“Mickey is not gassed, Coach,” he said to Matheson. “A little hungry, and thirsty, and my arms are sweaty, and I would like to go home and pet my rabbits, and maybe—”
“Okay, okay, kid,” Matheson said, pushing the boy in the direction of the field. “I get it. I get it. Geez, just get out there.”
Mickey picked up right where he had left off; he fanned first two batters with relative ease, running his total for the game to a staggering fifteen. Now the hungry crowd rose to its feet, lead by the Baby Bazooka Brigade, with Mickey placards in hand, waving them so that all that was visible from section to section was an undulating sea of white. They wanted more and were trying desperately to will their favorite son to complete the mission.
Here comes sixteen! Here comes sixteen! Here comes sixteen!
Mickey heard the chant and was happy, mostly because he thought that only he had been counting. He knew all his stats for the day: 15 strikeouts, 1 walk, 2 hits, 98 strikes, and 27 balls. It was quite a line score. He was pleased, although the number fifteen bothered him too. He much preferred to end the game, or at least his outing, with one more punch out.
If he was going to accomplish the feat, however, he was going to have to do it against the Rangers’ cleanup hitter. No easy task by any means. With the yellow windows from neighboring houses looming out in the still, black distance like hopeful eyes, a disorderly house of rabid fans hung on Mickey’s every last movement. It was an anxious waiting, the kind you feel right before Christmas or the birth of your first child.
The kid did not disappoint, revving the crowd’s collective engine even further when he jumped out in front on a fastball that the batter fouled straight back. Mickey’s second toss missed just outside, but the one after that caught the inner half of the dish, placing the Rangers’ slugger in a 1–2 hole.
Sensing the kill, the legion of Mickey worshippers roared even louder.
Here comes sixteen! Here comes sixteen! Here comes sixteen!
They screamed and stomped and twisted themselves into all sorts of pre-celebratory positions. They were about to witness something truly amazing. Sixteen strikeouts. And then, after that, one final at-bat to capture the long anticipated pennant.
When Mickey rolled his arms and lifted his leg, it set off a flurry of popping flashbulbs, courtesy of the local press who were determined to capture the fantastic achievement and preserve it forever. The display was indeed magical, and imbued the moment with an ethereal air, but seemed to disrupt Mickey’s normal routine, causing him to stumble a bit and let go of the ball prematurely. Fortunately, the flight of the pitch was still true, and everyone followed its path with mouths open and hearts afire, certain that this was the moment they had all waited for.
So when they heard the thunderous sound, something like dynamite in a canyon, nobody flinched. It just did not seem possible. The pitch was perfect. Uncharacteristically up in the zone, but perfect nonetheless.
Even when they saw Jimmy Llamas turn, drop his head and race back to the wall, they still refused to believe that Mickey had been tagged that way. The ball just kept going, rising like a some sort of ground to air missile, destined for touch down somewhere deep into the night.
Llamas was swift in his pursuit, continuing the chase with his head turned and tilted skyward, his eyes wedded to the spinning sphere. With each step, he gained more and more ground on the ball, and in doing so, roused the stunned spectators from their momentary stupor and captured their imaginations once again. It was the ultimate race, man against ball. And with so much riding on the show down, the chase became that much more compelling. The only concern for all who watched with arrested breath was whether or not Llamas would run out of real estate before he could snatch the potential heart-breaker. The fleet footed centerfielder was now one step ahead of the ball, and appeared to be lined up and in perfect position to make the grab. But then the great green wall that had been looming in the distance emerged, and threatened to put a violent end to the dramatic pursuit.
Llamas was so focused that when he began his leap, he did not even notice how close he was to the eight-foot wooden barrier. He just bounced off the ground, as if the warning track were made of foam rubber, and used his free hand to grab the top of the wall, balancing long enough to position himself so that he could extend his other hand, the glove hand, just past the wall, a tiny stretch of no man’s land, the forbidden zone, the place where leather webbing and ball arrived simultaneously.
The last thing the crowd saw, before Llamas’ arm disappeared momentarily behind the highest of the wooden slats, was the ball peeking out from the centerfielder’s glove. It was the most amazing feat any of them had ever seen. It was highway robbery at its finest. Then gravity reasserted itself, and a winded and slightly bruised Llamas fell, collapsed in a heap, hat askew, glove closed. Everyone in attendance broke into thunderous applause as the second base umpire, still trailing the play, raised his thumb high in the air and made the call.
“Out!”
