevos,” Bernie joked in the showers. Rest of that week, both were in.
“Tener un cigarro.”
“A cigar.”
Both were cautious. Never risked the game. Put up no zeros or negative numbers. Bernie scored 8 points. A walk. A double. Solo homer. One run. Bruiser dabbled closer to the edge. In game 2, a double and a hit batsman. That ball really did get away from him. Protecting a one-run lead in the third game. Two quick outs. A screaming ground-rule double down the left field line. Worked a 1-2 count on the next guy. A lefty. Poked a slider over the second baseman’s head. Only the right fielder’s mighty arm kept the runner from scoring. A 3-run lead the next night. Bruiser opted for an exploding cigar. Make his heart pound. Harder. A one-out walk. A low-oomph fastball slammed into the center field stands. A single. Mound visit. Pop-up. Three-pitch K. A 12 for Bruiser that night. Kept a running tally with hash marks on a two-year-old Bernie Topps card.
All cigars the next week. Lousy cigars. Three games in, they’d both given up leads. Cost the games. Both now well below zero on the Topps card. Thursday night. Bruiser on the hill with a two-run lead. One out. A walk. Doubles back to back to back. Hard hit balls. Three scored. Lead lost. Automatic minus 5. Stefan the catcher is on the mound and in his face. “Don’t think I can’t see what you two fucking assholes are doing,” the usually unflappable backstop whisper-screamed. Glove shielded his mouth. “I caught hundreds of pitchers. Thousands of innings. I know when you’re fucking tanking it. Coach probably does, too. Maybe you think you’re funny. I sure as fuck don’t. Maybe you’re shaving runs for some gamblers. I sure as fuck hope not.
“This is your one and only warning, asshole.”
Blue broke up the meeting. Stefan ran back to the plate. Bruiser took 14 pitches to get the last two outs. No Ks. And skipper had another reliever up in the pen. Another reliever! With Bruiser pitching! Embarrassing.
Bruiser took the W. Sat alone for a long time in the dugout. Couldn’t shake Stefan’s voice. His face. A career-long second-string catcher. Four different lousy teams. Now, he could smell the playoffs. A championship. A shot at a Gold Glove and a Silver Slugger. A few MVP votes wouldn’t be stretching it. “Don’t take this away from me,” Stefan’s eyes had shrieked. “Don’t blow this.” That powered the open-ended threat. Bruiser didn’t want to know “what if?”
The boys stashed the cigars. Tried to turn it off. Couldn’t. Bernie gave up two more leads. Bruiser blew two more saves. Stefan could see they were trying. Failing. The bullpen implosion was contagious. Starters couldn’t last passed the 4th. Bats went silent. Running game tripped up. Gloves leaked. Throws sailed. A five-game losing streak. Then four. To the Marlins! By Labor Day they’d fallen to third in the division. Four games back for the wild card. Three teams to pass.
“We started this,” Bruiser said. Another late night around his pool. “We need to end it.“
“If it’s not too late, Jimmy,” Bernie mumbled. No laughter.
They turned their little game inside out. No daring. No chances. Just performance. Set the bar high. One point per strike. Three per out. Five per strikeout. Balls minus 1. Walks minus 3. Hits minus 5. Runs minus 5. Even minus 1 for a foul ball with two strikes. They kept the game-tied and leads-lost penalties. An immaculate inning, best score, was 27.
They confided in Stefan. Showed him they were serious. “You guys fucked this up real good,” he said. More sad than angry. “Hope it’s not too late.”
Never again, asshole, Bruiser lectured himself. Never again.
Bernie notched an immaculate 27 the next night. Only the second time in his long career. The 12-7 curve exquisite. Bruiser closed the game with a solid 12. The offense took off in Denver’s thin air. Neither boy needed to throw when they were winning by five. Then nine. Game 3 against the Rockies was close. Up by one going into the 8th. Bernie gave up a walk. Got the hold. Bruiser gave up one of those damn doubles. Nothing more. Got the save. Never again.
A series sweep! Against the lowly Rockies. Still a sweep. The Team played like July again. Climbed the standings. Secured the wild card. Had a shot at the division title. Fought and clawed. Stefan fought and clawed. Clubbed 41 RBIs the last month. Caught three runners in one game. Bruiser and Bernie fought and clawed. Three holds for Bernie in the season’s final series. Three saves for Bruiser. Never again! Another sweep.
“Bernie and Bruiser. You’re a loser!”
The defending champs matched them claw for claw. Finished one game up.
The momentum propelled the Team through the wild card round and the Division Championship Series. Five straight wins. Bernie was untouchable in his lone appearance. Bruiser struck out five of the six he saw. Notched two easy, three-run-lead saves.
The League Championship Series against the defending champs was almost as easy. Fight and claw at a whole new level. A quick win on the champs’ home turf. Then on the wrong end of 9-0 blowout. Back home, they rewarded their fans. 4-2 then 5-1. They nabbed the pennant on a getting-chilly Wednesday night. Scoreless through six. The Team manufactured a small ball run in the bottom of the 7th. The stadium rocked. “You’re a loser! You’re a loser.” Champagne and beer showers in the locker room. Bernie and Bruiser both declined the cigars someone shoved their way.
The World Series began like an instant classic. The teams split a pair of 2-1 games at the AL champs’ home field. Game 2 a scoreless tie through 10. The Team pushed two across in the top half of the 11th. Bruiser hung a first-pitch slider. Ball landed just over the centerfield wall. Pissed, he threw nothing but heat. Dared the batters to catch up to it. Strike out. Easy dribbler down the first base line. Strike out. Ball game. Back home, the Team grabbed game three, 4-2. Bruiser and Bernie shined and shined.
