Will Daggett stood atop the dugout steps. "Whew! Feel that heat." The hot blast was the price to pay for clubhouse air conditioning. He could remember when locker rooms smelled like liniment and only the manager's office had central air. As he stepped onto the field the younger pitchers broke into a trot around him, headed toward the bullpen. Will didn't know what their big hurry was. "Maybe they're afraid that there aren't enough chairs for everyone and whoever's left standing will be on waivers." He gave a little smirk as they passed by.

Kansas City was always the hottest ballpark of them all. It was especially true in August. Fatigue made it seem even hotter as the season moved to its final leg. He ambled down the First Base line on his way out to the bullpen, just beyond the Right Field fence. More of his teammates sprinted by to take positions for infield practice. He saw the First Base Coach, Bob Johnson, nearby. He had nothing in particular to do at the moment, so Will sidled over. He and Bob had been teammates at Chicago in their early years. In those days it had been Bobby Joe Johnson, but he was a lot of years and miles away from his Alabama roots—and many at bats from his glory days.

"How're ya feelin', Will?"

"Hot 'n' tired—just like you," Will answered. "I'll be glad when this road trip's done with. Isn't this our last set in KC this year?"

"It's hot—that's for sure," Bob agreed. "Should cool off when the sun goes down. Just tomorrow's day game and we're outta' here."

"This is when it gets the worst. It should get cooler, but it doesn't, and then you feel cheated, somehow. They don't call these the Dog Days of August for nothin'."

"How 'bout a poker game when we get back to the hotel?" Bob asked.

"Whose room are you thinking about?"

"Why, yours, of course!" Bob laughed.

"Why does it always... ?"

The conversation was interrupted by a raspy cacophony that Will knew too well.

"Am I breaking up the ladies' tea party?" It was Wayne Curtis, the Manager. One thing Will couldn't stand about him was that he could never just walk up to a player and say what was on his mind.

"I'm on my way right now, Skipper," he answered.

"C'mon, Daggett! The whole bullpen's out there already. It looks bad. It makes it harder on Clem to keep a rein on those guys when the older ones are straggling."

"Alright, I said that I'm goin'," Will protested, as he turned and started out to Right Field.

"C'mon, get movin', Will!" he heard Curtis' hoarse barking behind him. He broke into a trot, for Curtis' benefit, and whoever else might be watching and caring.

Will entered the bullpen through the door in the Right Field wall. The relievers were stretching, bending and contorting to loosen the muscles in their legs. Larry Jensen, the starting right-hander was warming up with Rodriguez, the Bullpen Catcher. Clem Hartwell, Bullpen Coach, watched attentively for signs of stiffness in Jensen's delivery.

"Good luck tonight, Larry," Will called out as the ball snapped back into Jensen's glove.

Larry was a good guy and a good pitcher. He always kept his team in the game. Like Will, he was thirty-seven, a young man by the usual standard. Baseball has a way to age a man in his autumn years in the game. Fastballs slow; curves hang longer over the plate. Players like Larry and Will made up for it in guile and knowledge of the game. They did whatever they could to keep the autumn leaves on the trees. When guile ran out, they were finished.

There were scars—of scalpel blades on elbows and shoulders. There were wounds invisible to the eye, too, where a man really lives. There were marks of disappointment and guilt—commissions and omissions and better paths too late to be chosen. Worst were the memories of victories of so many yesterdays ago that they could only be savored in the mind's eye—or with the help of a whiskey or two.

There were still good times, too. As the Dog Days of August wore on they were reminded that the season of autumn brings days of color and sunshine before the chill makes the leaves descend from the trees.

"Poker after the game?" Jensen asked as he toed the rubber.

"Johnson volunteered my room," Will replied. "What about you, Clem?"

"I guess so," he said, and then turned his head and spat a stream of brown juice to a nearby corner. "Or I can just give all my money to Jensen right now."

"No checks!" Jensen warned as his pitch made a snapping sound in the catcher's glove and a puff of rosin sprayed out.

Each successive throw snapped with a little more anger as Jensen exerted a little harder.

