Baseball's Most Scandalous Trade

The following is a completely fictional account based on true events. Any resemblance between the characters in this story and the real-life people they depict is purely coincidental.

May 25, 1972

Fritz Peterson stood on a hill of dirt, amid a field of green, surrounded by a wall of blue fringed along the top with a distinctive gleaming-white façade. He wore a white uniform with vertical navy pinstripes, and a cap on his head emblazed with the iconic interlocking "NY" that was the logo of the legendary New York Yankees baseball franchise.

The small crowd of fans in attendance rose to their feet to cheer for the final out of the game. Fritz scratched his left foot in the dirt in front of the pitching rubber and stretched toward home plate. He stared in at his catcher, who squatted behind the plate, sixty feet and six inches away, and thrust a single finger in front of his crotch. Peterson shook his head. The catcher glared at him and repeated the gesture. Once again, Peterson shook his head.

"Time!" the catcher barked. Behind him, the umpire threw his hands in the air while the catcher jogged out to the mound. He continued until he was nose-to-nose with his pitcher. "Who's calling this game, me or you?" he asked. The hair of his bushy mustache practically tickled Fritz's face.

Fritz backed off and held his mitt in front of his mouth as he spoke. "Shit, Thurm, I just think we should start this guy off with a breaking pitch."

"You don't think, you pitch," Thurman told him. "I do the thinking. You're throwing a fucking shutout and suddenly you're gonna start calling the pitches? Fucking seriously?"

"Okay, okay! You're right. We'll do it your way."

"Damn right we will."

The catcher jogged back behind the plate, squatted, and thrust a single finger before his crotch. Fritz flashed an exaggerated grin and nodded slowly. He rose to a set position and glanced at the runner on first before hurling a fastball toward the inside corner of the plate. The pitch rode in on the batter as he swung, and the ball caromed off the handle of his bat toward third base. The third baseman gathered it up and fired to first to record the final out of the game.

The catcher was the first to arrive at the mound to congratulate his pitcher. "See?" he growled.

"You're right, Thurman," Fritz said with a crooked grin. "You're always right."

His teammates gathered on the mound to congratulate each other for the win. Fellow pitcher Mike Kekich was among the first to arrive.

"We still on for dinner?" he asked Fritz.

"Yeah, of course, man."

Moments later, Fritz sat in a rickety chair in front of his locker, half-dressed, with a cold beer in his hand. A small group of reporters were gathered around him with notepads in hand. Cigarette smoke filled the room.

"Did you ever feel like you were in trouble out there?" asked one of the team's beat writers, Phil Pepe.

"Nah," Fritz responded. "I felt like I was in control the entire game. I had a good feel for my curve, and—"

Suddenly, on the other side of the locker room, a player shouted, "GODAMMIT!" Every head turned to see outfielder Roy White holding a hair dryer. Half of his head, along with the shoulders of his green leisure suit, were covered in white powder. The room was dead silent for a moment until the first player burst into laughter. Eventually, every player in the room was doubled over in laughter - except for White. He leaned over and shook the powder from his large afro onto the floor in front of his locker, and then glared across the room at Fritz.

"Peterson, you son of a bitch, I know it was you!" he shouted. "You pulled this same shit on Pepitone!"

Fritz merely smiled and gave him an innocent shrug. The raucous laughter drew the attention of the manager, Ralph Houk, who stormed into the room with a cigar clenched between his teeth. "What the fuck is going on out here?" he boomed. He then noticed White's predicament and shook his head. He shouted, "Peterson, cut the bullshit!" before stomping back into his office.

***

"I really wish someone had a camera to capture the look on his face," Kekich said at dinner that night. The muscles in his face ached from laughing so hard.

"His head looked like a snow cone," Fritz added, causing Mike and their wives to burst into laughter once again.

"Okay, stop!" Susanne pleaded. She used her cloth napkin to dab her eyes. "You're making my mascara run!"

"Oh, you don't need it, anyway," Fritz said. His wife, Marilyn, playfully kicked him under the table. "You gonna be ready for tomorrow?" he asked Mike. "Detroit's lineup is filled with pesky sons-a-bitches. Fucking Kaline is older than dirt, and he's still raking."

"Will you watch your language?" Marilyn scolded.

"Yes, mother," Fritz responded, eliciting a giggle from Susanne across the table.

"Can we talk about something other than baseball?" Marilyn asked.

