Molly took his hand and held it to her cheek. Then she smiled.
“I’m sorry, honey. That’s awful. But I think maybe I can help you take your mind of that.” She darted out of the room, and returned shortly after, with a fairly sizeable box wrapped neatly in brown paper. Her eyes glowed with excitement.
“Seeing it’s your birthday and all next week, I suppose you can have this now.” She handed him the package. He tugged at the wrapping methodically, then slit the sides of the box with his pocket knife. The longer he spent, the more intrigued he became, until finally, after all the wrapping was gone and the box top removed, he began rifling through the packaging materials inside until he saw it. “Molly, you gotta be kidding me. How did you—”
“Do you like it? I know how you are always losing your notes after the game. And let’s face it. Your handwriting isn’t getting any better. Now you can just speak your ideas into the machine and it will all be recorded for you. Right there.”
Murph shook his head. She had touched him in a place few had ever found. “This is really swell, Molly. Really. But you shouldn’t have done this. God. Imagine me. Arthur Murphy. Country boy from the sticks of Wisconsin. The proud owner of a portable wire recorder. Amazing, but I still don’t get it. These things are expensive. How on earth did you afford it?”
Her eyebrows danced playfully atop her forehead and she giggled. “Compliments of Clarence Tussler. I received the first part of my settlement a couple of weeks ago. And I wanted to say thank you. For all you’ve done.”
He walked over to her and kissed her lips softly. “You’re the best, Molly. Really.” He sighed as the euphoria of the moment yielded once again to the grim reality of the situation with Boxcar. “Now, can you fix my catcher situation?”
She laughed at first, until more sober thoughts replaced the frivolity. “Well, does Boxcar have a doctor? What does he say?”
“That’s the trouble. He don’t want to hear nothing about any doctors. Insists he fine. His body may be different but that rock-hard head of his is as thick as ever.”
Molly sat stiff and pensive in her chair. “What are you going to do?” she asked.
“Don’t really know exactly. I mean, Matheson brought in Hobey Baker. He’s okay, but he’s all glove and no stick. I also got my eye on another guy—young man who works a couple towns over, at the lumber mill.”
Molly scrunched up her nose and shook her head gently. “Arthur, I’m sure you know what you’re doing and all. Really. And I am certainly no expert. But if this guy’s so good, why isn’t he playing for someone else?”
Murph raised his eyebrows and smirked oddly. “He is. Sort of.” He got up from the table, cup in hand, and walked to the sink. All of his muscles suddenly felt weighted, by some ineffable force.
“Well?” she asked. “Why all the mystery? Who is this secret star?” “He’s colored, Molly,” Murph said softly. “Plays for one of those negro teams.”
Molly’s face lost all its usual shape. “What? Where did you find him? Have you seen him play?”
“No, just heard about him. But I did see him swing an axe. Like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Wrists like lightening. Raw power. Not the big, burly type of power, like Boxcar. This kid’s got long, lean muscle. I tell ya. He’s the real deal.”
Molly blinked her eyes as she stood thinking. “Look, Arthur, I don’t want to sound like an old stick in the mud, but do you really think that is such a good idea? I mean, this whole black and white thing has finally calmed down. People are starting to feel normal again. You know this will just open up the ugliness all over again.”
“I don’t see it that way,” he replied. “Not at all.”
“Well, what about Dennison? Are you sure he is ready for this? And what about the others?”
“Look, Molly, I’m just following the trend. Times are changing. They are. You’ve read the newspapers. It’s not like it used to be. If Jackie Robinson can play for Walter O’Malley, why can’t Lester Sledge play for us?”
“Hey, you don’t have to sell me on the idea, Arthur,” she said. “But you should remember that this isn’t Brooklyn. And the people here are not as—let’s say, cosmopolitan—as you and me.”
His spirit sagged. Molly, aware of the damaging residue of her words, joined him at the sink, placing her hand softly on his face.
“Look, I’m sorry, Arthur. I should not have said what I said. I believe you know best. I do. Obviously you’re very good at seeing things nobody else can.” She smiled, then spoke again. “Speaking of which—how’s my boy doing?”
