“Your fans really know how to celebrate, McGinty,” the umpire muttered from behind his mask. “Ain’t never seen anything like it.”
Pee Wee tapped his cleats with his bat and winked.
“Yeah. They’re something alright. I just hope they brought enough of those things.”
The Brewers, in typical fashion, fed off the energy created by Mickey’s domination. Pee Wee roped a single up the middle on the first pitch he saw. Then, with the count 2–1, Arky Fries shortened up and executed a perfect hit and run, slapping the ball through the vacated area on the right side of the infield, sending Pee Wee all the way around to third. The Cubs pitcher squatted on the mound and hung his head. He hadn’t even broken a sweat and the Brewers were already threatening.
Danvers was next. He had cooled off considerably after his torrid start, going just 9 for his last 44, but he had a few good at bats of late and was showing signs of breaking out of his prolonged slump. He stepped to the plate brimming with optimism, savoring the unenviable predicament the Cubs hurler had created for himself. He is going to come right after me, Danvers thought to himself. Probably try to induce a ground ball with breaking stuff and get out of the inning with minimal damage. It was this part of the game he loved most. The cat and mouse. Every situation was fraught with so many different scenarios. Only the very best hitters stayed one step ahead. With that thought in mind, the wily Danvers inched forward in the batter’s box, hoping to catch the hook before it had time to break away from him.
As the ball approached the hitting zone, Danver’s eyes lit up like a child’s on Christmas morning. There it was, just as he thought. Curveball. A flat delivery that sort of spun harmlessly as it came closer and closer. Helicopters they called them. Cripple pitches. They were made to order. The only danger was being too eager. Lunging at the inviting offering before it was time. Then you get yourself out, and curse your impetuousness all the way back to the dugout. Danvers knew all that. Knew just how to keep his hands back long enough, even when his front foot was restless and his weight shifted prematurely, so that he could still drive the ball with authority somewhere.
So Danvers, as if following some preordained script, did just that. His foot came down hard as his body strained toward the ball, but his hands remained locked and loaded, firing through the hitting zone just as the spinning sphere danced across the plate. Danvers hit it on the screws, and sent a frozen rope into the left center-field gap, scoring both runners. By the time the ball was corralled and thrown back into the infield, Danvers was all smiles, celebrating on the third base bag with a stand-up triple.
The hits kept coming. Lester followed Danvers’ triple with a long homerun to left, Clem Finster, Jimmy Llamas, Buck Faber and Dutch McBride all singled consecutively, and Amos Ruffings, who had not hit a round tripper in more than a month, highlighted the barrage with a long, arching big fly that cleared the centerfield fence with plenty of room to spare. The Brew Crew had batted around en route to the most prolific inning in their history; by the time all was said and done, they had hammered out 18 hits and plated 17 runs.
Mickey returned to the mound some forty-five minutes later as sharp as he was when he left. He set down the Cubs one, two, three again, notching three more strikeouts and sending an already intoxicated crowd into a dizzying state of delirium.
“When was the last time you saw this place like this?” Matheson said, flashing a toothless smile. “I told ya. Grab the bull by the onions, and everything else falls in place.”
“Yup, sure is nice,” Murph replied. “Smells a little like pennant fever.”
The Brewers’ bats cooled off as the game went on, tallying just five more hits over the next seven innings. With a 17-run lead, and Mickey mowing down the opposition, there was no urgency in the Brewer dugout. Even the crowd was eager for their hometown heroes to make quick work of their at bats, for they were now fully enraptured with Mickey’s assault on the Cub hitters. He had never looked so dominating.
By the top of the seventh, Mickey had already matched the team record for strikeouts in a game—16, previously held by Wyatt Thorton. The Brewer die hards were well aware of the history in the making and were loving every second of it. They were on their feet, chanting and cheering and of course, hanging stuffed bears, one after the other, fully immersed in the rapture of the moment until they discovered, to their horror and disappointment, that they were fresh out.
“Not to worry,” the leader of the fanatical group proclaimed, holding up a few brown paper bags and a piece of charcoal he requisitioned from the barbeque pit.
