by Darryl Brock
I got back in time to see Andy thrown out by a step on an infield bouncer. Harry, breaking from first on Bearman’s floater, sprinted all the way to third. To my surprise he didn’t stop there. A roar erupted from the crowd. Too late the Haymaker first baseman realized what was happening and threw to the plate. Harry slid past Craver’s lunging tag. Only one run—but it was a start.
Andy wolfed the food down. I settled back at the scorer’s table. Brainard was due up next, then Sweasy. To me they’d looked as energized as the rest when Harry scored. If either intended to sell us out, he was putting on a good show. It got better: Brainard worked Bearman for a walk and Sweasy singled up the middle. Mac then drilled the ball past a diving Bellan to score Brainard, and George’s low shot over third base scored two more. Then Gould topped a roller down the line that Bellan, playing deep, couldn’t get to in time. Snakebit, he slammed the ball to the turf in frustration. Waterman walked to load the bases, then Allison stroked a single that, coupled with a wild throw, scored all three runners. We yelled with the exultant crowd. And it wasn’t ended yet. Harry, playing with the brilliant intensity he’d shown in the Forest City squeaker, singled Allison home and dove into second on the throw.
“I see good now,” Andy told me, heading for the plate. He quickly proved it by slamming an inside pitch to left that scored Harry for our ninth run of the inning. McDermott’s grin had long since vanished.
The Haymakers moved Fisher to the box. Andy went to work on old Cherokee with dancing leads off first. To the crowd’s delight he stole second and third on consecutive pitches—and when Craver threw wildly over Bellan, he trotted home.
Something about the way Craver stood with hands on hips triggered in my mind his spiking of Andy. Not again! I thought. I jumped up and ran toward the plate, yelling, “Watch out! Watch their catcher!”
Brockway glanced curiously at me, then at Craver as Andy tagged the plate. Craver’s face turned purple. He pointed at me and snarled, “Get that nancy boy away!”
I pointed back. “Next time you want to step on somebody, try me!”Andy grabbed me, and suddenly I was hemmed in by Stockings.
“Calm down,” Harry said. “He hasn’t done anything.”
“He intended to,” I said, and looked at Brockway. “Watch that ape—he likes to hurt people.”
“I’ll run this, not you,” Brockway snapped.
“Enough, Sam!” Harry pushed me back. “Haven’t you had your fill today?”
“Meet me after!” Craver yelled. “I got a score to settle, nancy boy!”
“Anywhere!” I yelled.
Harry and the rest practically dragged me back to the table. Only later, after the Haymakers had argued in vain that my interference invalidated Andy’s run—Brockway ruled there was no possible play at the plate, and in any case I hadn’t actually stepped within the diamond—did I consider how monumentally stupid it would be for me to stick around to fight Craver instead of leaving the ballpark as soon as we’d won.
Assuming we did, that is, by enough runs. The Haymakers came at us again in the bottom of the second. After diving spectacularly to snag a sinking liner, Andy, playing more erratically than I’d ever seen, turned an easier drive into a two-base muff. A sequence of scratch hits preceded Mart King’s towering triple, on which Haymakers circled the bases like windup toys. Only Waterman’s ballsy knockdown of a blistering smash saved more Haymaker runs. As it was, they tallied seven and moved back in front, 13-10.
We got two back in the third on errors, then blanked them in their half when Andy snared a foul bound in the corner and Harry leaped high to rob Craver.
The next half inning belonged to Andy. Taking first on a fielder’s choice, he stole second and third again, outrunning Craver’s bullet throws with flashing speed that amazed even me. The burly catcher looked homicidal.
Then Brainard lofted a fly to short right. Andy tagged and set himself to sprint home. Flynn caught the ball on the dead run and launched a low whizzing peg. Andy’s legs drove him toward the plate. Craver straddled the base path several feet up the line. The ball arrived on a perfect bounce.
“Watch him,” I yelled at Brockway, jumping up again. “WATCH CRAVER!”
