If I Never Get Back

by Darryl Brock

  “You ever miss bein’ back home?” he asked.

  “Yeah, I guess.” At this point “home” seemed an abstraction.

  “Your friends and kin,” he persisted: “You still don’t recall much about ’em?”

  “It sort of seems like they’re all dead.”

  “You must feel some cut off.”

  “At times.”

  “I guess you don’t want to go into it.”

  “There just isn’t much to say, Andy.”

  “Okay,” he said, unconvinced. We sat in silence as the last sunlight disappeared and the lake turned vibrant blue and then purple.

  In the morning we got the obligatory city tour. The featured highlight was the National Military Asylum, a forbidding edifice filled with semicomatose patients and equipment so primitive I couldn’t understand how anybody survived hospitalization. The others seemed impressed by the facility. God help them. Anyway, the grounds were beautiful.

  Everywhere in Milwaukee people stared at us and exclaimed, “The Red Stockings! The champion ballists!” Shortly before three we were escorted to Cream City Park, where we found the grounds crowded with some three thousand spectators. The field was rough and pebbly, making every ground ball dangerous.

  The “CC’s” were Wisconsin champs, but they hadn’t faced anybody like us. I got a kick out of watching them gape at the shots from our bats and contort themselves trying to connect with Brainard’s tosses. By the end of seven innings, when an end was mercifully called, we had hammered seventy-seven hits for a hundred and forty-seven bases. George went ten for ten, including two long homers, three doubles, a triple, and six steals. Harry, true to form, refused to let us ease up. The poor CC’s managed only nine hits. The final score was 85-7.

  When we left for Chicago on the overnight steamer Manitowoe, a number of the CC’s were on board. “Wanna see you face the Rockfords,” one explained. “Everybody within five hundred miles’ll be there.”

  He was hardly exaggerating. The atmosphere in Chicago rivaled Troy before the Haymaker game or Brooklyn before we met the Mutes. The Forest Citys, touring triumphantly after the narrow loss to us, had defeated the Buckeyes, 40-1; Mansfield, 83-14; Detroit, 32-10. They were riding high again.

  Champion and no fewer than two hundred Cincinnati club members met us at Chicago’s steamer dock and took us to the Revere House, where we banqueted with the Forest Citys. We learned that huge delegations were on hand from Detroit, St. Louis, and Cleveland—plus virtually the whole town of Rockford—and that betting was incredible. Chicago’s gamblers were backing the Forest Citys.

  “Don’t they know I’m here?” Allison demanded.

  “They know it,” said one of the Forest Citys. “They figure we’ll warm you anyhow.”

  “Not by a long chalk,” said Allison.

  I’d never seen Champion happier. The raucous crowds swelling the foot of Ontario Street near the lake shore and trying to enter Ogden’s Skating Park numbered at least ten thousand. Admission was pegged at fifty cents. Champion had negotiated half for us, a fourth for the Forest Citys, the remaining fourth for a sponsoring Chicago club. No carriages were allowed; Ogden’s was literally packed with bodies. We watched in amazement as men stormed the fences like besieging invaders, many with tickets clamped in their teeth. An overloaded bleacher toppled, trapping several persons beneath it. Then dozens of brawling young roughnecks burst through the foul ropes and surged over the field. It was the most chaotic ballpark scene I’d witnessed.

  As if inspired by it, we and the Forest Citys put on a truly horrendous performance—“first-class muffinism,” Harry said disgustedly—once the diamond was cleared. It wasn’t wholly our fault. The field was terrible: bumpy, pitted, and splashed with white sand in right; worse, the fences were so close that the captains decided that balls hit over them—or over the high sand bank in left—were automatic doubles. The afternoon saw far too many of them.

  Scoring nine runs in both the third and fourth, we burst to a 19-5 lead. To loud boos, the Forest Citys crumpled as we tallied a whopping twenty runs in the sixth. Harry pitched the final innings, allowing ten runs, but by then it didn’t matter. George sealed things with a blistering homer in the eighth, and we wrapped it up, 53-32.

