From Copeley with Luck

Editor’s Note: The editor luckily found the following story tucked in the back of the couch of the Law Weekly office as he was scrounging for spare change. It appears to have been written by famed, or infamous, Law Weekly writer Raymond Gardner, Esquire back in the 1970s or 1980s but was never published at the time. Some parts were too faded to make out and have been sadly omitted. 

The sunrise peaked through the Watergate windows as the phone rudely woke Bond after an energetic night in Washington. 

“Yes, N? What? Back to Charlottesville today on the Amtrak at 9am . . . Will do, I shall be there.” 

Sylvia awoke drowsily, “What is it, James? Surely you don’t have to leave just yet.” 

“Apologies, but the service calls; then again, there is a 10am train as well if I recall what the man in the homburg mentioned yesterday.” 

With that, Bond returned to f . . . [Editor’s Note: this part was too smudged and faded to make out]. 

“You’re late,” N said icily. 

“A security matter came up—had to serve the country and all that. At your service now.” 

“You recall that business with Needle Addison and the pitch back in the day?” 

“Ah yes, I recall Needle organized the service to put on quite the offensive against the Bluebookers a few years back. But what has that got to do with us today?” 

N cast a paper to the side and revealed a roster underneath it, “Still seems thin, that John Benson just doesn’t have it. Simons, get in here! Tell Benson to get another source. Anyway, it appears the Bookers have given up the gridiron and are opening up a northern front against us instead.” 

“A northern front?” Bond cast a quizzical eye over the roster, paying particular attention to a couple of classmates. 

“Yes yes, they have devised some devilish business with the bats. The NGSL or some such scheme. Regardless, we have intelligence that they’ll start their attack at 4 o’clock tomorrow at Copeley. Here is the schematic to get over there from the steps. Do the service proud, Commander Bond.” 

Bond stood on the steps and scratched his chin at the map N had provided. It was all a bunch of gibberish with buildings that did not exist. “What the devil?” Bond cursed to himself. 

Sebastian Higson and Agatha Christiansen strolled over carrying a couple duffels with odd sticks sticking out and Agatha hailed him, “What ho there, Bond, joining us for the northern counteroffensive? Can’t say where N found that map—seemed a bit fictional for my taste, so you’d best just join us, old sport.” 

The triumvirate ambled over to Copeley Field meeting up with the rest of the team en route. Glancing at the other dugout, Bond saw the opposition flipping through tomes and rulebooks. “So what is our stratagem here?” he asked as he laced up his boots. 

“Well, you’ll want to try to hit the ball, Bond,” Higson harrumphed. With that, the corps started on offense, though the term was inapposite in this instance as they came up empty in their first attempts. 

Higson trumpeted at the crew, “Alright, gather round! I met this Ermini fellow who seems to know what’s what. Bond, LeCarey, Christiansen, and Herron, you’ll cover the outfield. I’ll take first base, Faulks second, Deaver short, Boyd third, Horowitz you’ll pitch and Amis . . . wait where’s Amis? Blast, alright Markham, you there, you’ll catch and just check in with the Dickie to let him know you’re replacing Amis. Can’t change the order without letting them know of course.” 

Bond trotted out to left field, flexing his glove to break it in. He reached the line and turned just in time to— 

Crack! 

The ball soared past him, smashed into the trees, and meandered its way down the tree trunk bouncing off some type of knot or abandoned woodpecker nest. Bond raced it down and hucked it back to Deaver and Horowitz as the Bluebookers took a one-nil lead. 

Credit: Raymond Gardner

Higson’s crew took a couple innings to settle in, but by the time they got their bearings before the final inning they were staring up at the opposition from three runs back, still within striking distance. 

Higson himself stepped up to the plate and knocked the ball far into left field before it bounced off the knot back into play and into the waiting mitt of their star fielder, the Big ’Booker. Despite his misfortune, Higson hounded his hurlers to heroic heights as Markham got a double, Horowitz knocked a single right in between the outfield and infielders, and Herron watched the ball with the eye of a hawk to get a walk and load up the bases. 

Bond stepped up to the plate and loosened up with a quick practice swing. The ball lofted up, Bond swung, and the ball snugly fell right to the catcher. 

“Strike one!” 

Bond spat a swear under his breath and stared down the pitcher. He tossed it and the ball hung in between the mound and the plate for an eternity. Bond gritted his teeth, swung, and knocked it right at the knot—THUNK! 

And he was off! Markham crossed home! Horowitz and Herron followed! Bond rounded first and glanced at the outfield. The coast was clear and he finished the bases to go up one. 

Christiansen stepped up to follow Bond, but the pitcher was still staring at the outfield. The Dickie called out, “What’s the matter, we need to keep going!” 

“But we don’t have the ball, it went into the tree and never came down.” 

Bemusedly, the umpire fished another one from the bucket and tossed it to the Bluebookers’ pitcher who quickly tightened things up to give them one more inning to draw or win the game. Bond and company finished off the back pair at the end of the batting order to get the first two outs. 

Taking his eye off the ball, Bond noticed one of the ’bookers—what was his name, Laim? Lehm? he was one of the top four in the order; Bond should know his name–scrambling up past the dugout and back to school. Punishing Bond for his inattention, the top of the Bluebooking bastards’ batting order restarted and knocked deep ball after deep ball to load the bases up. Their captain stepped up to the plate and got a quick strike before taking a couple of balls to put the game on the line. 

Higson called a quick conference with his hurler, whispered some strategy, and walked back to first, just as clouds moved overhead and a spot of rain started to patter down. Horowitz wound up, started the pitch, and the ball just slipped out of his hand! It fluttered to the plate, perfectly placed for the Big ’Booker to smack a dinger up to Massie Road and beyond. A roar went up in the Bluebookers’ dugout as their quartet ran home! 

“Bond, what are you doing?! Go for the ball!” Higson roared in despair.  

Lamb! That was it! Bond sprinted away from the ball making a beeline for the Dickie. 

Ignoring Higson’s entreaties, Bond flagged down the umpire, “Hey there! Now wasn’t Lamb fourth in their batting order?” 

“What’s that? Lamb had to leave to go cite check or something, poor lad. The game is over, give it up Bond.” 

“But Dickie, if I recall right, rule six of the rules is that a player dropped from the order is an automatic out and the only reasons allowed for a drop are looking under the weather or having class. If he just had a cite check, that’s an automatic out, isn’t it?” 

The umpire groaned and excavated the rulebook out from the maze of pockets inside his capacious rain jacket. The Big ’Booker thundered over, “What are you chaps still jabbering on about? We’ve got the win! Let’s get out of here before the deluge starts.” 

The umpire found rule six, “By Jove! He’s right, after your first trio, you dropped Lamb from your order. That’s an automatic out and Higson’s fellows already had two outs on you. Sorry Booker, but better luck next time there, chap.” 

Wow! Pick up the Law Weekly next week for another installment in this thrilling serial! 

Author: Andrew Moore, 2028, cwb5ex@virginia.edu