If I Never Get Back

by Darryl Brock

  “Course we’re just farmboy amachoors,” he said slyly, spitting tobacco. “But we’ll show up on the grounds anyway.”

  Technically the Forest Citys were unpaid, but the town was so ball-crazy that numerous groups, including churches, had subscribed to compensate them for every minute lost from their jobs while practicing. A fine line, I thought. The reality was that all of America so loved its new sporting heroes that it eagerly showered them with rewards. In Cincinnati it took the form not only of salary but increasing numbers of gifts—meals, clothes, jewelry, livery service—representing a substantial income boost. George claimed he now banked almost all of his pay. Andy figured he received as much value in free services as he earned each month. Even I was deluged with offers of drinks each time I set foot in the bar of the Gibson.

  Brainard and the others arrived the next morning, only hours before the game. Ten thousand people jammed the fairgrounds at the end of Peach Street, buffeted by near-gale winds swirling dirt in high spouts. The diamond was chalked inside an oval racetrack. On it the Forest Citys warmed up, most of them small and wiry, very quick in their drills. Harry cautioned us not to take them lightly.

  Odds favored us up to four to one, but there were few takers after the first inning. Spalding—he had to be the future sporting-goods magnate, I decided, studying him—looked nervous. About nineteen, a six-footer, he was dark-haired, unsmiling, a budding Chamber-of-Commerce type. His pitches had excellent velocity but little variation. George watched a couple go by, then, taking advantage of the wind blowing out, teed off and slammed a ball far beyond the distant tree row in left for a homer. Gould followed with a stinging double to center; Andy later cleared the bases with a triple, and we led 13-1 after one.

  “They’ll come back at us,” Harry cautioned. And they did, but not until the final two innings, when they struck for ten runs while holding us to two. Though the rally came too late—we won handily, 34-14—it set the crowd bellowing to see that the big-city pros weren’t invincible after all. Rockford’s captain insisted on a rematch in Cincinnati, and Harry agreed.

  “They’ll learn from their mistakes and work on the points of their game,” he told us on the train on the way home. “They’ll come gunning for us.”

  We didn’t worry. We were 27-0. And riding high.

  We got home on Sunday morning, July 11, and learned that the Washington Olympics had arrived just ahead of us after careening around in a large circle, winning in Louisville and Mansfield, losing in Cleveland. Now they would play the Buckeyes on Monday and face us for the fourth and final time on Tuesday.

  I spent the balance of Sunday in Over the Rhine, haggling and finalizing our arrangements with Johnny interpreting. Everything, he assured me, was going to work out splendidly. Good, I thought. Let’s hope there’s a big crowd.

  It turned out to be respectable. My newly stationed observers counted 4,563. We found that receipts were over a hundred dollars short. Either four hundred people—almost ten percent—had gotten in free, or gate money had been pocketed. The juniors suspected the former, reporting that a ticket taker at the main gate had let friends slip past, and that a number of boys had sneaked through the east-side carriage gate during the heaviest influx of vehicles. Champion, pleased, said he would fix the gate problem at once. I pointed out that that alone would more than cover my salary the rest of the season.

  “Yes,” he said shortly. “That’s why we’re paying you.”

  The day’s big news involved our concessions. At a booth beside the clubhouse, the smells of hamburgers and hot dogs wafted over the grounds for the first time. A world premier, so far as I knew. Johnny and I had brought in a small wagonload of supplies early that morning. While Helga unpacked our custom-baked round and long buns, we set up a grill and went to work.

  “Vy you call dem Hamburgers and Frankfurters?” Johnny translated for her, affecting a thick accent. “I yam from Wiesbaden!”

  The sausages’ skins were a bit too tough, but they tasted right. We’d had the beef ground that morning. Ketchup didn’t exist, but we had some of the finest German mustard I’d ever tasted, lots of pickle relish, and chopped sweet onions. The lack of tin foil or other insulation stumped me at first, when I’d envisioned selling our sandwiches in the stands, but then I’d hit on the booth idea.

  To test our products, Johnny and I delivered samples to the clubhouse when the Stockings arrived.