  We got off the field in a hurry. Harry sent me around the clubhouse to show each player his fielding column in the score book. We’d committed eight outright errors and any number of bonehead mistakes.

  “I know,” Andy groaned when I approached. “Muffed two balls, slow handling on that caulker down the line, caught out four times striking.”

  In an afternoon of general slugging Andy had scored five times and been put out four—seemingly not too bad, yet only Mac had done worse on the Stockings.

  We shared a train car to Rockford with the Forest Citys. Addy wasn’t his usual wisecracking self. Barnes had disappeared. Spalding maintained an aloof silence. They’d had visions, I guessed, of defeating us in front of record crowds and seeing their pictures in national magazines. Instead, they’d been clouted around the lot and now faced the possibility that even on their home diamond they could not beat us in a fourth and final game.

  There was talk of rumored plans in Chicago to field a top-notch pro club next season, the White Stockings. Businessmen were reportedly raising large sums to recruit ace players at no less than two thousand apiece—an unheard-of salary base. Brainard allowed as how he would play for them at that price; Sweasy and Allison said pretty much the same. George was noncommittal, though I suspect he was tempted. I admired Andy, Mac, and Gould, who said flatly that they would stay with Harry. It seemed to me that more than money was involved: Harry had molded them into the best team ever and gotten them the first guaranteed salaries. They owed somebody something, in my opinion. Waterman said nothing on the subject, but I figured he’d go with Brainard. Nobody asked what I’d do.

  Banners flapped over the streets of Rockford. A brass band greeted the Forest Citys at the station. Local pride was untouched by the debacle in Chicago. After all, weren’t their home-grown boys putting the town on the map?

  We waited out a sleepy—boring, to be more precise—Sunday. I hiked along the Rock River thinking of Cait and wondering if she thought of me. I wished I could take her boating on the river. And Timmy, too. It was strange to find myself thinking of him instead of Hope and Susy on a day like this. But I felt little guilt or sadness. They seemed of another age, distant now.

  That evening I read Twain’s new piece, “Personal Habits of the Siamese Twins,” in the current Packard’s Monthly. I remembered his fondness for Barnum’s Museum, where the twins, Chang and Eng—still alive and connected at the chest—had once been employed. Predictably, Twain’s humor was of the tall-tale sort. He had the twins fighting on opposite sides in the war and taking each other captive. I was moderately amused. But when Andy picked it up he chuckled, snorted, guffawed—and soon was reading it to the others.

  “They filled Chang full of warm water and sugar and Eng full of whisky, and in twenty-five minutes it was not possible to tell which was the drunkest. Both were as drunk as loons—and on hot whisky punches. . . .”

  They all howled. I realized I was still considerably out of synch in certain areas of taste.

  The Chicago Tribune reported that the Brooklyn Eckfords had taken two of three from the Mutuals and now held the whip pennant. The item also noted that their ’63 championship team would play the new ’69 champs. A sort of old-timers game. Something like that might make a good promotional at the Union Grounds, I thought. And how about some kind of giveaway day? Hmm, not bad.

  In other reprinted items, the New York Tribune branded as “monstrous” a scheme to revive the Chinese coolie trade to alleviate the South’s current labor shortage. In Philadelphia, Elise Holt’s troupe was wowing packed houses with shows “to which Miss Holt lends all the fascination of her shapeliness and the indecorousness of her posturings.” I closed my eyes and got fragmentary pictures of blond hair and high-kicking legs.


  That night I made the mistake of testing Brainard’s skill on a pool table. Spotting me points and shooting left-handed, he won twenty bucks in less than two hours.

  “Can you pitch lefty too?” I joked.

  “Depends how much cash is at stake,” he said tersely, lining up a shot.

  Which was typical of him lately. Brainard dressed as fashionably as ever but wasted little personal charm—of which he had plenty—on any of us but Waterman. I would like to have been friends, but Brainard’s demeanor said clearly that he’d go his own way, thanks.

  We played at the fairgrounds again. This time there was no gusting wind. Partly to conserve Allison’s hands and partly to keep the Forest Citys guessing, Harry started Allison in right and Mac at pitcher; he brought George in to hurl in the second and finished with Brainard.

