If I Never Get Back

by Darryl Brock

  “Warning!” shouted the ump. “Next I’ll call!”

  “Call what?” Allison demanded.

  “Wide.”

  “WHAT!” Allison jumped in the air. Brainard rolled his eyes and studied the sky.

  Bellan took three more pitches—an ominous sign of things to come: thirteen Haymakers, including leadoff men in virtually every inning, would walk that afternoon. Whenever Brainard protested—technically illegal, since only captains were supposed to dispute umpires’ calls—the Haymakers launched fresh verbal assaults.

  Suggesting that Brainard’s “jimjams” (wildness) had genetic roots, they proceeded to stock his family tree with startling possibilities.

  Finally the pitcher turned in exasperation and said, “Go to damnation!” Champion recoiled in shock at our table. A different reaction came from Bull Craver. He stepped from the Haymaker bench and snarled, “Shut your goddamn flyhole, Brainard, or I’ll shut it quick!”

  “These guys are incredible,” I said to Hurley.

  “They’re low is what.”

  “Yeah,” I agreed, “on the evolutionary scale.”

  Again he looked at me in surprise. “You know Darwin’s work?”

  “Where I come from,” I said, “it’s old stuff.”

  Bellan stole second and took off for third on the next pitch. Allison rifled the ball to Waterman, who made a sweeping tag. The ump ruled Bellan safe. Waterman spat a brown stream into the dust between the official’s shoes.

  We got a break on the next play. When Fisher walked, Bellan, forgetting a recent rules change, trotted home, accustomed to advancing on walks as modern runners do on balks. Allison promptly tagged him. The Haymakers protested, to no avail.

  Mart King, swinging hard enough to fell a tree, bounced a ball back to Brainard and slammed his bat to the turf, shattering its handle in a shower of splinters. Brainard abetted his fury by delaying until King was two strides from the bag before throwing him out. The hulking Haymaker glared at him. After another walk, Clipper Flynn stepped in with a theatrical stance, bat cocked like a rifle, face profiled to the grandstand.

  “Oh, ain’t he the cheese?” said Hurley disgustedly. “Puffing himself before the home folks.”

  Flynn swung at the first pitch. The ball rose on a line toward left. At shortstop George vaulted high. With an outstretched hand he knocked the ball down, scrambled after it, and threw with all his strength. Ball and runner converged on Gould, who reached with an outsized left hand. The ball materialized in it almost magically and Gould jammed it into Flynn’s neck, thrusting him bodily from the baseline before his foot could strike the bag.

  “Out!” the ump yelled.

  The Haymakers screeched and charged the official. Flynn clutched his throat and wheeled angrily toward Gould. He reconsidered as the blond first baseman stared at him, mustache bristling.

  “How’s that to start!” Hurley chortled. “Dropped a duck egg on the bastards!”

  I knew by now that holding an opponent scoreless in an inning carried the emotional weight of, say, a rim-rattling slam dunk or a quarterback sack on a crucial down. Newspapers invariably reported the number of “whitewash” innings.

  The crowd was properly subdued as George moved to the plate. “Hi, Cherokee,” he said, grinning. “We miss you back home—ain’t nobody we enjoy lickin’ so much.”

  The glum pitcher responded with a fastball at George’s head. Its speed was terrifying; I barely saw a pale blur. With lightning agility George bailed out and hit the dirt. He climbed back up, still grinning. “I guess you recall me, too.”

  Fisher threw at him again, this time targeting his knees. George skipped backward. Fisher scowled. Another blazer, even faster, at George’s throat.

  “Christ!” I jumped to my feet. “He’s trying to cripple him!”

  Harry pulled me down. “We’ll not descend to their level.”

  “But your brother—”

  “George knows what he’s about; he’s faced determined men since he was twelve. We play as gentlemen. That language won’t do.”

  I felt like a child. How did the man generate all that force without raising his voice?

  George picked himself up again. “You’ve lost a little spunk off your hot one, Cherokee.”

  Fisher scraped his spikes in the box and this time threw behind George’s head—a murderous ploy since a hitter’s reaction is to fall back—but George seemed to expect it. He bent forward, placed his bat neatly on the plate, and strolled to first.

  Wondering how Fisher could be so flagrant, I asked if a batter was awarded first after being hit by a pitch.

