“What do ya think about the game tonight, Mick?”
“I liked it,” he answered. “Lester Sledge is a good player.”
“What about all those strikeouts, Mickey? Did the first two walks get you angry?”
“Mickey isn’t angry, sir. I’m happy. My friend Lester is fun to watch. He hits the ball really far. Really far.” There was a collective frustration that passed between all of those awaiting something suitable to print.
“Don’t you have anything to say about your pitching? I mean, you were great tonight.”
“It was fun.”
“That’s it, Mickey? Fun? Can you give us something else?” Mickey paused only long enough to scratch an itch behind his right ear.
“We’re going to eat now. Me and Lester, Murph. At Rosie’s. Then we’re gonna feed my rabbits. I like Rosie’s. I think Mickey is going to have—” The crew began packing up and was all but gone before Mickey could even finish his thought.
Lester was not without conversation himself. Murph hugged the slugger immediately following the game and thanked him for his heroic efforts, and after all of the press had grown tired of the disordered volleying with Mickey, a few of them made their way over to his locker to tap what had potential to be a noteworthy story. Lester even got what he believed to be one or two gratuitous nods of approval as the players filed into the locker room. But it was the exchange with Danvers that stayed with him. “You know, it ain’t so easy boy?” the third baseman said. “Ain’t always gonna be like this.”
“I know,” Lester replied. “Never said it was. Just glad I could help.”
“Ain’t always gonna have reporters buzzing round you. Look at me. Two more knocks tonight. Leading the league in hitting. And I barely got a second look.” Lester’s head hurt a little and his mouth was horribly dry. “I wouldn’t get all crazy now, celebrating and all,” Danvers continued. “This ain’t the Negro leagues. It’s a little harder here than it is in black ball.”
Lester drew a long breath and released it slowly. “I know that.” “And Boxcar? You know, Boxcar will be back soon. So all this hullabaloo ain’t worth nothin’ more than a wooden nickel.”
Lester’s brow lowered and his gaze moved across the empty eyes of his suddenly voluble teammate. “You played a good game too, Mr. Danvers. And I’m glad the team won. But if that’s all, I am going to grab some grub with Mickey and Murph over at Rosie’s. I hear she ain’t so particular about that whole Jim Crow thing. Then I reckon we’ll go back to Murph’s place and hit the hay. Start getting ready for tomorrow night’s game.”
Woody’s tongue was seized by the candor. After an awkward silence that ended in neither a handshake nor a spoken goodnight, the two men parted ways. Although Murph did not suggest Rosie’s as some sort of celebratory repast, he could not help but gush about his vision coming to fruition in such startling fashion.
“I knew it, kid,” he beamed. “Just knew it. You were great, Lester. Both you guys. Man, with the way you and Danvers are hitting, and with Mickey’s arm, we can’t miss.”
Lester felt the warmth of the words like a hand on his back while Mickey busied himself with a tiny dispenser of tooth picks.
“Ain’t no big deal, Murph,” the emotional catcher finally said. “It’s me who owes you the thank you.”
The three of them talked some more about the night, ate and drank, then talked some more. Murph and Lester recounted his two long balls and shared a laugh while trying to explain to Mickey why so many people at the ballpark were “yelling at Lester.” It was all good. Everything vague and desultory had seemed to order itself, almost magically. And in some small way, as the minutes and words passed between them, each was just a little more reluctant to part with the substance of their imaginings. The quixotic banter continued on the ride home. Talk of the pennant? In early May? It was foolish, sure, but Murph could not help himself. Everything in his professional being cried out against such a capricious prophecy. He had been burned so many times before. But what had just transpired hours before at Borchert Field was that special.
Even the stars that still remained in the vaulted sky shone brighter as they drove the familiar stretch of Diamond Drive that lead to Murph’s house.
“Now, I know I shouldn’t say this,” Murph began as they neared the final bend in the road, “because you never mess with success. But how do you feel, Mr. Sledge, about moving into the cleanup spot tomorrow night?”
