by Darryl Brock
“You did that?” I said to Harry, who just smiled. After that he could have asked me to climb the flagpole naked and I’d have tried my damnedest.
We set about the business of playing. My teammates included Stockings from previous years, when pros and amateurs had played together. A few were youngsters on the way up. One of them, a strapping lad named Oak Taylor, had considered himself next in line for a substitute spot. He wasn’t ecstatic over my presence.
I started at catcher, then played the outfield and first base. Except for a couple of passed balls, I handled my chances without mishap. Our main problem was at short, where a nervous kid named Brook-shaw kicked so many balls that Hurley finally took the position himself.
I faced Brainard five times. My first trip up he returned my grin in a friendly way—then put a ball under my chin. It came so fast I barely could twist away. I picked myself up slowly. He was still grinning. Very funny. I dug in and twitched my bat menacingly—and fanned air on three pitches.
“Thanks, Acey,” I said dryly. “I realize this is for the whip pennant and all.”
“I’ll lay one where you can plank it next time,” he promised.
He did. I planked it sharply into the left-center gap for a double.
“Charity’s done!” he called.
He popped me up twice on rising balls, but I felt my timing improving. My last time up, he hummed in another riser. I adjusted slightly, leveling my swing, whipping the bat fluidly. Crack! The ball rocketed to the center-field fence almost before Harry or Andy could react. It bounced high off the boards and back over Harry’s head as he sprinted to the track. The crowd laughed and applauded as I pulled into third standing up. Brainard shot me a look under the brim of his cap. I shrugged, grinning happily. I hadn’t hit a triple since high school.
It was a rare moment for our side. The nine won handily, 53-11. George and Sweasy smacked homers, and Andy led a swarm of base runners that drove our catchers crazy. I was glad when it ended.
Finally we were free to disperse—for several hours—before returning for the banquet. Andy accompanied me back to the Gibson House. He boarded with Sweasy, Allison, and Mac a block away, at 421 Main. He said he’d ask if his landlady had space for me. I wasn’t sure I cared to live under the same roof as Sweasy, but I told him to go ahead. Meanwhile, I booked into the Gibson, where the proprietors let me know they were proud to have a Red Stocking stay.
That night 150 people assembled to honor us. They included, for reasons I never understood, practically every judge in Hamilton County and flocks of grandly dressed matrons who swept back and forth in lavender and lace and taffeta skirts that rustled like dry-leaf forests. It looked like an opera opening night.
We sat at the head table. Beside me, Hurley, tipsy from the beginning, reeked of bay rum. Andy claimed he’d been drinking the stuff—it was 60 percent alcohol—and refused to sit with him. We imbibed local wines and ate succulent dishes I could identify only by the ornate bill of fare: breaded mountain oysters; sweetbreads glace; buffalo tongue en gelee; Westphalian ham a la Richelieu, and so on. By the time the desserts arrived I was almost “en gelee” myself.
Champion brought an emotional speech to a thumping climax by displaying our twenty-one trophy balls from the tour and exclaiming, hand clasped to heart, that as Stockings president he wouldn’t trade places with Grant himself. The place went wild—except for Brainard, who snorted and gave me a knowing look; he figured Champion was on the make in the city’s Republican establishment.
There were countless toasts: “To the fair ladies—God bless ’em!” “To the judiciary—always impartial in the game of life!” They elicited flowery responses from whiskered orators. By midnight it was hard to sit through any more. I had to brace Hurley to keep him upright.
We were introduced one by one. We stood and mumbled our thanks, no one attempting a speech—though George stood grinning so long he seemed about to give it a try.
Only a few members of the Stockings’ families were on hand: Gould’s father, a local wholesaler, and mother and strapping blond brothers; Allison’s younger brother, down from Cleveland where he played ball; Carrie Wright, small and plump, with warm eyes that matched her husband’s—I liked her at once.
I scanned the faces in the audience carefully, trying to match one with the haunting image I carried in my mind. But no, Andy’s sister was not there. When I mentioned it, he said curtly that she did not approve of baseball.
