The '51 Rocks

by Matt Musson

  Following a couple more sad outings under that blazing sun, we finally made it home to play at our own stadium on August 6th. That day Shine and I set a record for icing down the most cases of Cokecola and the team emptied every single bottle.

  We had 70 losses going into that home game, and that match was scoreless through six innings. But, the wheels came off in the seventh, and we lost to the Shelby Farmers 5-0. The location had changed but the results remained the same.

  At least we did not have a two hour ride home on that stifling unventilated school bus. And, after the game we turned on the water faucet and stuck our heads beneath the cooling well water stream. (And, when I got home, I inhaled half a pitcher of lemon grape Kool-aid)

  On August 8th, we were scheduled to play another scorching hot contest against the Twins at our house but, Mother Nature had different plans. It looked like we were finally going to get a break from the heat!

  The weather service reported that tropical storm Irene was heading ashore in South Carolina and those forecasters figured it was heading our way.

  The day broke just as hot and hazy as every other day for the last two months. It looked like the Carolina farmers were victims once more of false hope and promises.

  With no sign of rainy Irene, Shine and I hit the clubhouse just after lunch to clean up the equipment, dress out the shoes and get ready to play some baseball. Big Bubba was raking down the dusty infield and setting out the bases. Chopper Gaines was hacking down weeds that were growing in back of the dugout where the water faucet dripped.

  Every so often, we looked up at the Southern skies hoping to spot a rain cloud in the distance. But, all we saw was the same old, same old: hot and hazy and 100% chance of sweat.

  About two o'clock the players started showing up for batting practice. Bob Pugh takes the mound and starts putting some across for the boys. Before you know it, Bob starts clowning around and throwing some underhanded softball pitches.

  That's when Tyler Shugart bets that he can take two swings at the same pitch before it crosses the plate. So, Bob takes Tyler up on the wager and the rest of us drift over to see the show.

  Bob launches three underhanded drop pitches in a row. And, try as he might, Tyler Shugart can't live up to his boast but, Tyler catches the final falling pitch with all his strength and sends it almost straight up.

  That ball seemed like it hung up there forever. Eventually it fell like a mortar shell to land right next to the pitcher's mound. Bob Pugh yelled out something to Tyler about switching to softball, when suddenly we heard a booming crackling rumble in the distance.

  Looking South, for the first time we notice menacing black thunderheads stretching across the horizon from East to West, as far as the eye could see.

  Irene was coming to the game!

  “I believe it's clabbering up to rain,” Bubba observed.

  “Looks like a frog strangler to me,” agreed Chopper. “We better get our stuff picked up and put inside.”

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  For the next half hour, the line of thunderstorms came rumbling in from the South. The sun disappeared and the wind picked up. Shine and I were running around grabbing up equipment and moving it back to the clubhouse as rapidly as possible.

  The temperature dropped quickly and the wind came whipping up with a vengeance. Dust and dirt blew through in waves. An old paper popcorn bag was whisked up from the stands and swirled into the atmosphere caught in the grasp of an unseen tornado. It just circled higher and higher until it was lost from sight. I wondered if it would swirl all the way to Hickory, and maybe on to Oz.

  About that time, we heard plop, plop, plop as fat swollen raindrops started thumping down on the parched red infield. Soon, individual drops gave way to a drumming chorus as thousands of beads cascaded down from the heavens.

  The odd thing was nobody ran for cover.

  We just stood there looking up at the sky as if we were seeing rain for the very first time. Ball players stretched out their arms and opened their mouths like they were catching January snowflakes on their tongues.

  Before long the rain was pounding and it felt like standing under a showerhead. The guys started whooping and hollering and dancing around the field as if they had lost their minds. Then, like ballplayers do when they get excited, they began whipping the baseball around the infield as the cool rain dripped off their caps and made trails down dust covered necks.

