For the past three years, California’s Tyson Tigers have been college baseball’s toothless pussy cats, with no wins in fifty-four games. When the Tigers start the current season winning ten in a row, freshman reporter Bertrum Cornell is assigned the task of demystifying the miracle. With a two-week deadline, Bertrum knows his debut article could either propel him to front-page feature writing or condemn him to writing horoscopes.

As Bertrum watches the team from his seat along the first base line, the reason for the team’s success quickly becomes apparent. Slick-fielding, slap-hitting shortstop Gavin Grham and herculean homer-hitting left fielder Will Derringer are carrying the team on their backs.

The ball jumps off Graham’s bat like a bullet ricocheting off a wall, and every ball Derringer hits seems to go into orbit.

As Graham steps up to home plate a third time, he tips his helmet in the direction of Chrissy Dinero, Darby Dollarhide, and Penny Marks. The well-heeled blonde, redhead, and brunette trio make up the Bengal Benefactors, Tyson College’s fundraising committee, and they’ve raised millions of dollars in support of the school. The three photogenic examples of eternal youth through plastic surgery nod at Graham, clapping respectfully.

Picking up her soda, Penny Marks sips from her straw.

Graham hits the next pitch for a double.

Will Derringer steps into the batter’s box, kicking up dust like an alchemist blowing a magic potion into the air.

Brushing back her perfect mane of blonde hair, Chrissy Dinero picks up her soft drink, sucking on the straw.

Derringer jumps on the first pitch. It shoots out of the stadium like a shell fired from a battleship, disappearing into the bright blue afternoon sky.

“He hit that like he knew what pitch was coming,” Bertrum says to himself. “Maybe he did.”

The Tiger’s win streak ends the following game when Letterman College squeaks by Tyson, 9-8, despite two home runs and two doubles from Derringer, who drives in all the team’s runs. Bertrum notices that every time he steps into the batter’s box to hit, Derringer takes a side glance at the three Bengal Benefactors.

Graham has an uncharacteristically bad game, making four crucial errors and striking out three times.

The Bengal Benefactors remain in their seats long after the rest of their section has filed out. Chrissy Dinero calmly dons a pair of sunglasses while Darby Dollarhide checks her lipstick. Petite Penny Marks fidgets, her leg bouncing with the speed of a pneumatic drill.

Bertrum pretends to be preoccupied with his phone, but his ears remain wide open. His wide oval glasses, slight build, and pageboy haircut peg him as an unassuming nerd, making him invisible to the high society trio.

Graham leaves the field with his head down, his auburn hair shielding his tired eyes.

Chrissy yells, “Graham! Get your sorry derriere over here!”

The tousle-haired shortstop slaps his glove against his thigh.

“Look at him. The only thing he hit today was his leg,” Chrissy scolds.

Darby purses her lips. “You ignored our signals. What’s wrong, hon? Hungover?”

“Their coach and their players was watchin’ me.”

“We’re good at hiding our signals… So long as we don’t have to repeat them over and over to a dullard,” Chrissy snaps. “Then we look suspicious, and I hate the prospect of trying to explain our actions to the Collegiate Athletic Association.”

“I’m sorry. I thought I could hit just as well on my own.”

“How did that work out for you?” Chrissy asks. “You set us back, Gavin. You set Tyson College back. If we had won, the Collegiate Athletic Association would have promoted Tyson from Division Three to Division Two. That would have meant access to better players, more fans.”

“We could have built a bigger stadium,” Penny adds.

“Your errors cost us millions of dollars,” Darby scolds.

“I felt weak before the game,” Graham offers. He covers his mouth with his glove, coughing. “Gee. I hope it’s not COVID.”

The three women’s heels clack loudly as they speed toward the exit.

“See to it that you don’t make any more errors!” Chrissy shouts. “And go to class! At least make it look like you are a student here!”

Graham smirks as he casually walks down the alleyway toward the locker room.

Bertrum follows him, pretending he’s still preoccupied with his phone.

Graham passes the locker room, heading out a nearby exit.

