BECK N ME: Hats off to you

By Jack Crosswell

They were whooping it up at the Fast Lane Saloon.  Owlhead Kincer sat at the piano banging out boogie woogie.  Too Tall Tom strummed a guitar while Hairbreath Harry Akers played the fiddle.  Lori Meadows shook a tambourine as she danced on the tabletops. 
Little Woody was at the bar staring at an empty glass.  He heard a rap rap rapping at the bathroom door.  All he saw was a raven looking down at him.  He pushed the glass away and told himself “nevermore...nevermore…”
Suddenly, like a bolt of lightning, everything got graveyard quiet.  In marched Martha James with determined steps.  She wielded a Louisville slugger bat in one hand and carried a bag of New York Yankee caps in the other.
Her words were slow but determined.  “I want everybody to wear a Yankee cap,” she said.  “Take off those silly race car caps and help me root for New York.”
“If you don’t have enough caps,” said Greg Sayers, “I’m running a special on them at my store.”
“This year,” said Martha, “the Yankees will go to the World Series and win the title in four straight.  You can mark my words on that.”
Dean Higgins, the bartender, brought that story to the barn the next morning.  He sported a black eye but a Yankee cap covered his bald spot.
“That was one determined Yankee fan,” said Dean.
“I wondered why you weren’t wearing your Kyle Busch hat,” said Beck, my ole Missouri mule.  “Under the same circumstances, I would have put on a Yankee cap myself.”
Old Blue Rosenbloom said, “If the car races get much duller, I’m gonna become a Yankee fan.  Goodyear ought to make a tire that can go more than 25 miles.  Even horseshoes last longer than that.”
Buster Blossom said, “Maybelle, my wife, says there are strange things done under the late night moon by folks who pull for baseball teams and car racers.”
“She’s a big woman,” mumbled No Fenders McGee.
A retired lawman and journalist, and published novelist, Jack Crosswell lives in Cripple Creek.