D-FOB-Vrusho 29 FEELS LIKE WINTER Last Monday afternoon, in the middle ...

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FEELS LIKE WINTER Last Monday afternoon, in the middle of editing Robert Ecksel's story about a recently deceased cutman, I was told that the corporate end of this operation had decided to shut down New York Sports Express. The Thursday, July 15 issue was to be the final printed edition, the 56th in our brief history. I'd sketched out the image and the headline: It was to be a close-up of Yankees pitcher Orlando Hernandez, with the hed "El Duque Returns…We Do Not." Then, on Tuesday afternoon, I was told there would be no final print edition of New York Sports Express.

To say this whole thing was sudden is an understatement. It was a called third strike on a pitch we thought to be a mile off the plate. Personally, I have not felt this bad since the Pirates "lost" to the Braves in Game Seven of the 1992 NLCS. (Nice throw, Barry.) Once again, the Gang of Four song comes to mind: "We Live as We Dream, Alone."

In the spirit of ad-man reality (and what other type of reality is there in the end?), it is time to revisit the ending of The Natural. Not the Phil Dusenberry Hollywood ending (Dusenberry, co-writer of The Natural screenplay, was more known for creating Michael Jackson Pepsi commercials than writing scripts). I give you the real ending, from Bernard Malamud's novel. Roy Hobbs is at the plate in the big game. In Dusenberry's version, after breaking his magic "Wonder Boy" bat, an almost-crippled Robert Redford hits a game-winning, slow-motion home run with the bat boy's special bat, and the lights explode, and all is well.

Here's Malamud's original version of the ending:

It felt like winter. He wished for fire to warm his frozen fingers. Too late for the bunt now. He wished he had tried it. He would never give up, he swore. Flores had fallen to his knees on third and was imploring the sky.

Roy caught the pitcher's eye. His own had blood in them. Youngberry shuddered. He threw—a bad ball—but the batter leaped at it.

He struck out with a roar.

Bump Baily's form glowed red on the wall. There was a wail in the wind. He feared the mob would swarm all over him, tear him apart, and stew his polluted remains over the field, but they had vanished. Only O. Zopp climbed down out of his seat. He waddled to the plate, picked up the bat and took a vicious cut at something. He must've connected, because his dumpy bow legs went like pistons around the bases. Thundering down from third he slid into the plate and called himself safe.

Otto dusted himself off, lit a cigar and went home. o