Bertrum follows Graham outside, hiding in the bushes.

Looking around the parking lot, Graham approaches a tricked-out Lincoln with tinted windows.

The back window slides down. A stubby hand festooned with a plethora of enormous rings hands Graham an envelope.

Bertrum takes a picture of the transfer, knowing he’ll spend the night struggling with what he’s seen.

“I thought I’d come to you first instead of going to the president’s office,” Bertrum says.

“I’m glad you did,” Turk Wolf, the Tiger’s manager replies. He subconsciously scratches at his beard as he looks at the photo of Graham accepting the envelope.

“Where did you find Derringer and Graham?”

“They were recommended to me by an old friend, a scout. He saw Graham playing in high school in Chicopee. He happened to be visiting his brother in Texas and saw Derringer at a high school there.”

“Is that the truth?”

“If you’re quoting me, that’ll do.”

“You didn’t know Graham was on the take?”

Wolf throws his Tiger baseball cap on the desk in disgust.

“Your mind is playing tricks on you, kid. What you saw was Graham accepting some fan mail. He and Derringer get letters all the time.”

“What about the conversation the Bengal Benefactors had with Graham about signals?”

“Are you kidding? I give the signals to the players, not those birds. And we lost because I sent Graham out there when he was feeling sick, not because he took a bribe.”

“Chrissy Dinero made a comment about Graham not attending class. Doesn’t he need to maintain a B average in order to play?”

Wolf strokes his beard. “Sure. If you fail, I’ll sit your tail.”

“I’d like to interview him and Derringer. Where will I find them?”

“You said it yourself. In class.”

Bertrum waits at the door as the students exit Professor Russell Johnston’s journalism class, contemplating the possibility that his mentor is dirty.

Professor Johnston’s carrot-top afro shakes as he admonishes his remaining student, a pasty, befuddled, long-haired student named Lorenzo.

“You got to try harder, Lorenzo. You need to study more.”

“I study four hours a day, I swear!”

“Studying the contents of a water pipe doesn’t count. Now, you either get your average up to a C after the next test, or I’m going to have to recommend you get transferred out.”

“Oh, no. Please, Professor, I’ll never be a journalist if I flunk your class.”

“I like you, Lorenzo. But I can’t make any exceptions.”

Sniffling, Lorenzo shuffles out.

“And another journalist’s dream is erased,” Bertrum comments.

“Be careful, Bertie. I can change your grade with the stroke of a pen.”

“Speaking of grades, I was wondering how Will Derringer and Gavin Graham are doing in your class.”

Professor Johnston’s features go crimson.

“Ummm… There are a few students who monitor the class. They’re doing independent study, so they don’t attend a lot of classes.”

“You’re beet red and a bad liar, Professor,” Bertie replies.

“I’m glad I encouraged you to write for the newspaper. I hope you’re not in over your head.”

“You’re acting like you might be,” Bertrum counters. “I thought this article would be a positive spin on the freshman superstars. But I’ve seen Graham do a lot of sketchy things, and I haven’t even started digging into Derringer’s activities yet.”

“Dig with a spoon, Bertie.”

“You’re a stickler for attendance. If Derringer and Graham aren’t coming to class, they must be flunking.”

 “They’re A students.”

“Your integrity is melting like an Eskimo Pie in a heat wave, Professor. Why would three socialites want to control Tyson’s baseball program?”

“It’s not just baseball. They control just about everything,” Professor Johnston says sadly.

“Including you, apparently.”

“They’re good at raising money. The school benefits. Maybe some of what they raise finds its way into their bank accounts.”

“What have they got on you that’s compelled you to give two jocks A’s?”

“I made the mistake of marrying Chrissy Dinero’s daughter, then asking for a divorce. Her daughter swore I was having an affair when it was the other way around. Chrissy not only quashed the divorce to save face, she promised me if I didn’t do what she wanted I’d be fired and blackballed. You can print that at your own risk. I don’t care anymore.”

“I picked a heckuva first assignment,” Bertrum responds.