"Let me see the slider," Clem ordered. Jensen hurled another pitch that was a little slower than the rest. Rodriguez circled his glove around its path as he caught it. "That one hung," Clem pronounced. "Enrique!" he yelled down to the catcher, "Don't circle it like that. I want to see where it's going."

"Lo siento, Boss," the young man called back.

"It's just not workin' tonight, Clem," Jensen pleaded. "Maybe I can get it grooved later."

"Throw it out of the zone to set up your fastball," Hartwell advised. "At least to the right-handers. You'll have to dance around the lefties."

The big right-hander continued warming, trying to find the handle on the slider. "You'll find it, Larry," Will called over. The young pitchers watched hungrily as Jensen struggled. A slot in the starting rotation was what they coveted and none of them imagined that they could ever lose the groove on their sliders like an old man might.

Clem walked over to Will where he stood doing the splits, stretching his groin muscles. "Skipper says to be ready," Clem advised. "He wants Larry to get through six. You take the seventh. Carstairs can set it up in the eight for Roberts in the ninth."

"Does Baker know that I pitched an inning last night and two the night before?" Will asked.

"Yup," Clem replied.

"Did he tell Curtis?" Will asked again.

"I dunno what Steve tells Wayne."

"Does Wayne know the difference between a pitching arm and a dick?"

"I dunno what Wayne knows," Clem answered, and then discharged a brown stream of tobacco juice to the turf.

"It's getting' worse every year," Will said to himself. "Arms get tired in August. They make us choose between lyin' down and tryin' to do what we can't do. I'm too young to lie down and old enough to know that I'll have to lie down sometime—'cause the more I try to do, the more they ask for."

"It's good that we pushed across a run," Will said to Clem, sitting beside him on the bench. "We're going to need every one we can get. They were watching Larry
Jensen walking briskly through the outfield to take the mound in the bottom of the first.

"I'm worried about Jensen's slider," Clem said. "He better find it."

"He won't go six," Will replied. "It's hot and he's tired. It's been a long road trip. If we were back home—maybe. It's easier to build your strength back up at home than on the road."

"He's the starter; that's why he gets paid the big money."

"Whatever Larry's got—you'll get it. He can't give what he hasn't got, and tonight he has no slider. He'll try to find it, but he won't. He's just too tired to snap it crisp enough. He'll tempt them with it—hang it out of the zone for a while. By the time they start through the order the second time, they'll be wise. You can't get by on guile without a slider."

"Well, he's got the first two guys out."

"I'd bet with you, Clem, but then you'd be outta money and we'd hafta' call off the poker game tonight."

"Maybe you oughta' be the starter, Will."

"I was a starter once. I won thirteen games for Oakland in '96. I was known as an 'up 'n' comer'."

"Ooow! That was a close one," Clem interrupted as the two stood and watched a long drive by the number three hitter curl past the foul side of the pole. "Just a noisy strike," Clem said, taking his seat back on the bench. Out on the mound Jensen rubbed up a new ball and waited for the crowd to quiet down.

"Larry'll get this guy. He's got him foxed; he was reaching for that slider off the plate."

"So why'd ya give up bein' a starter?" Clem asked.

"Didn't want to," Will answered. "I went under the knife after that season and Oakland traded me to Texas. They said they thought my elbow couldn't take startin'. They gave me the choice; move to the bullpen or prove myself as a starter again with a minor league contract."

"So, you wanted to stay in 'The Show'?" Clem guessed.

"Right, right," Will admitted. "I shouldda gone to El Paso, but when you're twenty- seven, it's hard to see that far down the road. So, I went to the bullpen—thinkin' I could work my way back to the rotation. Never happened, and here I still am."

The conversation ended as Jensen got the third out on a fly to deep right-center. Diaz caught it right in front of them. Jensen started with a one-two-three inning.

Orlando Diaz was the Center Fielder. He came from the Dominican Republic, speaking little English. He didn't need to know much—just simple phrases, such as the translation of 'Good Catch, Orlando' as he ran down screaming liners that came his way courtesy of the aging, tired, August arms.

