Long before the Cougars came to town, the Bluster County Mountain Cats snarled at opponents. Their last game is what you are here to learn about. You might hear it told differently, or not at all, but my source is reputable as any can be found.

"Give me liberty or give me death!" shouted pinch runner Charlie Carlson as he stood on third base looking home. Everyone knew what this meant, especially Lou Ewer at the mound. And especially Slim Parkins behind home -- the Crawford City Lumberjacks' catcher who saw clearly the silhouette of Charlie haunched forward.

Charlie was looking for freedom from the base he tethered his right leg. He left leg itched to run.

"Give it to me, Mick. You know what I want." If Mickey Durante, the Cats' manager, did not give him the go-ahead, Charlie would stand poised but unmoving.

The Midwest League Class A minor league baseball was for up-and-comers and down-and-outers. Not Charlie. He played, "To fix life." He never explained what he meant. There were no World Series aspirations in Charlie's life. Not him. The rest of the week, he drove a train into and out of Chicago.

"You call it, Charlie. When you're ready," nodded Mickey.

The Bluster County Mountain Cats knew what they had in Charlie Carlson: A terrible hitter, and legs like thunder. He did not bring speed; he brought fear. 375 pounds of muscle, and the will power of a Mack Truck. Charlie's mom fed him Clydesdale milk when he was a baby, and so he was 6' tall by the fourth grade. When he joined the Cats, they sewed drapes together from the Wells Mansion to make his uniform. It fit well enough. 

When he ran, the ground shook. Earthquake scientists regard the seismic activity in the central Midwest as "Mountain Cat Charlie is running again." They would say this knowing full and well that some of the area earthquakes were caused by rifts in the tectonic plates.

Getting him on base was the problem. His arms were strong, but his eyes were bad. Pitchers had to be careful, however. Big as Charlie was, he crowded the plate even when standing up straight. A 95-mile an hour fastball hitting his left bicep would bounce back and injure the opposing team's pitcher. This team from northern Michigan was not unaware of Charlie's capacities.

"Mick?"

"Yeah, Charlie?"

"You know I'm gonna hurt 'em."

"I know. Hurt 'em, but don't kill 'em."

The score was stuck at 3-3 in bottom of the ninth. With just one out, Shortstop Stu Graves was up to bat. An easy out on a good day, all Stu needed to do today was get Charlie running.

"Time!" The Lumberjacks manager ran up to the home plate umpire, and to the catcher. Something was said. As the catcher went back to the dugout, a seven-foot man stepped out. He breathed in and grew another two-foot-three-inches up and one foot around. He grinned and knocked out the first two rows.

Handsome Hank Hawkins. He was what the Lumberjacks liked to call their "backup plan." Their owner found him pushing a stuck tractor in a Wisconsin field after a hard rain, and hired him at twice the pay.

Handsome squatted at the plate and opened his bare hand, ready for the next pitch.

The mouths of 5,000 fans dropped. Women held their children, and men held their wives. This was the first time another man saw the top of Charlie's head without one letting the other.

"Mick? You know he's gonna hurt me."

"I know." They both nodded as two men do when going into war.

Charlie looked at Handsome and growled, and he looked at Ewer and scowled, and he looked at his mother in the fourth row and smiled. He looked at Mick, and he looked back at Handsome.

Ewer's body swerved in three directions, and the ball came out fast from one. Charlie released himself from third. The tremor of a massive man charging caused infield dust to lift into the air.

Graves' right foot pushed back, and his left foot pushed forward, and his bat was laid out in the middle for a long bunt. The ball popped sharply behind Ewer, then crawled toward second. Ewer fell and grabbed and tossed. Handsome reached high for the ball's hard slap. For 15 seconds, the pounding of Charlie's size 27 spikes, and the silent awe of 5,000 fans was all the sound in Bluster County.

Handsome had the ball, and kneeled on home. The flags in center field vibrated nervously. Mick grabbed the third base fence, holding on and hoping.

Charlie gruffed thunderously like a bull. 150 steps turned to five. The body of a human ocean liner readied for impact with the human mountain.

Bluster County knew no sound like the pain heard when Charlie and Handsome collided. Smoke and dirt flew high. Lights flashed like skyrockets -- every color, every shape, brighter and more spectacular than any small volcano.

And then -- nothing but the gentle falling plop of the ball into a ten-foot hole where once was the plate.

Charlie Carlson and Handsome Hank Hawkins could not be found. No one was out. No one was safe. The game was still tied. With no home plate, the umpire called the game over.

I can't say what happened, but ol' Charlie got his liberty, and I think it is fair to say, so did Handsome Hank. The event caused such a stir, the Mountain Cats decided it might be better to cancel the season and sell the team.

Whenever you are at a game, watching the Cougars -- or any other team -- play today, and you see some fireworks, remember they are just keeping the memory alive of a great and fearsome player. 

These are the days in Bluster County which give me the blues, but I would live nowhere else. The sun rises an inch higher here than anywhere else in the world, making every day brighter.

• Follow Bluster County Blues on Facebook.
• Learn more about Bluster County here.
• Read Casey at the Bat, the classic 1888 poem which influenced my tale greatly.