by Darryl Brock
Very little escaped Harry Wright. He halted practice frequently to give pointers on individual plays. If he suspected somebody of slacking, he’d comment, “You need to show a little ginger.” That was all. Andy claimed that Harry had never been heard to utter even the mildest profanity. I tried to imagine it in a twentieth-century manager.
Harry was not impressed when I showed off by throwing overhand curves and knucklers in warm-ups. In fact, he put an emphatic end to it when Andy and George wanted to learn. But he seemed to appreciate the fact that I knew my way around a ball field. For my part, I quickly realized that the Stockings were damned good—by far the best I’d ever been on a diamond with.
Harry drilled us endlessly on defensive covers and backups. His system was as complex as any I’d experienced. Basically, he employed two field captains: Allison flashed hand signals to position the basemen, while Harry, in center, directed outfield traffic as well as brother George, who galloped far and wide from shortstop. On a high fly Harry called not only who should attempt the catch, but who should crouch nearby to pounce should the ball be muffed—a very real possibility, I soon discovered.
The ball itself, while only a fraction larger than the modern regulation version I was used to, was remarkably more elastic. Manufacturers produced two general types: lively and dead. Harry practiced with a lively ball and reserved the others for games. His idea was to increase batting confidence in practice, at the same time honing defensive skills. He was doubtless right—where his veteran players were concerned.
With me it was another story.
Harry initially stationed me in right. When the first ball came lofting out, I moved under it with reasonable assurance, reached up to take it—and was shocked when it caromed off my hands like a tennis ball and bounced six feet in front of me. I then mortified myself and put the others in stitches by kicking it out of reach as I bent for it.
“No muffins here!” Sweasy’s voice pierced the field. “We’re a first-rate nine! Catch the ball!” He looked around with a proprietary air, as if speaking for them all. Andy’s grin faded to a worried frown.
I felt my face redden. Fuck you, Sweasy.
After more embarrassments my hands began to give with the ball. I snagged several flies and uncorked low, one-bounce pegs to the plate; my arm was stronger, if more erratic, than Mac’s. I knew that my lumbering pursuit of drives in the gap impressed nobody.
When Hurley’s turn came to hit, Harry sent me to first and Gould to right. Sweasy turned his back on me and busied himself at second while George and Waterman warmed me up. Their medium-speed throws stung, but I held them and felt a glimmer of confidence.
“Striker’s in,” Harry called from the pitching box. Brainard, ill, had begged off practice, and Harry was handling all batting-practice pitching chores.
Hurley grinned and pointed his bat at me, the club’s only lefty. He sizzled several shots down the line, then deliberately chopped the ball off the turf in front of home so that it bounced high outside the first-base line. I jogged after it, wondering at the strange maneuver. Then I heard Sweasy screaming, “Fair foul!”
I didn’t realize then that a ball hitting in fair territory remained in play even if it went foul before reaching a corner base. Some strikers—Hurley and Waterman on the Stockings—were adept at knocking fair-foul balls beyond the reach of fielders; Which accounted for corner basemen often playing on top of their bags; they had a lot of foul territory to worry about.
“What kind of headwork is that!” Sweasy shrilled. “Look sharp! Get your finger outa your butt!”
I ignored him. Which increased his output. Harry shushed him and briefed me on the rule. Sweasy paced and muttered.
Hurley next topped a roller to the right. I started for it, then retreated to the bag as Sweasy moved in quickly. He short-hopped it neatly between Harry and me, pivoted leisurely—and suddenly whipped the ball with all his strength, exploding it directly at my face.
“Let it go!” yelled Harry.
Let it go! echoed a voice in my brain. I reached for it. The ball slammed through my fingers like a hurricane flattening trees. Pain mushroomed in my left hand. For an instant I stood motionless, teeth clenched. With an effort of will I retrieved the ball, rolled it to the box, and resumed my position. Only then did I glance down. The large joint of my index finger was a bulging red knob, the skin already stretched shiny and smooth.
Sweasy’s act was not lost on the Stockings, who stood silently at their positions, wondering, I supposed, how I would respond. Harry asked if I was okay. Not trusting my voice, I nodded.