The throw had Andy by six feet. Craver wheeled for the tag, a murderous obstacle. I wanted to look away as Andy bunched his shoulders and ducked his head. No, I thought, not headfirst! Craver dropped to one knee and held the ball with both hands, ready to rip upward with it. But Andy had decoyed. Instead of diving he straightened abruptly and vaulted into the air. The suddenness of it was startling, as if he had exploded upward from the sod. For an instant—an indelible instant in the minds of the thousands watching—Andy seemed to air-walk over Craver. Realizing he’d been fooled, the catcher bellowed and reared, thrusting the ball upward with maiming force.
And Andy kicked it from his hand.
He landed on the plate with the tying run. In itself the vertical leap was astounding. In these circumstances it was the stuff of legend. The crowd shrieked and roared for minutes afterward. We pounded Andy nearly to the ground. The Haymakers, led by McKeon, formed a shouting, gesticulating circle around Brockway, arguing vehemently that Andy should be out.When he finally ordered them to resume playing, they managed only one ball out of the infield in the bottom of the fourth. The game’s momentum was all with us now. McDermott, I saw with mixed feelings, had disappeared.
Haymakers 13, Stockings 13.
“I checked with Western Union,” Millar said. “When the first inning’s score went out, every sharp in the East tried to get money down on the Haymakers.”
“And now?”
“Now the wire’s jammed with messages for McKeon.”
“What sort of messages?”
“They can’t tell me, but I’ll bet we see the Haymakers pull some curious stunts, now that we’re settling to our business.”
Millar’s words proved to be prophetic.
In the top of the fifth, Brainard’s double scored two and sent Andy to third. Andy then scared the daylights out of me—and rubbed salt in Craver’s wounds—by stealing home, belly-sliding to touch the plate before Craver drove the ball hard into his thigh. Andy bounced up as if he’d felt nothing. We led by four runs.
“Don’t try him again,” I warned. “He’ll kill you.”
“I’ve gone over and under him,” Andy said, laughing. “Next time maybe I’ll go through him. Wouldn’t that be a dinger?”
“No, it’d be suicide.”
Fighting back, the Haymakers kept the game what Millar called, “Dick pull, Devil pull.” Brainard’s late start for first on a grounder to Gould allowed a runner. I scrutinized Brainard, wondering if the miscue had been deliberate. So far he’d been nearly as up-and-down as Andy. Then he walked Flynn—Brockway’s calls had favored hitters all afternoon—and Craver stalked to the plate. Uh-oh, I thought. Sure enough, Craver smashed a belt-high fastball into the left-field corner for a triple. Brainard grooved another to Mart King, who went for it like a shark after blood, ramming the ball clear out of the Union Grounds. So much for our lead. It was now 17—17.
“What the hell’re you doing?” I demanded of Brainard when he came off.
“Not showing the white, if that’s what you’re saying.” He massaged his pitching shoulder. “My wing’s nearly used up, and they’re heavy strikers.”
“We gotta win,” I said. “By at least ten runs.”
He shrugged, as if it were out of his domain. The crowd’s noise rose around us. We turned toward the plate, where Craver was talking animatedly with Brockway. Mac looked on in the striker’s box. Harry strode past us.
“What now?” I asked.“Can’t tell,” Harry said. “A wide called on Fisher, I think.”
But it was more than that. Mac had fouled a pitch straight back that Craver bob bled. Brockway ruled that it touched the ground before he’d secured a hold on it. The catcher now turned away and looked questioningly at McKeon. He did so again after the next pitch, a called ball. Brainard
and I exchanged looks. Something strange was going on.
Fisher delivered again. Mac swung late, barely making contact. The ball flew back on a low trajectory, striking the gravelly dirt between Craver’s feet. He bent quickly, rose, and held it up. “How’s that?” he demanded.
We couldn’t tell from the Stockings’ bench whether Craver had taken the ball cleanly on the first bound. Brockway, however, stood only several feet from the action.
“Two bounces!” he announced promptly. “No out! That’s two against the striker!”
Craver didn’t say a word, but looked at McKeon, now walking toward him. They exchanged a nod. McKeon said something to Brockway. Then, before our disbelieving eyes and those of the buzzing crowd, Craver waved the Haymakers off the field. They began packing up their bats.
“What the hell?” I said.
“They figured there’s too much chance of losing,” Brainard said. “Or their backers did.”
