The Black Magi

by Timothy Gene Sojka

Sneaky glances, clustered-closed-quartered whispering, raising eyebrows, affirming nods, and slapping down the one-idiot who keeps pointing at me, gives the foursome away. I spot them every damn time. Thirty years later, someone (or a group of someones) asks about the Magi almost every day.  My relationship with him remains … complicated. As I assume San Francisco legend Santana long ago tired of trudging through Black Magic Woman., I hate discussing the Magi. Not for the same questions, asked by new inquisitors, with the enthusiasm of mosquitos finding uncovered buttocks, or the tired repetition of my rote responses, but for the reintroduction to the smug, self-important, wanna-be who interviewed him for the article.

Shaking my head, I watch the foursome down their Budweiser, bucking up courage for the approach, slapping each other on the backs, and stumbling over. The first one, the leader, makes eye contact. “Shit,” I mumble. Air thickens around me, perspiration gathers on my lip, and I tumble back in time.

June 17th, 1994

Hustling off my late-arriving puddle jumper, heat, flirting with the hundreds, smacked my face. I sprinted through the tiny Beaumont, Texas airport, before finding my rental car. Humidity painted my underarms, nose, ears, eyelids, groin, and, worst of all, butt crack.

Tightly-packed loblollies, blackjack oaks, magnolias, and sweetgums choked out any potential breeze. My drenched Dockers slicked onto the sun heated driver’s seat as I cranked the rental Cavalier. Even at full blast, the overmatched AC only partially dried my crevices.

My advice, if you’ve failed to visit the Texas Big Thicket mid-summer, skip the trip … ugg, misery.

A National Geographic article I scanned on the last leg of my flight detailed the rich, dark, haunting beauty of the area’s Piney Woods, rivers, and creeks; still, all I saw were bridges, chocolate brown waterways, and row after redundant row of pines. The 20-minute drive from Beaumont to Silsbee provided no time to review my questions. Spotting my destination, I parked, and checked my watch again, two-hours behind schedule already.  Hurrying across the uneven, puddled parking lot, my brain ticked off the reasons, I hated being there …

1)      Writing a one-off, freelance article for a Mickey Mouse sports magazine just to pay rent felt like regression, failure, emasculation.

2)      My unfinished novel …

The mental pity party kept me from spotting the heat-split asphalt near the entrance, my ankle torqued under me, twisting.  

“Mother …,” I started but did not finish the curse word as I tripped forward, unintendedly bursting through the doors of the senior living center. I paused, locked in sensory overload, shifting uneasily, my ankle screaming complaint with each micro-movement. My nostrils engaged, demanding attention. Unsure if the rot of nearby dumpsters, stink of unchanged adult diapers, or the scent of the residents’ proximity to the grave, activated my fight or flight response. Creepy.

Trying to ignore the pain, discomforted by my surroundings, my head scanned side to side, expecting—but not finding—an anthropomorphized “Death,” reclining on the sofa, feet on a coffee table, scythe across his lap, hands behind his head, bony fingers interlocked, waiting for his next customer. I inspected the harvest ripening in front of him.

Balding, wheelchair-bound, bent-backed, and time-twisted old-timers read their newspaper through fat-lensed glasses. Blue-haired grandams playing bingo, nodding toward, probably gossiping about a distracted but handsome, linen-clad octogenarian. Guessing the octogenarian, erect for his age, sporting a full-head of steel-gray hair, using no cane or walker, served as wrinkled Romeo to arthritic Juliets’ desires, his place ensured by infirm competition. For his part, the linen clad man remained oblivious of his fanbase, gawking unrepentantly at a stylish, coughing twig of a woman lighting her next Virginia Slims with the butt of the last.

Shaking off my observation, cursing myself for wasting valuable minutes, I hobbled to the reception desk, tossing aside the first dried-up disposable Bic, snatching a second, signed in and announced my intentions to the disinterested receptionist. Seconds later, I followed the wave of a female guard, name-tagged Divine, her walking, me limping down the long, turning hallway, to a dead end.