The affair concluded with the Stockings’ song, each player’s verse sung by somebody else, all of us booming the choruses. When the others had had their turns, Andy stood, pointed at me, and sang.
“Our newest man is some for tricks—
It passes all belief.
He tries to snare so many fouls
We’ve dubbed him ‘chicken thief.’
And when he marches to the plate
To strike one foul V fair,
Opponents learn his name with haste—
Sam Fowler makes yem care!”
I sat there dumbfounded. The others grinned at me like monkeys. When they broke into the final chorus, I swallowed hard, trying not to look like a complete simp.
“Hurrah, hurrah,
For the noble game hurrah!
Red Stockings all will toss the ball
And shout our loud hurrah!”
The street outside was noisy with departing carriages. I’d managed to get Hurley safely into a hack. Gaslit globes burned above the sidewalks. The night air was mild.
“I’m umping a junior match tomorrow,” Andy said. “Want to come watch?”
“Sure.”
“As for roomin’ at our place . . .”
“I can guess,” I said. “Sweasy vetoed it.”
He nodded. “Sweaze got riled when I brought it up.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “I need to-”
“Andy!” an urgent voice interrupted behind me; a woman’s voice, low and throbbing.
As I turned, a figure brushed past and clutched at Andy. I caught a glimpse of pale cheek and jade eyes. The eyes, the eyes in the picture!
“Cait!” He wrapped his arms around her. “What is it? Why are you crying?”
“Oh, Andy,” she sobbed. “T’wasn’t in me to spoil your celebrating.”
“What’s the matter?” His face tightened. “Is something wrong with Timmy?”
“No, it’s Mother.” The words were muffled against his chest.“Mother. . . ?”
“Oh, Andy, she died this morning.”
PART TWO
City on a River
I was in Cincinnati, and I set to work to map out a new career.
MARK TWAIN, Life on the Mississippi
The dove descending breaks the air
With flame of incandescent terror
Of which the tongues declare
The one discharge from sin and error.
The only hope, or else despair
Lies in the choice of pyre or pyre—
To be redeemed from fire by fire,
T. S. ELIOT, Four Quartets
Chapter 13
A violent storm woke me late the next morning. I sat up sweating as thunder crashed like artillery and heat lightning shredded the room’s dimness. The air was heavy and stifling. I pulled the drapes open, and only then heard the knocking at my door.
It was a message. Champion and Harry were waiting downstairs, as I’d requested. Hell, I’d overslept! I splashed water on my hair, hurriedly shaved around the beard filling in nicely over my gashed cheek, and pulled my clothes on, cursing as I rummaged for my collar buttons.
They were drinking coffee in the dining room, Harry looking relaxed, Champion uptight. I soon learned why: the security man hired to keep unwanted banquet guests away had offended reporters and several late-arriving VIPs. Champion had been busy smoothing ruffled feathers.
I nodded sympathetically and plunged in. “Maybe I could handle problems like that, once I knew the city.”
Champ
ion raised one eyebrow.
“What I have in mind is serving as a sort of general aide, continuing as second substitute, acting as PR man now that Millar is—”
“Acting as what?” said Champion.
“Sorry, public relations. You know, press releases, personal appearances, like that.”
The eyebrow lifted again. He glanced at Harry. “We’re giving thought to the substitute situation.”
A response less than wonderful.
“Look, what I really have to offer,” I went on quickly, “are new marketing ideas.”
“Yes?”
I took a deep breath and shifted to supersalesman, laying out a half-dozen projects, monitoring Champion’s reactions. The more he frowned, the faster I talked. By the time he started shaking his head I was practically jabbering.
“Whoa, Fowler,” he interrupted. “Your schemes—”
“The club’s taking in money now,” I said. “But you told me yourself how serious the debt is. What happens if we lose a game or two? Will the same crowds come out? What if baseball stops being all the rage?”