In the top of the second there was more to cheer about, as Diaz, sixth in the lineup, led off with a single. He stole second as the next batter struck out. All the players in the bullpen leaned forward on the fence to see if Jensen would be staked to a two run lead. He might be able to nurse that for a few innings.

"Diaz is wasted in the sixth spot," Will declared to Clem. "With his speed, he should be leading off."

"I'll let Wayne know your thoughts on the subject," Clem answered, as he sent another stream of tobacco juice to the ground.

The bullpen groaned as the batter took a home run swing and sent a pop-up to the Third Baseman.

"Don't tell him anything. He'd probably have Diaz on waivers before daybreak."

"Why're you so bitter, Will?" Clem asked. "I would've expected you to mellow in yer old age."

The count was two and one to the batter, their last chance to push Diaz across. He was number nine in the lineup, so no one gave him much chance.

"You're right," Will replied. "It's just that my years are gettin' short and there's just one thing I'd like to do before my time is up."

The count went to three and one—a hitter's count. Still, no one expected much from the last man in the order.

"Pitch in the World Series," Will answered in advance, in case Clem didn't bother to ask the question.

The batter walked. There were two men on base, setting the table for the top of the order.

"We got a chance at the playoffs," Clem asserted, "and then who knows what might happen?"

"If anyone but Curtis was manager, we'd be five games on top of our division," Will insisted.

"Let's watch the game," Clem replied. "It's not good for the younger players to hear us talkin' like this."

The top of the order was coming up for the second time. At the plate the leadoff hitter grounded a single up the middle. Diaz scored easily from second. Jensen had a two run lead. Runners were at the corners. Clem and Will watched as the count went full. A hit would score another run and put Jensen in command. Even better, it would bring up Stone, the three-spot batter with two men aboard.

The batter fouled off a pair of outside fastballs. "Everyone in the stadium knows that he's coming inside," Will said. The opposing pitcher did, and the batter took a ball four, a little too high and tight. Bases were loaded.

"Taking that pitch took guts," Clem said. "I've got to admire that. This could be a big inning."

Stone, the Right Fielder, stepped to the plate. He had a good balance of power and speed like a third-spot hitter should. He took the first pitch for a strike; it was right down the middle. The next offering was too low, for a ball, to even the count.

One-and-One is a count that favors no one—a limbo for pitcher and batter. An errant pitch would send the count to Two-and-One, a hitter's count; a strike would put the pitcher in command. The pitch required finesse—tempting the batter to swing, but not offering too much.

"More careers have been ruined on One-and-One than any other count."

Will's attitude bothered him. He belonged to the fraternity of pitchers, transcending team loyalty. There was a tinge of sympathy for the opposing hurler, who faced loaded bases and a strong hitter. Will had been there before.

Before he could reason the conflict away, the telling pitch was in progress, spinning its way to the plate. Stone swung; a full, powerful turn on a hanging curve. The ball burned its way down the line. The Third Baseman stretched and dove for the ball; knocked the missile down. He pounced on the ball and jumped up with it, but had no play. A run scored.

Far away in the bullpen Clem and Will watched the play unfold. They jumped up and cheered like Little-Leaguers. They looked at one another in surprise at the other's glee. It was a scene repeated more than a thousand times in their experiences. It should have been too stale to induce such spontaneity, but somehow it did. Each grinned at the man beside him, accepting the other's silly display as part of the game.

Actually, it was a disappointment for all. The opposing pitcher failed to get Stone out, but the heroics of his fielder limited the damage to a single run. The third baseman made a sparkling play, but had no putout to show for it. Stone had a single and an RBI, but it should have been a double and at least two RBI's.

The umpire called time and Will started thinking again.

"Life is full of singles that should have been doubles. It's always that way; it's how things get done. I wouldn't have thought so as a young man, but I'm older now."

All eyes shifted to Markham, the rookie cleanup hitter. He was a phenom, called up from Rochester in June. A strong, sturdy young man, he wasn't far removed from the farm. His forearms stored thunder and lightning that he loosed on hapless fastballs. When he connected there was a special sound—disheartening to a careless pitcher, guilty of grooving a fastball to a fastball hitter. Of course, Markham could look bad on a curveball thrown at the prefect moment, or a slider that looked like a fastball as it left the pitcher's hand—if the pitcher had the guile to throw one.