"We could," Fritz said. "But why would we?"

"Susanne," Marilyn said, ignoring her husband, "the boys head out on Monday night, and won't be back until mid-June. I'm thinking we should take the kids to Wildwood. It might be too cold for the beach, perhaps, but the rides should be open."

With their husbands travelling out of town for half the summer, the two wives had grown as close as two could be over their four years together. They often joked that they saw more of each other than they did their husbands.

"Yes, that would be lovely," Susanne responded. "I hope you boys behave yourselves on the road."

"Now where's the fun in that?" Fritz quipped.

They carried on their conversation across the table until the Kekiches begged their leave. "I'll need plenty of rest before the game tomorrow," Mike noted. "That, and I gotta get my rest before we hit the road. I can never sleep on the road. My roommate farts in his sleep."

"That's a lie!" Fritz shouted. "A scurrilous lie! Don't believe a word of it!"

That night, Fritz lay in bed with his eyes closed while Marilyn prepared for bed. She removed her blonde wig and set it on the stand resting atop her dresser. She slipped off her robe and snuggled next to her husband in the "spooning" position. She slid her hand up his nightshirt and raked her long fingernails across his bare skin, and then leaned forward to nibble his ear.

"Jesus, not tonight, Mare," Fritz said. "I just pitched today. I'm exhausted."

With an exasperated sigh, she rolled onto her back and stared at the ceiling. Her thoughts turned to Mike. He was tall, tanned, and incredibly handsome. He had a laid-back California vibe to him that she found intoxicating. The way he looked at her, it was like a hungry beast eyeing his prey. She liked the way he made her feel. They had been friends for so long, it seemed as though the sexual tension had been building to a crescendo.

She slipped a hand down the front of her panties and shut her eyes.

May 26, 1972

"I just couldn't find the plate," Mike said to a reporter while he stood in front of his locker. "I had good stuff in the bullpen, but once I hit that hill, it was a different story."

Fritz waited until the reporters dispersed before he eased over to Mike's locker and handed him a beer. "Tough day," he said.

"No shit," Mike responded. "Fucking Kaline got to me again."

"I told you he's a pain in the ass."

Mike removed his jersey and stretched his left arm, wincing in pain. "Got any aspirin?" he asked. Fritz rummaged through his locker, shook out a couple of pills from a bottle, and handed them over.

"Hey, we had fun last night," Fritz said. "Susanne is always such a hoot."

"Yeah, she is. We had fun, too. I'm sure we'll all get together again before we hit the road."

"Milwaukee," Fritz said with dread. He shivered and shook his head. "Ugh."

After a short drive from the stadium, Mike walked through the front door of his summer home. His two little girls squealed in unison. "Daddy!" The older child, Kristen, ran to him, while her younger sister, Reagan-Leigh, wobbled unsteadily behind. He gathered them in his arms and flung them around in a circle. Susanne soon joined them, and she kissed him sweetly.

"Sorry you lost the game," she said. "Dinner will be ready shortly."

Mike entered the living room and collapsed onto a recliner while his daughters resumed their play on the rug. He smiled as he watched Kristen show her younger sister the proper way to pour invisible tea.

"Would you like some, Daddy?" Kristen said.

"I think Daddy would prefer a beer," Susanne said. She stood next to the recliner holding a freshly-opened can. She set it on the table next to him and smiled before returning to the kitchen.

They enjoyed a delicious meal of meatloaf and vegetables. Then, shortly after dinner, Mike sat in his recliner with both daughters seated on his lap and read to them from their favorite book. Susanne then whisked them off to bed while he relaxed and watched television.

"President Nixon and Soviet leader Leonid Brezhnev officially signed the SALT treaty today," intoned the newscaster, "which will restrict each country's arsenal of anti-ballistic nuclear missiles to one hundred each."

"Marilyn called earlier today," Susanne said. "She wants to get together again Saturday night."

"That's fine with me," Mike responded.

"We're thinking of going dancing at the Cheetah."

Mike groaned. "You know I'm not much of a dancer."

"That's okay. Fritz is. I know he'll dance with me."

Later that night, Susanne stared blankly at the ceiling while Mike lay on top of her. He thrust into her hard and fast, shaking the mattress with each thrust. His muscles tensed, and he grunted loudly while he emptied into her. He shuddered and gave one final thrust before rolling over onto his side of the bed. Susanne cupped her hand over her privates and scurried to the bathroom to clean up. By the time she returned, Mike was snoring.