I recalibrated my goals based on my delayed inbound flight: quickly get Jim Simmons to admit his wrongs on record, leave this humid hellhole, somehow catch my flight, return posthaste to the ocean breezes wafting through my San Francisco sublet apartment, collect the last $900 from Sports Strangest Stories, pay my rent, just sixteen days late this time, beg my girlfriend for forgiveness over fish tacos, reengage in groveling to literary agents. I rechecked my watch, catching my return flight—the last out—would require … magic.

So, there I stood, outside his door, ready—or so I thought—to interrogate Jim Simmons, the infamous Black Magi.  A note to my English teachers: Yes, I know Magi is plural for magus: sorcerer; I didn’t give him the damn nickname.

Divine nodded to the door, chuckled, and disappeared. I knocked. A gruff, grumpy, “Come the hell in, would ya,” greeted me. I opened the door, stepping inside, surprised to find a perturbed, shrunken, used-up, old man mesmerized by Guiding Light. Someone parked his wheelchair next to a gigantic jellybean jar.

I considered the Magi, despite his misdeeds, a baseball wonder at most, a statistical anomaly at least, dying alone, at a rundown nursing home, 1565 miles from Brooklyn, the place of his Dodgers glory. The Magi remains unknown to casual baseball fans but an unsolved curiosity to baseball historians, a unicorn of sorts. I inventoried the room, surprised even with what I knew, to find this unicorn dying a plow horse’s death.

Based on my research, eyewitness accounts from his career, and anecdotes, Jim Simmons remains the greatest uncaught CHEATER in baseball history.

To prepare for my assignment, I found every known photo of Simmons. Even as a Dodgers rookie, Simmons appeared older than his teammates, maybe due to his alcoholism or service in World War II. After the ’55 World Series, Simmons retired, disappeared into the bottle, and never picked up a baseball again. In his final Dodgers team photo, the Magi looked ancient compared to his future Hall of Fame teammates. At first, I mistook him for a member of the coaching staff.

Now, the wheelchair-bound, 140-pound wraith remained glued to his television. “Gonna have ta forgive me. My stories are all I got left, just let me finish this’un, then ya got me.”

“But …” I started, before he waved me off. I checked my watch and plane ticket. “Shit, shit, shit.”

Enraptured by the soap opera, Jim stared into the 13” screen. Now invisible to him, I hobbled around his room, looking for anything to add value to my story. Simmons played at the Brooklyn Dodgers apex (a few years before the team’s move to Los Angeles). But not one Robinson autographed baseball, Pee Wee jersey, Snider card, Campanella cleat, World Series ring, or Dodger blue banner decorated his room.

Only a worn baseball mitt, dusty, dried, and cracked, with a red-laced baseball—almost hidden—cradled snugly in the webbing. The mitt and ball rested on a tall chest of drawers next to a basket containing a rabbit’s foot, a rosary, a bottle of BRUT® for Men, and an unused Trojan®. I studied Simmons, his tiny, time-ravaged body, and sniggered at the optimism the condom represented.

I mentally measured the chest of drawers’ height. The items rested far from the Magi’s reach. I touched the unloved glove, the baseball cemented forever in the webbing, feeling sadness for the relics. Dismissed by their owner, sitting impotent, forgotten. I imagined the ball begging for one last catch, one final roll through the grass, even across this floor.

The investigative journalist part of my freelance job required me to search for telltale signs of the Magi’s cheating. I spotted none. Of course, it’s not like the Magi would leave proof for me to find. “Ugg.” Investigation complete, my brain finished the unfinished list of why I hated this assignment.

1)      Writing a one-off, freelance article for a Mickey Mouse sports magazine just to pay rent felt like regression, failure, emasculation.

2)      My unfinished novel lay on my desk, bleeding from a plot hole big enough for Godzilla and King Kong to tango through.

3)      As a bay area resident, I am geographically mandated to hate all things Dodgers (yes even Dodgers of the Brooklyn variety.)

4)      I left my girlfriend cursing, tossing sundresses in her duffle, packing to move back with her ex.