  “What’s the nigger doing here?” Sweasy demanded. Blacks showed up at the Union Grounds only when one of the local colored teams played. Slavery had not rooted this far up the Ohio, but Jim Crow had laid down its iron divisions. Blacks rode on the outer platforms of omnibuses, lived in colored neighborhoods, attended colored schools, were nursed at the colored hospital, were even buried in colored cemeteries. A comprehensive system of segregation, cradle to grave.

  “He’s Dutch,” I said, extending a hot dog. “Here, try this.”

  He took a bite. “That’s damn good. The nigger’s gotta go.”

  I moved closer. “He’s my partner,” I said. “Don’t say any more, okay?”

  Sweasy stared up at me. Behind his eyes a calculation went on. We both knew that I could beat the shit out of him if it came to that.

  The Stockings went for our food like sharks. Three burgers disappeared into Mac before the others had finished one. Harry commanded Gould to stop after half a dozen hot dogs, fearing his limited fielding range would shrink to nothing.

  “What’ll you do next?” Waterman demanded, wiping mustard from his mustache. “Make our bats?”

  “Never can tell. Here, have the last burger.”

  From my post at the scorer’s table I watched lines form outside the booth and heard people exclaiming. Johnny and Helga worked frantically. By the fifth inning all six hundred sandwiches were gone. Their ingredients averaged four cents, and we sold them for twenty. After paying Johnny and Helga five bucks each—top-scale wages; I felt extravagant on this landmark day—we netted eighty-five dollars for the club, an amount equal to nearly a tenth of gross paid admissions split between the two teams that day. My trial balloon had soared.

  The Olympics left after seven innings to catch the six-thirty boat to Portsmouth. Home runs by Andy and George, plus sharp fielding that limited the O’s to eleven hits, gave us the win, 19-7. Davy Force tripled twice, once after faking a bunt down the third-base line, which angered Waterman and drew a protest from Harry.

  “He heard about you doing that,” Waterman said accusingly to me between innings. “Every baby hitter’ll be trying it before long.”

  “So stop crying and work on your defense,” I retorted, thinking that the Stockings, like everybody else, preferred their own “head-work” to an opponent’s.

  As we were about to leave the clubhouse, Andy approached with a perplexed expression. “They’re here.”

  “Who’s here?”

  “Cait, with Timmy.”

  A tingle of excitement moved up my spine. “I thought she didn’t like baseball.”

  “They’ve never come before. But she and Timmy were in the Grand Duchess. O’Donovan, too.”

  “Oh.” The excitement quieted.

  “You said you wanted to see her.”

  I nodded, unsure now.

  “So, you coming with me?”

  I paid Harry fpr a new ball and followed Andy through the main gate, where he was promptly surrounded by autograph seekers.

  “Sam?” He stood to one side, small and shy, a curly-haired figure in short pants.

  “Hi, Timmy.” I held out the ball.

  His eyes widened. “For me?”

  “Sure is, just like the one Andy knocked for a homer. Wasn’t that something to see?”

  He examined the ball as if it were the rarest treasure.

  “Bring it back next game,” I said. “I’ll have everybody sign it.”

  He nodded gravely, took a pencil from his pocket and held the ball up. “Would you, Sam, now?”

  I loved him for t
hat. When I finished, he touched his fingertips to the signature and then dashed off, yelling, “Andy!”

  They were in a small open carriage beneath overhanging elms. As I drew close my vision suddenly and frighteningly was flooded with the milky half-light. I sensed the presence of a bird—the great bird in the graveyard—and the trees around me swayed and shimmered as though underwater. But all that was peripheral. What my eyes fixed on was her dress: it was pale and flowery, yellow with tiny pink buds and leaf clusters, the dress of the picture and quilt.

  “Are you well, Mr. Fowler?” The words came from somewhere beneath her broad-brimmed hat. I tried to focus. I saw her eyes. Cloudy jade.

  “Mr. Fowler?”

  “The heat . . .” I blurted. “Hello, Mrs. O’Neill.”

  “It must be wearing to wield a pencil as your striking stick.” O’Donovan clipped his words with military precision; his tone dripped sarcasm.

  I looked at him, still seeing through a thin milky haze. His tunic, sash, and epaulets were forest green. Covered with phoenixes, sunbursts, shamrocks. Buttons and braid glittered. Icy blue eyes. Firm jaw. Waxed mustache. Portrait of the hero.