Hurley’s last turn came. Harry yelled, “Swift man at first, one out.” Hurley pulled a sharp bouncer along the line. I took it cleanly on the bag and turned to throw out the imaginary runner. Sweasy dashed to cover second. I set myself, strode forward, and rifled the ball from behind my ear, catcher-style, following through with every ounce of my weight. I’d never thrown harder in my life. The ball rocketed from my fingers. I pictured it knocking Sweasy’s head off.
He saw the effort and must have grasped my intent. He looked as if he intended to wave the ball past with a bullfighter’s scorn. But he had badly misjudged. It zoomed in crotch-high, then made a wicked upward break. I saw his eyes widen. In desperation he flipped backward, catapulting as if struck by the ball’s oncoming air cushion. His cap flew off. He hung horizontally in midair. His head and shoulders crashed to the sod, knees flopping wildly behind. The ball streaked over him into the outfield.
He sprawled on his back. The impact must have taken his wind. Waterman and George were doubled over in fits of laughter. “Like a chicken!” Waterman howled, pointing. “Sweaze flew like a chicken!” The laughter spread. Even Harry smiled.
Sweasy climbed to his feet and started toward me, face scarlet. “You son of a bitch!”
I flipped him the finger.
Ignoring Harry’s shouts, he clenched his fists and charged. I set myself, arms braced, waiting. He halted only inches away, stocky body quivering.
“Go ahead,” I said, watching him carefully. “You better make it your best shot.”
Sweasy had to crane his neck to glare at me. Rage had not erased the fact that he gave away half a foot and thirty or forty pounds. He took a ragged breath. Then Harry and Allison reached us.
“That’s enough, Charles!” said Harry.
Our eyes remained locked.
“You have no quarrel.” Harry’s tone was that of a father lecturing a child. “Fowler returned what you offered full measure.”
Sweasy let out his breath slowly. “I guess it showed sand,” he muttered.
“What the hell does that mean?” I snapped.
“Settle yourself, bub!” Allison stepped before me. “He’s sayin’ you got some grit to you. Here, let’s see that.”
The hand that gripped mine looked like it had been caught in a machine. Allison’s knuckles were grotesquely enlarged, fingers flattened and bent. He probed my injured joint, grinned, said, “Welcome to the national game, bub.”
Thanks. He made it sound like I’d passed some sort of test. Great. The protruding finger hurt like hell. No way I was going to sleep that night. Did aspirin even exist? Too bad Sweasy hadn’t swung. I’d’ve enjoyed popping the little bastard.
Harry was eyeing me. “Go up and strike,” he said.
I borrowed Gould’s heavy black ash bat that he called Becky. I had trouble gripping Becky’s leather-wound handle. I had far more trouble timing Harry’s pitches—Allison called them “dewdrops”—high, arching tosses at variable speeds that seemed to bend in flight. I missed the first ones completely, fouled the next weakly.
“You’re elevating your front shoulder,” Harry said.
On my final swing I connected squarely, getting my weight behind the bat and driving the ball. Shock waves danced up my arms. Andy watched, the ball soar high over him. It hung against the sky, then plummeted into a distant cow pond.
“That was a Joe Darter,” said Allison
behind the plate. “Two to one George couldn’t sock it farther.”
“Thirty cents,” Harry called, walking in.
“What?” I said. “Is he betting?”
Allison laughed. “You gotta pay for the ball.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes sirree, Mr. Champion’s orders.”
“I prefer daisy cutters to sky balls,” Harry said, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. “On the other hand, few grounds could have contained your last blow. How are you against swifter pitching?”
I shrugged modestly.
“Fisher of Troy is one of the swiftest. I wish Asa were here to test you.” He looked around. “George!”
I stepped back in and swung hard at three fastballs delivered by George Wright.
Whiff. Whiff. Whiff.
Harry clucked sympathetically.
Having foolishly admitted catching in the past, I agreed to a checkout behind the plate, first requesting a glove and mask. I had to describe the latter.
“Let me hear this square, bub.” Allison cocked his head and grinned. “You want your face inside a bird cage?”