We watched the carriage gates swing open and their omnibus come on the track. A rising murmur of discontent issued from the stands.
“Gonna get stirred up here,” Brainard said.“But what happens to all the bets?” I said.
“Don’t you see? We’ve finished five innings, so they’ll claim a tie. They were hoping for this or better.”
“McDermott will collect, then?”
“He’ll try, depending on what else happens. But he sure can’t lose now.”
As I tried to digest what that might mean for me, the Haymakers boarded their bus. A band of boys broke through the ropes, dodging cops and flinging rocks at the departing vehicle. Behind them the crowd flooded over the police line. Around us suddenly scrambled men yelling and running and hurling things.
“Let’s go,” I said, and was simultaneously aware of a subtle, almost subliminal whizzing sound. I heard it again, then a thud in the sod exploded dirt upward in a tiny eruption before me. I stared at it stupidly, then felt a tug at my pants. I saw a neat hole in the baggy white material just above my knee. Only then did I realize that somebody was shooting at me.
Chapter 21
I grabbed Brainard’s arm and we wedged through the crowd toward the clubhouse. Inside, I breathed easier. As the others came in, we pieced together what was happening. Mac held his place at home plate while Harry talked to Brockway, who at length climbed atop his chair and announced he was awarding us the game. To leave no doubt, Harry had him write his decision in the score book:
McVey at the bat. The Haymakers refuse to proceed. I decide in favor of the Cincinnati club. J. R. Brockway, Great Western B.B.C.
While I changed and waited for the others—no way I was venturing out alone—I saw Millar approach Brainard with pencil and pad. “Asa,” he said briskly, “I need your comment on rumors that you were offered money to throw off this match.”
Brainard gave me a probing look. “You can say that I’d swear to it under oath.”
“Jupiter!” said Millar. “That’s some—”
“What I’m saying,” Brainard interrupted, “is that’s how the rumor has it.”
“But I want your firsthand statement.”
“You asked about a rumor,” Brainard said. “That’s what I’m commenting on. According to the rumor, I’d testify I was approached to throw off this game.”
“That’s all?”
“That’s it.”
“What if I say you don’t want to comment?”
“Print that,” said Brainard, “and you’ll never get anything from me again.”
“That’s hard on me, Asa.”
“Too damn bad.”
For the next four days I laid low at Gasthaus zur Rose. When Johnny wasn’t around to talk to, I. read, stared at the geraniums in the window, and wondered morosely what new plans McDermott and O’Donovan were cooking up. The notion of Le Caron stalking me in Cincinnati was terrifying. I’d rather face the whole Fenian army.
Stories of the disputed game filled all the papers. The consensus was that if the Haymakers had not quit the field to protect gamblers, we’d have gone on to win convincingly. But I wasn’t so sure. The Haymakers were fighters. Now we wouldn’t know, unless we played them again in the East.
Which, according to the papers, was increasingly likely. The leading New York clubs, practically begging for return matches, were practicing hard, particularly the Mutuals and the Atlantics. Prospects of capturing the pennant, plus receipts from eager crowds, I reflected, must be a powerful lure for Harry and Champion.
The Haymaker game had been on Thursday, August 26. They left town on Sunday. I didn’t emerge from my refuge until Monday the thirtieth, and had it not been for Andy’s message I might have hidden longer. Johnny brought the note to me. It was brutally simple: Timmy’s sickness had been diagnosed: typhoid fever.
Typhoid . . . I didn’t even know what it was. Something that killed people. Like diphtheria, whooping cough, scarlet fever—things people used to get before new vaccines and preventatives eradicated them.
With Johnny I raced to the.West End, fearing what I would find. Andy answered Cait’s door, his face haggard.
“How bad is he?” I asked.
“Can’t get much worse.”
Timmy lay motionless, thin and wasted, burning with fever. His eyes were half-shut. Cait, bending over him, looked ravaged. She hadn’t slept, Andy said, for three days.
“Samuel,” she said softly, her eyes lifting to meet mine. I saw frightening depths of resignation in them.
“When did a doctor see him?”
She shook her head.
“He was here day before yesterday,” Andy replied. “Said there’s nothing for it but to wait.”