Will and Clem pressed against the fence to watch the young Atlas take his swings with the bases loaded. A big hit would change the entire game. Jensen could nurse a lead like no one else. If the lead was big enough it would enable Will to stand down for the night and rest his tired arm.

Markham worked the count to two and one—a hitter's count. The pitcher would want to avoid going Three-and-One. He had to put one over the plate.

Will nudged Clem. "He's sitting on a fastball. I can see it from here, just the way he's standing at the plate."

The men on base led off, expecting a mighty swing. The pitcher toed the rubber and squinted to pick up the catcher's sign. A nod, and he straightened up, stretched, and the crucial pitch sped on its way.

It was a fastball—letter high; Markham saw it. He strode into the pitch, hungrily unleashed his forearms through the path of the ball, rotated his hips through the swing for full power. The bat whistled through the plane of the ball, making contact. As Markham followed through his swing he turned his head to pick up the ball in flight in Right Field, to gauge if he should begin his home run trot or hustle for a double.

Will and Clem shook their heads as the outfielder settled under the arc of flight in shallow Left. Markham's mighty swing had nearly been a whiff. The pitcher had fooled him with a fastball off the plate. An opportunity was wasted and Markham threw his bat in disgust and yelled an expletive when he realized what happened.

"I think he's disappointed," Clem declared before sending a spurt of tobacco juice to the gravel on the warning track.

"He sure likes to let everyone know what's on his mind," Will observed. "Do you think he'd want to play poker tonight?"

Will and Clem watched Jensen sit on his three run lead through the second and third. He still hadn't found his slider. Will knew that it was a matter of time before starving bats started feasting on Larry's predictable fastballs. A good team would have already figured it out; Kansas City was in the bottom half of the division, and that provided some leeway. He had to admire Jensen to rely on guile with no slider.

"Larry always is after glory—guts and glitz. He could never be a reliever. I gave up glory long ago. I'm happy just to do my job."

They still led three-zero in the bottom of the fourth. The leadoff batter worked the count to two balls and a strike. Jensen looked in; the catcher gave the signal—no margin for nibbling. He put down a single finger—fastball—and in a moment it was on its way.

"Ouch! That's a double," Will declared. He saw the ball rocketing toward them before they heard it impacting the bat. The ball sliced into right field and bounced once before hitting the fence. "That guy was right on top of that one."

"It's suicide to get to Two-and-One if you haven't got your slider," Clem agreed.

Jensen walked the next batter and the bullpen phone rang.

"Skipper says to get up," Clem yelled over to Will.

Rodriguez trotted behind the plate as Will took possession of the warm-up mound. He threw easy at first. He knew it wouldn't take long to get loose in the hot evening. For a change, he was grateful for the heat as it bounced off the ground at him. With each motion he felt his muscles loosen a little more.

He threw only fastballs at first. He searched for a good rhythm. It was what he had done a thousand nights in Kansas City and Anaheim, Texas and Chicago. He barely noticed when Jensen got the first out on an infield pop-up.

He paid no attention to a fan yelling from the bleachers at him. "Daggett, go home—you're too old." He fired at the catcher harder in more rapid succession. A sheen of sweat spread its way over his face. All was as it should have been.

"I feel good. My arm is tired, but I'm in a groove and I'll go as long as I can. I won't lie down."

"How're ya feelin'?" Clem asked.

"I'm good—I'm loose," Will replied.

"Let's see it," Clem demanded.

"Moment of truth!"

He nodded at Clem. He changed his grip on the ball, fingers together. His index finger was exactly in the center between the seams; the middle finger rode the outside seam. He turned his hand so that the fingers were aside, instead of atop the ball. It was a slider; he let one fly.

The ball started out hard like a fastball, but then broke sharply to the right just as it crossed the plate.

"Almost, but not quite, Clem. I'll try another one." The throw back from Enrique popped into Will's glove.

"Loosen the top finger a little; give it some more pressure with the middle finger, Will."