  We were overcome by welcome rain and refreshing wind. Two months of oppressive heat had beaten us down, and this squall was like getting a reprieve from the Governor. Suddenly we were released from the scorching chains of summer and we danced and sloshed and played like kids in a fountain.

  Wiping raindrops from his eyes, John Hollar grabbed a bat and stepped into the batter’s box where Bob Pugh served him up a blue plate special. John smacked a grounder that slid through the grass heavy with rain and rolls on towards the outfield.

  John dashed to first and turned the corner heading for second as the right fielder chased down the ball. In one fluid motion the fielder picked up the sphere and fired it into the base just as John hit the ground to slip and slide in safely. Sliding John beat the tag and stood up to display a face and shirt covered by the muddy scarlet earth. He laughed like a preschooler playing in a puddle.

  After John, Bob Pugh walked over to first base. Then he took off towards second and slid across the mud. And, he came up with a smile.

  Before long, everyone was lining up to see who could slide the farthest. The rain continually replenished any water and mud that was splashed aside.

  Then, Bob called me over, and he and John Hollar each grabbed a hand and a foot. On the count of three they sling me down the baseline, and I skated across the puddles and into base. Standing up, I looked like I had been dipped in reddish chocolate. My entire front was covered with cool muddy slime. So, I lie down on my back in the brown grass of left field and let the rain splash across my face.

  We played in the mud and the rain for half an hour. The wind kept blowing stronger and the late afternoon sky was nearly pitch black. Finally, a nearby lightning strike followed by a booming crash of thunder, drove us all into protection of our little cinderblock clubhouse.

  Since a nearby lightning strike could follow the water lines, we had to wait until the electrical storm passed to shower. The storm knocked out power to the stadium. So, we huddled together in the clubhouse just waiting in the shadows.

  Suddenly, Shine starts laughing like a muddy little hyena.

  “What are you cackling about?” I asked.

  “Look at us!” he laughed pointing to the fellows around him. “Every player on the team is colored!”

  I looked around the darkened room and sure enough, a layer of mud left everyone a gleaming reddish brown. A stranger would be hard pressed to tell who was white and who was not.

  For a half hour, we stood there like chocolate soldiers, until the lights came back on and the storm settled down to a soaking rain. With the lightning gone, we finally moved into the showers where we used plenty of soap and water to scrub off as much brown color as possible.

  But later, as I made my way home through the continuing rain, I wondered how I would feel if my temporary tint had not washed off.

  Would I be a different person if the mud dyed me brown forever?

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Chapter Thirteen – When is a Cuban not a Cuban

  On August 10th we played Morganton at home and got a chance to see their new Cuban pitcher, Jimenez Cuervo. We had been hearing about this hotshot and how he threw fire, had pin point accuracy and how his curve would break clear across the strike zone. We really did not want to play against him, but we were looking forward to seeing him pitch. We wanted to see if he really had the juice that everyone said he did.

  Bob Pugh started against this Cuban wonder and thanks to some good defense by the Rocks infield; we managed to stay at 0-0
through four complete innings.

  Old Jimenez was everything they said he was, plus some more besides!

  He was making our batters look like little leaguers. They were so turned around they were swinging at trash and watching strike after strike go by.

  It was painful to watch, but I could not help admiring Cuervo. I knew this was one Cuban who was headed for the majors!

  In the bottom of the fifth, I watched as Jimenez lowered the boom on our second baseman Deacon Thorp. Poor old Deacon just did not know which way was up!

  “That's one heck of a pitcher isn't it?” asked Big Bubba.

  “I swear he could pitch a perfect game, and it would only take him six innings to do it,” I replied.

  “I saw him pitch a no hitter, once,” Bubba remarked. “He was throwing more heat in the ninth than in the first. “

  “You've seen him pitch before?” Shine asked.

  “Yep,” replied Bubba. “He was on the team when I played for Asheville.”

  I was surprised.

  “You had Cubans playing for Asheville?”