Bertrum finds Gavin Graham in a quiet town bar, dead drunk.

“I haven’t seen a classroom all year,” Graham slurs. “Neither has Derringer. We’re ringers. The school pays us to play for them. They pay for our apartments, food, and rent-a-cars. It’s a sweet deal. I hope I didn’t screw it all up.”

“What did you do?”

“I got greedy. When we started winnin’ all those games in a row, a couple of wise guys came to me and said I could make big money bettin’ on the outcome of the games. I knew we could beat the teams we were about to face. Then they told me they wanted the Tigers to lose.”

“Did you convince your teammates to throw the game?”

“Nah. I didn’t need them. Those amateurs don’t even know which end of the bat to hold. They can’t win a ballgame without me and Derringer.”

“He was in on it?”

“Nah. I happen to play a key position. If I make a few errors at the right time, we lose. I didn’t count on Derringer going four-for-four. I had to make an out every time I got up in order to make up for his great hittin’.”

“And you looked phony doing it. When you were hitting well, I noticed you looked at the Bengal Benefactors a lot. You didn’t look at them at all when you lost. Is that a coincidence?”

“It’s simple. Each lady represents a pitch. Chrissy Dinero picks up her soda when the pitch is gonna be a fastball, Darby Dollarhide signals for a slider, and Penny Marks signals when it’s gonna be a curve.”

“How do they know what the pitcher is going to throw?”

“The managers on the opposing teams signal their catchers what pitch they want them to throw. The catcher then signals the pitcher. The ladies know every signal there is on every team.”

“I never would have suspected that three society women were capable of such a thing.”

“That’s what we’ve been counting on,” Graham replies.

“Is your name really Gavin Graham?”

“No. That’s my kid brother. I used his I.D ‘cause he’s eighteen.”

“You weren’t playing baseball?”

“I was drivin’ a cab when I got a letter from some committee who’d heard I was once a good ball player.”

“Where did you play?”

“Sing Sing Penitentiary.”

“If you’re an ex-con, why risk getting caught throwing a game?” Bertrum asks.

“Your fundraisers gave me twenty thousand reasons with a promise there’d be more,” Graham replies, guzzling his drink. “That can buy a lot of scotch with that scratch, maybe even a conscience now that you know what’s goin’ on. So, you gonna rat me out?”

“I have to. I’m a journalist. It’s my duty.”

Graham bursts into laughter. “If those three witches get wind of what you’re doin’ you might as well write that article in invisible ink. But since I recently gained a conscience, suppose I tell you that I’m only the tip of the iceberg.”

Graham grabs a nearby napkin. “You got a pen?  I’ll give it back.”

Bertrum hands Graham a pen. He scribbles a message on the napkin, handing it to Bertrum.

“You really want to put some bite into your story?  Go to this address.”

“What am I looking for?”

“You’ll know when you see it,” Graham replies, putting the pen in his pocket.

Bertrum spots Will Derringer leaving a lavish apartment building with a woman and a young child.

Bertrum enters the building, hoping to confirm what he’s seen.

An amicable, elderly security guard greets him.

“Is Will Derringer in?”

“I’m sorry, but there’s no one living here by that name.”

“He’s a big guy, like six-foot-four, blonde hair, blue eyes. He’s usually with a blonde woman with shoulder-length hair who dresses sharply and a young girl. Oh, and he wears a sports jacket with a Tyson College logo on it.”

“Oh, that’s Brock Morgan. You just missed him.”

Felix Urbano, the manager of the California Condor's minor league baseball team, puffs on his cigar, giving Bertrum a squinty-eyed look.

“I hear he’s got a nice place,” Urbano says.

“He lives in a five thousand dollar a month apartment under his real name. So, he played for you for two months.”

“Yeah. Morgan was our best hitter. One day some coach from a college showed up with the crazy idea that Morgan could play for his team.”

“He’s twenty-six.”

“A very youthful-looking twenty-six,” Urbano replies.

“How much money did Tyson College give you?”