“Okay, forget it,” I said hurriedly as he turned to broadcast it to the others. “But I’ve got to have a mitt.”
“I’d understand better if Asa were tossing.” Harry shook his head, but sent the freckle-faced catcher to fetch his glove.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when Allison returned. The “glove” he’d confessed to using with such embarrassment was exactly that—a kid-leather glove with the fingers cut off, no thicker than a cyclist’s.
I put it on silently, a matter of principle. Allison proceeded to render a clinic in state-of-the-art catching, 1869-style: how to anticipate the spin on Harry’s twisters when fielding them on the bounce far behind the plate; how to move up close (too damned close, with no protective gear) behind the striker with men on base; how to cup my fingers to minimize sprains and breaks, and to shield my face and neck with my forearms. Allison accepted my squatting position when I showed him I could rise and snap throws off quickly. My arm matched his, but my reflexes were vastly slower. Foul tips whizzed past me before I could begin to react. With visions of my face being caved in, I wasn’t unhappy when Harry finally called an end.
“You better hope everybody stays healthy,” I said. “I’m a wreck.”
“Your instincts are passable,” he said, as gravely as a doctor. “You manifest a great deal of training. Some of your techniques—well, I’ve never seen their like.” He paused. “But, Fowler, you’ve let yourself deteriorate. Slow in the field, tender-handed as a baseman, ill-timed at striking—”
“You always mince words this way, Harry?”
“—but you’ll do in a pinch.”
“Look, I never said I was . . . what?”
“You don’t budge when threatened.” He gave me a look I couldn’t read. “That could prove of worth.”
A suspicion struck. “Did you set Sweasy on me?”
“Not my style.” He sounded weary. “Sometimes Charles gets his back up like a cat.”
“What’s his problem with me?”
“Andy, most likely.” He shrugged; dismissal. “The fact is, he tried to back you down but couldn’t. We’ll need that sort of pluck against the Haymakers on Monday.”
“They’re a rough crowd?”
“You’ll see.”
“Where’d you learn the game?” Andy asked later. “What clubs you been on?”
“High school,” I answered. “A little my first year at college.” I’d nearly said Berkeley.
“You went through all the grades? Course I figured you’d know your letters tip-top, bein’ a newspaperman, but college . . .” His voice trailed off in wonderment.
“Didn’t you finish high school?”
“Hell, Sam, I didn’t even start. Figured I was lucky to pile up six years. So’d my family.” He laughed. “Nobody on the nine’s got more, ’cept Harry and George with eight—and Hurley, of course. Say, when I send off letters will you polish ’em?”
“Sure.”
“What college did you take your course at?”
I rubbed my head as though trying to recall. Berkeley probably didn’t even exist yet. “Yale?” I said tentatively.
“Why, they field crack nines at Yale College!” Excitement brightened his voice. “No wonder you’re up on so many points of the game.”
“Now wait, I’m not sure,” I cautioned.
“Must be, though.” He beamed proudly at me. “Sam Fowler of Yale. Ain’t that a dinger?”
“It certainly is.”
We left Syracuse at midnight, bound for Troy in a close-packed sleeping car. I nursed my finger with arnica and frequent sips from a tall bottle of Mrs. Sloan’s Soothing Sirup. Soothing indeed! The patent medicine blended laudanum—tincture of opium—with a 30 percent alcohol solution; it sent an aggressive glow from my belly to outlying regions. If I couldn’t sleep with this stuff, forget it.
Andy had humored me—I was positive he regarded my injury as trivial—by helping me find a druggist. While he investigated “Proprietary Remedies,” I roamed the rest of the store, boggling at the weirdest bottles, jars, and vials I’d ever seen.
I bent to examine labels, fascinated. Most left specific ingredients to the imagination, but were hardly bashful about promising results. Sufferers of “rheumatism, contracted cords, asthma, deafness, neuralgia, sore throat, piles, and afflictions of the spine” would be “permanently cured” with Dr. Park’s Macedonian Oil—an amazing bargain at fifty cents. Another boasted: “People who vomit at the very thought of pills actually relish Minerva’s Liver and Stomach Lozenges,” which “act like a charm in dyspepsia, bowel complaints, liver diseases, and general debility.” I was startled to see bottles of something called Burnett’s Cocoaine. They turned out to contain “the Best and Cheapest Hairdressing in the World.”
