Sergeant Martin O’Leary of the NYPD’s elite mounted unit was adjusting the cinch on his partner, a sleek bay named Henry. O’Leary comes from a long line of blue-bloods; his great-grandfather had patrolled the streets of Brooklyn Heights back in the day. As he would later recount, Boog Logan appeared out of nowhere, sprinting up like a man on fire. Before O’Leary could react, Boog seized the reins and, in one seamless motion, swung up onto the horse as if he were born in the saddle—channeling John Wayne, Roy Rogers, and a shot of pure adrenaline all at once.
And then, like a scene ripped straight from a western, Logan galloped across the outfield, whooping like a cowboy on a cattle drive, leaving a swarm of women—and one stunned cop—eating his dust.
For a heartbeat, the entire stadium stood in stunned silence, mouths hanging open in disbelief. And then—chaos erupted, louder and more frenzied than before. Boog Logan wasn’t just escaping—he was performing. He sat on the horse with the ease of a man born in the saddle, reins loose, hat tipped back, looking every bit the part of a rodeo king. He waved his cap high, his deep voice booming over the noise, “Y’all didn’t know Boog Logan was part cowboy, did ya?”
He whooped, urging Henry forward, the horse’s hooves tearing up the turf in its wake, and the crowd lost its collective mind. This wasn’t just baseball anymore—it was a spectacle. Boog straightened in the saddle, letting the horse gallop, but then something—or rather, someone—caught his eye.
Leaning precariously over the railing of the left field stands was a stunning blonde, her curves poured into a skin-tight tank top that left very little to the imagination. She waved frantically, her gaze locking onto Boog like a hunter sighting down a gun barrel, eyes wide with adoration. Boog’s grin widened and in one smooth move, he reined Henry to a skidding stop beneath her, tipping his hat with a flourish.
“Need a lift?” he drawled, extending a hand, his eyes twinkling with mischief.
The blonde’s eyes sparkled with excitement as she grabbed his outstretched hand, gracefully swinging herself over the railing. Once she settled into the saddle behind him, her arms looped around Boog’s waist, he gave Henry a nudge. “Hold on tight, darlin’,” he said with a grin that could melt the stadium lights. “This ride’s just gettin’ started.”
She tightened her grip around his waist, pressing herself closer as her golden hair streamed out behind her, like a banner unfurling in the wind. They galloped along the warning track, the blonde’s delighted squeal rising above the cheers. Boog turned his head just enough to shout back over the roar of the crowd, “You ever been this close to a real cowboy?”
Her laughter bubbled up, free and wild. “Didn’t think they made ‘em like you anymore!”
The fans screamed even louder, but she was lost in the moment, living out a fantasy as she raised one hand high, waving to the adoring crowd like a rodeo queen. The more she clung to Boog, the faster they seemed to fly, the powerful rhythm of the horse’s hooves feeding the electric energy in the stadium.
Every seat was empty now—everyone was on their feet, chanting Boog’s name in unison, as if the stadium itself had come alive. The blonde laughed breathlessly, her cheeks flushed with exhilaration as they raced past the dugout. The stadium lights bathed them in a surreal glow, casting long shadows as Boog, the horse, and his passenger surged forward, like they were the center of the universe. For that fleeting moment, it felt like nothing else in the world mattered.
They rounded the outfield, Boog’s laughter rippling through the night, echoing above the cheers. The blonde clung to him, letting out another gleeful shriek, her eyes shining with excitement as she soaked in every second of the wild ride. She waved once more, blowing exaggerated kisses to the roaring crowd, who seemed ready to charge the field themselves.
Boog slowed Henry to a trot, approaching Sergeant O’Leary, who stood dumbfounded. With a wink, Boog swung down from the saddle, helping the blonde—who the world would later know as Lullaby Sims—off the horse with a graceful flourish.
“Fine horse, Sergeant,” Boog said, handing over the reins with a grin.
The stadium vibrated with intensity, the energy reaching a fever pitch. Grown men were whistling and howling, women screaming themselves hoarse, and the dollar signs were practically visible in the eyes of every concession vendor within a mile of the place. This was peak Boog Logan—turning a celebration into a spectacle so grand it would make Barnum & Bailey tip their hats in awe.
Without missing a beat, Boog spun Lullaby in his arms, dipped her low like a leading man from a black-and-white matinee, and planted a kiss on her that lingered just long enough for the cameras to flash. Lullaby, bless her heart, melted in his arms, swooning like Scarlett O’Hara under the Georgia sun.