“Now, wait a minute, kid. The agreement was between Morgan and the college.”

“I may know more about backgammon than baseball, but I know if any money changed hands, you could join Pete Rose on baseball’s banned-for-life list.”

Urbano rolls his cigar around in his mouth, looking blankly across the baseball field. “I’ll make a deal with you, kid. I’ll tell you how much money I got if you say your info came from an anonymous source.”

“All right.”

“Ten grand.”

“Who gave it to you? Was it his manager or the head of athletics?”

“It came from the Bengal Benefactors.”

Bertrum watches Derringer/Morgan bounce his daughter on his knee. The cherubic eight-month-old baby giggles, smiling at her father.

“You know what you’re doing isn’t fair,” Bertrum says.

“Fair? If you haven’t figured it out already, nothing in life is fair. The only toys my brother and I had growing up in Red Bluff were the ball we made out of tape and an old broomstick. Baseball became my form of education. I practiced non-stop and got picked for a travel team that played in Texas. After our third visit to Texas, I forgot to go home. I started playing in the lower minor leagues, hit my way all the way up to Triple-A, and was on the verge of playing for the Dodgers when I hurt my knee. I had to start all over again. But by then, I’d found a good therapist,” Derringer says, smiling as his wife, Gwen, puts her arm around his shoulder.

“We got the call that Brock was going to play for the Dodgers the same day our daughter got sick,” Gwen says. “She had a heart murmur. We nearly lost her.”

“We spent four months practically living at the hospital. When she got better, I had to try and make it to the majors a second time. I was back in Triple-A when I pulled a hamstring and missed the rest of the season,” Derringer says. “Tyson College’s offer was a Hail Mary when we needed one the most. It helped us pay off all of our daughter’s medical bills. So, don’t preach to me about what’s fair.”

“I understand you’ve had it rough, but I’m still going to publish my article.”

“You should. But if you do, you’ll become an outcast, a traitor. And Tyson’s baseball program will either be suspended, or they’ll be banned from even having a team.”

“I can live with that,” Bertrum replies. “But I’m surprised you haven’t tried to talk me out of it.”

Derringer/Morgan hands his daughter to Gwen, who carries her into another room.

“I can change my appearance and my name again and play in Mexico or Japan. You’re the one who has to watch his back. Your article is going to throw dirt on some powerful people. Be careful you don’t get buried with them.”

Hugging his laptop, Bertrum heads to the newspaper office, smiling triumphantly.

Turning the corner, he nearly walks into Chrissy Dinero, Darby Dollarhide, and Penny Marks. The trio are dressed in various expensive and stylish forms of black business suits, looking as if they’re heading to a funeral.

The women stare him down.

“Look, girls, it’s Walter Cronkite,” Chrissy says.

Darby Dollarhide snatches the laptop from Bertrum’s grasp.

“Your phone too,” Chrissy says.

Bertrum tosses Chrissy his phone. She crushes it under her heel.

“I’ve got the article on my computer and backups in places you’ll never find them.”

Chrissy lets out a sinister, subdued laugh. “You mean places like the library, in a deposit box, or in your car? We’re not amateurs, Bertie.”

Persing her lips, Darby snarls, “We read your smear job. Nice article, hon. But you made our work on behalf of the school seem so seamy.”

“You paid hush money to a minor league manager, paid men in their twenties to pretend they were eighteen, and threatened our baseball coach. And you, Chrissy, you blackmailed your son-in-law. You also stole the other team’s signals.”

“Tosh. It’s all the price of doing what it takes to keep this school running and prospering,” Chrissy replies.

“Did I mention my editor has a copy of the article too?”

Penny taps her foot nervously. “I thought the title, ‘Mixed Signals’ was a cute play on words.”

“Quiet, Penny,” Chrissy admonishes. “I have a message from your editor. He regrets that he cannot approve your article. It turns out it is you who has gotten his signals mixed up, you snoopy scribe. But we have another front-page story for you.”

“What’s it about?’

 “Your disappearance,” Chrissy replies, flashing the gun in her jacket.