“Great. Mickey is great. Truly. He hasn’t skipped a beat. In fact, he seems more relaxed than ever. And you should see him throw that baseball. It still amazes me.”
She folded her arms tightly against her chest and sighed, toiling with reminiscences both frightening and painful.
“Well that’s good to hear. It is. But it’s not the baseball that concerns me.”
“I know what you’re driving at,” he assured her. “Trust me. Everything is fine. Everyone takes extra care to watch out for him. Come on now. Last year is last year. That will never happen again. He’s right where he belongs.” As if the mention of his name were like a bell summoning his presence, Mickey bounded in the kitchen holding a thin stack of yellow paper stapled together and a red pencil.
“Hey, Mick,” Molly said. “Watcha doing, sweetheart?”
He set his teeth and for a moment his eyes went wide with concern. “Counting carrots. For Duncan and Daphney.”
Molly and Murph both smiled. They sat back down for a moment. Mickey joined them, and began flipping through his log.
“Mickey noticed that some days Duncan and Daphney eat lots of carrots and some days not so many. I have to make sure it’s always the same. Every day.” He proceeded to flip through the pages, each containing a neatly drawn black line at the top on which the days of the week rested. Each day was divided by a vertical line, also black, that stretched down the page, forming a column in which a number was displayed in red pencil. “Mondays, Duncan eats three carrots and Daphney eats four. Mondays is always seven. On Tuesdays, I give them one extra. Tuesday is eight. Five for Duncan and three for Daphney. Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays are the most. Wednesday is nine, Thursday is ten and on Friday, they share twelve. Twelve carrots. Six each.”
Murph fidgeted in his seat, and thought about excusing himself, but knew better than to interrupt the boy when he was in the middle of something.
“On Saturday, they don’t eat as many, on account of the lettuce they get that day. I have a book for that too. Saturday they get eight, just like Tuesday, but they each eat four, instead of five and three. And today, Sunday, I usually give them seven, but there were two left over from yesterday, so I didn’t know if I should just give them five and leave the two in there or take them out put seven new ones in and change the number on Saturday from eight to six.”
“Well, what did you decide, Mickey?” Molly asked.
“I gave them new ones,” he said definitely. “You can’t eat Saturday’s carrots on Sunday.”
Murph and Molly shook their heads. Neither of them, for a minute or two, could look the other square in the eye. There were so many moments like this one—moments that revealed the boy for who he was, and for what he was not.
“Uh, you know we have practice, right, big guy?” Murph asked, diverting the discomfort.
“Yes sir, Mr. Murphy,” he answered. “Practice is at 9:00. It’s only 7:56. We are leaving a half hour before, or maybe twenty-five minutes before, which is what we did the last time. That means I have at least 34 more minutes to get ready.”
Once they arrived at the ballpark, Murph turned Mickey and the other players over to Matheson, while he made the onerous trip up to Dennison’s office. It was sunny, and beginning to warm, but there was a high, cold wind blowing. He walked clumsily and struggled and strained with the specter of what he knew would be yet another frustrating exchange, pausing only fo
r a moment for a mangy cat, haggard and tailless, who was busy examining the contents of its stomach which now lay in a steaming pile on the cement walkway.
As his feet pounded the familiar course, Murph scrunched up his face in protest to the biting air and the foul smell that had found his nose. He felt so terribly put upon. And useless. Like he had no definitive place in the grand scheme of things. Why was it that every time there was a little controversy, or something was a little amiss, he had to jump through these interrogative hoops, like a little kid, trying to defend his worth to this scornful curmudgeon. He was so sick of it. Sick, with a great angst—a sharp, galling angst that burned deep in his heart—as he entered the owner’s lair.
It was cold and dark inside. Dennison was seated, as usual, behind his hand-carved mahogany desk, eyes narrow and wooden behind his glasses, his mouth busy expelling rings of smoke that hovered in the chilly air like white velvet ribbons.
“Come in, Murph,” he said through the frosty haze. “Interest you in a hand-wrapped Cuban?”
