You have always wanted to run the bases at County Stadium. You never thought it would be running for your life. What-used-to-be-Greg Brock is facing toward the stands, busy gnawing on what’s left of Sox first base coach Al Bumbry’s lower leg. Maybe you could quietly sneak past him to the relative open space of the outfield, hop the fence, and escape to your car. As you get closer, he looks up from his meal, seems to sense your presence, still chewing on the leg bone. Caution is replaced by a blinding white hatred at the sight of Brock’s seemingly content, almost blissful gnawing away. Tacking hard right, you head directly toward him. As he works his way to the tip of the tibia, like a cob of corn, you see red. Your full weight slams into his back, Bumbry’s patella lodges in the beast’s throat and the fibula bursts through the back of his neck, severing his spine as he pitches forward. The commotion draws the attention of the bench, and more creatures stream from the dugout. You step on the bag and pivot toward second.
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