Will followed Clem's instructions and launched a new pitch. It screamed out of his hand and broke hard at the plate. Rodriguez grinned and nodded approval. Will knew it already. It felt good.

"I'm gonna throw three more. If they're right, I'll be ready," Will told them. In the meantime, Jensen got his second out on a sharp grounder, the runners moved up to second and third. Will threw the three pitches and finished off with a curve.

"Tell 'em I'm ready, Clem." The coach punched the dugout number on the phone.

"They said to stay loose. They want to see if Jensen can pull it out."

"I'm ready now!" Will insisted. "Why'd they get me up if they weren't gonna use me?"

"Keep yer shirt on!" Clem commanded the now-young stud. "Just be ready if you get the call."

Will stood down as ordered. At that moment a roar crescendoed from the crowd. The game was tied; Jensen had given up his lead. The ball landed with a telltale thud in the bullpen confirming what they already knew. The younger pitchers scrambled to get out of the way.

"One hangin' slider too many," Clem said, shaking his head. They watched the Manager stride nervously to the mound to talk with Jensen. The infielders formed a cocoon around them. Will nervously stabbed at the dirt with the toe of his cleats, expecting Curtis to tap his left arm. The assemblage of players on the mound continued to huddle together and Will knew that there would be no call. Finally, the umpire ambled from behind the plate to the mound to break up the convention.

"Well, I'm warmed up," Will reminded Clem with a sigh as he retook his seat next to him. The home run had emptied the bases. Jensen got the third out on a sharp grounder, one pitch too late.

"Who's umpin' behind the plate?" Will asked.

"Mongelli," Clem replied.

"He's good," Will observed. "If you establish a slider in the zone first, he'll expand it a little outside the corners after that."

"I wish that Jensen had known that," Clem retorted.

"He won't call a low strike, though," Will continued. "Just hafta' move that slider a little off the corner.

"It's always the slider. A man could pitch in this league forever if only he never lost his slider. I've got mine tonight. I can feel it."

"I hope I don't lose my slider with this warming up and then sittin' down again."

"It wouldn't be the way I would run things, Will, but I ain't runnin' things." Clem lofted a shot of tobacco juice to the outfield grass.

They watched their team go one-two-three in the top of the fifth to leave the score still tied at three.

"That was a pretty short rest for Larry. He has the top of their order to face this inning," Clem said. "This inning could be a tough one; you'd better be ready."

Will felt that old growling in the belly. He was breathing a little faster. He wanted to get up and pace around the bullpen, but didn't dare let anyone see him look nervous. He had to look relaxed.

"Relax!" he told himself. "You've done this hundreds of times."

He ignored the advice that he gave himself, just as he did every time. "I hope I haven't lost my slider after bein' up and then sittin' down," he repeated to Clem, hinting for reassurance. In truth, Will would never want to lose the feeling he had at that moment. The little dancing feet in his belly were old friends who visited at such times. They came to announce that he was ready for something special to happen.

He felt the little guests at every important event in his life, like when he got married and at the birth of each of his children. There was the time when he signed his first big league contract.

At his advanced age, the rumblings should have been milder and less frequent, but he felt them more often. They were there each time he made love to his wife, or saw one of his kids in a school play. They came calling in every close game that he played in. He knew why.

"Every man gets a certain number of chances. I won't waste a one—not anymore—the pile is closer to the bottom than the top." He glanced at the bevy of younger players watching the game, knowing that in their youth, they couldn't understand the wisdom that he did—just as he hadn't understood it when he was young like them. "I'd tell them, but they'd never listen. Besides, no one ever told me." Nature would have to take its course.

"Relax, Will," Clem soothed. "Just don't forget to loosen that slider grip some. You'll be okay."

Jensen walked the first batter.

"Do ye think I outta' warm up again?" Will asked.

"You know that they don't like anyone warmin' unless they give the word," Clem answered. He slapped him on the thigh. "I could tell you to stop bein' nervous, but I tell you that ev'ry time."

Jensen gave up a double to the next hitter; it was runners on second and third. The bullpen phone rang and Clem answered. "Will, they want you to warm up again."