  “He ain't no more Cuban than any other Georgia farm boy.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “That's Shoofly Brown from Savannah,” Bubba explained. “He's had his hair straightened and grown a mustache. But, he's no more Cuban than I am.”

  “I thought I recognized that wind up,” Chopper chimed in. “I saw Shoofly pitch a two years back against the Raleigh Tigers in the Negro League playoffs. He threw fourteen strikeouts that day.”

  I was confused.

  “You mean he's not really from Cuba?” I asked.

  “No,” Bubba confirmed.

  “But that's not fair!” I said emphatically. “He can't just pretend to be Cuban. That's against the rules.”

  “You've read the rule book, Bobby,” Chopper said smiling. “Which rule is it that says a player can't pretend to be Cuban?”

  I pondered for a minute, but nothing came to mind.

  “That's not the point,” I said. “The only reason he's pretending to be Cuban is because he's colored and colored players can't play in the Carolina League.”

  “Okay. I’ll give you that,” Chopper continued. “But, which rule is it that says colored players can't play?”

  “Well that's uhm… Oh… let’s see now. I'm sure it’s in the rule book under eligibility. I've just can't remember which subsection it is in.”

  I closed my eyes and tried to remember but, when it came right down to it, I could not recall reading anything that said colored players were not allowed on the teams.

  “I'll save you some trouble,” Chopper laughed. “You can't remember which rule it is, because it's not in the rule book. There's nothing in the rule book about colored players.”

  “You've gotta be wrong,” I protested. “Everybody knows you can't have colored players on a white team. That's plain as turkey squat!”

  “What about Cuban players” asked Shine? “Aren't they colored?”

  “They are Latin colored,” I explained. “That's completely different.”

  “Then how come Shoofly Brown can pass as Cuban, if Cubans are a different color?”

  I looked over and Shine was grinning like a bushel basket full of happy idiots. He had me, and he knew it. And, that's when I said something I spent the rest of my life wishing I could take back.

  In the heat of the moment I used the ‘U' word.

  “Now Shine,” I said. “You just quit being so uppity!”

  The smile melted right off his face. For a second he was stunned but then his face went tight and angry.

  “Just who are you calling uppity, you little red necked pissant? “

  “Shine,” I interrupted. “There's no call to get your dander up. I didn't mean nothing by it.”

  But Shine was not appeased by my half hearted apology.

  “Listen here bat boy, you can't just go around calling people uppity, just cause you can't think of a reason to keep a black man from playing baseball.”

  “Calm down, Shine,” I protested. “I didn't make the rules. All I said was it's not fair that Shoofly is pretending to be Cuban so he can play.”

  “You don't think it's fair?” asked Shine.

  “No,” I said, staking out the moral high ground. “It is clearly not fair! “

  “Well,” replied Shine getting more excited. “How is it fair that a man has to pretend to be Cuban to play baseball in the first place? Especially when there ain't no rule against it?”

  “Shine, settle down. You're just talking crazy now.”

  “I am just telling you the truth, Bobby McRainey and it's something you don't want to hear.”

  Shine did not stop there. He continued.

  “You know what else I am saying? I am saying that I'm not having Hygomia with you or any other cracker bat boy until they apologize! That's what I'm saying.”

  “Well fine!” I replied. “I won't ask you to have Hygomia with me. “

  “Well fine!” he said. “Cause all I would say is no. And, not just no, I’d say Heck NO! “

  “Goody goody gum drops,” I said. “I'll just eat all my Hygomia sandwiches my own self.”

  “Well, I hope you choke on your old sandwiches,” Shine said. “And I hope you get big as a sow on that sour old milk.”

  “Fine, I will,” I said.

  “I hope you do,” He said.

  “Then fine.”

  “Yeah, fine.”

  Without any compromise in sight, we both stormed off in opposite directions.

  *****************

  We lost to Morganton 8-0 and for the rest of the day Shine and I did not speak to each other.

