If I Never Get Back

by Darryl Brock

  Chapter 6

  Timely hits by Harry, Waterman, and Hurley sparked a prolonged rally that saw us score nine runs. One out still to go in the bottom of the seventh, nine runs in, and we’d retaken the lead, 32-29.

  Andy nudged me. “You’re the striker, Sam. Lay into it.”

  Trying to hide my nervousness, I popped a wad of “gum” in my mouth. Earlier I’d tried to buy chewing gum only to learn that it didn’t exist. All I’d found was a commercially sold blend of spruce gum and chicle that tasted like tree sap. Now I chewed furiously.

  At the plate I dug in, waved Gould’s black Becky menacingly, and took a deep breath. Fisher regarded me with no visible affection. Craver spat at my shoes. “Here’s a prime-sized gump,” he growled. “He’ll buy the rabbit, Cherokee.”

  I tried to concentrate on Fisher. Gump? Rabbit?

  “You callin’ it?” asked the ump.

  Shit, I’d forgotten. “Low.”

  I scarcely saw the ball as it darted from an upsweep of hand, arm, and shoulder; it flashed suddenly in the sunlight like a rippling fish. I’d intended to look at one. Instead I swung—and missed by a foot.

  Craver laughed scornfully. “Give the gump another, he’s narrow gauge.”

  I worked my gum, trying to concentrate. Fisher’s speed was overwhelming. Could I get around on him? I checked the defense and saw Mart King playing deep at third base. Hmmm . . .

  As Fisher wound I squared around and slid my right hand up the bat, cradling it with thumb and forefinger, extending it like an offering. The ball’s sharp impact drove it back against the cushion of my palm. The ball trickled down the third-base line.

  I dug for first, sure that I could beat it out. Awareness quickly came that I was the only one moving. Even the Stocking base runners stood staring at the ball as it died halfway to third. Then hell broke loose again as the Haymakers stormed the field, claiming I was out.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked Harry as he ran past. “That was a perfect bunt.”

  “Is that what you call it?”

  I realized then that not only had I executed a bunt, I’d invented it.

  The ump finally compromised, agreeing to count it a strike. The afternoon’s cumulative strain showed on Harry’s face. “That was a singular maneuver,” he told me. “Don’t ever use it again.”

  Craver shared a number of personal observations with me as I stepped in again. Least offensive was his reference to me as a “milk boy.” He seemed to harbor doubts about my masculinity.

  “Chill out, Godzilla,” I suggested. It shut him up temporarily.

  I swung hard at the next pitch, but the result was a slow bouncer taken easily by the first baseman. I kicked a rock halfway across the diamond. Why couldn’t it have been storybook? Knock the ball halfway out of the galaxy, get carried off the field by my teammates, tumble into bed with that sensational blonde.

  At our bench I secured the sponge under my belt, pulled Allison’s glove from my pocket, and started for my position.

  Andy grabbed my arm. “Sam, you’re not truly gonna use that!”

  “The glove?” I said. “Sure, why not?”

  “Oh, lord.”

  I understood moments later. The Haymakers pointed and guffawed, a reaction which spread through the crowd. Flynn minced in dainty circles, fitting his hand into an imaginary glove. Craver roared, “First the milksop—what’d he call it?—bunts the ball. Now he’s turned out like some Nancy boy with his little pinkies in a . . . glove! ” It was too much for them; several actually rolled on the ground.

  I went out to the box to check signals with Brainard. It didn’t take long. One finger for the “chain lightning,” two for the “snake ball” delivered with surreptitious lateral spin. It was so noisy that we could scarcely hear one another. The jibes were taking a decided tone:

  “WHERE’S YOUR BONNET, MARY?”

  “AIN’T YOU THE SIZABLE PEACH!”

  Brainard shook his head in disgust. “These country reubens’re even lower than I thought.”

  “What are they saying, that I’m gay?”

  He looked at me incredulously. “I guess not!”

  I realized my mistake. “You know, homosexual . . . queer?”

  To my surprise his cheeks turned hot pink. A topic clearly beyond discussion.

  “CUT THE JAW MUSIC, GIRLS!” Craver’s voice boomed, bringing waves of laughter.