5)      Maybe, probably, most importantly, raised by young free-willed parents, I never met my grandparents, great aunts, attended a funeral, or got comfortable with death or dying.

I shuddered, the wrinkles, the slobber, the smells, not being able to …

Ripped from my unfinished thought by the Magi cackling at an on-screen ingénue’s insult. His cackle, the perfect register to burrow under my skin. When the soap ended and a Lucky Charms commercial started, the Magi finally flipped off his TV, navigated his wheelchair to face me, and asked,  “Help ya?”

“I scheduled an interview with you earlier this week,” I said.

 He claimed he “Plummed forgot,” but made no apologies, which annoyed me.  With my return home in jeopardy and honestly, not wanting to be there, I skipped the formalities and asked to start the interview. “Why the hell you ‘spose I turned the TV off if I wasn’t gonna talk to ya, ya dumb shit?”

He motioned for me to sit, smiled, assuring me he jabbed in jest, but my frustration only let me hear the words. I felt sandpaper scraping across my nerves when we finally started.

Sports Strangest Stories:  Do you prefer Jim, Mr. Simmons, or Magi?

Magi: Ehhh. 

SSS: When you started in the Dodgers, fans, players, even teammates called you Colored Jim Simmons. Did that bother you?

Magi: Sure. But that’s how folks talked back then.

SSS: Another Jim Simmons played for the Reds, so the nickname became a pretty offensive differentiator. 

Magi: Didn’t matter much; nobody called me that for long.   

SSS: You became the Black Magi.

He tapped his nose in agreement.

SSS: Let’s stick with Magi then. When did you start playing baseball?

Magi:  As a boy, played a smidge. But mostly worked with daddy doin’ whatever I hadta to keep food on the table, or my uncle deliverin’ the Shine. Didn’t worry much ‘bout ball. Picked it up mostly in the Army.  When we was stationed in France. Borrowed a glove from Sarge, played catch with the other grunts. Grunts decided I had a decent arm. Ended up pitchin’ when we strung teams together.  

SSS:  How did you get to the big leagues?

Magi:  Happenstance. We hated the squids. So, I dialed it up when we played ‘em in ‘45. Everyone was there. Generals, Colonels, Admirals, big ole shit show. We beat ‘em down. The General joked, “I torpedo the Navy team all by my lonesome.”  Bought me a coupla’ rounds. White man took me out drinkin’. ‘Magine that.

My eyes asked the question.

Magi: Scotch for him, Rum for me. Anyways, after the war, the General jawed me into tryin’ out for the Homestead Grays. He reckoned I’d have a chance in the Negro League. I tried out, never ‘specting to make the team. But I did.” 

I checked my watch, scanned my questions, skipping three, before prodding.

SSS:  Okay, let’s not worry about your time in the Negro League.

Magi: Hmmm.

The coldness of his response signaled his annoyance with me now matched mine with him.

SSS: How’d the Dodgers find you?

The Magi’s lips pressed, twisted, before he shook his head.

Magi:  Players from the Grays and Monarchs got to the majors. Told tales ‘bout me. Coach Vic started hintin’ I could make somethin’ of myself. So, I … ah  ... did what I had ta. Besides, left-handed pitchin’ always needed in the big leagues. Dodgers came call’n.

SSS:  Negro League teammates say you were unhittable for the two-month stretch before ...

Magi:  Daddy died by that point. Revenuers squeezed my uncle. Momma and lotsa family was countin’ on me.

SSS:  Teammates mentioned you matured a lot during your last months with the Grays.

Magi:  That’s spread’n frostin’ on a turd. I got old.

SSS:  When you got to the majors, you moved from starting pitcher to the bullpen.

Magi:  Yep.

SSS:  Why was that?

Magi:  Couldn’t do what I did for a whole game.

SSS:  Without getting caught.