The batter, however, refused to relent. He continued to run the bases, even as the Brewer players began jogging off the field, insisting that the powers that be check Llamas glove for the ball. They all laughed at him, but Llamas, sitting with his back up against the wall and his legs outstretched, wilted now, like the last rose of summer. “Show me the ball,” the umpire called. “Hold it up for me.”
An odd sensation flowed through Llamas. He hesitated for a moment, an arresting feeling seizing his will to move. He just sat there, lifeless, until the umpire asked again for the ball. Then Llamas held up his glove, opened it, and exposed the barren pocket, much to the dismay of thousands of Brewer hopefuls.
“No catch!” the umpire yelled. Then he held his index finger high in the air and drew several imaginary circles in the air, signaling a homerun.
The Rangers celebrated wildly, while Mickey went white with the staggering realization that he had surrendered the lead. His stomach hurt and he was feeling increasingly uneasy. It had been so long since he had faced any sort of adversity that he was scarcely able to handle the swell of anxiety that was now suffocating him.
“It’s okay, Mick,” Murph called from the bench. “Not a problem. Just get the last out. We’re the home team. We got the hammer here. Then we score and go home.”
Mickey liked what he heard. Home sounded alright to him. He breathed rapidly through partially opened lips, and his legs labored a bit, but managed to compose himself with the help of Lester’s prodding and the raucous cheering that began to rise again in recognition of the boy’s stellar effort. They were all still calling for that last K. One more strikeout, and then they could go to work, trying to produce yet another miracle. Mickey made sure he did not disappoint this time, disposing of the next batter with three straight fastballs.
Once inside the dugout, all of the players rallied around Murph. The scene resembled something like a going away party. All around Murph were faces, long and bloodless, desperate for something to cling to.
“Now or never, guys,” Murph said, glancing up at the scoreboard. “There ain’t no tomorrow.”
The Brewers had the bottom third of the lineup due up against Lefty, who had convinced McNally only minutes before that he was still good to go. The despicable Rogers smelled the blood in the water, and wasted no time going in for the kill. He fanned Finster to begin the inning, retired Faber on a routine one hopper to third, and had gotten ahead of Jimmy Llamas 1–2 before finally stepping off the rubber to compose himself one last time. He had been cast as a pariah in Brewer folklore, ridiculed and blamed for the team’s misfortune the previous year. Sure he had his hand in it, but it wasn’t all his fault. And nobody wanted to hear his side of things. They just rode him out on a rail. It hurt, worse than anyone ever could know. But this felt good. Yeah, this felt right. Being the instrument of the Brewers’ demise was more than right. It was sweet justice.
Carried away now by the emotional cocktail of pride and vengeance, Lefty Rogers climbed ba
ck on top of the hill, stared in at Llamas, who had shortened up and was crouched over the plate, and fired his shot. It was a fastball, not unlike the dozens of others he had thrown that day, except for the significance which floated behind it. Llamas saw the pitch the whole way, could even see the spin of the laces, and loaded his hands at just the right time. His stride was perfect too, right in time with the ball’s approach. It was all as it should be, except when the rotation of the laces caused the ball to cut sharply outside. What had appeared to be a strike was now heading well off the plate. Llamas, in midswing, halted his attack, straining to hold back the bat barrel before it passed through the zone. The crowd gasped, but the home plate umpire awarded Llamas’ efforts with the call “ball two, no swing,” but Rogers, who was already wedded to a game-ending punch out to capture the crown, immediately pointed down the first base line, imploring his catcher to ask for an appeal. The gesture produced an instant numbing of Murph’s spirit. His whole body buckled under the fatigue of his utterly vain efforts, so much so that he could not bear to watch any longer.
“When I go down, Farley,” he whispered in the old man’s ear, “I’m taking them with me.”
Then he pulled his cap down over his brow, hung his head, and slipped out of the dugout and into the clubhouse, just as Victor Bryant rung up Llamas, pounding the final nail into the Brewer coffin.
Borchert Field was benumbed. There was an odd, piercing effect of quietness amidst the cavalcade of noises coming from the visitors’ side of the diamond. There would be no celebration, no champagne shower or pennant waving. They had fallen short yet again. Chip McNally’s Rangers had repeated last year’s torture of their most storied rival, only somehow, in the flatness that followed what was becoming a dubious tradition, it seemed a little worse this time.
POSTGAME
The rain the next morning had chilled the air so that when Murph got into his car to meet with Dennison as agreed, his hands were already cold and deadened. The icy drizzle peppered the landscape and rolled steadily down the farmhouse windows along Diamond Drive, distorting the golden glow of the lamps inside, creating what looked to Murph to be a row of mournful candles, set there no doubt to acknowledge the occasion of his professional passing.
