A Real Humdinger

“Well, folks, if you’re just joining us, we’re at the bottom of the third inning here at Parasol Stadium and you could not ask for a better day for baseball, wouldn’t you say, Alan?”
“That’s right, Paul. Just a real ‘beaut’ of a day. Though I am worried about this weather delay.”
“Is that what you’d call it, Alan? A weather delay?”
“I’m not sure what else to call it to be perfectly honest, Paul. It’s still just...hanging there. The only way I could wrap my head around it is to call it a weather delay of some kind.”
“Well, what kind of weather would you call this, Alan?”
“I don’t know, Paul. I’m just trying to avoid filling my underpants from sheer existential terror, not to put too fine a point on it, Paul.”
“For all you folks out there in radioland, what my co-announcer is referring to as a ‘weather delay’ is what I’d be more like to call some sort of slap in the face to physics. Not more than twenty minutes ago, Adrian Potemkin, whose been having a real Cinderella story revival on the back end of this season-”
“Oh, to be sure, Paul. If we compare his batting average for the first three months of the season to his batting average of the past three weeks, he’s like a totally new player. I’m sure the manager, Deshawn Kiske, was like, ‘Where’s this guy been?’”
“Without a doubt, Alan. I’m sure no one was as surprised as Deshawn Kiske, and I’m confident he’d be the first one to admit it. But to be honest, I’m not sure, and I’m speaking personally now, if I’ll ever be confident in anything ever again. My very notion of reality has been called into question. Not twenty minutes ago, Adrian Potemkin, who’s been batting at an impressive .415 over the past 30 at-bats, connected with low-inside slider from Ryan Carmichael-”
“Which is equally impressive. That slider has just been devastating the Cobra’s lineup this game.”
“Undeniable, Alan. Undeniable. Potemkin connected with a low-inside slider, sending it just over shortstop Jimmy Adamson’s head, where it suddenly… Well, folks, it just suddenly stopped in mid air, calling into question everything this announcer’s ever known about the concept of physics.”
“That’s right, Paul. For the past, oh, 18 minutes or so the ball has been suspended in mid-air, an affront to God and all that is holy.”
“Bringing God into it, Alan?”
“I don’t think God is anywhere near this place, Paul. I’m beginning to question any and all preconceptions I’ve ever held up to this point. If the irrefutable laws of physics are no longer in play, well, what does that say about things as ethereal as notions of good and evil?”
“That’s a real humdinger of a question, Alan. Here’s our producer, Jerry Scaccia… Folks, we’ve just gotten word from Jerry, who just celebrated his 40th wedding anniversary by the way, congratulations to him and his lovely wife Samantha, many happy returns, that the ball suspended in mid-air is slowly rotating and that a low, ominous rumbling is emanating from the ball. What do you make of that, Alan?”
“I just want to go home and tell my cat I love him, Paul.”
“Fair enough, Alan. Fair enough. For all of you tuning in to our coverage, allow me to describe the scene on the field.”
“My cat’s been sick lately and I’m filled with regret for all the time I wasted on this earth.”
“Aren’t we all, Alan. Aren’t we all. Folks, members from both the Panthers and the Cobras have abandoned their positions on the field or on the bench to gather near the levitating orb, others are keeping their distance from it. Adrian Potemkin is on his knees, arms wrapped around himself, and rocking back and forth. It’s a bit hard to make out from this distance, but it appears that his shoulders are shaking. If this announcer had to make a guess, I would say that he is weeping for the loss of humanity’s innocence.”
“I think that’s a fair assessment, Paul. It looks like the Panther’s manager, Ryan Wizniak, is having words with the head umpire, and he does not look happy. He’s gesturing between the rotating sphere and Potemkin. It looks like he’s saying that the ball is out of play and that Potemkin should be out. I’m not sure how they’ll rule this one on the field, Paul.”
“I’m not sure either, Alan, but I’m not surprised that when confronted with the breakdown of reality that some men will still cling to their limited experiences as a way of coping with their sudden insignificance when faced with things their minds simply cannot comprehend.”
“Which reminds me, Paul. Folks, this inning has been brought to you by Jormundsen’s Franks. If it’s not a Jormundsen’s sausage, it’s not baseball. And also, by Trial by Fire. The only thing hotter than the stakes, are the lawyers. New season starts Friday at nine.”
“Oh, I love that show.”
“I love those franks.”
“Back to the action. It looks like shortstop Jimmy Adamson is getting on the shoulders of center fielder David Anthony-”“Not sure how good an idea that is, with Anthony’s recent rotator cuff surgery.”
“Excellent point, Alan. It appears that Adamson is trying to grab onto the ball.”
“That would help with his error rate, should he pull it off.”
“They’re at the ball. Adamson is reaching towards it… He’s motioning for someone to give him his glove, smart move. I wouldn’t want to touch it with my bare hands either. And… he’s got it, folks! He has his glove completely around the ball. But it looks like…”
 “It looks like he’s having trouble pulling it down, Paul. He’s putting all his weight on it but it’s still stuck in the air. Oh, Anthony is down! Looks like Adamson threw him off balance and  Adamson is now hanging from the suspended ball in his glove. He’s just hanging there like a christmas stocking full of candy canes and lotto scratchers.”
“That looks like smoke coming from his glove, Alan. Yes, it appears that the ball has burned through Adamson’s glove and he has fallen to the ground like a sack of potatoes, folks. That ball must be hotter than a two dollar pistol.”
“Hotter than the lawyers on Trial by Fire, Paul?”