He did not answer, but to be fair, I did not ask a question. His brow crinkled; a wry smile gathered among the battlefield of wrinkles below his nose. I watched his face, following behind him, using the breadcrumbs of expressions to navigate. The edges of his mouth pulled up at first, hints of happiness, contentment, he now lived in memory. An eye tick followed; the Magi’s thick eyebrows dropped in unison with his mouth. The tick repeated faster now, even in his throne of deformity, I watched the Magi race from those memories, sprinting from them, delivering him back in this room, trapped in his wheelchair, in front of me. 

At the time, in that room, I thought he used my presence as a light, a lifeline from his fears; not understanding, he returned as my chaperone into darkness.

He shuddered. Unsure whether his reaction was a response to my statement—or his memories—I decided the only chance to make my flight was to pin the Magi down with facts.

SSS:  You pitched for Brooklyn between 1949 and 1955, a period when the Dodgers made the World Series four times, winning their first championship in ‘55. 

Magi: ‘Bout right.

SSS:  This next part will hurt a little.

Magi:  Doubt it.

 SSS:  You were a middling relief pitcher with a regular season ERA of 4.02. Only the nerdiest baseball historians know your name.

Magi:  Ehh.

SSS:  But in the Dodgers four World Series, you appeared in seven games as a reliever.  In those games you posted a .56 ERA, the lowest in World Series history at the time. A record that stood until Jack Billingham surpassed it in the 70s.

The Magi seemed distracted, now staring at the jar of jellybeans.

SSS: Besides cheating, how do you explain a below average regular season pitcher becoming one of the World Series greatest performers?

Magi: Adrenaline?

SSS:  Not sure if that explains it.

Magi:  What does?

His eyes dared me.

SSS:  Most say you cheated.

Unsatisfied, he sat, wondering if I possessed the strength to say the words.

SSS: Others say … black magic.

An awkward nod passed from him to me. An acknowledgment?

SSS: According to my source, your first two Dodgers managers, Burt Shotton and Chuck Dressen, left you in games too long. Your, ahh … pitching style, did not hold up to more than two or three batters.

Magi: And who might that source be?

SSS:  Hal Hollings.

Magi: Phew, that old gin-hound’s still breathin’?

SSS: He is.

Magi: Still wet?

SSS: Dry. Sober, decades ago.

Magi: Miracles happen.

Author’s note: Hal Hollings is one of only fifteen Major League Baseball Hall of Fame umpires.

SSS: Want to hear something funny?

Magi: Who doesn’t?

SSS: Hal umpired four World Series, watched the beginnings—and ends—of a dozen Hall of Fame careers, witnessed six no-hitters and one perfect game from behind the plate. As a National League umpire, he saw Willie Mays, Ernie Banks, Warren Spahn, and Robin Roberts at their peak. 

Magi: Phew, Willie Mays.

SSS: But if you buy Hal a cup of coffee, all he wants to talk about is you.

Magi: Must’a runned outta stories.

SSS: No. Hal said Walter Alston, the manager who led the Dodgers to the ’55 World Series, finally figured out how to use you. ’55 was by far your best season.

The Magi shrugged.

SSS: Brief spurts, one hitter, or one inning, one tough spot. Hal swears, for a hitter or two you were the nastiest pitcher in baseball.

The Magi battled distraction; his eyes cut from me back to his glass jar of jellybeans. Knowing his past, I assumed the jellybeans served as his replacement addiction. After eyeing them, losing his mental debate, the Magi scooped out a handful, picking through them. Most interested in the pink (strawberry?) and red (cherry?) ones, he set aside yellow, green, blue, purple and black. Since I skipped breakfast and missed lunch, my stomach gurgled, hinting its desire for a handful. None were offered. Annoyed and hungry, I continued.

SSS: Giants first baseman, Mike Leftwich, told me the story from your rookie year. He said you winked at him before a pitch, then pulled the baseball back, like it was on a string. He swears the ball dove like a dying quail.

Magi:  How many old coots you rustle-up for this thing?

SSS:  Hal umpired that game. Swears he’d never seen anything like it.

Magi popped red jellybeans in his mouth.

SSS: To this day, Leftwich can’t figure out how you did it. But, like most hitters you faced, he swears you cheated.

Magi: They’ll do that.

