[ZELLER’S MASTER BEDROOM – MONDAY MORNING]
Stacks of spiral notebooks, stat sheets, coffee rings, and one sleeping husband. 
Pat “Madame” Zeller pores over columns of numbers.

PAT (muttering):
Home games — 23-1.
Road games — 2-22.
Frank… that’s not luck, that’s theology.

FRANK (half-awake):
That’s math.
Go back to bed before the Kompanions start doing calculus.

She closes her notebook with authority, grabs her scarf and a roll of twenties.

PAT:
I’m cashing in the retirement CD, Frank.
I’m going to go full-Kompanions and watch our ballclub chase this pennant in Cleveland and Boston, too.
If the spirits don’t travel, I will.

She kisses his forehead; he doesn’t look up.

FRANK:
Bring back nachos. And your sanity.

Road-trip montage — train tickets, bus stops, stadium marquees.
The Kent County Kompanions logo flickers like an omen between destinations.

* * * * *
[CLEVELAND STADIUM – THURSDAY EVENING]
“Madame Zella” sipping Coke from a souvenir cup, binoculars idle on her lap.
The Kompanions have dropped the first two games in Cleveland, 9-1 and 14-2.

Scoreboard: KOMPANIONS lead 8–0 in the first inning of the series finale.

She’s giddy, texting Frank:
“They finally learned to travel!”

Eighth inning. Score now 11–5.
She yawns, lifts the binoculars toward the press box—then freezes.

MADAME (soft):
…no… it can’t be.

She zooms in on rotating color-commentator DAN POPLIN, headset gleaming, leaning into the mic like the angel of bad luck.

Scoreboard flickers: 12–7. Then 12–9.

MADAME (to herself):
He’s up there in the booth tonight.
It’s the ‘Poplin Factor.’

MAN IN NEIGHBORING SEAT:
The what factor?

MADAME:
Every collapse — Dan Poplin is in the damn booth!
It’s him! He’s broadcasting the apocalypse!

MAN:
Or the eighth inning.

Another run scores, and then the floodgates open.

Cutaway: Poplin, oblivious, offering a mild chuckle between pitches.

POPLIN (chuckling nervously):
And the Kompanions lose another heartbreaker tonight on the road in Cleveland.
Boy, deja vu, all over again.

Madame slaps her binoculars closed, whispering like an exorcist.

MADAME:
Lord, deliver this bullpen from Dan Poplin’s color commentary.

* * * * *
[CLEVELAND DIVE BAR — THURSDAY POST-GAME]
The neon “Cold Beer / Hot Pretzels” sign buzzes.
That night’s Kent County Kompanions loss replays on a wall-mounted TV.

MADAME (mid-sip, on her cell phone with her husband):
Frank, don’t start with the ‘fraud’ talk again.
The owner saw ’em too —
Every time the team’s at home, those lights shimmer behind the dugout like halos in training camp.
Then they hit the road, and—poof.
You explain that, Mister Skeptic.

She hangs up, mutters to herself.

MADAME (Voice-Over):
Motherfu—(sigh)—I am not a fraud.
But I’d be lying if I said my ability doesn’t scare me sometimes.

Clancy Cee enters, same seat as before, backpack slung over the stool.

CLANCY (smiles):
Hey, you’re the lady who cursed my team.
Swept in Cleveland. Now the pressure mounts.
Now on to Boston?

MADAME (grins):
No curse, honey. Just balance.
Even miracles need home-field advantage.

They share a laugh — two weary travelers comparing notes on faith and futility.
He buys her a drink; she reads him like a book.

MADAME:
You carry too much.
All that writing, all that remembering —
It’s holy work, but it’ll break your back.
You ever think about letting the page heal you for a change?

CLANCY:
Only every day.

Beat of mutual recognition.

MADAME (soft):
Then you’re one of the Kompanions, too.

The jukebox flickers — Supertramp’s “Give a Little Bit” starts playing by itself.

Madame Pat glances at it, deadpan.

MADAME:
That wasn’t me, by the way.

* * * * *

[FRIDAY EVENING]
[FENWAY PARK / BOSTON / STADIUM TUNNEL / PREGAME]
Announcer Dan Poplin autographs a kid’s ball outside the tunnel.
Madame Zella intercepts him, clutching her manila folders.

MADAME ZELLA:
I don’t mean to alarm you, but you’re cursed, sir.
With you on color commentary: nine loses, zero wins.
Without you: 8-2.
That’s not opinion. That’s pattern.

DAN POPLIN:
Lady, I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.
(pause)
Wait — nine straight losses?
You’re sure?

MADAME:
Well, I don’t miss a pitch, honey.
And the pattern ain’t random.
When you speak doubt, heaven echoes it.

POPLIN:
Oh my God.
(rattled)
I was hoping nobody else noticed.

He leans against the wall, stunned.

They share an uneasy silence. Then she softens.

MADAME (softens):
Well, it’s not so much you, Dan.
It’s who isn’t there.

POPLIN:
Meaning?

She gestures toward the dugout.

MADAME:
The Kompanions.
They show up in the dugout and throughout the clubhouse at home —
not able to go on the road, for some reason.
You’re not the curse.
You’re the witness.

Poplin studies her, half-skeptical, half-relieved.