June 16, 1972

Fritz stood waist-deep in the cool water and lifted his son, Greg, high in the air before tossing him into the deep end of the pool. Greg squealed as he sailed through the air and landed with a splash. He emerged with a wide grin and doggy-paddled back to his father. On the table beside the pool, a small portable radio played Don McLean's "American Pie." Fritz crooned along with the lyrics as he playfully backpedaled away from his son. A little white poodle scampered around the edges of the pool and yapped at them.

Susanne stood next to Fritz, holding his two-year-old son Eric in her arms. As she bobbed up and down in the water, Eric giggled and tugged at her bikini top. She gently removed his hands, but they returned again.

"This son of yours is determined to strip me of this top," she said to Fritz.

"That's my boy!" Fritz said with a chuckle. "He's only doing it because he can get away with it. Trust me, I'd be doing the same."

She feigned shock, causing Fritz to laugh before heaving his son into the air once more. He turned to look at her from the corner of his eye. It was difficult to keep his eyes off of her in that red bikini. It didn't leave much to the imagination, but that didn't stop him from imagining just the same. She had been a cheerleader in college, and an athlete as well. She kept in shape by hiking and bicycling, and it showed. She turned her head quickly and caught him leering at her. All he could do was sheepishly grin in response.

At the other end of the pool, Mike and Marilyn were engaged in a deep conversation while keeping an eye on Mike's daughters. They often found themselves wrapped up in intellectual and philosophical conversations that bored Fritz and Susanne to tears.

Fritz gave Greg another toss into the water and noticed that Susanne was watching Mike and Marilyn with interest. "You ever get the feeling we married the wrong people?" Fritz joked, interrupting her thoughts.

She chuckled. "Yeah, really. Mike and I joke about that all the time."

"I mean, not that there's anything wrong with either of our marriages."

"No, not at all. We're very happy together."

"Same here."

"But I do get what you're saying. All four of us get along so well, and we have so much in common. Sometimes I think the two of us have more in common than Mike and I."

"And the two of them seem to have more in common as well."

"You look so different without your wig," Mike said to Marilyn at the other end of the pool.

"Well, I can't very well wear it while swimming!" she said with a demure smile.

"I know. I'm not complaining. I think you look better without it, actually."

"Oh, do you?" she said, turning a shade of pink. "Fritz prefers the wig."

"Betsy has pretty hair just like you," Kristen said, thrusting her doll in front of Marilyn for her inspection. Marilyn took the doll and combed her wet hair with her fingertips. "Yes, I suppose she does." She looked at Mike and her eyes sparkled.

They spent the evening grilling burgers and hot dogs. Afterward, they shared a few laughs over some drinks. They would have continued the party through the early hours of the morning, but the Kekich girls grew restless and irritable. They parted ways for the night with the promise that they would get together again soon.

"Next time, we'll get the nannies to watch the kids so we can party all night!" Fritz said.

July 15, 1972

Fritz held his glove to his face and inhaled the familiar and comforting aroma of leather and oil. He peered over the top of his mitt at Thurman, who thrust two fingers in front of his crotch. He had just begun to shake his head when he thought better of it and nodded instead. He took a deep breath and went into his wind-up.

His curve ball hung up in the strike zone, and Oakland's star slugger Reggie Jackson made him pay for it. He crushed the ball into the right field bleachers so hard that the right fielder, Ron Swoboda, didn't even bother to chase it. He simply turned to watch it sail over his head. The crowd of barely ten thousand fans booed as Reggie rounded the bases in his inimitably cocky style.

Fritz managed to retire the next two batters to get out of the inning, but the damage was done. When he trudged into the dugout at the end of the inning, Ralph clapped him on the shoulder and told him he was done for the day. He plopped down next to Mike on the bench as a young clubhouse attendant handed him a towel.

"I knew he'd be sitting on a breaking pitch there," Fritz grumbled.

"You can't throw a perfect pitch every time, man," Mike reassured him.

"I sure as hell try."

"Hey, we're only down by a run, and we have three more times at bat. We can still win this thing. If we can score a couple runs this inning, you could walk away with the 'W'."

