How does this work, Pete?”

“You need prayers, Raffy. It’s baseball Purgatory. You might be here for a very long time. Ask that shoeless dude over there by Bags.”

“I don’t understand, Pete. I thought this was about votes.”

“Yeah, it’s about votes. But without some prayers, you ain’t gonna get ‘em. Ever heard of the Island of Misfit Toys? This place is the Major League Baseball version.”

“So who gets me out of this mess, God or Rudolph?”

“Raffy, your mess is in the hands of the sportswriters and the Enshrined Angels. Right now, they are your only ticket to Heaven. Hey Bags! Shake Joe.”

“Pete! Why are you kids bothering me?”

“Sorry, Joe. Tell Raffy about your career and the movies they’ve made about you. What do you think about Ty Cobb being in Heaven while you sit here?”

“I ain’t got nothin to say. Mind if I go back to sleep?”

“Sure, Joe, sure. People have talked about putting you in Heaven for nearly a century. Has it happened?”

“Wake me up when it does, Pete. By the way, how’s that autograph gig in Vegas going?”

“See, Raffy? You could be here for the long haul. I’ve been here with Joe for decades. We fight like brothers. He had a career .356 batting average, but Kennesaw Mountain Landis chained him up after the 1919 World Series. Bart Giamatti sent me here in ’89. It was boring until drugs started sending us company.”

“So, I’ll never get to Heaven?”

“Never say never, but, um, no, you won’t get to Heaven. Joe never waved a finger at congress and he’s still here.”

“I had 3,020 hits and 569 home runs! I’m in the company of Hank Aaron, Willie Mays and Eddie Murray. How can they keep me out of Heaven? I never spit on any umpires!”

“Your body of work doesn’t matter, Raffy. It’s your sins that the eternal keepers of the gate are interested in…and we all know they’ve never broken any rules. I had 4,256 hits, tops on the list, and was voted to the All-Century team. I’m still banned. Did anyone ever call you ‘Charlie Hustle?’”

“Pete, unlike you and Joe, I’m not banned. You two broke the cardinal rule. It’s posted in every clubhouse. My situation is different. I just took some tainted B-12.”

“Yeah, yeah. It took me a long time to admit my mistakes, too. But that doesn’t matter right now. Look, ‘Tinkers to Evers to Chance,’ a freaking poem, is in Heaven. Rick Ferrell, Max Carey and Roger Bresnahan, three mediocre players at best, are in Heaven. Cap Anson and Enos Slaughter, two very proud bigots, are in Heaven. Gaylord Perry leaked like a Chevy with a busted oil pan every time he walked to the mound. Guess what? He’s in Heaven. You? You ain’t going to Heaven.”

“So I’m doomed?”

“Pride is a killer, dude. But you can always write a book to supplement your income; just take my advice and don’t wait ten years. Regardless, you won’t be alone. Mac has been here for a little while. Mac! How many home runs did you hit?”

“583, tenth best in history. Better than Reggie Jackson and Mike Schmidt.”

“Aren’t they in Heaven?”

“Shut up, Pete!”

“Barry Bonds, Roger Clemens, Juan Gonzalez, Manny Ramirez and Sammy Sosa will be here soon, Raffy. At least we’ll have others to swap war stories with. Bert Blyleven sure loves us right now. They had to vote for somebody!”

“What about Bags, Pete. Why is he here?”

“He’s here because of people like us, Raffy. Heaven’s governing body assumes he cheated because he had the right combination of muscles and power numbers. Hanging out with Caminiti probably didn’t help.”

“Well if those are the kind of people who determine who gets into Heaven, I don’t want to go.”

“Don’t worry, son. You won’t. Wanna go to Vegas?”

———

Billy Bruce is a special contributor to The Tribune.