Holding Off The Yankees

"Yankee's suck! Yankee's suck!"

The fans were doing their part, but Terry, manager of the Sox, was down to his last reliever. He'd drawn a line through the names of the rest as he used them to hold onto a one run lead in the bottom of the ninth of the final World Series game.

Now the Yanks had gotten a runner to first. The youngster out in the bullpen hadn't shown any ability to get an out in the majors since being called up, and the newest "baby bomber" was coming to the plate.

Just then, Terry gagged on a strange odor of rotten eggs emanating from the back of the dugout. Time stood still as he went to check it out.

"I should have suspected this," Terry said as a demon with horns greeted him.

"Just a simple question," the demon grinned. "Would you trade your soul for my assistance for the youngster."

Terry didn't hesitate. "Done!"

The demon vanished taking the foul odor with him. Terry made the call to the bull pen.

The TV announcers all agreed. Terry had rolled the dice. "He always lets his players decide the outcome, but I don't know about this call," one said.

The first pitch was a thing of beauty. High heat just inside the outside corner. "Strike," hollered the umpire.

The second was the opposite; so slow you weren't sure it would get to home. But it did. "Strike," again.

Terry's thoughts of what he'd given up for this win were interrupted by the crack of the bat on a meatball; made it to Monument Park. Yanks win!

"We had a deal!" Terry screamed toward the back of the dugout.

A flickering image of the demon responded. "The Yanks offered more; the souls of the whole team."