  I figured he needed some time get over his moodiness and start thinking clear again.

  * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

  Chapter Fourteen – Who Owns Baseball

  After the game I caught up with Chopper Gaines while he was picking up towels in the shower. Since it was just him and me in the club house, I spoke up about my dilemma.

  “Chopper, are you sure there's no rule against colored players in the league?”

  “No, Bobby. There is no rule against it. There is just something called a ‘gentleman's agreement.'“

  “What's a ‘gentleman's agreement?'“ I asked.

  “That's when the owners meet over dinner and they all agree to keep the blacks out, but they don't put in writing.”

  I pondered that for a second.

  “So, it is against the rules, but this rule is not written down anywhere?”

  Chopper looked up.

  “Can it be a rule if it's not written down?” he asked. “Is it okay to even have rules that you are afraid to talk about in public?”

  “I don't know,” I stated. “But, they're the owners. It is their game.”

  Chopper leaned over and picked up another towel off the wet floor. Then, he stood back up and looked me in the eye.

  He did not say anything for a minute. It looked like he was thinking hard and picking out just the right words.

  Finally, he spoke.

  “Bobby, one thing you have to understand: no one owns baseball."

  He let the words sink in.

  "Sure, we let the owners build stadiums and pay players and even charge for tickets to get inside but, they don't own baseball. They can't own baseball. That would be like owning the night air or a rainbow in the sky. Because that is what baseball is. Baseball is a cool breeze that blows through our lives. It’s the rainbow after the storm of pain.”

  “You have to understand Bobby; Baseball is more than a game. Baseball is hope. Sometimes, it’s even hope beyond reason.”

  He paused.

  “You know, I was in the war right?”

  I nodded.

  “But, I bet you did not know that we played baseball in the war?”

  “You played baseball in the war?” I asked disbelieving.

  “Sure,” Chopper s
aid. “We played baseball right on the battlefields. Why, I remember playing in the snowy pastures of Bastogne when it was so cold that your hands could hardly grasp that old horse hide. Sure, we did not have gloves or proper baseball bats, but we played with what we had. We played, and laughed and lived.”

  “We played baseball on Iwo Jima, running through volcanic sand and sulfur flavored air. We played baseball in the muddy jungles of Guadalcanal. In North Africa we played in the sandy desert. We played in the rocky fields of Sicily. Eventually, we even played in the green grass along the Rhine River.”

  “Bobby, we needed baseball. We were a long way from home and in some unbelievably bad places. And, in the midst of that death and destruction baseball was our hope. Sometimes it was our only hope.”

  Chopper paused.

  “I remember sitting in a muddy foxhole in the Ardennes, waiting for Panzers to come grinding over the hill in front of us. We were shivering cold and hungry and terrified, and we didn't know if we were going to make it through the night. But, me and a short kid from Chicago, Mac Tory, were huddling there in the dark, shivering… and talking baseball. We were debating the designated hitter and the infield fly rule.”

  “Suddenly, the ground around us begins erupting as kraut 88's start pounding our position. Each explosion would pick you up and slam you against the walls of your hole. Each second I wondered if the next shell was going to drop in right on top of us. We kept trying to squeeze farther and farther down into the ground, trying to make ourselves as small as possible. We were just trying to survive.”

  “And, right there in the middle of that terrifying frozen crazy world, I realized that Mac was yelling above the exploding shells. At first I could not make out what he was saying, but he kept yelling it over and over until I finally understood.”

  Chopper stopped talking. I could see from the look in his eyes that he was in some faraway place. For a second, he was back there.

  “What was he saying?” I asked quietly.

  Chopper looked back at me and grinned.

  “Good pitching beats good hitting.”

  Chopper laughed out loud.

  “The whole world was exploding in fury and death and Mac just keeps yelling ’Good pitching beats good hitting,’ as loud as he could. Like what he was saying was more important than the explosions around us.”