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Chapter 3: Endangered Species List
 By Jim Caple |
Previously at 24 College Avenue: Jenn Robbins has spent the past couple years as Bubby the Red Devil, the State College mascot. John Higgins is the vice-president of marketing for Athena athletics who used to live at 24 College as part of a research project. . . . The Asterisk is the controversial slugger who is closing in on the home run record. . . . Mandy Stevenson, a member of State College’s famed Red Hotties cheerleader and dance team, was attending band camp at Devil Lake, supposed site of a serial killer. While returning to her bunkhouse late one night, she found a sharp hook dangling from the door knob and felt an icy hand on her shoulder. . . Former housemate Katie Maynard was horribly wounded while fighting in the war, losing an arm and a leg. . . .
If minor league baseball gets any lower than the Lumberville Timber Barons, the players would need a shovel.
The Timber Barons played in the small logging town on the edge of a Pacific Northwest rainforest where they held the professional record for most rainouts in a season. That was in 1927 when an unusually wet summer would have washed out most of the home schedule had the Barons not played seven octoheaders when the rains finally stopped the last week of August.
Unlike the dozens of new stadiums sprouting up through the minor leagues, the Timber Barons’ home was the oldest ballpark in professional baseball, or at least it was one of a half-dozen with a legitimate claim to that distinction. Dating to the turn of the previous century, the Woodpile was constructed of wood from the old growth forest that previously stood on its site. The team’s original owner also owned the local timber company and he was so cheap that he required his players help in the ballpark’s construction during the offseason. This resulted in the stadium’s nickname, “The House That Krupp Built,’’ in honor of the Timber Barons’ best player of that era who personally hammered the nails into the dugouts.
Hundreds of future major leaguers began their pro careers drawing splinters on the dugout bench in Lumberville and the most famous was The Asterisk. A lean 170-pound teenager with long blonde hair at the time, The Asterisk hit his first professional home run at the Woodpile, sending the team’s lumberjack mascot on a celebratory slide down the ballpark’s signature log plume in center field. With The Asterisk slamming home runs all summer, The Timber Barons filled the Woodpile to capacity and set club attendance records.
But that was two decades ago and the ensuing years were not kind to the Timber Barons. Losing seasons coupled with rising unemployment in town crippled attendance and the team went bankrupt. They were bought by a multi-national wood products corporation that ran the team as a tax write off, investing little into the club or the ballpark. One of their few attempts at promotion was replacing its old Lumberjack mascot with Woody the Checkered Owl. Lumberview was suffering through 25 percent unemployment due to logging restrictions brought about by environmental restrictions protecting the breeding grounds of the extremely rare Checkered Owl. The local residents hated the Owl and the company’s owners calculated fans would come to the ballpark just to abuse it. The company was right about this.
Jenn did not know this when Higgins used his Athena connections to line her up with the Woody gig as a summer job. She was accustomed to State College fans cheering her as Bubby the Red Devil so she wasn’t prepared in the least when the Lumberview fans greeted her first appearance by throwing garbage and spitting on her. The crowd was brutal every game but the weekly 50-Cent Beer Nights were especially bad. Large and drunk, they felt unstrained from raining abuse on the hated owl.
“Hey, Woody!’’
Jenn had been walking along the main aisle behind the visitors dugout when she heard her named called. Reacting instinctively, she turned just in time to be hit in the face by a full cup of beer. Three more beers slammed into her as she tried to block to futilely block them with her wings. More beers crashed around her as she waddled back under the grandstand and to the concession area for cover.
“Woody sucks!’’ the fans chanted after her. “Woody sucks! Woody sucks! Woody sucks!’’
Jenn was crying as she ducked into a corner beyond the concession stand selling Tall Timber Burgers (“A burger so tall you’ll need a chainsaw to cut it!’’). She had been on the job just four weeks but it had seemed like an eternity. On top of the abuse she received as Woody, Jenn was frantic about the missing cheerleader case that had captivated the country, worried sick as to whether her friend was alive or dead. She would quit and go back to State College except then she would have to move back in with here parents if she didn’t make enough money during the summer. The Timber Barons job didn’t pay much but it was more than she could earn as a barista at the Java Monkey.
“Look! It’s the Owl!’’ someone yelled.
Jenn looked up and saw four very drunk and menacing men in their late 20s walking toward her. She didn’t realize it but they were among the many loggers who lost their jobs when environmental protections for the owl forced their company out of business.
“I hate that @#$& owl,’’ said one of them, a bearded man who looked like Paul Bunyan’s evil brother. “That bird cost me my job and my house. And then my wife left me.’’