“Wait?” I exclaimed. “What the hell kind of doctor is that? Let’s get him over right now, for as long as we need him.”
Cait said nothing. Andy looked uneasy. “Irish don’t always rate that kind of crack attention,” he said.
I stared at him. “You mean to tell me—”
“Wait,” Johnny interrupted. “There’s a wizard doctor in Over the Rhine, a Dutchman, came here in the ’forty-eight revolutions. Looks after Helga and me sometimes. Charges top dollar, though.”
“Go get him,” I said.
“He speaks mostly Dutch,” added Johnny, heading for the door.
“Then you can translate.”
Two hours elapsed. Andy left for practice. I sat beside Cait, watching Timmy and listening to his choked breathing. Occasional groans emerged through his parched lips. Cait squeezed drops from a drenched cloth, but he could barely swallow. I held him, his body fearfully light, over a bedpan four times in those first hours; a foul-smelling, pea-soup diarrhea spilled from him, and each time he cried and clutched his stomach.
Cait’s weary passivity irked me. We can’t just sit here, I thought, we’ve got to do something. Questioning her, I learned that there had been a gradation of head and joint aches, coughs and sore throats, nosebleeds, chills, and suddenly the relentless high fever with alternating spells of constipation and diarrhea, vomiting, and terrible abdominal pain. The prescribed quinine had been too harsh on the boy’s weakened system, so Cait had stopped it.
How often is this fatal? I wondered, and then wondered if I really wanted to know.
The doctor arrived, a balding man named Unzelman whose aristocratic bearing and superior German tones put me off, but he treated Johnny with surprising deference.
“That’s ’cause he knows I’m a performer, an artiste,” Johnny said later. “They’re serious about the circus where he came from.”
Unzelman put a hand on Timmy’s brow and muttered. He checked his pulse and lifted his nightshirt. A welter of rash marks dotted the boy’s swollen abdomen. The doctor pressed gently on one, watched it go pale.
“What are those?” I asked.
“Rose spots,” replied Johnny, after an exchange with Unzelman. “A prime sign of typhoid.”
Translating carefully, Johnny gave us Unzelman’s instructions: withhold quinine until Tim
my was stronger; keep him on a high-protein, nonfibrous diet of milk and eggs; apply cold compresses to his head and warm gum-spirit compresses to his abdomen.
The fever, Unzelman said, rose in staircase escalations. Timmy was approaching the peak, the crisis point. If he survived it, his chances would be fair.
“Doesn’t mince words, does he?” I said. “What caused it in the first place?”
“Bad air,” said Johnny. “You know, the ether.”
At that word Unzelman’s head jerked and he rattled off something with harsh quickness.
Johnny looked abashed. “He says I’m an idiot, no such thing as evil air.
Unzelman insisted that Timmy’s compresses, bedding, and all waste material be carefully disposed of, or the disease would spread. The house would have to be quarantined, its occupants restricted in their movements. I saw a shadow of a worried frown cross Cait’s face. A quarantine, I thought, might not fit Fenian plans.
“I’ll try to sterilize everything in here,” I said.
“Do what?” said Johnny.
“Boil stuff,” I said. “Kill germs.”
He spoke to Unzelman, who regarded me approvingly.
“He says that’s one of the most intelligent things he’s ever heard in Cincinnati. Wants to know if you’re familiar with the new work of somebody named Pasteur.”
“Sort of.”
“He’s impressed,” said Johnny, adding that Unzelman was willing to return daily. His visitation fee was five dollars.
Cait looked despairingly at me.
“Let’s make it twice a day,” I said, taking her hand. Money was least among our concerns.
The days and nights that followed contained long sleepless vigils punctuated by fits of intense activity. I boiled rags for compresses, soaked them in the gum spirits—the odor of turpentine permeated the house—wrung them out, changed them periodically. During the rare intervals when Cait dozed, I followed Unzelman’s instructions carefully in preparing Timmy’s milk. It had to be heated to approximately 150 degrees, maintained there for half an hour, then cooled rapidly and kept cold to kill remaining bacteria. Andy and Johnny, though visibly skeptical, kept, us supplied with ice; and I was learning to regulate the wood stove in the kitchen with some facility.