“Oh, not possible, Alan. Trial by Fire, Fridays at nine, folks.”
“I think I’m beginning to hear that ominous rumbling that our producer, Jerry Scaccia, was talking about. Let me tell you, it is chilling to hear, folks. Is this the same ominous rumbling you were referring to, Jerry?”
“I don’t think he can hear you, Alan. It looks like Jerry is huddled up in the corner praying.”
“Here’s a question for you, Paul. Do you think praying is going to do any good in this situation?”
“That’s a tough question, Alan. It’s hard to believe that there is a God in a situation like this. If there is, then either they aren’t hearing Jerry’s prayers or they’re completely indifferent to them. Either way, the Panthers are going to have a real humdinger of a time trying to put out Adamson, who has just burst into flames, like a billy goat with a blowtorch.”
“Now, do you think this is the orb punishing Adamson for grabbing it, or did the burning glove just coincidentally catch his uniform?”
“Hard to believe in a coincidence at this point, Alan. The head umpire is batting at the flames with his chest protector and the other players are attempting to suffocate the flames by kicking dirt on them. And it looks like that did the trick, the flames are out, ladies and gentleman.”
“That’s some good luck for the Panthers, Paul. With Josh Snader already out with that torn meniscus, they’d be hard pressed to replace Adamson at this point in the season.”
“That is true, Alan. Though they’ve had luck with the farm teams in the past. They picked up Mac Hartyl two seasons back and he’s been a stalwart of left field ever since.”
“That’s for sure. Say, have you ever seen so many crows circling in one place before, Paul?”
“Can’t say that I have, Alan. Can’t say that I have. Truly a foreboding omen if this announcer’s ever seen one. Here’s a fun fact for all of our listeners out there, a group of crows is called a congress.”
“Now that’s interesting, Paul. I always thought it was a murder of crows.”
“Well, the two terms are interchangable, but I was trying to avoid using the word murder for what I thought would be obvious reasons. I thought that a little bit of linguistics fun would help keep things light for our listeners, you know, in the face of our current situation.”
“I hear you, Here’s what I don’t understand, Paul, and let me know if I’m off-base with this.”
“Hey-ohhh.”
“Thought you might like that one. Anyhoo, here’s what I’m trying to wrap my head around.”
“Alright, shoot.”
“Now, walk with me on this one. You got your sports journalism degree from Boltech University, right?”
“Sure did. Go Wildcats.”
“So you’re familiar with the first law of thermodynamics, right?”
“The Law of Conservation of Energy, sure.”
“Right. So if energy cannot be created or destroyed, merely transformed or changed from one form to another, could we just be seeing the ball’s energy changing from kinetic to some heretofore unseen form of gravitational potential energy?”
“Hmm. That’s an interesting point you bring up, Alan, but I don’t think that accounts for the apocalyptic chanting I’m hearing in my mind.”
“Oh, you’re hearing it, too, then? For a second I thought I might have been imagining it. What do you suppose that is? Latin?”
“Well, I’m not sure how I know this, but it feels a heck of a lot older than Latin, if you can imagine that. If I had to guess, I’d say it’s a language never before heard by humans, Alan. Something that was never meant for human-”
“Paul, hate to cut you off, but looks like there’s some kind of development down on the field. Folks, from up here it looks like some kind of visible energy has begun pulsating out of the ball. I’d say it’s pulsating at about three second intervals and each successive wave is traveling further away from the ball. It’s hit the players now and down they go, shaking like bacon in a frying pan.”
“That next wave just hit the stands, Alan. Dollars to donuts, I’d say the next wave hits us up here in the booth.”
“I’d say you're right, Paul. Annnd here it is.”
“Holy cow. How would you describe what just happened, Alan?”“Well, Paul, I don’t know about you, but I saw a vision of me taking the same bite out of my dying cat over and over, stretching out into eternity.”
“That’s a real humdinger of a vision, Alan.”
“How about you, Paul? What did the visions show you?”
“Well, Alan, I was ushered to the very furthest shore of sanity by an unfathomable monstrosity who showed me how the universe was born from nothing and how it craves to return to nothing. It craves for that and only one other thing.”
“What’s that, Paul?”
“Jormundsen’s Franks. Got a hankerin’ for a frank? Grab a Jormundsen’s.”
“Looks like we have some commotion down on the field. The players have returned to their feet and are embracing each other, as if they have overcome their petty differences and have reached a mutual understanding of not only themselves, but of each other.”
“You love to see it, folks. You really do.”
“The ball is now glowing. How would you describe that color, Paul?”
“I can’t rightly say I’ve ever seen a color like that. Just another thing about this that defies all logic, Alan. It’s glowing brighter and brighter and it… is… outta here! Straight out of this plane of existence. Where it went, who’s to say, folks. All I can tell you is, this announcer is left with more questions than he came here with.”
“And it looks like the ruling on the field is a ground rule double, which seems fair to me.”
“Hard to argue with that call, Alan.”
“So with Potemkin on second, up to bat is Alexei Sutter. Now Carmichael, historically, has had trouble using that slider with left-handed batters.”
“And that’s a real blindspot, Alan. A walk at this point could put the Cobras in scoring position to take the lead.”

KEITH BUZZARD is a teacher, writer, and musician from the Wicker Park neighborhood in Chicago. He specializes in the odd, fantastical, and curiosities of all kinds. He has written short films and performances for The Second City, iO, as well as various live shows across the midwest and west coast. If you enjoy esoteric and niche jokes, follow him on Twitter at @KeithJDrazzub.