“Be careful,” Eddie warns. “Avast. All Bumplebutt boys are sultans of swat, matey. I’m glad we have two on our side.”
There were Dutch pirates, English pirates, Portuguese pirates, even French pirates. Men at sea, sailors, were desperate at times and took risks. Risks led to tumultuous adventure, to theft, and to bullying. Beyond rough waters and smelly fish, the ale house (kegs of rum) might have kept them in a stupor, too often numbed their minds from real world events, kept them from productive labor.
“I’m smokin’ now, Eddie! A’hoy, I was born ready!” Shank shouts like a drunken sailor.
Again, wound up like a sea-snake ready to strike, Shank smokes a fast ball across the outside corner of the plate.
“Steeriiikkkeee, two!” Mr. Snicklecutty screeches.
“Baby, I’m good. Banana bingo, ditto dingo,” Shank blubbers; and he twirls.
Shank holds his return throw from Plug. Glancing to teammates, he steels blue eyes to home. Sleek tips of his peppery fins turn his best spit-ball. Daring, he winds up once more, as a bucko might crank-in the bloody anchor.
It’s the pitch and, “Craaackkkk!”
Red-stitched seams of the screaming ball spin. The hot ball is smoked with a stiff, sponge-rubber-bat designed for Bumplebutt play.
“It’s headed for the right field fence!” yells Cleat from second. “Dive for it! Dive!” he yells to Carlos playing right field.