  Angry and doubtless feeling they were being toyed with, the Forest Citys jumped out in front, 5-2. Then Brainard went to work in earnest, allowing only two runs while shutting them out in four of the last six innings. Behind Sweasy’s solid hitting and Andy’s baserunning, we notched seven runs in the fourth, four in the fifth, and went on to win convincingly, 28-7.

  Nobody had held them to so few runs all season. In thumping our foremost western rivals, we’d extended our streak and given critics the scientific baseball display they wanted. And now we were heading home.

  “Listen to this,” Andy read later from the Winnebago County Chief. “‘When the boys of the F.C.B.B.C. meet any other than the nine red-legged giants gathered from the four quarters of the Union and rendezvoused at Cincinnati, they can gobble them up; but when they run against these nine scarlet runners they come in contact with nine gentlemen whom they cannot handle.’”

  “About time a country paper admitted we were the best,” said Allison. “They can say we’re from the moon, so long’s they admit we warmed their butts.”

  “‘Nine red-legged giants,’” Andy repeated. “That’s good writing, ain’t it, Sam?”

  “What if it had been ‘red-legged midgets’?” I countered.

  He grinned. “That’d narrow it to our top aces!”

  We reached the Pearl Street depot on Tuesday just before dark. Champion was waiting to tell us he’d scheduled a game with the touring Syracuse club the next afternoon.

  “I’m not playing!” Brainard exclaimed as soon as Champion was out of hearing. “They’re wringing us dry. I didn’t sign on to sweat my life away!”

  Harry stepped in front of him. “Asa, calm down.”

  “They’re making money and puffing themselves off us,” Brainard said angrily. “Are we getting a fair slice? Hell, no! They think we’ll settle for banquets and parades!”

  “You signed your contract,” Harry said. “No one forced you.” His tone was flat. “Be on the grounds tomorrow or catch a train home.”

  We drifted away. Hearing Waterman trying to pacify Brainard, I turned and walked back to them.

  “Best leave him be when he’s riled,” Waterman said.

  “Asa, we’re all tired,” I said. “I don’t like the schedule lately either, but you can’t blame Champion for trying to—”

  “What the hell do you know?” He swung around and faced me, his voice an angry buzz. “I’ve pitched for this club till my arm’s dead. I gave up my life to come out to this damned place. I’ve got financial obligations. In New York we’d be in the clover. But Holy Harry expects us to fall over dead to glorify him and his pet brother!”

  “Oh, bullshit,” I retorted. “Harry’s just running his ball club, and you can’t deny he does a hell of a job. Champion’s trying to pay off the club’s debts. Simple as that. There’s no conspiracy against you.”

  “‘Simple as that,’” he repeated, jaw muscles working. “Well, I say some things ain’t simple at all. Take what’s happened with you, say. You used to be readier’n most to bend rules to suit yourself.”

  “I haven’t forgotten how you helped me.”

  “You weren’t no damn company man then,” he said. “You hadn’t hired on as Champion’s flunky.”

  “Asa, you’re well-known here,” I said, trying not to let him provoke me. “You’ve got business sense. This concession thing at the ballpark just might take off. If we expand I could use another partner—”

  “I ain’t no huckster,” he said, and spat on the platform. End of discussion.

  It was dark at Cait’s. The hack waited while I deposited the gifts from Chicago on the porch: for Cait a silver chain and pendant bearing two doves; for Timmy a pine toolbox and set of kid-sized carpentry tools. I left a note saying I’d see them soon and walked down the steps. Something caught my ear. I moved to the corner of the house. Muffled scraping and thumping seemed to come from directly below. Somebody working in the basement, I thought, and turned back to the hack.

  In the morning I sent Johnny to ask if Cait and Timmy were coming to the game. And if I could visit that evening. He returned and said that nobody had answered his knock. The packages were not in evidence.

  “Could you handle the pickups?” I said. “I want to find out what’s going on.” Seeing his reproachful look, I added, “Time and a half pay.”

  “Hell, Sam,” he said, wiggling his ears comically, “for that, Helga and me’ll do the works every time!”