  “Only on a fourth wide,” Hurley said. “Otherwise strikers’d jump in the path of every toss, especially slow ones.”

  No wonder, then. The rules gave Fisher a license to head-hunt.

  Rattled by George’s daring leads, unable to hold him closer, Fisher uncorked an 0—2 pitch six feet over Gould’s head. With the runner on, Craver was close behind the plate. Gould alertly swung, just as he’d practiced in Harry’s drill. By the time Craver chased the ball down, George perched on third, Gould on second.

  “You cut a fine figure from over here, too, Cherokee,” called George.

  Fisher tunneled the next pitch in the dirt. Craver swore and sprinted after it. George trotted home. Gould scored on Allison’s infield hit, but our rally ended when Waterman stumbled—I’d have sworn Craver tripped him coming out of the batter’s box—and was thrown out easily.

  Stockings 2, Haymakers 0.

  In the second Craver smashed a scorcher to left, stole second—he covered ground with surprising speed—and was doubled in by Steve King. King in turn scored on a hit, then Sweasy snatched a low liner and doubled the runner to end their threat. In our half, Flynn chased down Andy’s deep fly, Brainard singled and was forced by Sweasy—who misread Harry’s signals and tried to steal, only to be gunned down by Craver. A whitewash for them. The crowd perked up.

  Stockings 2, Haymakers 2.

  Things got worse in the third. Mart King hit a pitch so hard that he shattered a second bat. The ball screamed through Waterman’s legs for a double down the line. Overconfident, the big Haymaker was nailed by Allison on a lumbering attempt to steal third. But a succession of walks and hits followed. Craver came up again and skipped a grounder toward short. As George charged it, a runner slowed in front of the ball. It hit his leg and caromed into left. Haymakers circled the bases.

  “Interference!” I yelled. “Runner’s out!”

  “No,” Hurley said, scoring the play in his book.

  “But it was deliberate!”

  “Doesn’t matter, ball’s alive.”

  There were times, I reflected, when I might as well be watching a ball game on Mars.

  The Haymakers took a 6-2 lead. We fought back in the bottom half, hits by Allison and Harry scoring two. Andy went to the plate with Harry on third and two out.

  “Give it a ride, buddy!” I yelled.

  Fisher surprised him with an off-speed ball that Andy swung under and blooped down the right-field line. Sprinting over, Flynn extended one hand casually—and fumbled the ball. Andy had already rounded first and Harry had scored when the umpire suddenly yelled, “Foul!” To my astonishment, Harry pivoted and sprinted back for third. Flynn got the ball there ahead of him. The ump thumbed Harry out.

  “Good grief,” I said. “You mean to tell me you gotta get back on fouls?”

  “Do I look like Beadle’s Dime Book?” Hurley snapped. “Why don’t you learn the damn rules?”

  On the field Harry protested the tardy foul call. It did no good. Three innings gone.

  Haymakers 6, Stockings 4.

  The gambling booths were bustling as men shouted and jostled, drunks staggered, and odds makers chanted, “Haymakers! Three to one!” The cries grew strident as the number willing to bet on us dwindled.

  I scanned the crowd for Morrissey and the woman. They sat in a cluster of extravagantly plumed spectators. His dark head wa
s tilted back, laughing; she leaned against him, smiling and petite. God, she was something. As I stared I became aware of another figure. McDermott, the red-haired gambler, was pointing at me. They followed his arm to look in my direction. McDermott clenched his fist in a slow challenging gesture.

  Had she not been looking, I’d have moved my lips: Fuck you.

  The fourth was a disaster for Andy. He fumbled Fisher’s leadoff fly and then threw wildly. Fisher sprinted all the way around. Berating himself, Andy later misjudged Craver’s hooking shot, which allowed another run. Only brilliant heads-up play by George, who deliberately dropped a pop-up and launched a double play—no infield-fly rule existed, naturally—kept the lid on for us.

  Haymakers 8, Stockings 4.

  The pool sellers boomed a new litany: “HAYMAKERS! FOUR TO ONE!”

  Struck by a tantalizing idea, I asked Brainard whether the odds referred to the ratio of runs.

  “No, just who wins,” he said wearily. “They think we’ll fold up our tent, so they’ll risk four dollars to every one on us.”