When Murph arrived at Dennsion’s office, the petulant owner was seated at his desk, his face mostly hidden behind a towering stack of papers. When he heard the door open, he did nothing to acknowledge Murph’s entrance, just kept working behind his pile, every so often releasing ringlets of cigar smoke into the air, tiny white ribbons that hovered briefly and stretched high above the mess before fading quietly into the dimly lit atmosphere.
“Uh, Warren,” Murph said with notable irritation. “We had a meeting?”
The silence in which Dennison received Murph’s greeting spoke volumes about the man. He continued to scribble away, not uttering a sound or lifting his head until he had completed the task on which he was working.
“I’m well aware of our meeting, Arthur,” he finally said. “You lost again. That was the deal, remember? But holy Christ, I am getting a little tired of it all. Maybe if you had won once in a while we could have cut out some of these meetings.”
Murph was tired of holding his tongue.
“Are you kidding me? That’s a bunch of bullshit. You know what happened last year. Was that my fault? And there’s something you should know about this year. I only learned during the game that I had been—”
“The only thing I know, or care to know, is that you lost—to the Rangers. Again. Save the song and dance Arthur. Results. Results are what matter.”
Something inside of Murph burst. It was warm and painful. He thought for a second it was his heart. He had had episodes before. But this felt different. Worse. It was worse.
His soul was bleeding.
“So that’s it?” Murph said. “Just like that? Nothing we accomplished the last two years means anything to you? You honestly think somebody else could have done a better job with these guys?”
“Somebody else will be managing the Brewers next year. That’s it.”
“Just like that? You have no problem with your decision? None at all?”
“What was our agreement, Arthur?” Dennison asked, tapping the end of his cigar into a glass ash tray.
“I know what the agreement was, but—”
“And did you lose?”
“Yes, yes we lost today but I’m trying to tell you that—”
“Then there’s nothing more to talk about. I told you that if you did not win, someone else would be my manager. I expect you to have your office cleaned out by tomorrow night.”
The callous, perfunctory manner in which Dennison’s comments were delivered only added to Murph’s angst and frustration. In his misery, everything seemed to come to an abrupt halt, still and silent, save for the laborious sound coming from the clock on the wall. The incessant ticking was filled with all sorts of malignant implications, like lost opportunity, squandered chances and now, as he stood there pondering the evanescence of baseball life, the hour of his demise.
He was tired of all of them. Dennison. McNally. Sheriff Rosco. All of them. His mind was whirling with myriad thoughts, but he knew exactly what he was going to do as he turned for the door. They would rue the day they crossed him.
“Oh yeah,” Dennison announced just as Murph was about to exit the room. “Before you leave, I should tell you that you are expected in Boston first thing Monday morning.” The owner’s expression softened for just a second.
“Meeting with the Braves’ brass. You, Mickey, and Lester. All three of you. Hell if I can figure it. Must be some sort of twisted, pathetic charity stunt. Who knows. But don’t be late. You’ve made me look bad enough already.”
Hearing this, Murph thought he was the victim of some ill-timed, temporary hallucination. A two-time loser, catapulted to the pinnacle of baseball hierarchy? He turned back to face his executioner, possessed of clashing thoughts.
“What did you just say?” he asked.
“You heard me, Murph.”
“They’re calling us up?” he questioned. “Are you telling me that we got the call? All of us?”
Murph inhaled purposefully and narrowed his stare.
“So why all the damned mystery and drama then, Warren? All the talk of me ‘leaving’ next year? Do you really enjoy seeing me suffer that much?”
“Relax, Arthur—have a sense of humor. It’s all good, right? We both got what we wanted, no?”
“Are you kidding me? Hell yes. Yes. This is the most—”
“Easy there. Good God. There you go again, breaking your arm patting yourself on the back. Sure, they want you. But you can be sure as hell that once you screw up, you’ll be out on your ass again, lock, stock, and barrel. If I’ve told you once, I’ve told you a thousand times—”
Murph heard nothing after Dennison’s acknowledgment. He just stood there, as Dennison droned on, scratching his head in amazement. After all the years of broken down buses and second-rate hotels, of greasy truck stop food and the ignominy attached to the moniker of minor league lifer, he was finally going to get his chance. He would take Mickey and Lester far away from the small town ignorance and ugliness. He would leave McNally and Rosco to suffer at the hands of their own devices. Yes, it was all good. He was on his way. They were all on their way.
Sophomore Campaign Page 25