“You’re complaining about your wife leaving you? The owl did you a favor,’’ another said. He laughed but the first did not.
“I’m going to kick that Owl’s ass,’’ evil Bunyan said and quickened his pace toward Jenn.
As a veteran mascot, Jenn was used to handling drunks. She merely needed to be confident and push her way past them. She was wrong. The four men were just drunk enough to do something stupid and violent but not so drunk that they couldn’t stop a young woman in an owl costume. They grabbed her as she tried to pass.
Two pinned Jenn’s wings behind her back while a third put her in a headlock and Evil Bunyan pulled a knife from his pocket. She screamed for help but the unemployed logger only curled his lip in a hideous grin and laughed.
“I don’t think Greenpeace is going to protect you now,’’ he said.
# # #
The war continued to go very badly with three American soldiers a day coming home in body bags, three times that number coming home wounded and 30 times a many civilians dying in the non-stop insurgent attacks. So naturally the national media focused on a missing cheerleader.
This was a story so big Larry King wore two pairs of suspenders while interviewing the worried parents and publicity-seeking investigators. True, it didn’t involve spring break on a Caribbean island but it had the other two required elements to be judged worthy of 24/7 coverage: a beautiful blonde cheerleader for sex appeal and possible foul play to inspire fear. The news show producers thanked their stars for such a sensational story in the middle of the summer doldrums, with only the greediest hoping that the disappearance could be linked to a Kennedy or the British royalty.
Within 24 hours of the young woman’s disappearance, the anchors from every major TV news organization (including Al-Jazeera) descended on Devil Lake for their breathless reports and “Breaking News’’ updates. Reporters interviewed every cheerleader multiple times, and when they ran out of cheerleaders they interviewed band members, and when they ran out of band members, they interviewed the camp employees and when they ran out of camp employees, they interviewed themselves. Their consensus was that this was a very big story indeed.
Each network, of course, also designed a special identifying graphic for their reports on the missing Red Hottie cheerleader. CNN went with a relatively restrained “Pom-Pom Mystery’’ while MSNBC countered with “Beauty and a Beast?’’ Fox, meanwhile, went right for the jugular with “Dead Hottie?’’
After several days, however, the trail went cold and there was only so much to say. The cheerleader had disappeared in the middle of the night. The police initially said they suspected foul play then said they weren’t certain, then changed their minds again and said they couldn’t rule anything out. They had no suspects. The rumors of a serial killer at the lake were nothing more than campfire stories.
“Good grief,’’ Katie said as she watched yet another cheerleader update on the news. She was in the State College hospital for the experimental procedure for her new prosthetic limbs and was channel-surfing nervously to take her mind off the next morning’s scheduled surgery. “Don’t they know there is a war going on? Don’t they know what’s happening over there?’’
Actually, they did. In fact, several networks became so desperate for something new to report that they briefly considered airing an update on the war. Fortunately, they came to their senses and re-ran footage of a Red Hotties dance routine.
Katie was just about to shut off the TV and try to read when she came across a local news anchor announcing, “We have breaking news in the missing State College cheerleader case. Police have identified a ‘person of interest’ and say they have a major development to announce.’’
# # #
The logger who looked like an evil Paul Bunyan placed the blade of his knife against the giant right eye of Jenn’s Owl headpiece. “Now, let’s see what you look like inside,’ he said, smiling to his friends. “What do you think? Does Woody have white meat or dark meat?’’
Jenn screamed and tried to escape the grip of the other loggers but they were too strong. Evil Paul was just about to slip the knife into the Owl costume when a loud and commanding voice stopped him.
“What the hell are you doing?’’ the voice said. “Put that knife down and let her go.’’
Evil Paul lowered the knife while the loggers relaxed their grip. Jenn looked over and saw that the voice belonged to Gray Sharbor, the 36-year-old general manager of the Timber Barons. Sharbor pulled a cell phone from the pocket of his customary Timber Barons team jacket and called security, prompting the loggers to scurry away.
Sharbor rushed over to Jenn, who was trembling and crying. He put his arms around her and stroked her feathers tenderly. “There, there,’’ he said. “It’s all right now. You’re safe. They’re gone. But we’ll track them down, don’t worry about that. The police are already on their way. In the meantime, let’s get you some place where you can calm down.’’
He led Jenn gently away to his office between the speed gun booth and the groundskeepers shed. Sharbor opened the door and helped Jenn to the old sofa that filled half his cramped office. He helped her remove the Owl headpiece.
“Now, you just sit here and relax. I’m going to go get you something to drink. What would you like? Water? Tea? Coffee? Beer?’’