SSS: Come on. Just admit how you did it. Pine tar, lotion, Vaseline?

He sighed, chewing red and pink jellybeans like cud. The Magi’s eyes twinkled, probably from the sugar rush.  

SSS:  Balls don’t move like that unless they’re altered. You retired forty years ago, nothing to lose. Just ... tell me how you did it. Not like they’re taking your World Series ring back.

Magi: They can’t; hocked it.

SSS: Did you use sandpaper to scuff the baseball?

The Magi returned to the pile of yellow, green, blue, purple and black jellybeans; most of the reds found his mouth, but a few pinks survived. My nose tracked, then deciphered, the sweet smell of candy he chewed. Annoyed, I tapped my watch, trying to bend him to my schedule.

SSS: Hal says the umps tried everything to catch you.

Magi:  An itch they kept’a scratchin’.

SSS: Over time, Hal stopped trying. He said, when you were dealing, watching you was like watching David Copperfield, best to sit back, enjoy the magic show, not ask questions.

The Magi returned to his jellybean jar, scooping another handful, deliberately picking out the pinks. He paced himself, enjoying one at a time. The slowness of his jellybean selection process lowered the chances of me making my flight; each wasted second spited me.

SSS:  He’s your biggest fan. Hal said, curve balls curve, knuckle balls knuckle, sliders slide, but your pitches did …

He looked up from leisurely sorting jellybeans.

SSS:  Sometimes, but only sometimes, did whatever you wanted them to.

He frowned, popping purple jellybeans into his mouth—blueberry? I’m guessing.

SSS:  Hal told me something else.

Magi:  Mouth runned like a skert-chicken, huh?

I pushed toward the facts I needed to wrap the article up.

SSS:  You weren’t …

Magi:  Spit it out, son.

SSS:  Aren’t a big man. 

Magi:  Nah, runt’a the litter.

SSS:  But Hal said you intimidated hitters, called you a headhunter. He said no pitcher threw at opposing batters’ earholes more than you. Usually, a pitch or two after you got in the game, you put the batter on his ass.

His cackle reminded me how much he annoyed me.

SSS:  But inexplicably, you never hit a batter in the head. How’s that possible?

Magi:  Luck, I’d guess. 

SSS:  Hal claimed the ball faded, inches from the batter’s face. Did you use an emery board, to rub a rough spot, give you a better grip?

He returned annoyingly to his jellybean addiction. I moved on.

SSS:  Okay, why’d you throw at hitters?

Four jellybeans in hand, he seemed satiated, ready to reengage. He put one in his mouth and chewed while answering.

Magi:  Well, honestly, wasn’t much of a pitcher. 

SSS:  Explain.

Magi:  The Bullet and Robin had those big ole fastballs. Satchel, Sandy, Whitey, Warren, Early, them boys was born to pitch. I, ahh … didn’t have those tools. So, I used … my tools. You put’ta baseball next’a a hitter’s noggin, you set up shop in his brain. While he’s worryin’ ‘bout gettin’ home safe to momma, I sneak a coupla, ah’ my weak ass pitches by him.

 SSS:  It was more than that.

The Magi selected two jellybeans this time and winked.

Asshole, I thought.

 SSS: Hal said despite your size, and the decorum of the game at the time, you were baseball’s best trash talker.

Magi:  Didn’t have much of’a arm, had a big ole mouth. I was careful wit’ it, smart, a word or two at most. I read papers, listened to gossip.

SSS:  Example?

Magi:  Well, if a boy packed on a pound or ten, I’d pay the hotdog vendor to deliver a few franks. If a boy was gettin’ a divorce, I might say found’a weddin’ ring on the first base line, ask, all innocent like, if it was his. Hitter thinkin’ ‘bout killin’ me, might forget the pitch count.

SSS:  Despite the trash talk, the headhunting, and your lack of size, Hal said, not once, not one time, did a hitter charge the mound, after …

The Magi sorted the jellybeans, looking for a pink or red, none remained.

SSS:  So, the story goes.

Magi:  Let’s not talk ‘bout that. 