Andy beckoned me to the cash boy’s station. Cash registers didn’t exist; businesses hired kids to spirit payments off to secret niches where cashiers made change. As I pulled out my wallet, my eye fastened on a card tacked to the counter. In Italianate script it read:
CLAIRVOYANT AND PHYSICIAN
Mme Clara Antonia
Business and Medical Clairvoyant
A correct diagnosis given of all diseases, without one question asked of the patient. Consultation in English, French, and German, and has her diploma. Spiritual guidance in sickness and health.
Jesus, I thought, I wouldn’t want medical problems in this century.
“What’re you studyin’?” Andy said.
I showed him. His lips slowly formed the words. “I know her,” he said. “Clara Antonia lectures all around the country. My mother turns out, gives her money.”
“Your mother? Why?”
“You’d say it was like believing in the wee folk,” he said. “An’ you don’t hold with that, remember?”
He was teasing, I think.
Andy stirred in the berth below. I gazed out the window as we churned through the dark city. Unaccountably, the New York Central had put tracks in Syracuse at street level; now we rolled along a main thoroughfare. I stared up at occasional glowing windows that glided by like ornaments in the night. Who lived behind those curtains? Why weren’t they asleep? I pictured Hope and Susy in the illuminated rooms, imagining that I had just turned on the light to look down at their sweet slumbering faces. Oh, lord.
Somewhere inside my drug-induced torpor lay a terrible ache, a void. I desperately missed the world I had left. What was I doing here?
The loneliness of the night seemed limitless. I imagined a woman’s softness touching me, comforting me. A woman to love. I felt even sorrier for myself. Miles farther on into the darkness and into the soporific charms of Mrs. Sloan’s Soothing Sirup, I finally stopped feeling anything.
Chapter 5
We arrived in West Troy with the rising sun at six in the morning. Eyes sagging, brain woolly, body aching, I paraded with
the others onto the platform, where we stood huddled in the crisp air for over an hour. Nobody from the Haymakers showed up.
Champion paced fretfully. “A deliberate insult!”
“They acknowledged our telegram?” Harry asked.
Champion nodded, mouth pinched.
We boarded the first scheduled streetcar this hushed Sunday. A conductor in natty gold braid stood on the rear platform beside the brake and took our two-cent fares. As I faced him, my mind suddenly filled with the ghostly figure I’d glimpsed as I collapsed on the station dock. Suddenly I seemed to be stepping up simultaneously into a bright yellow horsecar and a dark green cable car—with twentieth-century San Francisco bustling all around me, vivid and real even as an overlay on the Troy surroundings. The illusion faded almost at once, but I had felt the first hints of the milkiness: it was like peering through a wall suddenly grown translucent. Too much Mrs. Sloan’s, I thought—and hoped that was all there was to it.
Out on the front platform the driver slapped leather reins against the horses’ haunches—a sharp, fleshy sound—and we set off along the broad street. My hands trembled all the way to the Troy ferry building, an elongated wooden labyrinth. Another fare put us aboard a skiff rigged with a light sail; oars were secured below the gunwales.
“Yez can row, for speed,” the skipper said.
We ignored the oars, drifting leisurely on the Hudson’s calm gray surface. I began to relax again. Mist rose around us. To our right, the massive Watervliet Arsenal bristled with cannon. Directly ahead, the low forested hills of Troy City looked under attack by phalanxes of brick buildings swarming up from the water’s edge.
“What’s that?” I pointed to a huge new structure.
“Ironworks, I think,” Waterman said. “Ask George.”
I did. And got my ears filled. In the twenties, George said, a Troy housewife snipped the soiled collar from her husband’s shirt to avoid washing the entire garment—and thereby created a new industry. Detachable cloth collars, later celluloid, had poured forth to an eagerly waiting nation.