Lester was touched. Truly. The last twenty-four hours had proven to be quite a whirlwind. He was thinking about what his mama would say, and struggling to collect his thoughts. His lips had all but formed the words when all three of them were seized by the unholy vision. It was awful. Mickey cried out in terror, a shrill, plaintive wail. Murph and Lester were simply speechless, their eyes suspended not in the flashing lights atop Sheriff Rosco’s car, but in the storm of fiery embers leaping off the burning cross wedged in the center of Arthur Murphy’s front yard.
MAY
Crosses continued to burn, and Boxcar’s disease moved along the usual course, tantalizing him with transitory stretches of optimism and vitality now and again, only to shatter the improbable hope for recovery with relapses that enervated both his physical strength and emotional resolve. He was ornery and obstinate, and continued to refuse treatment. But when things seemed to turn a dark corner, he finally acquiesced to the idea of a doctor, even though it was to be of little consequence, for there was nothing to be done.
“We can always set you up in a good hospital, Box,” Murph suggested during his last visit. The once animated catcher, whose body had always looked like it had been chiseled from stone, just sat there, exanimate, a shadow of his former self, mired in sorrow and self loathing.
“That won’t be necessary, Murph,” he said. “I’ll get by.”
Boxcar was true to his word; he did get by, but his struggle was eating away at Murph. He loved the fiery catcher like a son. They all did, especially Mickey, who Murph had shielded as best he could from what was beginning to look like certain tragedy. He shared his vision with Molly, and the news all but devastated her. She wanted to tell Mickey, but Murph had convinced her it was not the right time. She agreed, but the thought of Mickey’s friend in such trouble weighed heavily upon her.
“I was in town today,” Molly said a few days later, as all three of them sat down for dinner. “Ran into Dorothy Chambers. Seems her brother Thomas is real ill. Has two little ones at home. Sort of made me sad and all, especially with all of us doing so well here. Don’t seem fair, that some should suffer more than others.” She was talking more than usual, and her words were choppy and feverish, each running into the next.
“It’s okay, Ma,” Mickey said, folding his napkin neatly. “Don’t be sad.”
She sighed and took a quick forkful of creamed spinach. The severity of her expression worsened as she chewed. Her eyes became glassy and she looked as though she were going to explode until her thoughts once again came spilling out.
“I know we said that we were going to try and eat less beef, Arthur, on account of the price and all, but I have been wanting to try this brisquet recipe for weeks. The meat is so tender. Melts in your mouth. We have fresh apple pie for dessert after. The crust got a little burnt, but it’s still good. Is it okay? Arthur, is it okay?” She was looking at him with such peculiar urgency. Tears began to emerge from her quivering lids.
“Yes, Molly, of course it is,” he said.
“It sure is,” Mickey blurted out. “Mickey loves beef. I do. All the fellas love it.” He paused a moment and smiled, as a recent reminiscence flooded his consciousness. “Last week, after practice, we had a hamburger eating contest—at Pee Wee’s place. Jimmy Llamas ate three, Finster had four, and Mickey had eight. First I had three, then I had a drink. Then I ate three more, but my stomach started to hurt, until I burped. I think it was all the soda I drank. Then I ate one more, and wanted to stop, but ate just one more after that, on account of seven being uneven and
all. That didn’t bother Pee Wee none. He only had one himself.”
“That’s great, Mick,” Arthur said, chewing deliberately. “So you won, huh?”
“Yeah, Mickey won,” the boy said with a strange note of resignation. “But that’s only because Boxcar didn’t have any. He always wins.” Mickey watched as Molly brought her napkin to her mouth, dabbing her lips gently. Then she sighed again, this time louder, and brought the damp cloth to her eyes.
“Molly, please don’t,” Murph said. She would not look at him, but nodded. Then she began crying harder, as if somehow Murph’s request had punctured her emotional reservoir.
“I’m sorry, Arthur,” she said, getting up from the table. “I can’t. I just can’t. You’ll have to finish without me.”
Mickey was alarmed. His eyes began to well up too. “What did Mickey do?” he asked. “I’m sorry. Next time I wont eat so many hamburgers. I promise.” There was an uncomfortable silence that settled between them, one that lasted a good while until Murph finally spoke.