SSS:  The story goes, a few months into your rookie year, Bob DeSota charged the mound after …

The Magi’s eyes remained locked to the floor.

SSS:  After you said, and I quote, “Never knew Dumbo and Pinocchio had a kid.” 

Despite fighting it, a snicker snuck out of him.

Magi:  Sorry. That was a ripe one.

SSS:  After a few steps toward the mound, DeSota stopped, fell to his knees, holding his chest, with heart palpitations. He spent a few days in the hospital, was fine, doctors found nothing, but no one charged the mound again. By that time, the Leftwich story had spread around baseball. The Black Magi was born.

He continued sorting the damn jellybeans. I wanted to grab the jar, shove a handful in my hangry mouth, and jam the glass jar up his ancient ass. Each slowly chewed jellybean shaved seconds from my allotted time. Then it hit me, the Magi used those damn jellybeans to rattle me, get into my head, play me.

Screw him. I pushed for the finish, the admission. I would expose the S.O.B for what he really was, just another cheater.

SSS:  Despite the accusation, every player, coach, and umpire I interviewed admitted you did things with baseballs no one else could. Your teammates called it the “Waggle.”

He smiled like I introduced him to an old lover, before his eyes went dark.

Bad breakup?

Magi:  Try not to think ‘bout her no more.

SSS:  You called it a “her?”

Magi:  Course I did. Like a temptress, she pulled me inta messes. Like a good woman, she helped me out of ‘em.

SSS:  So, if you could use her—the Waggle—why didn’t you Waggle every pitch?

Magi:  No one’ll believe me.

SSS:  I’m not here to make people believe, Magi. Hell, I don’t believe you. You were just an earlier, less talented, less successful version of Gaylord Perry. You CHEATED. I’m here to find out how. Since no person with a three-digit IQ trusts you, just tell the truth, dammit.

Magi: Mmm.

He rolled jellybeans around his open palm, huffing before selecting yellow.

Asshole.

SSS:  I know you’re full of shit. Prove me wrong.

Magi: Ain’t worth my time.

 SSS: Okay, let’s try this. For the hitters you faced, old men drooling in retirement homes, thinking they’re batshit. You owe it to them. Tell the truth.

He breathed in, and held it, embracing the fullness of his lungs, before letting the air escape through his nose. I pressed my teeth together, forcing myself to remain silent, waiting him out. Seconds before my surrender, he said …

Magi: Truth is I could.

SSS:  You could what?

Magi: When I called on her, I could Waggle the ball with my mind.

SSS: Bullshit.

            He shrugged.

SSS:  Bullshit, bullshit, bullshit. You’d have used the Waggle every pitch, been the greatest pitcher in baseball.

Magi: You can’t, shit for brains.

The insult, like everything the Magi did needled me. Swallowing the three retorts that swirled top of mind, I twirled my finger, signaling him to continue.  

Magi: Lots of reasons.

SSS:  Well, my recorder’s on. List them.

Magi: You wanna use her in spurts. Careful like. Don’t want folks being able to prove she exists.

SSS:  Why not?

Magi: I know they don’t burn witches at the stake no more, but, betwixt the government and the church, someone might get the red ass about us.

SSS:  Us. They’re others like you?

Magi: Not exactly like me, different cats where different hats, I ‘spect. Never met one officially. There ain’t a club or nothin’. But, watch close enough—know what you’re lookin’ for—and you’ll spot ‘em.  Like how’d that ball jiggle tween Buckner’s legs, watch the tape close like. That baseball … it, ah ...

 SSS:  So, you’re saying—

Magi: I’m saying the Mets had a player; more likely a fan with ...

SSS:  Again, bullshit. 

Magi: With them better cameras today, and more of ‘em, anyone’d have ta be careful. In my time I could get away with Wagglin’. Most’a my games weren’t on the TV. And when they were, weren’t no instant replay crap, like they gots today.  

SSS:  Again, if you didn’t think they could catch you, why not use it more?

Magi: Like a Chihuahua with a rack a dino-ribs, ain’t cha?

SSS: Felt like an insult, Magi.