“No, no thanks, Warren. Not now. I really need to get out to the field as soon as we’re finished here.”
Dennison nodded and rested his cigar on the glass ash tray to his right. Then, animated by what appeared to be a genuine interest in Murph’s well being, he folded his hands and smiled behind the blurred line of smoke billowing from the idling stogie.
“How are you, Murph,” he said. “Things good for you?”
“Sure, Warren. Things are okay. You know. The usual.”
“The fellas all set to make another run at it?”
“Yeah, I think we’re ready to go.”
He picked up a baseball that was sitting next to the ash tray and tossed it playfully in the air. He wanted to feel relaxed, loose, but at the same time completely contained. Like everything was in order. “We’ve got the usual questions marks we have every year, but that’s par for the course.”
Dennison rose hesitatingly from his seat, pushing aside the pile of papers which lay between them. His eyes lingered on Murph’s unusual countenance. The mercurial owner perceived, through Murph’s transparent charade, that his manager was trying to get out of there before he was asked something which would undoubtedly throw a light on some of the uncertainty that was circulating.
“What’s all this I hear about Raymond Miller—Boxcar?” Dennison asked. “Is that also part of the same course?”
Murph stood awkwardly and watched the smug Dennison, all the while repeating to himself that these words did not matter, and that he would be okay—stood there, with arms folded and lips tight, all in an effort to calm his growing irritation. “What are you talking about, Warren? Boxcar’s not feeling so well. I know that. Everyone knows that. I’m not hiding anything.”
“Well, now, I did not suggest you were. However, you have not discussed this with me. Or what you plan to do. You can’t exactly win a championship without a catcher, now can you?”
“Won’t have to,” Murph said curtly. “Boxcar will get a shot, as long as he feels good enough. He’s my starting catcher. And if that doesn’t pan out, I got my eye on some young stud who would fit in here, just fine.”
“Matheson’s boy? That Baker kid?”
“No. He’s not the answer. Never will be.”
“Well, who is this mystery player?” Murph paused, as if measuring some weighty contents on an imaginary triple balance beam.
“Sledge. Name’s Lester Sledge. Works down at the lumber yard, few towns over. Strong as an ox and has all the tools to sit behind the dish.” With Murph’s announcement came a thickening of his blood. There emerged a distinct tension in the chilly air. The old man seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for Murph’s words to register. His eyes rolled at first, then shifted wildly from side to side. Then a look of revulsion and blinding incredulity hardened on his face.
“You mean the colored kid? You want to replace Boxcar—team captain and Milwaukee icon—with some work-worn blackie?” Dennison thundered. “Is that what you’re thinking?”
“Listen, Warren. Nothing—”
“I swear to Christ, Murphy, you really have shit for brains sometimes. You know that? A colored kid. From some two-bit lumber mill. Hell, I’m surprised you just didn’t take it all the way, and try to get Josh Gibson or Cool Papa Bell. Weren’t they available? Heck, maybe Satchel Paige ain’t doing nothing this year.” He closed his eyes and ran both hands through his hair. “Christ almighty, Murph, I do not know where do you get these harebrain ideas from. Huh? Honest to God, what the hell are you thinking about?”
Murph looked away with impatience, myriad thoughts searing his forehead with lines.
“Jesus, Warren, we’ve been down this road before,” he said, hands on his hips.
“Remember what you said about Mickey when I first told you about him?”
“The kid’s colored, for Christ sakes. Don’t you get it, Arthur?”
“He’s a ballplayer, Warren. A damned ballplayer. It’s that simple. So he’s colored. Big deal. Everyone called Mickey a retard. Including you. And Pee Wee, who happens to be the best shortstop in the league, was just a midget. Words, Warren. Just words. Does it make them any less effective on the field?”
“You are talking out your ass, Arthur,” Dennison said. “Apples and oranges. This ain’t the same thing, at all. I don’t need to lose any more fannies from our seats. And I certainly do not need any visits from the damned Klan. Have you read the damned papers lately? You are playing with fire here. These white folks work hard for their money. And they look forward to coming here to watch their team—a team of their own—play ball for them. I won’t screw with that. I can’t. I owe them better than that.”