Seeing that I’d hit a nerve, I played my final cards. “We’ve got to keep people coming out. I’m so sure my ideas will work, I’ll put up the money myself.”
Both of his eyebrows rose. “Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll repay myself from the proceeds.”
“What about salary?”
“I’ll work on commission. For, say, thirty percent of whatever revenues I’m able to generate.”
Champion smiled knowingly. “If all goes as you foresee, that would be most lucrative for you.”
“And for the club. But all right, then, I’m willing to work for what Andy makes—twenty-five a week—or thirty percent of what I bring in, whichever is less.”
“Less?”
“Yes, less. That way, the most I’d cost you would be a hundred bucks a month. And then only if I’ve brought in a lot more.”
It was a hell of a deal, and he knew it. In effect they’d get my services free.
“And you would still substitute?” Harry said. “Practice regularly?”
Which meant, I knew from Andy, hard workouts from two to six every day except Sunday. We had today off only because we’d played yesterday and faced the visiting Washington Olympics tomorrow.
“Yes,” I said. “I want to be a Red Stocking.” Which was bedrock truth. I didn’t need the salary. I didn’t relish a nineteenth-century career in journalism. Working with the club would provide variety and challenge—and enough structure to keep me from going crazy. I would stay close to Andy and the rest. Actually, if push came to shove, I’d probably pay them to keep me.
“You’ll require a contract?” said Champion.
“I’ll work a month on probation. Then if you want to keep me, I’ll sign for the rest of the season.”
I think that removed the last obstacle. They exchanged a significant glance. “You’ll have our answer tomorrow,” said Champion.
“Fine,” I said, thinking, ALL RIGHT!
I explored downtown for a few hours. The Gibson House stood on streetcar lines stretching to every part of the city; the post office was close, as were government offices, theaters, and music halls. Directly opposite were the Mercantile Library and Merchants’ Exchange. On nearby Fourth were department stores, on Fifth the business centers, on Third the city’s Wall Street, on Pearl its wholesale quarter. Open-air markets stood nearby, with their profusions of flowers and fruits. I began to feel quite well situated. In the wake of the storm even the air felt fresher. Spirits lifting, I startled an organ-grinder when I tossed his monkey fifty cents.
“Danke, kind man!” he exclaimed.
“My pleasure.”
I took a hack to the Iron Slag Grounds, the Buckeyes’ West End field near the Union Grounds. The diamond was laid out inside a racetrack—a sodden mass of mud and puddles from the storm. Nonetheless, teams were on hand—the local Buckeye Juniors and Louisville’s visiting Eagle Juniors—and not about to miss their turns on the field.
Andy tossed the coin between the captains, his face looking drawn. Guessing that he hadn’t slept, I offered to take his place. He said no, Harry expected them all to do stints in the community; he would serve his turn today. Then I offered to help by umping the bases. Andy and the two captains stared at me like I was crazy. So I watched from the sidelines and kept Andy company between innings.
The juniors played good 1869-caliber ball—about to this era what well-drilled legion teams had been to mine. They were high-school age, but it was unlikely many of them attended. They wore uniforms identical to those of their parent clubs, who followed their accomplishments and looked to them for future talent, not unlike farm clubs. The Stockings had their own juniors, who had modeled themselves after the famous first nine even to the point of being undefeated so far.
The visiting Eagles pushed across two runs to win in the tenth, 21-19. The teams cheered each other, then cheered Andy. Two more squads, the Athletes and the Invincibles, scrambled on the field. I’d heard that diamonds everywhere in the city were in use nonstop through the summer; now I saw for myself: baseball was king. Andy stayed to offer coaching tips (“give points”) and sign autographs for another half hour. When we finally left, he said, “I’m feelin’ better now, but last night was awful.”
“I could tell your mom thought the world of you,” I said.
He shook his head, whether in sadness or disagreement I couldn’t tell. “We talked way into the night. Argued, to put it more plain.”
“You and Cait?”