  “Are we gonna fold?”

  He glanced up sharply. “What brand of question is that?”

  “I’m asking your opinion.”

  “What’s it matter?”

  “Depending on your answer, I might want to borrow fifty to bet on us.”

  “Hush, Sam,” he whispered, his eyes darting. “I can’t spot you cash for that. Champion’d be fit to—”

  “I’d take all risk,” I broke in. “At those odds I could double your fifty, pay Andy back, and still have money to spend.”

  “Double my fifty, you say?”

  “Yeah, you got it?”

  “Not here.” He glanced at the cash box. “But you do, close at hand.”

  “Cover me if we lose?”

  He reflected. “You got collateral?”

  “Hell, Asa, when we win you’ll get—”

  “I’d settle for ‘Home in the Valley’ and that other ballad.”

  “I told you, they aren’t mine.”

  He shrugged and worked a clod from his spikes.

  “Damn it,” I said. “Look, you think we’ll win?”

  He nodded slowly.

  “Okay, what the hell. But just one song: ‘Home on the Range.’ For your fifty—and only if we lose.”

  “I guess that’s hunky with me.”

  “Done.”

  Suppressing a paranoid vision of Brainard throwing the contest to claim the song, I counted the day’s take. Nearly a thousand. I palmed five gold eagles and closed the box. “Gotta hit the privy,” I told Hurley. “Keep an eye on the money.”

  I borrowed a sweater from Millar to cover my jersey and headed for a rear booth out of sight of our table. My timing was perfect. When I returned with a betting slip tucked inside my belt, the odds were tumbling before a barrage of Stocking blows. Capitalizing on two hits each by Andy, Brainard, and Sweasy—and several atrocious errors by Mart King—we stunned the Haymakers with ten runs.

  But they came at a price. As Andy sprinted home the second time, a premonition told me to watch Craver. He stood disgustedly, hands on hips, just behind the plate. When Andy crossed before him he shifted as if to take an incoming throw. His spike crunched down on Andy’s heel. Andy staggered, his leg buckling for an instant. When he came to the bench, he was limping.

  I started up, my brain on fire. Andy blocked me and said, “I’m all right.”

  His face was pale. I bent to look at the wound. His stocking was ripped just above the heel of his left shoe. I saw a splotch subtly darker than the crimson fabric spreading over his Achilles tendon.

  “Get your shoe off, we’ll ice that.”

  “No, it’ll swell. I’m just scraped.” He stared into my eyes. “Don’t try to keep me from playing, Sam.” .

  I reluctantly returned to the table.

  The Haymaker sluggers, righties all, were pulling Brainard hard now. Craver lashed a drive to left center that Andy, practically hobbling, could not intercept. By the time Harry retrieved it, three runners had crossed the plate. Following a conference, Harry moved to left, Mac to center, and Andy to right.

  “Why doesn’t he take Andy out?” I demanded.

  “Needs him as a striker,” Hurley said calmly.

  The Haymakers soon struck again—in several senses. With another run in and the corners occupied, the first-base runner took off on Brainard’s pitch. While Allison whipped the ball to Sweasy, Craver broke from third on a delayed steal. Sweasy handled it with textbook perfection, stepping in front of second and pegging back to Allison.

  But before the catcher could turn for the tag, Craver lowered his head and blindsided him. The ball shot straight up as Allison folded to the ground, Craver touched home while the other Haymaker sprinted to third. When Allison regained his feet, his eyes were glassy. Like Andy, he refused to come out.

  Stockings 14, Haymakers 13.

  We were at game’s midpoint, clinging to the lead. For us it was becoming a question of attrition. In the fifth, Fisher quick-pitched George, got a prompt return from Craver, then hurled the ball squarely into George’s back as he protested to the ump. No longer smiling, George retaliated by slamming a drive inches from Fisher’s head and hook-sliding safely into second on a daring challenge of Bel-lan’s strong arm. Later in the inning, Andy, mouth set in a grim line, clubbed a pitch into the right-center alley—normally at least a double for him, but now he held up after limping to first. Brain-ard and Sweasy followed with hits; we came out of the frame with three runs.

  Stockings 17, Haymakers 13.