“We will just have to draw our own.”
As the sun crossed the sky over Borchert Field in usual fashion, Mickey kept rolling. Despite an infield dribbler that died just before it reached the bare hand of Woody Danvers, breaking up the no-hit bid, the boy remained undaunted. He fanned five more Cubbies to finish with an incomprehensible 21 strikeouts, obliterating the old mark while giving the hometown crowd the thrill of a lifetime and visions of a late season run at the pennant. With just five games to make up in six weeks, things were certainly looking up.
Chip McNally was not as enthused. He saw the steady approach of Murph and the surging Brewers as though he were viewing it from the rear view mirror of his car. His eyes were fixed on the road which lay before him, but every so often he would sneak furtive glances at a newspaper or linger briefly around a radio while the sports report was being given, only to turn his attention once again to that which lay immediately in front of him. Today, that was a meeting with Sheriff John Rosco.
“One hand washes the other, remember, John?” he asked.
The sheriff tapped his foot impatiently.
“Enough with the games, Chip. What’s the problem?”
“The problem is that black boy and the rest of Arthur Murphy’s crew. I’m getting some heat from upstairs. I was hoping that you could help me with that. You did say you were going to help me, right?”
Rosco stood uneasily outside McNally’s house, staring at the broken wood fence that circled the property and the pile of pickets propped up here and there against the tangle of weeds just below.
“I’m sorry, Chip, but I done my best. Situation is what it is. It ain’t as easy as we thought. My hands are tied.”
“Your hands are tied? Since when? You run everything ’round here. How can your hands be tied?”
“Look, Chip, I’ve been thinking. Who am I to stop this kid from playing? Maybe we all over-reacted about this. Besides, I’m feeling mighty bad about taking favors from you in exchange for all this nonsense. Ain’t right. And I aim to fix it.”
McNally could almost see the dark shadow fall across Rosco’s face. Blood flared up inside the desperate manager. He stood now, in a fit of bubbling rage, showing his teeth.
“John Rosco? A sudden attack of morality? Please. Who the hell are you kidding anyway? You, of all people! You feel bad about something? Please. You are one of the dirtiest bastards around here. Don’t hand me your crap. I know you, John Rosco. Don’t you forget that. I know a lot about you.”
Rosco’s eyes continued to roam, traveling now to the tiny dirt road that led from the unhinged gate in front of the property through the row of Sycamores, to the barn and silo out back.
“So you know me, Chip,” he said, his gaze still off in the distance. “Okay. You know me. What’s that supposed to mean?”
“That means you need to help me. Now. Now John. You promised me. We had a deal”
“Just leave it be for now, Chip. Leave it alone. Let it lie. I got you covered. I’m gonna need time. That’s all I can say.”
Meanwhile, the Brewers’ juggernaut continued to roll. They won another game the following night. It was another convincing victory that had everyone thinking about the post-season. After the impressive display, Dennison summoned Murph to his office.
“Well, that was quite a performance tonight, Mr. Murphy,” Dennison said, his face shrouded behind a viscous cloud of cigar smoke.
“Quite a performance indeed.”
“Thank you, sir,” Murph said uncomfortably. “I think we are finally on our way.”
Warren Dennison was pale, more so than usual. When the smoke cleared, Murph noticed a row of tiny beads of perspiration that had settled just above his tightened lip. Despite the amiable salutation just moments before, Dennison seemed disturbed, his mind pregnant with an unavailing agitation.
“Well now, one victory surely does not a season make,” he went on, tapping the colorless ashes on the end of his cigar into a glass tray. “And I am still very unhappy, Arthur, with all of this black/white crap. You said it would go away. You said that everyone would—how did you put it—‘get used to the idea of a black man playing for us.’ Isn’t that what you said? Huh? Well, it’s damn near the end of the season, and it ain’t no better now, is it?” The surly owner shook his head and made a clicking noise with his tongue. “I don’t think I can have this anymore, Mr. Murphy. I am out of patience.”