“It’s not you, Mick,” Murph said. He looked away for a moment, as if trying to enlist strength and guidance from some imaginary source of inspiration. “It’s Boxcar. Your mom’s crying about Boxcar. He’s not doing too well, Mick. I’m afraid I have something to tell you.”
The other illness that had touched the entire town was yielding its own effects.
Despite Sheriff Rosco’s investigation into the hate crime perpetrated that night at Murph’s house, there seemed to be no answers.
“What do ya want me to say, Murph?” Rosco said days later. “Ain’t nothin’ that can be done.”
The law man’s flippancy drew Murph’s ire. “So that’s it? Huh? Some racist sons of bitches light up my house, right here in town, and nothing can be done? Is that what you’re telling me, Rosco?”
“Ain’t like last time. With Mickey. No one here really wants to help no black boy. I’m sorry to say it, but that’s how it is.”
The sheriff saw the violent contortions of Murph’s face but paid them no mind. He just folded his arms and rolled the butt end of his cigar between his yellowing teeth. “Why don’t you wise up, Arthur, eh? What’s the sense? You’s playing with fire here. Just go back to the way things was. You go back to the way things was, and I’m willing to bet all this ugliness will go away.”
Rosco’s indifference angered and frustrated Murph, but it sent Molly into orbit. All of the doubt and insecurity she had previously nourished about her son’s welfare had risen once again to the surface. She thought about all of the beatings he’d taken at the hands of his tyrannical father, and about the attack he suffered last season outside The Bucket. She had not come this far, and sacrificed this much, to let Mickey play the victim once again.
“I told you, Arthur, from the very beginning, that the minute I don’t like the looks of things, that’s it.” She slammed the pot she had just finished cleaning hard on the kitchen counter top. “He’s done. Mickey is done.”
He saw her, laboring beneath the weight of all things mountainous, her breath forced and audible, like a furious cloud of steam. “Relax, Molly. I’m upset too. But Mickey is in no danger. The issue is with Lester, and Rosco knows all about it. Look, it’s unpleasant, sure. But Mickey is thriving, Molly. He’s doing really well. He and Lester are the talk of the town. Besides, you said it was up to him. Remember? The boy hasn’t said anything about quitting.”
“Not in any danger? Unpleasant? Are you out of your mind? You are not thinking. We are all vulnerable now, Arthur. This time it was a cross. Next time maybe it will be a brick, or maybe bullets. You know what these people are like. Look, I like Lester, you know I do, but you have placed all of us in harm’s way by bringing him into this house. And for what? To win a few lousy baseball games?”
They had never really fought before. It was not because Murph possessed some exaggerated sense of chivalry or obsequious compunction, but because he was mindful, at every turn, of the tumultuous marriage she and Clarence had had and never wanted to stir any of the old feelings. Most often, it was easy enough to acquiesce to her wishes, regardless of what his desires were. But his immediate fate, his very livelihood, were now tied to her latest request.
“Baseball games? Is that all you think this is? Sure, that’s what started all of this. And it has worked out real fine. We are better than we have ever been. But do you know, Molly, what this opportunity has done for Lester? As a man? Do you know the hardship this boy has seen? Do you even have a clue as to how this sort of break through could change the beliefs and sensibilities of folks everywhere? And open doors for Lester and colored folks across the board? Now you tell me how that qualifies as not thinking. You tell me how that can be wrong.”
“I’ll tell you that, when you can tell me how I am supposed to explain to my son about racism, and lynchings, and bigotry and all of the other horrors I try to shield him from every day. Do you know what that feels like? Huh? Do you even have a clue about that? I feel for the colored folks too, Arthur. You know I do. But, Jesus, I have to worry about my boy. My charity must begin at home. I have to look out for my son. Because if I don’t, nobody else will.”
A sudden moodiness came over him. He sighed, and dug his hands into his hips.