  In the sixth Harry took the pitcher’s box, Brainard’s arm stiffening from hundreds of pitches. The switch proved disastrous. After the predictable leadoff walk, Bellan and Flynn smashed triples into the ring of spectators around the outfield. Craver stepped in later with runners on and drove them home with a ringing blow to center. An infield hit moved him to third. It didn’t take a genius to see what would come. “Double steal again,” I told Hurley.

  Sure enough, Craver barreled toward the plate like a runaway train. Sweasy’s throw came late this time, and Allison stepped safely aside. Craver laughed at him as he scored their ninth run of the inning.

  Haymakers 22, Stockings 17.

  In our half George stretched a looper into a double and scored on Brainard’s hit. Andy singled up the middle—and hobbled so slowly that Bellan in center nearly nipped him at first. Harry finally replaced him with Hurley. Andy protested, his face drawn, his bloody legging bulging ominously.

  “Better not to risk a serious injury,” I told him, patting his shoulder. He knocked my hand away and stalked off.

  Brainard returned to the box in the seventh, throwing erratically and giving up two quick scores. The crowd’s jeers and swelling volume seemed to parallel our dwindling confidence. Brainard muffed an infield dribbler. Sweasy dropped a ball and had to be restrained from chasing Bellan when the Cuban spiked his toe rounding second. Harry misjudged a sinking liner in center. Waterman capped things by taking a bad-hop smash squarely in the balls, writhing on the turf within the sheltering circle we formed.

  Andy took over Hurley’s score book chores. He didn’t resist when I packed his ankle in ice from a lemonade vendor. The swelling looked bad.

  “Sorry, Sam,” he muttered.

  “No problem.”

  We watched glumly as Craver drilled his sixth hit. When he reached third they pulled the double steal again. This time, on Harry’s instructions, Brainard took Allison’s peg in the pitcher’s box and threw it immediately back. Craver slid furiously, spikes high. As Allison made the tag, Craver kicked him hard, sending him reeling to the turf. Pants torn, thigh bleeding, Allison scrambled to his feet. He still held the ball.

  “Safe!” yelled the ump.

  Waterman and Allison charged him. He took refuge behind Craver, who stood mockingly on the plate. Waterman crouched and cocked his arm. Harry grabbed the third baseman before he could swing. It was a while before thi
ngs calmed.

  An outrageous idea started to form in my mind, something I’d once heard or read. I turned to Andy. “I think I know a way to use that delayed steal against them.”

  “How?”

  “I’ll need a prop,” I said. “Watch the box.”

  Minutes later I was back with a piece of sponge I’d paid a hack driver a nickel to tear from his seat. Outrageous price, but my bargaining position was poor. I set about trimming it to the desired dimensions.

  George carried us in the seventh with two amazing fielding plays, one an over-the-head snatch of a fly to short left, the other an off-balance throw from deep short after backhanding a skidding grounder. We needed the clutch plays badly. We were in trouble.

  Haymakers 29, Stockings 22.

  The crowd’s cheers and the pool sellers’ hawking cries battered our ears. Undaunted, George led off the bottom of the seventh with a double over third. Gould lofted a high pop that the Haymaker second baseman lost in the sun. Waterman’s fair-foul chopper paralyzed Mart King at third, scoring George and putting Stockings at the corners. Allison stepped in.

  And then it happened.

  He topped a roller in front of the plate. Craver sprang for it, spun, and dove at Gould, who slid in ahead of his tag. Snarling, teeth bared, Craver bounded to his feet. Allison was halfway to first. Craver cocked his arm. The ball thudded against the rear of Allison’s skull. He toppled without a sound. Fisher retrieved the ball and tagged him as he lay unmoving.

  Gould and I carried him to the shade beneath the grandstand, where at length he sat up groggily. On the field both clubs surrounded the ump, who finally ruled Allison out. At that point Champion wanted to withdraw from the field. Harry would have none of it.

  “We’ll take their measure,” I heard him argue as I returned. “Here on their grounds with their chosen official. We’ll show them what it means to have ginger.”

  Andy and I looked at each other with the same unspoken question: Would all the ginger in the world be enough for us to take the Haymakers?

  “Fowler!” Harry called. “Sam Fowler!”

  “Here!” My voice sounded strange.

  “We need you now,” Harry said. “You’re in for Allison.”