She nodded at all four. Sharbor smiled and hurried off. “Don’t worry -- I’ll be right back. I just need to go to the concession stand.’’
Jenn stopped crying and began to calm down. It had been a close call but she was safe. She looked around Sharbor’s office. There was an old industrial metal desk covered with stacks of paper against one wall. A bulletin board with the league standings and team schedule hung above it. A small bookcase filled with baseball books was next to the desk. The walls are what drew her attention, though. Every square inch of the walls was covered with a magazine photo or baseball card of The Asterisk from his nearly 25-year pro career. Sharbor was one serious fan of The Asterisk. Switch The Asterisk for an American Idol singer and it could have been a 12-year-old girl’s bedroom.
“I see you’re admiring my collection.’’
Sharbor was in the doorway with a tray of assorted beverages. He walked over and offered Jenn a cup. She chose the beer and downed it in a single drink. Sharbor laughed and handed her a tea. “Here’’ he said. “This might be a little better for you.’’
“What’s with all the photos on The Asterisk?’’
“Please,’’Sharbor said. “I know that’s what everyone calls him but he does have an actual name, you know. Feel free to use it.’’ He turned and looked at the photo collage. “Anyway, this is my own little tribute to the greatest hitter in history. He started his career here with the Timber Barons, you know that right?’’ Jenn nodded. “And I was the mascot then, just like you are now. Well, mascot/batboy/clubhouse kid. I pretty much did it all. And the mascot then was Timber the Bear. I wore a black bear costume and warned kids not to play with matches in the woods because otherwise we wouldn’t have any more trees to cut down and everyone would lose their jobs. Which I guess happened anyway.’’
“What was he like?’’ Jenn asked. “The Asterisk, I mean.’’
Sharbor set the tray of drinks on his desk. “I know the guy has a bad reputation with fans and reporters but he was always great to me. He always asked how I was doing and would help me put on and take off my bear costume between innings. So I’ve been his biggest fan ever since. I started collecting the photos when he hit his first home run here and I haven’t stopped since. I started taping them on the wall when I became general manager. I kind of ran out of room a while back so a lot of them are just taped over old photos.’’
“You must really admire him.’’
“He’s a god,’’ Sharbor said without a trace of irony or embarrassment.
Jenn took another sip of tea. “I think I feel better now. But I’m not sure I want to go out there again right away.’’
“I understand,’’ the general manager said. “For what it’s worth, I don’t like this whole Woody the Checkered Owl thing. I want fans to like our mascot not attack him. I wish we could go back to the bear. Now that was a great mascot, even if it was a ripoff of Smokey the Bear. The kids loved him They would run up and hug me and stroke my fur with their hands. The youngest ones thought I was a real bear, and you know, sometimes I thought so myself. I still have the bear costume, if you want to try it on sometime.’’
“That’s OK,’’ Jenn said. “One mascot is enough to keep me busy.’’
“No problem,’’ Sharbor said, getting up. “Do you think you’re ready to talk to the police? They’ll want a description of the men who attacked you.’’
Jenn nodded and Sharbor smiled. “All right. Wait here and I’ll bring them in.’’
When he left, Jenn finished the tea and got up to get another cup from the tray. As she did so, the wing of her costume knocked over a cup of coffee, spilling it into a partially open drawer of Sharbor’s desk.
“@#&%.’’
She grabbed a napkin and opened the drawer, mopping up the spill as best she could. She pulled out a notebook that had gotten particularly doused and saw that written across the cover were the words, “My Mission.’’ Jenn knew she probably shouldn’t snoop but she couldn’t help herself. Overcome by curiosity, she opened the binder and began leafing through the pages.
Each page had a picture of The Asterisk, with Sharbor photo-shopped into it. Sometimes he was standing next to The Asterisk with their arms around each other. Sometimes he was greeting The Asterisk at home plate after a home run. More disturbingly, there were pictures of The Asterisk’s wife and children, only in these, Sharbor had photo-shopped The Asterisk out and himself in. Several photos had The Asterisks smiling face crossed out with X’s and “Why are you tormenting me?’’ written next to them.
Jenn continued leafing through the pages. She saw The Asterisk’s team schedule for the season, with methodical notations as to where the team stayed while on the road, when the team bus left the hotel for the ballpark, his daily routine in each city and seating charts of the ballparks. One date in particular was circled several times in multiple colors of ink. “This is THE game!!!’’ Sharbor had scribbled beside the date. “My personal HALL OF FAME!!!’’
And then Jenn turned to the last page and saw something that chilled her blood. It was an order form for a high-powered rifle and a scope.
Next: What Happens in Vegas
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