"Tell 'em I'm ready," Will shouted. Clem spoke into the phone. Rodriguez hurried behind the bullpen plate.

"They said 'warm up, anyway'."

"Tell 'em I'm warm now. They should bring me in now before Jensen loads 'em up."

Baker, the Pitching Coach, ambled to the mound. The catcher and infielders joined again.

"He's stallin' for time for me to warm up. For crissake, put me in now, before it's too late. I am warmed up."

Will threw a fastball to Rodriguez, and it popped into his mitt.

Baker remained on the mound with the players scuffing dirt idly until the umpire broke the meeting up. They retook their places and Jensen prepared to pitch.

Jensen threw a curveball in the dirt. The catcher barely blocked it

Jensen threw a ball outside. The catcher jogged out to the mound. What could he say to the spent pitcher as he struggled for an out?

The next pitch was a ball, inside. Jensen shook his head. He walked the batter on the next pitch. The bases were loaded. Curtis jumped out of the dugout. As he walked to the mound he chopped his left forearm with his right hand. It was the call for Will—it was time.

Will strode quickly through the gate, on his way to the pitcher's mound. Wayne Curtis waited, with the catcher and infielders flanking him. "¡Buena Suerte!" Diaz called out, as Will crossed through Center Field. Will knew what the Spanish phrase meant—'good luck'.

"Thanks, I'll need it," Will called back to him. He wondered if Diaz understood the words, or if he thought that Will understood what he said in hailing him as he passed by. Somehow, he was sure that the meaning was imparted because of the communication common to men on a battlefield, or a playing field; in a barracks or a clubhouse. It was a language that transcended mother tongue and age—it was what men needed to create the bond that lies underneath their independent isolation.

As he crossed between Second and First Base he realized that the time for philosophy was over. He glanced at the base runners glaring at him and the hopeful expressions of his teammates assembled on the mound. He strode to the mound holding out his left hand; Curtis dropped the ball in it.

"I'm playin' the infield in to prevent the run," Wayne informed him.

Will started to bark back at the Manager, but caught himself in the presence of his fellow players.

"Are you sure about that, Skipper?" he asked. "McGrain's up next and he could send one out of the park fast. With bases loaded that would mean four runs just like that." Will argued, snapping his fingers for effect.

"I can count," Wayne shot back, letting Will know that he didn't appreciate the advice.

"You wouldn't concede a run for a double play?" Will suggested in a final effort to convince him. "I know the score's tied at three apiece, but it's only the fifth. There's a long way to go."

"I already made up my mind," Curtis spat back. "C'mon, Will! Let's have some team spirit."

"Let me get to my warm ups, then," Will shrugged. Curtis stalked off the mound and Will started excavating the dirt around the pitching rubber with his cleats. He decided to pitch from the stretch, although he didn't have to with the bases full. He always did with any runners on base.

Younger pitchers might have pitched from a windup. It would enable them to put more power behind their fastballs. Will's experience taught him differently. He could hold runners closer from the stretch; he would be less distracted by runners dancing off base as he delivered. It was one of those lessons that he learned over time that the younger pitchers would someday learn—the hard way, like Will learned. He took his stretch and fired a fastball. It landed with a thud in Fantuzzi's mitt and the catcher lobbed it back. It was his first warm up; he had seven left.

"What would have been wrong with a double play? Give up one run and get out of the inning."

Will heaved another fastball. Fantuzzi reached high for it. Will churned up some dirt where his right foot landed on his follow-through.

"McGrain's so slow we could double him up from left field!"

He threw a fastball at three-quarter speed to test his re-excavated landing area. It was more to his liking.

"But that would be too easy. Now try this one on your jugs gun."

His anger caused him to throw his next fastball harder. Fantuzzi nodded approval. In the on-deck circle McGrain waited impatiently; he looked hungry and confident. The throwback from the catcher snapped back into Will's glove.

"I'll give Mr. McGrain something to think about."

He threw a fastball as hard as he could, and aimed it high and to the left, where he knew a batter's head might be. It sailed over Fantuzzi's glove and bounded to the backstop. He wasn't sure if McGrain got the message, but Will did notice that he temporarily stopped chewing his gum.