  Traffic was bad that morning. It took the better part of an hour to flag a hack and get across town. I arrived to find the boardinghouse as quiet as it had been the previous night. I banged on the door and shouted.

  It opened suddenly, and there she stood, unsmiling, heartbreakingly beautiful.

  “Cait, are you all right? I was worried.”

  “You needn’t.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “Nothing.”

  I tried to read her expression. “Did you get the presents?”

  “We did, thank you. Tim was very excited and wants you to show him the use of the tools.”

  “I will. Where is he?”

  “Away for several days.”

  I waited in vain for her to elaborate. “Cait, last night the place seemed deserted except for weird noises in the basement. You didn’t answer for Johnny earlier. What’s going on?”

  “There’s no mystery.” I thought I saw apprehension flicker in her eyes. “The boarders are away just now. Fearghus has taken Tim on a trip with him.”

  “A trip? What about the basement?”

  “I don’t know what you heard, perhaps Fearghus packing.”

  “I see.” I felt like I was running in place. “Did you like the necklace?”

  She gazed at me for a long moment. “Why did you buy it?”

  “Why . . .?” I blinked. “I guess I was thinking about you and—”

  “No, Samuel, why did you buy it?”

  “I thought you’d like it. I don’t understand. Is anything wrong with it?”

  She shook her head.

  “For God’s sake, I bring it for you and you act like I’ve done something wrong.”

  “Maybe you have.”

  I felt a surge of anger. “Are you going to explain that?”She hesitated, then said, “I don’t think I can bear to.”

  “That’s great,” I snapped, stomping down the steps. “Just great.”

  If she said anything behind me, I didn’t hear it.

  Chapter 17

  By the time the game got under way, several things were obvious. One was that we hadn’t overestimated the crowd—roughly two thousand were on hand—and therefore wouldn’t have to deal with unsold food. Another was that Syracuse’s Central Citys, youthful amateurs all, had no chance of winning against us. A third was that Harry, for the first time in my experience, was openly having trouble with some of the players.

  Brainard showed up but sulked, complaining of a weary arm. Sweasy groused that we never got comp days for Sundays on the road. Allison griped that playing so often gave his hands no chance to heal. He had a point, but it was also true that since coming back and learning we’d nearly lost
without him, he’d been acting quite the ace; his head was as swollen as his hands.

  Exasperated, Harry pitched the whole game himself, stuck Brainard in right, and moved Mac to center. Later he brought Brainard in behind the plate and switched Allison to right. Keeping score, I noticed things that must have been eating at Harry’s guts: Waterman loafing to first on a pop-up; Sweasy failing to back up George on Andy’s high throw; Gould forgetting how many were out.

  With lackadaisical play came mix-ups that first amused the crowd but eventually brought boos: George dropping a pop-up after ostentatiously calling Harry off in the pitcher’s box; George again, trying to score from first, failing to hear us yelling “Get back!” when Gould’s liner was ruled foul, and being put out; Allison’s halfhearted catching that encouraged the Central Citys to take liberties on the bases. Perhaps worst of all, in Harry’s view, was almost everybody trying to knock the ball over the fence. Sweasy pounded three homers, George and Gould two each. But a lot of flies settled harmlessly in outfielders’ hands. Harry observed it all with commendable stoicism, putting up with the sort of unscientific baseball he detested. We won easily—too easily—by a score of 37-9. Then we discovered he had been biding his time.

  “Light practice at ten a.m.,” he announced curtly in the clubhouse. “The Central Citys want to play again tomorrow. I’ve decided to accept that challenge. The day after that we’ll play the Clevelands here. Starting this moment, anybody who complains or shirks will be fined immediately.”

  I glanced involuntarily it Brainard, whose dark eyes glittered with resentment.

  “We carried Jimmy to his folks’ house on Henry Street. His face was whiter than lime. I could feel him dying, the best feller I ever knew.” Brainard pulled at his whiskey. His eyes were red-rimmed. “We were both twenty-one back then. Jimmy was the first ace, could’ve done anything in his life, but it ended in awful agony.”