  At first I was amused, thinking that in more ways than one I’d come a long way backward from San Francisco of the 1980s. But as it continued for long minutes, my anger began to rise. I resisted an urge to raise my offending glove hand and flip off the entire place. But it would only stir them more. As Harry’d said, why descend to their level?

  Tension built sharply in the eighth. Down by three, the Haymakers knew time was running short. When Flynn led off with the predictable walk, every soul in the park knew he would challenge me with his speed: stealing second, he would put himself in scoring position and out of double-play danger. Harry came in for a consultation. We’d try to discourage their running game by showcasing my arm at once. Harry would play shallow in center—a calculated risk with Craver up—to provide a backup in case I overthrew.

  The powerful catcher stepped in, waggling his ass and digging his spikes deep. I crouched behind the plate, keeping a wary eye on Flynn on first.

  “Don’t get too near, sissy boy,” Craver warned in falsetto. From the side, where the ump stood, came a muffled laugh. I focused on my tasks in the next seconds.

  As Harry had instructed, Brainard’s first pitch zoomed well outside. I stepped out for it quickly. We’d guessed right: Flynn was off, sprinting for second. Craver threw his bat to distract me. It missed the ball, which smacked into my hands only an instant before Craver’s shoulder bumped me. I swore and shoved past him, set my feet, and threw to second. Flynn slid headfirst. The ball came low and hard—a hell of a throw, everything considered—and Sweasy plunged it savagely into the small of Flynn’s back.

  The ump, dashing out near the pitching box, spread his arms. “Safe!”

  Flynn bounced up, face contorted, hair flying, and said something to Sweasy, who sprang at him; they tumbled to the turf, clawing like cats.

  My shoulder suddenly felt as if a boulder had fallen on it. Bull Craver spun me around, his livid face inches from mine. “You goddamn sissy bastard,” he sputtered, spit flying into my face. “You push me like that, you’ll—”

  I didn’t wait for the rest, but thrust my arms out, jolting the heels of my hands against his chest. He stumbled backward. With a high incredulous howl he communicated the joy he’d have in dismantling me. He gathered himself to leap, only to be enfolded in the burly arms of Mart King.

  “Not now, Will!” King yelled. “After the match!”

  “I’ll bury ’im!”

  “Grand—but after!”

  While I waited for Craver to stop foaming I took in the formidable torso, the hamlike fists, the brutal face.

  “I’m going to say this once.” I put all the authority I could muster into my voice. “I’ve been in the ring. I know how to fight. If you force me to prove it, you’re going to get hurt.”

  They both stared at me. “What ring?” said King.

  “In college.”

  “College!” Craver snorted. “You milk-sucking whoreson! Soon’s we whip you tit suckers, I’ll cave your goddamn homely face in.”

  “I’ll be waiting.”

  “You’ll wish you’d hid in a shithole.”

  “You lay a hand on any of us,” I told him, “I’m gonna knock your fucking head off.”

  It felt delicious to say it.

  Sweasy and Flynn had been separated and were glowering at each other near second base. Craver picked up his bat and gave me one more homicidal stare. I set up on the inside, hoping Brainard’s fastball would drive him off the plate. But Craver was not to be intimidated; whipping his bat with vicious precision, he powered a drive just inside third that Hurley, in left, played
perfectly, holding him to a single. Flynn scored. The Haymakers trailed by only two.

  Steve King popped up for the first out. The next hitter grounded to Sweasy, who flipped to George at second. Craver bore down on him. George vaulted over the searching spikes and sidearmed the ball to Gould. Double play! We’d held them off. I jogged from the diamond, thinking I hadn’t done badly. Now maybe we could cushion our slim lead and salt the contest away.

  It didn’t happen. Frenzied eruptions from the crowd followed each of our meager offensive thrusts: Harry down on an infield trickier; Hurley a foul bound to Craver; Brainard an easy fly to Flynn.

  One, two, three. How they loved it!

  Stockings 32, Haymakers 30.

  I could feel the game’s momentum swinging to them. All of us felt it. We took the field grimly in the ninth, knowing we had to hold them.

  Brainard stared at the ball for a long moment and then called us to his box. Picking at the stitches, he said, “They switched the damn ball on us!”