Murph withstood the surging insolence bubbling deep inside him and spoke calmly. “It is taken care of,” he said, drying his damp palms on the front of his trousers. “Uh, at least it will be by tomorrow. I do not want to—I cannot say too much right now. But trust me, Warren—the sheriff is going to help all of us put thing to rest once and for all.”
Dennison sat stoically, eyes tired and fixed on a point somewhere beyond Murph, his head propped up by one hand while the fingers on the other drummed the littered desktop. “It better be put to rest, Arthur. Tomorrow, or you and I will be having a different kind of conversation.”
Later that night, as he lay quietly next to Molly, listening to her rhythmic breathing, Murph was besieged by a senseless, ineffable dread. It startled him, took his breath away. What was this feeling of profound trouble that rushed against his soul with such ferocity that it caused him to sit up, to fight against this pall of unknown catastrophe that had enveloped his senses, invaded his body, and poisoned his thoughts? Surely things would be okay. They had to be. He had thought of everything. Done everything right. His plan was brilliant, and executed to perfection. Yet despite the obvious, he remained, for the rest of that night, caught somewhere between waking and sleep, suspended in the tumult of fitful dreams—caught in crisis to which he could not attach a name.
He awoke early next morning to the sound of a ringing telephone. It was Dennison. Murph’s heart sank when he heard the voice. It was as if the foreboding hours of the night had taken shape before him.
“Arthur, get here early today. We have to talk. And it can’t wait.”
“But I have that meeting in a little while,” Murph replied. “I don’t know how long I’ll be.”
“Go to your meeting,” he said. “Just get here,” the impatient owner continued. “Get here as fast as you can.”
Later that morning, the scheduled meeting took place. Murph, a gentleman from the Federal Bureau of Investigation, Lester, and Mickey gathered together in Murph’s office and, with the redolence of anger and fear all around them, spoke about Lester and the events of the past few months.
From under the fain’t glow of lamp light, Mickey emerged as the focal point. He sat uneasily, eyes round with daunting expectation, his feet tapping uncontrollably. He was chewing at his fingernails and speaking feverishly under his breath. “Couched in his kennel, like a log, with paws of silver sleeps the dog.”
The others exchanged uncomfortable glances, uncertain as to which one of them should take the lead. It was only after the graysuited gentleman whispered something in Murph’s ear did the silence finally cease.
“Mickey, there’s nothing to worry about,” Murph began. “Mr. Billings here is going to help us. All of us. But please. You need to talk. Now. I know you are holding onto something that we need to know. You have to talk to us. Tell us now. What do you know about what has happened to Lester these last few weeks? Do you know who did some of those things to him?”
The boy was unphased by Murph’s plea. He continued to sit with an ardor of turmoil pasted to his face.
“Look, uh, Mickey, I don’t want to scare you are anything,” Billings said, removing his glasses and placing them gently in his shirt pocket. “We’re not really too sure that Lester is safe. And maybe even you, or Murph. You follow?”
Mickey’s lower lip extended out, and his eyes shot around the room.
“Mickey’s not really in tune with that sort of stuff,” Murph interjected. “He’s simple when it comes to figuring things like that.”
“Okay, let me try this another way.” The man paused before trying again. “Mickey, do you love Arthur here?”
“Yes, sir,” Mickey answered. “Mickey loves Arthur Murphy just like he were my own Pa.”
“What about Lester? Do you like Lester too?”
“Sure thing. Lester Sledge is a swell fella. I’m always saying that. I said it yesterday. Yesterday, after practice, we—”
“Okay, son,” Billings interrupted. “I understand. And I want you to know that this is your chance to help these two gentlemen who you are so fond of. You can really help me to protect them. And you. All you need to do is tell me everything you know.”
Mickey sat sullenly as lurid images filtered through his mind like some twisted newsreel. He held his stomach in protest against a slight nausea and shut his eyes. His face glistened with perspiration. He sat for some time, locked inside himself, rocking nervously while the others just waited, heads hung in lifeless exasperation, on his response. He was really struggling. Waves of menacing thoughts crashed against the walls of his imagination with wild simplicity, and the boy continued to sit paralyzed for many minutes, joining the others in their silent vigil.
