Bunyan Batters Up

By Pamela Love

On his way into town one hot, sticky Saturday, Paul Bunyan stopped short at a river. Well, not short—Bunyan was a giant who towered over the forest’s biggest trees. He didn’t do anything short. He did stop, however, and point to a logjam in the river, made of oaks and pines tangled together and bobbing in the current.

“Fellows,” he told the rest of his logging crew, “go on ahead. No reason you should be late to the baseball game. I’m gonna straighten out this mess. Won’t take long.”

Normally, Paul would kneel on the riverbank and comb the logs into position with his huge hands. Then the timber would float smoothly downstream to the sawmill.

But on that hot afternoon, Paul decided he wanted to cool off first. He waded into the river, though he knew it would be only ankle-high. No sooner had he stepped in than all the water overflowed the banks—carrying the timber with it.

Paul grabbed the logs before they knocked down a passing traveling salesman and put them back where he’d found them. That part was easy. Replacing the water was harder; Bunyan had to squeeze it out of the ground until it squirted into the riverbed.

So Paul didn’t reach the ballfield until the ninth inning. But that was enough. Watching just fifteen minutes of baseball, his eyes growing ever wider, was enough to make Paul Bunyan fall in love with the game.

To be fair, that inning was one for the record books. The visiting team called themselves the Barnstormers. Fine athletes who crisscrossed the country, they played whatever local team a town could scrounge up. As might be expected, the Barnstormers usually won. But this time, the score was tied when Paul arrived.

The Barnstormers promptly loaded the bases—and the cleanup batter brought them all home with the best swing Paul had ever seen. Being the greatest lumberjack ever, Paul was a fine judge of a swing. What could he do with an axe in his hand? Paul wondered. He took a deep breath, nearly sucking up a nearby saloon. What could I do with a bat?

After the next batter retired without scoring, the teams switched sides. The Barnstormers’ pitcher struck out two local players before the third reached first on a bloop single. The next player cracked a line drive. The baserunner slid into second in the middle of a cloud of dust. The umpire shouted, “Safe!”

Paul started a thunderous clapping. It was a cloudy day, and the Barnstormers all looked up, watching for lightning. The townsfolk were all used to the giant sitting in their midst and took no more notice of him than of any other neighbor.

Their manager had been trying not to gawk at Paul but finally laughed. “Why, you must be Paul Bunyan! I’ve heard about you. Many a time I’ve wished you were the umpire. Nobody would argue with you.”

“Thank you kindly, sir, but what I really want is to step up to the plate.” Big as he was, Paul had a whole lot of “want” in him.

The next-up home player said, “Fine with me.”

“Well…” The Barnstormers’ manager glanced at his pitcher.

The pitcher tipped his cap. “Never turned down a batter yet. Ain’t starting today.”

Wrenching the blade off his axe and setting it carefully down, Paul went into a batter’s crouch behind home plate, his axe handle on his shoulder. The pitcher swallowed a smile. Bunyan’s strike zone was bigger than an entire team standing on each other’s shoulders. The catcher, somewhat green around the gills, took his position.

“Ready when you are,” said Paul.

The pitcher shook his head. “You need a proper baseball bat.”

A local player handed his to the lumberjack.

Paul was dubious. “I’ve got bigger splinters in my little toe.” Being a good sport, he took the bat anyway, carefully balancing it between the nails of his thumb and forefinger.

Deciding to start with his knuckler, the pitcher wound up. That horsehide practically did dressage as it pranced across the plate. Paul was befuddled—the ball seemed to be in three places at once. He swung, but not until the ball was safely in the catcher’s mitt.

“Strike!” called the umpire.

Next came the curveball. Paul swung harder and sooner. Not only did he miss the ball, but the bat skidded out of his grasp, landing in foul territory—if a half-mile away counted as foul territory. Another strike.

After fetching his bat, Paul squared up again. The pitcher threw his fastball. It was just the sort of pitch Paul had been hoping for—right down the middle. But before he could connect, a lightning bolt struck and shattered the bat, while Paul’s hair and beard stood on end.

Everyone else went running for cover.

“Good game!” Paul shouted, disappointed though he was.

The next day he hoped to try again, but the Barnstormers had left town already. Glum, Paul hefted his axe handle. “Wish I could’ve used you. Maybe someday.”

That night, back at the logging camp, Bunyan spotted a falling star. “Wonder if that could make my wish come true,” he said to himself. “Star, please give me one more pitch.”

He didn’t expect results right away, but the falling star changed direction, arcing toward where he stood, growing larger and larger as it came blazing toward him. Bracing himself, Paul walloped the meteor with his axe handle so hard it zoomed straight out of the atmosphere—where it became Earth’s moon.

Oh, Earth had a moon before that one, but when Paul’s meteor slammed into it, the old moon was knocked almost all the way out of the solar system by the collision. An astronomer needed a fancy telescope to find it decades later. Now we call it Pluto.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Pamela Love was born in New Jersey, and worked as a teacher and in marketing before becoming a writer. Her work has appeared in Havok, Page & Spine, and Luna Station Quarterly. She is the 2020 winner of the Magazine Merit Fiction Award for her story “The Fog Test”, which appeared in Cricket. She and her family live in Maryland.

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