  Harry examined it, then summoned the ump. Brainard figured they’d made the switch in the eighth, pitching a dead ball to us while removing the original ball’s cover and inserting a Bounding Rock, then restitching it in time for their ups. If Brainard hadn’t spotted shiny threads on the discolored surface, it would have worked.

  The Haymakers denied everything. A confusion of arguments ensued, each club claiming a forfeit on the grounds of unsporting conduct. The crowd stamped and whistled and booed. Finally a new ball was agreed upon and play resumed.

  To our dismay their leadoff man—in this case the speed-burning Bellan—again walked on four pitches. Brainard stalked around the box angrily. I went out to steady him. He had almost nothing on his pitches now.

  “How do you feel?” I asked.

  “Like a double play!” he snapped. “Get the hell out of here!”

  Fisher fouled off several pitches and finally sent one spinning high behind the plate. I wheeled and dug hard, saw the ball bounce far ahead, dove anyway, and before it bounced again managed to thrust my gloved hand—let them savor it!—between the ball and the grass; my fingers clutched it for the out. Remembering the stupid foul rule, I threw quickly and nearly doubled Bellan off before he could dive back to first.

  “That’s the ginger, Sam!” yelled Harry. Praise poured in from the others.

  But my satisfaction vanished on the very next pitch—a bouncer in the dirt that got by me so far that Bellan stood on third by the time I retrieved it. Shit!

  The tying run strode arrogantly to the plate in the person of Clipper Flynn. He swung viciously and pulled a mammoth drive that hooked foul just before clearing the outfield carriages. Then he lined a shot that nearly tore Waterman in half. The scrappy third baseman somehow clutched the ball to his stomach for the out. We took a collective breath. Two down. One more and the game was ours. Just one more. The crowd was growing silent.

  Up to the plate stalked Craver, bat twitching in his hand. His face was set in grim lines. We said nothing to each other now.

  Remembering that he’d drilled a tight pitch last time, Brainard teased him with one six inches outside. Craver watched it pass. The ump issued his usual warning. We faced a tough decision: work Craver cautiously and risk putting the tying run on; or challenge him, taking our chances against his powerful bat. We decided to come at him. Brainard loosed a beauty that danced along the outside corner.

  It was the wrong choice. Craver’s upper body swelled as he whipped the bat like a toy. The ball exploded and climbed the sky, soaring over the outfield. Harry and Mac turned and gave chase into the crowd of carriages and spectators. Mac shouldered desperately among them. He emerged with the ball and heaved it in with all his might to the cutoff. Craver, rounding third, abruptly retreated to the bag.

  The tying run stood only ninety feet away.

  Steve King strode to the plate. I called time and went to the pitching box. “What now?” Brainard demanded. I waved for Harry to join us.

  “Let’s walk him,” I said.

  Harry’s eyes widened. “On purpose?”

  I nodded.

  He shook his head. “It isn’t done.”

  His propriety irritated me. “So what? Let’s do it anyway. Their shortstop’s on deck; he hasn’t hit anything all afternoon.”

  Harry pulled at his whiskers, his soft eyes probing mine. “But that would set up the two-stage steal again. Even if Craver held third while the other advanced, they’d be in position to score the tying and lead runs with a single strike.”

  “But Craver will try to score,” I argued. “He’s done it all day—and I want him to once more. I have a way to get that last out we need.” I told them what I had in mind. Brainard shook his head in increasing wonder.

  “The rules don’t provide for it,” Harry said, his face troubled.

  “Do they forbid it?” I said. “And do they provide for Craver knocking us around whenever he wants?”

  After a moment Harry turned and jogged toward his position.

  “That means we’re on our own.” A smile glinted in Brainard’s eyes. “I say let’s give ’em a stir, Sam.”

  We walked King on four lobs far outside the striker’s box. The crowd bellowed. I was showered with new abuse, not all of it verbal: ripe fruit and several bottles thudded nearby. I had outraged their notions of how the game should be played. First the bunt. Then the glove. Now an intentional walk. Too much.

  King edged off first. Craver moved down the line from third and called, “Now I’ll see what you’re made of, milk boy!”

  You will indeed, I thought.