“But they will hurt Mickey,” he blurted out unexpectedly, choking back a swell of tears. “And the team will lose. We will lose if we have any more trouble. Murph said so. I don’t want Murph to go.”
Billings was speechless, not sure what to make of the sudden outburst. But that was Mickey. He was often stricken with fear, and the impalpable uncertainty of its meaning and his own inability to place a label on it. It was during these moments when the boy usually disappeared completely, retreated inside himself to a place only he knew.
“You don’t have to worry about that, Mick,” Murph said, leaning forward and placing his hand on the boy’s quivering knee. “All of us here—me, you, Lester, and Mr. Billings—we will all be fine once you help us get the men who are doing this. No worries. It will all go away once you tell us what you know.”
They watched him, battered and frightened, laboring with scenes of polluted waters illuminated now, once again. He moved languidly, his breathing heavy and erratic, until the words finally came—words that split the still air like a trumpet blast that had all of them shaking their heads for several minutes until the room was quiet once again.
AUGUST 4, 1949
Chip McNally knew all about the private struggles of his arch rival and smelled blood in the water. The fractious relationship between Murph and Dennison was well chronicled, and McNally reveled at the thought of being the instrument behind Murph’s ousting.
The Rangers blew into town to kick off an eight-game home stand clinging to a four-game lead over the recently resurgent Brewers. Murph labored a little over who should get the ball, but after only minor deliberation, he decided to go with Butch Sanders. Sanders was fresh and had looked pretty good in his last outing against the Bears. Besides, Murph had more pressing matters to worry about.
The Brewers took the field under a swollen moon that glowed ominously behind an oppressive summer haze. The temperature had reached a scalding 98 degrees earlier that afternoon and the onset of nightfall had provided very little relief. The players ran to their positions with sweat stained shirts and steaming brows, eager to play the inning and get back to the dugout, where buckets of cool water and freshly chipped ice awaited their return.
Kiki Delaney ignited the Ranger attack in usual fashion, laying down a beautiful bunt that fl
irted with the third base foul line, only to come to rest in front of a frustrated Woody Danvers.
“Son of a bitch,” Danvers carped, hands on his hips. “I could’ve swore that sucker was going foul.”
Sanders’s next delivery saw Delaney take off for second while the next Rangers’ table setter slapped the ball the opposite way, exploiting the hole on the right side of the infield left by Arky Fries after he vacated his normal position to cover the bag. Delaney never broke stride, and by the time Buck Faber had thrown the ball back in, the Rangers were sitting pretty, with runners on the corners and nobody out.
“Oh, holy crap,” Murph griped to Matheson. “Once, just once, do you think we could get out of the first damned inning untouched? I mean, Jesus Christ. Is that too much to ask?”
Matheson worked the inside of his cheek with his wrinkled fingers and removed a wad of chew, adding it to the pile beneath the bench where he sat.
“Yup. Sanders is stiffer than a billy goat. They’re all over him like ducks on a June bug.”
Murph shrugged and sighed.
“I’m telling ya, Farley, I think I should just hang ’em up. I’m getting too old for this. It’s all wrong. All of it. Hell, I gave it my best shot. Nobody can say I didn’t try, right? So what’s the harm if I walk away? Huh? Just retire to Molly and my little farm.”
He rolled his eyes as Sanders walked the next batter, loading the bases.
“That may happen, Murph, but there ain’t no use in hasty action. And it ain’t worth a plugged nickel sitting around here like a bump on a pickle just waiting for misfortune to launch her rockets. If you’re going to go down, well then by cracky, go down swinging. Try something. Holy Hannah, try anything. And when the season is over, let them chips fall as they will.”
The Rangers continued to pound Sanders, spraying well-struck balls all over the yard. Two dingers, a couple of triples, four consecutive doubles and a salvo of singles had all the Brewer fielders wilting, matinee idols turned to melting clay in the oppressive August air. They barely had enough life left to limp off the field when, forty-one minutes after the first pitch was delivered, the final out of the inning was recorded.
Sophomore Campaign Page 18