* * * * *
[FENWAY PARK -- BOSTON – FRIDAY-NIGHT GAME]

Camera pans the glowing diamond. Inside the press box sits DAN POPLIN 
— Hall-of-Fame pitcher turned color commentator.

The scoreboard shows: Kompanions 5, Boston 2, bottom of the 6th inning.

PLAY-BY-PLAY GUY (off mic):
So, Dan — think they’ll hang on tonight?

DAN POPLIN (grim smile):
Not with me in the booth, Tom.
I’m like a walking no-hitter for the other side.

Boston crowd cheers; Poplin groans — double down the line.
Poplin lowers his headset, sighs.

Cut to — Madame Zella in the stands, arms crossed, binoculars raised like she’s aiming faith itself.

Her phone buzzes. Text from “Dan P.”
“You watching? It’s happening again.”

She exhales, mutters a prayer, and the organ fades.

POPLIN (Voice-Over):
They used to call it “the Poplin Jinx.”
Didn’t mean much back when this team was cellar dust.
But now they’re good again — and I’m the bad-luck charm everyone is starting to notice.

The Red Sox proceed to rally and defeat the road-lonely Kompanions, 11-8.

* * * * *
[SATURDAY EVENING — FENWAY PARK -- TOP OF 9TH INNING]
A stray dog, shaggy golden mix, trots onto the playing field, tail wagging.
Brian Mountcastle crouches in the on-deck circle, laughing as it leaps into his lap.
Fenway Park crowd cheers in unison!
A rare Kompanions’ road rally ensues.

DAN POPLIN (on mic, live):
A walk-off win for the Kompanions on Brian Mountcastle’s three-run blast!!
They’re now… uh… 3-19 when I’m—
(beat)
—no… make that 4-19.
I think… she was right.

He removes his headset, dazed.
In her box seat at Fenway, Madame Zella wipes a tear, muttering a prayer.

* * * * *
[FENWAY PARK – LATE NIGHT, POSTGAME CLEANUP]
Bleachers empty. Grounds crew rakes the dirt.
Madame Zella lingers near the third-base tunnel with her tote bag and thermos, scanning a printed stat sheet.

MADAME (soft):
Brian Mountcastle: 1-for-36 before tonight.
Then a walk-off three-run homer in his very next at-bat after that dog shows up.
Seeks him out; in front of all those people.
Coincidence, my ass.

She scrolls her phone, lands on a team-feature article dated three weeks earlier:
“Slugger Mountcastle Mourns Loss of Traveling Companion”
Photo: Mountcastle with a shaggy golden mix, both beaming.

She touches the image like it’s a relic.

MADAME (on phone):
You see, Frank?
That wasn’t just any stray.
That was a reminder.
The Kompanions bring back what grief tries to steal.

FRANK (on phone):
So now heaven’s running a pet-rescue service?

MADAME:
You hush. Some miracles fetch themselves.

To be continued….

[MICHIGAN HOUSE, JUNE 2013 — MORNING SUNLIGHT]

A cozy living room. Coffee cups, Sunday paper, spring light spilling through wide picture windows.

MARLA WELLS (early-50s, warm, earthy, with that sharp humor that can slice or soothe) sits on the couch, one leg tucked under her.
CONRAD WELLS (mid-50s, flannel shirt, beard, the kind of man who fixes everything except grief) stands by the window, watching something outside.

THUNK! — a bright flash of red hits the glass, drops, flutters off.

MARLA (startled):
What the hell was that?

CONRAD (grinning):
Cardinal. Pretty boy sees himself and goes full kamikaze.

MARLA:
Oh no… he’s doing it again!

THUNK!

They both wince.

CONRAD:
He’s gorgeous and stupid. A dangerous combination.

MARLA (laughs):
He thinks he’s fighting for love. Don’t we all?

CONRAD:
At least I used to wait until the second date to bleed for it.

She smirks, swats his arm with the newspaper. Another THUNK! They flinch, then giggle.

MARLA:
I can’t watch this. It’s like a hall of mirrors for idiots.

CONRAD:
Nah. It’s a love story. He just don’t know he’s the villain yet.

They sip coffee in unison as the cardinal circles and hits again.

MARLA:
You ever wonder if God looks at us like that?

CONRAD:
Only on weekends.

MARLA:
Maybe He keeps a window too clean.

CONRAD (chuckles):
Then here’s to dirty glass.

They clink mugs. Another THUNK! 
Both jump, laughing helplessly now.

CONRAD:
All right, buddy—take a lap, find a new enemy!

He taps the window lightly. The cardinal flutters to a nearby branch, staring at its reflection one last time.

MARLA:
Look at him. Too pretty for his own good. Just like you used to be.

CONRAD:
And now I’m the branch.

She kisses his cheek.

MARLA:
Then hold steady, Branch Man.

NARRATOR/LUNDY (Voice-Over):
Before the wars, before the notebooks and the feathers in his coffee, there was just one bird and two people trying to figure out why it kept hitting the glass.
Some love stories start with a collision.

FADE OUT to--
slow-motion shot of the red cardinal hovering mid-air, wings blurred like fire.

“Years later, the Bird King would remember this as the first omen.”

To be continued…

Backyard Mythos:
Some Miracles
Fetch Themselves

Kompanions color analyst and former Hall-of-Fame pitcher Dan Poplin pauses for a photo with an unidentified fan. (Photo: Kent County Free Press)