Magi: Call it what you want.

SSS: Answer the damn question.

Magi: Fine. Fine. More I used her, more she wanted the usin’. No secret I battled the bottle. So, I understand the pull’a addiction better’n most. But there’s no draw like her, in your ear, flirtin’, remindin’ you she’s right there, at your disposal, waitin’. Like them Sirens call’n that boy Odysseus, she’s hard to resist.

SSS:  And?

Magi: She steals somethin’ from you. Every time. 

SSS:  What?

Magi: Maybe she shaves a day off your ledger, carves a new wrinkle ‘cross your forehead, lowers your ball sack, steals pearly drops of manhood. But there’s less of you after you call her than before. Movin’ a pitch an inch didn’t take much. But Wagglin’ a bunch’a pitches drained me. Only did it when I had ta. Picked my spots. I learned as a young’un, forcing somethin’ to start from stop was possible, but sucked me dry. Easier movin’ somethin’ in motion, than somethin’ sittin’ still. ‘Least for me.

SSS:  Show me.

The codger’s return to picking through jellybeans, delaying my life, redlined my anger. I rechecked my watch, then shoved out my next statement.   [5] [TS6] 

SSS:  Damn’t show me.

His head rotated corner to corner, searching the room for something. Someone?

Magi: No, she wouldn’t ...

SSS:  Magi, for God’s sake, admit it. YOU CHEATED!

Like my girlfriend was cheating on me with her ex at this second, I pictured her wrapped around him, them …

Magi: Ain’t true. 

SSS:  You owe it to the game.

Magi: Don’t owe the game a damn thing. Gots no wife, no kids, gave the damn game—

A Dodger, dodging the truth.

SSS: Boohoo, Magi, boo fucking hoo. Was it Vaseline like Gaylord Perry? An emery board like Niekro? Thumbtack like Honeycutt? 

Magi: Just like them Pharisees, huh. Missin’ every sign.

I checked my watch, no chance I make my flight, so instead, I attacked like a bull charging a matador’s cape.

SSS: Blackstone’s greatest trick was created with Edison’s help. Houdini was physically gifted and an escape artist. But his real talent was inventing contraptions. He never performed one escape a competent engineer couldn’t explain later. There’s no such thing as magic, Magi.

Magi: Got all the facts, do ya. Stop checkin’ your watch, go catch your damn flight.

SSS: Fine, I got nothing to print anyway. You’re just a waste of time.

He stared into me.

I stared back, pushing him to yield, admit his sins. I considered his pile of jellybeans; at some point, when I was distracted, he shoved a handful in his mouth. Only the black remained.

Pissed, I flew from California to Texas to meet a liar, a cheat, a charlatan. Angry in advance for losing my girlfriend, for this fraud. Grasping I would never get paid for this interview, I flipped off my recorder, shoved it into my bag, stood, turned, and wobbled. My now swollen ankle, forgotten as I sat, unable to bear my weight, wrenched. Rivers of pain flooded through my ankle, up my leg, across my back, into my brain, out of my mouth.  Over my shoulder, as I exited, I tossed …

SSS:  Won’t waste another second of my life thinking about you.

I remember my ankle prickling with electricity, the brass of the doorknob cooling in my hand, the drop in pressure, the creak of the floors under my feet.

Some sounds haunt you forever.

Audio clues your ears translate perfectly, even though you experience them for the first time. An old man convulsing, dying, in his wheelchair, behind you is one of those.

I turned, and the Magi’s mouth splayed open, in silent scream, colors of the jellybean rainbow drizzling from his mouth. His eyes blood shot pink, darkening to red, purple, then finally black, head tilting left, still jerking, his mind creamed gravy.

I heard a pop first, before the bump, thunk, and dribble along the floor, a giant marble or …

Like any great illusionist, the Magi misdirected my eyes, to him, the jellybeans; away from …

I turned to the mitt, knowing—before seeing—the webbing stood empty. The rolling started, innocent, indicting.

The slow rotation of the red-laced baseball circling toward me; the only magic I’ve witnessed.