The Curse of the Unlucky Streak

Written by Moe Zilla

The roar behind the pitcher told him what the crowd wanted: a strike. He could end this game now, in the bottom of the ninth inning, if he threw just one more strike.

But instead he threw a pitch that the batter swung for, desperately. The ball sailed towards first base just outside the foul line—and a million eyes watched, knowing the game would end if only the first baseman caught it.

“That was me,” Joe said, watching a replay on the restaurant’s television, five years later. The pitcher, Larry, sat beside him, watching the famous play again. It showed Joe running furiously, stretching with his glove as the camera zoomed in. Joe was perfectly positioned to make the catch, but somehow the ball whizzed past his glove, then bounced limply towards the wall. The next pitch, the batter doubled in two runs to win the game.

“The bases were loaded,” muttered Larry, though they both remembered it perfectly well.

Larry grabbed a handful of potato chips. His old first baseman, Joe, liked to meet on the anniversary of their last Major League game—the playoff game where they’d lost their chance to play in the World Series. They’d both retired after that loss. Their get-together this year to commemorate the day was especially poignant, as the following morning, their old stadium would be torn down.

Each year they’d watch whatever game was on, and every so often the “historic highlights” would include their famous flubbed play. The TV show switched to footage of the announcers laughing at the play. “Talk about unlucky!” one fat sportscaster chuckled. Larry silently grabbed another handful of potato chips.

“Does it ever bother you?” Joe asked.

Larry stared back at him, then finally said, “No. Not anymore. Not since I heard about the coach’s wife and the legend of the million dollar mitts.” He washed down the potato chips, and then waited for Joe to agree. But Joe surprised him by saying he’d never met Mrs. Williams, and hadn’t heard the legend of the million dollar mitts.

“Coach Williams loved the team—you know that. After we lost that game, I saw him getting on a bus for Texas. He was going to ride all night just to watch a college player who he thought might have potential for the next season. But his wife, Mrs. Williams, didn’t go with. She didn’t care about the team like he did. In fact, she was betting AGAINST us. And when I didn’t throw a strike, and you dropped that foul, she made a fortune.”

“But gambling is illegal,” Joe said with horror. “Especially if you’re connected to the team! The coach could’ve lost his job and maybe even gone to prison!”

“Mrs. Williams knew that,” Larry said. “She learned her lesson later that night, when the police surrounded her private cottage by the lake while everyone else was watching replays of the game.

“Did she go to prison?” Joe asked.

“They saw a gambler named Roderick arriving with a briefcase full of money. As soon as he’d left, they closed in and banged on her door. I always wondered who tipped them off, but somehow they knew she’d just received a million dollars due to betting on the game.

“She finally opened the door,” Larry said, a sad look on his face. “But then they never found the money. All they found was a crate of the team’s baseball mitts that she was donating to a charity auction. The crate was sealed, and it looked like it couldn’t have been opened in the time after the police knocked on the door, so they assumed the money couldn’t be hidden inside.

“The police chased after Roderick, and caught him within ten minutes. But when they came back Mrs. Williams was gone, and so was the crate.”

“Mrs. Williams must’ve hidden the money inside!” Joe said.

“But she never collected it,” Larry finished. “They caught up with her twenty minutes later, without the crate. They figured she’d hidden it, and planned to follow her for the next week. But she died in a bus accident the very next morning, as she was walking back to her house—she’d never learned how to drive. Wherever she hid that crate of baseball mitts, maybe the money is still sitting inside.”

The fat announcer on TV looked like he was laughing at Joe again.

“But one police officer overheard Mrs. Williams making a phone call that night,” Larry continued. “Unfortunately, he could only make out one sentence: The money’s buried at home.”

“Was she talking about the place she lived with Coach Williams?” Joe asked. “She had her private cottage by the lake, but she and coach lived together in a big yellow house nearby, didn’t they?”

“They searched the Coach’s house from top to bottom. And you can bet they searched for fresh holes, trying desperately to find the missing crate. But they never did.”

“Maybe it wasn’t at the coach’s house,” a strange voice said behind them. They turned to see a thin man with long white hair and a smile on his face. The two ball players recognized him immediately. Five years ago, he’d painted the white lines on the baseball field. It was Gary, the groundskeeper.

“You remember Gary, right?” Joe asked. “I invited him to meet us here tonight—poor guy can’t spend every night alone in that empty ballpark. And his timing is perfect! He can keep you company while I run home to check on my wife.”

“But I know where the crate is!” said Gary. “I saw something strange that night, and now it all makes sense …

“No one ever stayed late at the stadium, except sometimes Coach Williams. But around midnight that night, someone walked right through the locker room, lugging a huge crate. I didn’t see the person’s face, but the security guard told me he’d waved him in as someone he recognized. He was told that the crate was full of equipment to preserve the stadium’s dirt. That person walked straight across the diamond, and then dug up the ground near the batting cage.”

“Don’t you see,” said Larry, excitedly. “They buried the money at home. Home plate!”

“I’ve checked that field every night, and no one’s ever come around since to dig it up,” Gary continued.

“Roderick was sent to jail the next week,” Larry added. “Once the police picked him up, they found he was wanted for other crimes.”

The three men looked at each other for a moment. Then without saying a word, they all ran frantically out of the restaurant.

“Let’s take my car!” shouted Gary.

“No, let’s take mine,” said Joe, “I’ve got shovels!”

At the stadium, at home base, the three men began digging furiously. The dirt was firm, but the men were determined, and dug deeper and deeper into the ground. Twenty minutes later, they’d found nothing. But then Joe’s shovel suddenly struck something in the ground that made a suspicious crunching sound.

The three men moved to Joe’s side of the hole, and began digging again. It was a wooden surface, the long lid of a buried crate. They cleared away the dirt, and dug a few inches down the side. Without waiting, Gary wedged the shovel under the lid, and used its handle like a lever. The lid popped off, and the three men peered inside.

There were twenty baseball mitts, like giant empty hands, now covered with stadium dirt. And next to the mitts was a pile of rectangular paper. Joe reached in and grabbed a handful.

It was money: bundles and bundles of money.

“And I’ve got some more good news,” said Larry. “I know who buried it here.”