His immediate task, though, was the compilation of all season LVI statistics, and this he'd pretty largely accomplished by the time Benny Diskin brought up sandwiches and blue-season supplies about sundown, at least well enough to know that the Patsies' Bo McBean had won the batting title, that Damon Rutherford's ERA at the time of his death was far and away the best in the league, that his teammate Witness York had hit the most home runs and had the highest slugging average, and that Swanee Law led in games pitched, complete games, games won, shutouts, strikeouts, and had the second-best ERA. As usual, a number of the LVI Stars slipped below the line. The one that troubled Henry most was Pioneer catcher Royce Ingram, Damon's courageous battery mate and the man swinging when Casey got killed: he wound up with a.284, twenty-sixth among hitters and thus just out of the twenty-four man Star grouping for LVII. Of course, he could make a comeback next year; Henry hoped he would. But maybe it was worse than that. The instrument. Watching Damon, he missed Casey; watching Casey, Ingram… where would it end?
Before posting all the statistics in the permanent records, of course, he'd have to run a complete audit of all box scores and computations — couldn't risk mistakes, it was the one thing that frightened him — but he had enough now to pass out the MVP award to Law, the Rookie-of-the-Year posthumously to Damon Rutherford, and the Manager-of-the-Year prize to the Haymakers' Rag Rooney, his third time to win it, and to name the UBA All-Stars, the dream team of LVI. .
First Base: Virgil (Virgin) Donovan, Pastime Qub
Second Base: Kester Flint, Keystones
Shortstop: Bo McBean, Pastime Club
Third Base: Hatrack Hines, Pioneers
Left Field: Bartholomew Egan, Beaneaters
Center Field: Witness York, Pioneers
Right Field: Walt McCamish, Knickerbockers
Catcher: Bingham Hill, Haymakers
Pitcher: Swanee Law, Haymakers
Pitcher: Damon Rutherford, Pioneers 
Manager: Raglan (Pappy) Rooney, Haymakers
When Benny Diskin brought up the sandwiches, along with a couple of cans of good coffee, a box of cigars, a few six-packs of beer, sour pickles and a carton of slaw, crackers, a thick slab of rich cheese, bacon and dry sausages, and a couple quarts of orange juice (Seabrooke Farms. . Seabrooke Orange… Seabrooke Bacon… Stogie Seabrooke… hmmm, yes, Stogie Seabrooke, could be, catcher maybe), he wanted to know if Mr. Waugh was on vacation or something. Miss one day of work and old man Diskin began to worry about the rent. Henry gave Benny a fifty-cent tip to go out and buy him a bottle of brandy, and said nothing about getting fired. Summer, spring, or winter, blue-season was hot-stove-league weather for Henry, and so he always drank hot grogs. Yeah, I'm all washed up, boys, I got the axe, I got the aches…
Henry had been dragged out of a deep and peaceful sleep a little before noon by the telephone. He'd been dreaming, something to do with Fanny Lydell nee McCaffree, she'd been thanking him for something, he couldn't remember what, probably not important what, and he'd awakened to the ringing of bells. It wasn't Fanny, though, it was Lou Engel, calling on behalf of DZ&Z to say, in effect, he'd done all he could, nothing more to be done; hang up your cleats. "But what I, why I called, Henry, is, well, Mr. Zifferblatt here found these, uh, papers in your desk, with funny, you know, like names and things on them…"
"That's a horseracing game, Lou. You'll also find a couple dice there—"
"Unh-hunh. Well, we, uh, he found those, all right. But what he wants to know, why he asked me to call you, is what do you wantbim to do with them?"
Henry yawned. "Is he there beside you, Lou?"
"Yes."
"Well, tell him, if he wants to know where to put them, to look in the folder marked DERBY, year — or I mean page number forty-nine, top horse on the list."
"(He says if you want to know where to put them, Mr. Zifferblatt, to please look on page, uh, forty-nine in the folder marked DERBY, uh, yes, that one, page forty-nine, the top horse, or I mean, name—) Henry? What does it say? Why don't you just tell…?"
"It says.Up Ziffs Ass."
On the other end a squeak. "(Mr. Zifferblatt, listen, never mind, I'll take care of—) "
"(WHAT THE HELL DOES THIS MEAN—!!)"
"Now see what you've done, Henry!" Click! and that was all, nothing more the rest of the day. Didn't know why it should've upset him so, that horse never won a race.
It was down in Jake's old barroom
Behind the Patsies' park;
Jake was asettin' 'em up as usual
And the night was agittin' dark.
At the bar stood old Verne Mackenzie
And his eyes was blood-shot red,
And he turned his face to the people,
These're the very words he said:
"I jist come from the boss's office,
I been up to see ole Number One;
He said: 'Verne, hang up your suit now,
Cause your playin' days is all done.'
"Yeah, I'm all washed up, boys,
I got the axe, I got the aches;
Now you'll find me when you want me
On the sack in the back of Jake's!"
Old Verne Mackenzie! Been some great shortstops since… Sycamore Flynn… Winslow Beaver… Jonathan Noon… and nothing wrong with young Bo McBean… but the greatest of them all was probably Verne. Hired and fired by young Kester Flint's great granddaddy Abe, himself a fine old gentleman, the appointed UBA Chancellor the first twelve years— though back then the office was little more than that of league secretary, so he had time to be skipper of the Excelsiors as well. Though Abe Flint played no ball in the UBA, his son Phineas — the boys called him Skinny Ass — pitched for Dean Sullivan's champion Beaneaters, and his grandson Madison Flint played right field for a few years on the Bridegrooms. And now young Kester.