  I withdrew the sponge from my belt and squeezed it into my gloved hand. As Brainard twisted into his windup, I watched King at first. Sure enough, he was off with the pitch. The ball came in hard and high; the batter made no attempt to swing. I caught it cleanly and rose to throw. From the corner of my eye I saw Craver poised to sprint. I plucked the sponge from under the ball and hurled it as hard as I could toward second, having trimmed it to the approximate circumference of a baseball. Brainard sprawled flat in the pitching box as though to get out of its way.

  At the instant it left my hand Craver lowered his head and charged. “No!” the hitter yelled. Craver kept coming. I concealed the ball in my gloved hand, my heart pounding, and forced myself to look straight ahead until he was only a few strides away. I’d moved slightly up the line toward third inside the baseline. Craver could have passed with no contact. But I could tell that wasn’t what he had in mind: his forearm swung upward as he barreled straight for me. I stepped away and with a right hook planted the ball against the side of his head. The solid impact was very satisfying. Craver grunted, lurched sideways, toppled to one knee.

  I showed the ball to the ump. He looked perplexed. “Runner’s out,” I prompted, and tossed it to him.

  Then Craver was up and charging, his eyes crazy. Concentrate, I told myself, trying to resurrect basics from more than a decade before: chin tucked on shoulder, weight distributed on balls of feet, rocker steps. I could almost hear my coach’s litany: “Hands up! Chin down! Breathe!”

  I stepped inside Craver’s wild charge, rocked forward and jabbed sharply, exhaling with a snort as I punched. There was a popping sound and blood gushed from Craver’s nose. He stopped and stared stupidly at droplets spattering to the ground. A hand clutched at my shoulder. I shook it off. There was shouting, a sudden confusion of straining bodies. I glimpsed Mac and Mart King struggling on the ground; Brainard and Fisher flailing at each other; Sweasy astride Flynn, clutching handfuls of long hair.

  Craver came at me again. He brushed aside a parrying jab and jolted me with a right that exploded on my cheekbone, his fist slamming squarely into my unhealed cut. It felt as if my face had split like fruit.

  I staggered back. Darkness hovered at the edges of my vision. Andy appeared suddenly, incongruously, on Craver’s back. The big man tore him loose, backhanded him, tossed him roughly. It afforded me precious seconds. I backpedaled
and shook off my wooziness as Craver advanced, managing to halt him with another jab to his nose. Eyes glazed with pain, he reached out blindly. I crossed a right over his outstretched hands. He raised them reflexively when my fist thudded against his eye. I drove a left into his gut. His hands sagged again. Balanced, breathing in exaggerated puffs, I hooked him twice, then got my shoulder behind a straight right that staggered him and almost sent him down. Looking as if he couldn’t believe what was happening, he glared at me, one eye already swelling shut.

  “Had enough, asshole?”

  He crumpled to one knee and said nothing.

  I moved closer and asked him again.

  He’d decoyed me. With unbelievable swiftness a boot materialized in his hand and swiped upward at my face. The spikes grazed my chin as I wrenched my head back. I kicked at him wildly and threw everything I had as he came to his feet. I drove fists into his body, neck, face. Blood and sweat sprayed in a pink mist. Snarling, spewing incoherently, he kept coming as I circled him. Finally he stood weaving, his chest heaving with sobbing breaths.

  I sent him spinning with a sloping left, then stepped forward to finish him—and my arms were pinned from behind by another Haymaker. Craver lurched forward, punched me on the forehead, then clamped me in a headlock. Even half-conscious, his strength was superhuman. I panicked as I felt my neck giving; desperately I gripped the encircling arm and wrenched it forward. We were so slippery with sweat that I popped free, nearly at the cost of my ears. As he wheeled I crashed a right squarely to his mouth. He fell forward, head sagging, and landed heavily on hands and knees. For a long moment he teetered, spitting blood and fragments of teeth. Then he fell sideways to the sod.

  I raised my head wearily and saw a circle of staring players. “Mother of God!” said Hurley. “Where’d you learn to fight like that?”

  I shook my head, too exhausted to talk.

  The King brothers lugged Craver off the field. The silent crowd looked on disbelievingly. The ump had little choice but to rule Craver out—he’d never touched the plate. The Haymakers’ frantic search of the rules turned up nothing to serve them.