Unfortunately for the team and the hometown fans, the Yankees didn't score another run the rest of the game, and Oakland walked away with an easy 6-2 victory. Afterward, in the clubhouse, the usual gaggle of reporters surrounded Fritz's locker, peppering him with the predictable litany of questions. When they were satisfied, they moved on to the next player of interest. Maury Allen, a writer for the Post, was the last to linger at Peterson's locker.

"Janet and I are having a few friends over for a barbeque later if you're interested," he said to Fritz.

"Thanks, Maury. I don't see why not. You mind if Kekich tags along?"

"Of course not," Maury said. "The more the merrier."

That evening, Mike and Marilyn carried on an animated conversation in one area of the Allen's backyard while Fritz and Susanne shamelessly flirted at the other end of the yard. Maury and Janet stood next to each other and surveyed the scene with curious interest.

"They seem very...friendly with one another," Janet remarked.

"They've always gotten along well," Maury noted. "They've been together since '69. Roommates since '70. They have kids about the same age. They're all college-educated, which is rare in this game."

"Do you think they're swingers?" she asked.

He raised an eyebrow. "Hard to know these days. Maybe."

"Hmm," she said. "You know, Marilyn and I were talking after the game, while waiting for you all to come out of the locker room. She asked me something peculiar."

"Did she?"

Janet leaned in closer to whisper in her husband's ear. "She asked me how many times per week it was normal to have S-E-X."

He recoiled in astonishment. "Well, what did you tell her?"

"I'll never tell," she giggled. "That's strictly girl-talk. I just thought it was such an odd question, don't you think? I got the feeling that maybe she wasn't satisfied with her bedroom life."

"It is odd," he said, peering at Mike and Marilyn. "I couldn't help but notice Marilyn isn't wearing her blonde wig."

"Hmm. Yes, it is quite odd, isn't it?"

The party continued past midnight. The two couples said their good-byes and thanked their hosts for a wonderful time. They then strode together to their cars, which were parked alongside the road.

"Who's up for some coffee?" Fritz asked.

"And maybe some breakfast," Mike added.

"You can't seriously be hungry already," Susanne said.

"Leave him alone," Fritz said. "He's a growing boy. What do you say we meet at the diner?"

"Works for me," Mike said.

Marilyn began to walk with Fritz to their car when he suddenly turned to the group and said, "I have an idea. Why don't you ride with Mike, and I'll ride with Susanne?"

Marilyn shrugged and turned to Mike. "Works for me," she said with a smile.

"Me, too," Susanne added.

Mike and Marilyn arrived at the diner and ordered coffee and food. They covered several topics of conversation, from the ongoing saga in Vietnam, to the recent revelations about a break-in at the Watergate Hotel and its connections to the White House, to the pros and cons of the Equal Rights Amendment. They were so engrossed in conversation they didn't even realize Fritz and Susanne had been gone for nearly two hours.

The following afternoon, Fritz and Marilyn enjoyed a rare day off to play with their boys at the park. They sat on a park bench and watched as the boys took turns pushing each other on the swing and sliding down the slide.

"So, what did you two do all that time?" Marilyn asked.

"We just talked," Fritz said. "We talked and talked and talked. It was nice. She's so easy to get along with. I feel like I've known her forever."

"It's the same with me and Mike," Marilyn said.

"I hope you're okay with me spending so much time with her."

She thought for a moment before responding. "I'm oddly okay with it. I know I should be jealous, but I'm not. You two are just so alike in so many ways, it makes sense that you would have such a connection. You're not jealous of me and Mike, are you?"

"No, why? Should I be?"

"I have to confess that I find him very attractive."

"There's nothing wrong with finding a man attractive."

"But I'm a married woman," she said with a smirk. "I shouldn't even be thinking such thoughts."

"Nonsense. The day you stop thinking those thoughts is the day they lower you into the grave. It's human nature to be attracted to the opposite sex. We can't un-wire our primitive brains."

"I suppose not." She watched her children and reached for her husband's hand. "Are you attracted to Susanne?"

He hesitated for a moment, as if he were weighing his words carefully. "Any man would be, I suppose. She's very easy on the eyes."

"Yes, she is. And she feels the same way about you."

"Why do you say that? Did she tell you that?"

Marilyn laughed. "A girl can tell, that's all. It's the way she looks at you sometimes, especially when she thinks no one is looking at her."

They sat in silence, watching their children, before Fritz spoke again. "Do you want to sleep with him?"

The question seemed to take Marilyn by surprise. "Why would you ask such a thing?"