"Chiaroscuro Themyst takes the 1-2 pitch from Oaks ... swung on and chopped right back to the mound. Oaks has time for coffee and a sandwich before lobbing the ball to first base for the final out of the ball game.

"And this one, unfortunately, belongs to the River Rats. No runs, one hit, no errors, and one Wheeler stranded on the bags. The final score of tonight's game: Quad City 4, Marietta 3. We'll be right back with the post-game after this word from Monroe Tire."

Losses always were a punch to the breadbasket for the Marietta faithful, and doubly so for the angel brown bear who owned the team. Skye Goodfellow's jaw sank a little lower from his head, and his big white wings sank a little lower on his back as well as he listened to the radio broadcast from his longtime friend Gunny Snow.

He leaned forward out of the press box window and looked left toward the neighboring radio booth. The moustached face of the elderly polar bear was set in a grim profile as he looked down at the baseball field.

The Marietta Sternwheelers had thus far been a disappointment this year, barely able to escape the basement of the Eastern Division of Furry League Baseball by one game.

"Tell me something, Gunny. Have you ever broadcasted any hockey games?"

Gunny didn't know what to make of this vain attempt to change the subject. He knew of Skye's involvement with the FHL, and how cruelly dumb luck had treated him there as well. Had Skye not been traded to the Green Bay Tundra for a toucan named Vav, he would have been hoisting the Furry Cup right along with the eventual champions, the Portland Roses. The Tundra eventually changed hands and became the St. Louis Spirits amid much scandal and an attempt to firebomb the Shopko Center, and it was to one of these latter Spirits games that Skye had invited him.

"I'd tried webcasting Pony League games for my grandson for the practice, and even at that level I find hockey hard to keep up with."

Skye found occasion to grin at this. "No argument here. The leisurely pace of baseball always did seem to fit you better." Gunny had always spoken slowly and deliberately with his nasal voice, dwelling elegantly on Ws and Rs and Ls.

The thirty seconds for the commercial had run out, and Gunny had to discuss the game on-air with Shelby Basset, the drawling ex-catcher who had become WMTA's color commentator. Skye, with a wry smile on his face, made his way downstairs to seek his office.