"Here ye, here ye," he said, drowning out all others. "Let my son

"Listen," Ruth said. "I never really cared where I played. To tell you the

truth, if they'd been around at the time, I wouldn't have minded playing for

the Devil Rays."

The council of baseball gods gave a collective harrumph.

"No, listen! I like Florida. It's sunny, warm and there really aren't

that many old people there, that's just a stereotype. They play inside, which

I've heard a lot of bad things about but never had a chance to try for myself,

and to tell you the truth, those dark green uniforms look kind of snazzy."

"What about the other thing, though?" asked Smashus, god of home runs.

"Well, like I said, I see no reason to keep it going. I say, let bygones be

bygones. They deserve a chance to finally get there," the Babe said, sitting

down.

"I see your point, son," Sandlotus said. "But the thing is, the last time

I was in Boston, I had some really bad clam chowder. I mean, I thought it

smelled a little funny when I got it, but the waitress kept telling me it was

fine, so I ate it."

"I thought you hated seafood," said Blankus, god of the no-hitter.

"Yeah, normally I do, but my cousin, who I was visiting, he told me the clam

chowder was the best and insisted that I try it," Sandlotus said. "I was

sick for two weeks after that. So the curse is going to stay on. I'm going to

let them get to Game 7 and then that's it."

Sandlotus banged his bat on the table.

"All right, I guess we're done then," he said. "Meeting adjourned."

"Wait!" said Sam, the god of nothing in particular. "What about the other

thing?"

"What thing? The thing where this is a tortured and overdrawn metaphor built

off a stupid cliche?" Sandlotus said.

"No, not that thing, the Cubs thing," Sam said.

"Oh, right, that thing," Sandlotus said. "Sam, you're new so you might not have heard this,

but we didn't have a hand in the Cubs thing,"

"Really?"

"Yeah, they've just had bad luck all these years. Now, it's dinner time. Cook, what's the main course tonight?"

Cook, the god of catering, brought a platter into the room and placed it in

front of Sandlotus.

"It's from a Greek restaurant in Chicago," Cook said. "It smells a little funky, but I

think it should be okay."

Sandlotus licked his lips as he stared at the platter. "What is it?" he

asked.

"Goat's meat."