  Footsteps behind me ended the long silent moment.

  “Andrew,” barked O’Donovan. “We saw you strike your blow and make your run!” He touched Cait’s arm with maddening familiarity. “Your sister stood and cheered lustily with the others, she did.”

  She smiled, the first time I’d seen her do so. Her eyes crinkled and her lips parted, revealing white, straight teeth. For a moment she looked younger, as she must have been as a girl. I longed to know that younger Cait.

  “I was proud, Andy,” she said. “Thousands screaming your name, and so many of them ladies.”

  As Andy blushed deep red, Timmy appeared. He held his ball aloft. “See what Sam gave me?”

  O’Donovan turned to me. “They truly pay you to sit beneath a sunshade?”

  “Sam’s first substitute,” Andy said. “He only keeps the score book when he’s not playing.”

  “Ah, the score book,” O’Donovan repeated acidly.

  “Sam’s important,” Andy insisted. “Did you see his new booth?”

  “Making sandwiches while you make runs,” O’Donovan said. “Poor work, I’d say.”

  Cait murmured something.

  I felt myself heating up dangerously. Who did this asshole think he was? “So far I’ve only seen a few of the costumes worn by hick clubs in the boondocks,” I said. “But I’ll bet they don’t come any sillier than the one you’re in.”

  A faint gasp came from Cait. Timmy giggled and Andy nearly choked. O’Donovan blanched and stood erect in the carriage. His words came through clenched teeth. “This is the uniform of the Irish Revolutionary Brotherhood. I’ll consider your insolence dark ignorance for the moment, only because a lady is present.” He snatched up the reins. “We’ll be leaving now, Caitlin.”

  I lifted Timmy to the seat. Meeting Cait’s eyes I said, “I’m glad the lady is present.” Color spread across her cheeks. Her mouth tightened as she looked away.

  We watched the carriage move down the lane. Timmy waved the ball at us. Andy waved back. My eyes were fixed on Cait. I sent her silent commands to turn and look back at me.

  She didn’t.

  Chapter 15

  Harry and I lugged everything into the clubhouse. We’d spent the morning at Ellard’s Sporting Goods Emporium on Main; it claimed to have the largest stock of baseball equipment in the West. George Ellard, a regular on the club’s cricket squad, gave us wholesale rates, which was fortunate since lately we’d had a rash of broken bats. We bought a dozen of the finest: six willow, five ash, one elm—Brainard claimed he could only hit with elm—with handles prewrapped and sleek barrels ready to be branded with players’ initials. I’d already burned SF on the heaviest ash model.

  We also bought a box of balls, six bases, a half dozen sets of brass spikes, a copy of Beadle’s Dime Book with current rules—Sweasy had torn up Harry’s old copy when an ump’s ruling went against him in the last Olympic game. Also a supply of elastic bands for our stockings—Harry had considered garter belts, but I talked him out of it—and several cane-handled cricket bats.

  “Congratulations on your booth,” he said, and went on to confess that he’d failed as a concessionaire himself. The previous winter, after the club had flooded the Union Grounds to form its annual skating pond, Harry had sold coffee, canned peaches, New Orleans oysters, and even—surprisingly—hot whiskey drinks. Despite offering baseball on ice and other attractions, the club hadn’t made a dime. “You, though,” he said, “seem to know what people want. Such bold ideas!”

  I smiled modestly, as if bold ideas were my forte. “More coming,” I said, and hoped it was true; Johnny was scouting future projects that day.

  “I’ve tried the new fungo bat,” Harry said. “I’m improving.”

  I’d had the lumber company turn a slender hardwood fungo. With it I could put a ball inside a twenty-foot radius anywhere on the field. I used it to give Andy the extra work he wanted on deep drives. Harry had seen its applications immediately and put me to work drilling all the outfielders.

  Otherwise he treated me like everybody else, working me each day till I dragged. At night my muscles jerked as I heard him yell, “Runner on second, one out!” In part his purpose was to keep us from getting big heads. Not an easy task, given the mounting hoopla. Repeatedly he advised caution in accepting merchants’ favors, restraint in drinking—the specter of Hurley hung over us, though Harry never referred to him—and avoidance of gamblers.