“Nobody else, huh? Is that what you believe? Really? Is that what’s been going on here the last year or so? I have opened my home to both you and Mickey. And you are welcome to stay as long as you like. Why? Cause I care. It’s also the reason why last week, I made a phone call to Whitey Buzzo about Mickey. About the big club in Boston giving the kid a serious look. Listen, Molly. I know this ain’t easy. I do. But baseball is all a kid like Mickey’s got. This could be a home for him. Playing. Maybe coaching some day. Who knows. Baseball takes care of its own. So if you’re worried about his future, you best think twice about taking from him the only thing he really has.”
Molly stood stunned by Murph’s pointed tone. Though she grasped what he was trying to impart, she remained, for the most part, crouched beneath the pall of the moment.
“I don’t know, Arthur,” she said tearfully. “It just doesn’t feel right. I hear what you’re saying. I do. Part of me knows you are probably right. God knows, you have been so far. But I’m tired of worrying. Tired, you hear? I just want to rest. I don’t know if I can do this again.”
He moved close to her, so that he could feel her hot breath against his face, then pulled her still closer, so that the furious rebellion of her heart beat against his own. He kissed her forehead, then took her trembling hand until, after some quivering, at last lay warm and inert in his.
“Please trust me, Molly,” he whispered. “Trust me. Let things run their course. It will be okay.”
The spell of the storm had broken. She was tired, and did not want to fight anymore. “I will try, Arthur,” she said, sighing before wiping her eyes. “As best I can. I will try.” She wiped her eyes again with the frayed end of her sleeve and stared into his eyes. “I promise. I will. Really. I mean it. But it is a lot to ask.”
Later that day, Murph found himself defending his actions in a similar manner. There he was, once again, in Dennison’s lightstarved lair, staring across a littered desk at that churlish face that assumed all sorts of lurid implications in the artificial twilight cast by the two frosted bowls of Victorian glass hanging on the wall. Dennison was his typical petulant self, puffing on his cigar with such intense animation that it looked as though his head would explode.
“So you won the game, Mr. Murphy,” he said, unrolling his newspaper before laying it flat on his desk “That’s true. And an interesting game it was. But at what cost?”
“Come again?”
“The cost, Arthur. For the victory. Reduced attendance. All the unrest in the stands amongst those who actually came. The hate mail I am getting. The burning cross. Get my meaning?”
“Come on, Warren. Obviously you saw the paper this morning. Quite a headline: Mickey and Negro Newbie Hammer Rangers He’s news
, Warren. What’s bad about that?”
A cloud of brooding anger hung on the owner’s brow.
“Maybe you did not understand our first conversation, Arthur. Yes, you won. I love that. But I do not want all the bull that goes with it. Get me? I said that from the beginning.”
“It will all pass, Warren. I told you that. Mickey’s back, better than ever. Danvers is hot. The rest of the guys are playing well too. And, I’m telling you, dollars to donuts, this kid will win them over. Just give it time. Half the season, remember?”
An air of strained formality passed before them. Dennison glanced down at the headline once more and saw profitable visions lighted by Murph’s plea.
“Look, I have another meeting this morning. I don’t have time for this now. But you better hope you’re right, Arthur,” he said ominously before showing Murph to the door. “I’m not as patient as I used to be.”
During the next two weeks, Mickey, Lester, and the rest of the Brew Crew made quite a compelling argument for Murph’s future employment as manager. Lester continued his torrid hitting, putting up home runs at a dizzying pace. He jacked another against the Colts, crushed a pair of dingers against the Sidewinders and Giants, and buried the Spartans with three mammoth blasts that landed, each one of them, on the sidewalk outside the ballpark. It seemed to matter little to him that there were still those who refused to accept a black man in a white man’s league. Some of the hateful signs remained, and he received his fair share of heckling and harassment. But he played on, and began to win people over, including the local papers who, with the exception of when Mickey pitched, placed him in the morning headlines every day. Even Woody Danvers, who continued to lead the league in hitting with a .387 average and plenty of power of his own, could not crack the back page.
Perhaps it was journalism of the sensationalized variety. It was quite a story. Maybe it was just another chapter in the public’s long standing love affair with the long ball. Or it just could have been the catchy moniker— (Sledge) Hammer inspired by the young man’s last name. Whatever it was, Lester Sledge’s name was in bold print every day and was becoming household conversation.
Sophomore Campaign Page 11