Murph wasn’t listening anymore. He was so sick of Dennison’s crap. Why did he think, even for a minute, that this arrogant, selfabsorbed scumbag would be amenable to anything so unconventional? This man, who viewed himself, unjustifiable as it was, in such high regard. You think he would have learned his lesson with Mickey. But he just could not see beyond himself and his myopic ideas. He had this secret sense of power and control. God, it was sickening. He went about his business with this ineffable, inexpressible tyranny, something deep and twisted that suggested an unavailing need for control emanating from a truly insecure core.
“Well, I bet Walter O’Malley and a whole bunch of people wearing blue and white in Brooklyn are glad they didn’t feel the same way. There’s a colored boy over there who plays first base. I think his name is Jackie Robinson. You may have heard of him. Rookie of the year? Led the league in stolen bases? Helped get ‘dem bums’ to the Series?”
“Don’t get cute with me, Murphy. Okay. I know all about that. Poppycock. This ain’t the big city. Besides, that won’t last. You’ll see. Black and white? It just don’t work. Especially here. Haven’t you been reading the papers? Our people? They’re just different here. And our players. What about them? Have you thought about them?”
Murph folded his arms and sighed.
“Listen, this is all sort of premature. Relax. But I’m telling you. I’ve seen him. And people I trust say he’s the real deal. Negro league or not. He hits the crap out of the ball and has a canon behind the plate. I think once everyone sees that, nobody—not even you—will care what damn color he is.”
Dennison continued to listen, unable to utter even a sound as his throat had thickened with abhorrence.
“Listen, forget about all this worrying for now,” Murph continued. “Let’s just see what happens with Boxcar. Maybe he’ll snap out of it and all this bantering will have been for naught. But if he doesn’t, and we still need to look for a catcher, you leave the fellas on the team and everything else to me. I’ll put my job on the line, again, just to get this thing rolling. That’s how sure I am.”
Standing there, listening to Murph pitch his plan, Dennison thought about his manager and the last few years. All of the scheming and complaining. And all of the losing. The memory quickly became a burden. He had been
thinking for a while that his interest would be better served with someone a little younger, someone who did not have so much baseball baggage and such an irritating penchant for challenging his authority with these chimerical ideas. All of these thoughts, and so many more, found their way to his thin lips, which suddenly morphed into a sadistic smile. “Job on the line, heh?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I just may accept that challenge.”
OPENING DAY
It was a dazzling, cloudless April afternoon, with a golden swim of light falling to the ground at Borchert Field in bolts of brilliant yellow that lit up the lush green grass as it danced happily in gentle wafts of wind. It was a classic spring day, and a beautiful day for baseball.
In front of a stadium filled to capacity with rabid fans who had awakened ravenous from their baseball hibernation, the Brewers and Rangers both busied themselves with their pre-game rituals. All across the field, players from both teams were fielding grounders, playing pepper, and shagging fly balls. While to the casual observer this appeared to be just another start to the season, most knew otherwise. Never before did one game possess so many subplots—issues that transcended the field into realms far more human and compelling. There was Arthur Murphy, pitted once again against his nemesis, Chip McNally, the man who crashed into him in the outfield years ago while chasing a ball that was clearly Murph’s, destroying a career that was destined for Cooperstown. Murph never forgave him. And McNally still insisted it was his ball.
The bad blood had only escalated through the years, reaching an all-time high with last year’s battle for first place that wound up going McNally’s way after much controversy. Then there was the highly anticipated showdown between George “Lefty” Rogers, the ex- Brewer and fireballing ace of the Rangers, the man Mickey nearly killed after Lefty showed up at Murph’s house and attacked the boy—and Mickey, the beloved, albeit slow-witted phenom who still did not understand everything that had transpired. After the incident, Lefty spent weeks in the hospital recovering from the injuries he sustained, followed by some time spent in the town jail for aggravated assault. Mickey was incarcerated as well, long enough to miss that last game against the Rangers, until a pardon from the governor released the boy once again. Now the two of them would face off, once and for all.
Sophomore Campaign Page 5