Game four was a nightmare. A six-run lead melted. Three errors in one inning – two on the same play by the third baseman. A Gold Glove candidate. Bernie came in, top of the eight. Ahead 6-5. Leadoff man drew an 11-pitch walk. Bernie was steaming. Pitch flew over the catcher’s glove. Runner took second. Started dancing. Bernie calmed. The batter flailed at his curve. Bernie tied him up with an inside fastball that caught the corner. But the guy refused to chase a high heater. Dancing boy headed for third on the 2-2 pitch. Ball 3. Stefan couldn’t make a clean transfer to his throwing hand. Runner beat the tag. A sac fly to deep center tied it up. Four-pitch K and grounder to short for the final outs. Bernie left the mound head down. If he had a tail, would’ve been between his legs.
Three up, three down for the home team in the bottom of the 8th. The lights came down. Music roared. Fans roared. Bruiser didn’t jog. He ran to the hill to protect the tie. First pitch. Inside fastball. Pop-up. Stefan snagged it near the screen. Next guy wouldn’t go down so easy. Worked the count full. Three hard fouls off of Bruiser’s best sliders. Slammed a high fastball to the warning track in left. Two down. Bruiser was dripping sweat. Skipped a curveball to the huge right fielder. Hung the next curve. Bruiser didn’t even turn to watch it fly into the second deck. Deflated. Then a single. A walk. Sweet sliding catch on a can of corn to short right field brought the fans to their feet. Comeback time?! No such luck. Not even a base runner. Game lost 6-7. Series tied 2-2.
Game 5 was never close. The Team’s starter just didn’t have his stuff. Gave up a no-out grand slam in the top of the 2nd. Two more runs in the third. Skipper pulled him with one out and the bases loaded in the 4th. Sent in Bernie to shut it down. He rose to the occasion. Struck out the first batter on four pitches. The last one a pretty piece of 101-mph high heat. The next guy clanked a one-hopper off the second baseman’s glove. One run in on the error. The third out was an easy pop up behind second. The pen kept the lid on for the rest of the game. But the 6-0 lead was more than enough for the other guys. The Team’s bats were listless. Scored just one run. Bottom of the 8th. RBI dude knocked in Stefan with a clothes-line double into the right field corner. 1-6. 2-3.
Stefan marched up and down the aisle on the off-day flight west. Dished ballplayer inspiration to every man on the plane.
“You got this!”
“Win the next two? No sweat!”
“Wash that last game down the shower drain.”
Bruiser and Bernie took everyone out to dinner when they landed. Towers of shrimp, crab claws, and oysters. Tender steaks and chops. Everyone’s favorite pours. The afternoon bus to the stadium was raucous. The Team was an invading horde sacking the enemy’s fortress. They scored a quick two in the top of the 1st. Quieted the sellout crowd. Never took their foot off the gas. Pitching, fielding, running clicked, purred, roared. 12-zip final. No need for Bruiser or Bernie to tire their arms. No one slept much that night. High on hope and adrenalin.
Pitching and defense were nearly perfect for both sides in Game 7. Game 2 redux. At least four highlight-reel catches. Fastballs and off-speed stuff missed bat after bat. Stefan deftly tagged a runner trying to score on a sac fly in the 4th that just wasn’t deep enough. Next inning he drove a 2-2 fastball into the left field seats. After that, all pitching for both sides. The Team’s starter, working on three days’ rest, gave up just one walk and a looping single to center. Bottom of the 7th. Towering fly ball from the big right fielder brought the crowd to their feet. They sat right back down when it landed in the center fielder’s glove. Two steps from the fence.
Bernie started warming. His stuff was hot, fast, biting. Gorgeous. Every pitch. Impeccable control. Bullpen catcher rubbed the pain of Bernie’s triple-digit fastball from his glove hand. Grinned.
“Never seen you this good,” he laughed.
“A long time since I felt this good,” Bernie laughed. Harder. “So good.”
Top of the 8th looked promising. A double. A walk. Skipper brought in a lefty to pinch hit against the right-handed set-up man. He battled. Ball one. Foul. Foul. Ball two. Foul. Foul. Foul. Ball three. Foul. On the 10th pitch he clubbed a line drive. First baseman dove to his right. Stretched for an almost-impossible backhand grab. Gloved it. Tumbled cleanly. Literally dove back to the bag. Doubled the runner off first. A routine fly to left put the rally to bed.
They still had the lead. A one-run lead. Still, a lead. Their elite relief corps would make it stick. “You’re a loser!” Scattered shouts from the enemy’s bleacher seats. “A loser!”
Six outs away from the trophy. Bruiser went into those big arm windmills. Some slow stretches. Getting ready for his part.
Bernie tucked his glove under his arm. Walked through the bullpen door.
Stopped. Turned. Took a step back. Caught Bruiser’s eye. Mouthed the words. In English.
“Have a cigar?”
Bio:
Steve Levine is a retired political journalist and public relations professional who wrote just the facts for Hearst Newspapers, the Texas Lottery, and the Texas Medical Association. He is now a live music photographer and short story writer. Mr. Levine, a lifelong fan of the lowly Pittsburgh Pirates and the occasionally wonderful Pittsburgh Steelers, lives in Bee Cave, Texas.
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