He nodded. “She wants to send Mother back to be buried. Wants Brighid to go along to see it’s done right.”’
“But you disagreed?”
“That I did.” He sounded sad. “Sam, please tell me what Mother said to you before we left that day.”
I hesitated. “You won’t like it”
“I suspect not, but tell.”
“She said she knew her time was coming. There would be problems if she didn’t go home, as she put it. She thought I might help her.”
“You?” There was pain in the word. “How so?”
“I wasn’t sure then, but the fact is, I can help.”
He was silent.
“Look, Andy, is the real problem her being buried over there—or the money it would take?”
“They’re wrapped up.”
“Think about them separately.”
“What for?”
“Because I asked, damn it!”
He looked at me strangely. “If we had money to throw away,” he said at length, “the rest of it might be more tolerable.”
“So it comes down to the cost?”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“What does Cait propose? Can she help?”
He shook his head resentfully. “She can barely even raise her boy. Yet she claims Brighid an’ her an’ me each have to cover a third. Says for me to borrow the money. She’ll pay her part if it takes the rest of her days.”
Thick curly dark hair, pale face glistening with tears, muted green eyes . . . I tried to dredge more from the brief moments before I had departed the previous night—but could picture only Cait’s photograph. I said, “So where do things stand?”
“Same as they’ve always stood—it’s up to me.” The words faded into a groan. “I’m the son, the man.”
And finally I understood his dilemma: to confess unwillingness or inability to meet his mother’s dying wish—or to burden the family for years to come.
“Listen to me, Andy,” I said urgently. “I’ll supply the money.”
His mouth twisted. “You gonna tell me it’s what your dear rich auntie wanted?”
“If that’s what you’ll listen to.”
“You never had no rich aunt, and the answer’s no.”
“I wasn’t too proud to ask you for money, remember?”
“No.”
“Andy, forget the damn rich aunt. I went to get this money because I pr
omised your mom I’d try to help. And because you’re my best friend ever. Who else ever stood up and sang for me, for God’s sake? The money means nothing. I won’t even miss it!”
“Sam, I can’t let you—”
“I was sent here for this!” I beat the air with my hands. “Remember when you said it seemed right for us to come together? Like brothers? Well, I think I got left at that train station so this could happen! It’s all part of it—and somehow she knew!”
He stared downward. “I can’t take your money.”
“Put it this way, then: Will you accept a loan?”
He drew a long, shuddering breath and turned away. I put my hand on his shoulder, felt him trembling.
“Cmon, little brother, you shouldn’t have to carry this all by yourself. What am I for?”
When he finally spoke, the single whispered word came so softly I could scarcely hear it.
“Okay.”
The $2,500 draft was payable to Andrew J. Leonard, transferable to the eastern bank of his choosing. I tucked it in my pocket and walked away from the banks that roosted like fat stone hens along Third Street. Ann Leonard had come to America in steerage. She would go home in style.
Champion’s message arrived that evening. I had a job on the terms I’d suggested, starting immediately. An hour later I met him at the new depot at Plum and Pearl to greet the Washington Olympics arriving on the B & O “Fast Line.” Millar was there too. He said he was pleased about my new role with the team and that he’d be happy to help me with press connections. The pudgy reporter didn’t seem so officious now; we were comrades of the fabled tour.
I escorted the Olympics to the Gibson House, where I’d arranged supper and quiet rooms. The next morning I took voluminous notes on Champion’s spiel as we toured the city.
It was a booster’s tour. Emphasis on growth, on industry, on bigness. We began at the river, where, before the coming of the war and the railroads, hundreds of craft, from keelboats to floating palaces, had crowded Cincinnati’s six miles of curved levee. Now, fewer than twenty paddle wheelers floated lazily at dock.
The Ohio was low in its bed that morning, exposing wide shoulders of shiny ocher mud. On the Kentucky side lay the dark, low shape of Covington, a mass of blackened brick factories. Champion ignored the lung-scratching smoke they emitted until several Olympics asked about it.