  Heat descended on the city. Blistering, sweltering, lung-searing heat. Pavement and brick sidewalks burned through shoe leather. Dung in the streets flaked into particles and was swept up by sultry air currents off the river to mix with soot and form a toxic, eye-stinging dust; people walked outside with their heads completely covered. Horses collapsed on the cobblestones, unable to pull streetcars or buses up the steep hills even in double and triple teams. Each day the papers carried lists of people who’d succumbed to sunstroke. Air-conditioning, I fantasized, sweating from morning to night. Cold showers . . .

  Ice was in tremendous demand. Floated down canals in great blocks from Lake Erie each winter, it was packed in sawdust and stored in underground icehouses. Now its price shot to unprecedented heights. Johnny and I had been trying to add sodas to our Union Grounds fare. The soda-water business, a fairly new industry, was booming. Inexplicably, nobody had yet come up with ice-cream sodas. At first Johnny thought I was crazy mixing the two, but after a few tentative sips, followed by deep pulls and considerable lip-smacking, he pronounced me a genius. Our trouble was that rocketing ice costs boosted our selling price to thirty-five cents each. We decided to try it as a luxury item, figuring that the swells accompanying satin-bedecked women with silk parasols could well afford it.

  In the middle of one of the very hottest days, in a burst of inspired bravado, I had Johnny deliver two ice-cream sodas—packed in a frosty ice bucket and topped with fresh cherries—to Cait and Timmy. I told him to wait while they tasted it and say, “With Mr. Fowler’s compliments.”

  When he returned he said, “Miz O’Neill didn’t exactly brighten up, but she took a sip, then called the boy in, and the boy gulped his down and said it was the bulliest thing he’d ever tasted. Then Miz O’Neill sipped some more, and they both agreed it was real cooling.”

  “That’s all?”

  “Well, then she washed everything. Then she sat down brisk-like and wrote this.” He reached inside his patchwork coat—Johnny’s unchanging costume made no concession to heat or cold—and handed me a slip of paper.

  Written in a rounded, flowing hand, it said:

  Mr. Fowler,

  Andy tells me that you give in a spirit of honest friendship. We take your offering in that spirit and we are grateful.

  Caitlin O’Neill

  I read it a dozen times, my eyes lingering on “we are grateful.” “I think she
fancies you,” Johnny said. I was flabbergasted. “You do?” “But she don’t know it yet.”

  Thursday, July 22, was one of those mornings when information pours in and for days afterward sifts and settles into place. I woke up sweating—for the eighth straight day the heat showed no sign of breaking—and stiff from Harry’s sadistic workout the previous evening. At least we were now practicing after the hottest part of the day.

  I tugged the bell rope to have coffee and the morning papers sent up. On the third page of the Enquirer I was astonished by a small item.

  A TRIAL OF THE “AERIAL STEAMER”

  Several citizens to-day witnessed a private trial in the open air of the aerial steam-carriage Avitor. The steamer rose in the air about seventy-five feet, the machinery operating successfully, buoying up and driving the vessel forward at a considerable rate of speed. A public trial of the Avitor will be had on Sunday next.

  It was reprinted from the San Francisco Chronicle—what a strange rush I felt seeing that—and datelined a few days earlier.

  I searched the other papers for corroborating items and found one in the Gazette, reprinted this time from the San Francisco Times, whatever that was, which added that the Avitor was a 40-foot working model; its inventor, Mr. Frederick Marriott, fully expected to complete a 150-foot passenger version soon. He now stood “where Fulton did when he made his first steamboat.”

  Sure, I thought.

  And yet part of me wanted it to be true. With my grandparents I had watched the astronauts set foot on the moon. Grandpa hadn’t seemed impressed; Grandma wanted to watch “Lassie” on another channel. I understood better now. Given what they’d seen—autos, airplanes, radio, TV, the Bomb—the space program must have seemed tame. Space-suited NASA employees were distant. Thundering over a field in a crate of wood and wire and fabric—that could be you! I suddenly wanted to see Marriott’s flyer. Maybe he would scoop the Wright brothers this time around.