The Adventures of Gopher Piddington

by David Michaelson

  Gopher joyfully took his place back out in right field. None of the other outfielders could match his accurate throws. Some clearly had the strength but not the aim; others suffered the opposite problem.

  Near noon when only the new faces remained, the manager called them all together and made his usual Saturday morning speech. “Some of you showed promise. Some need more work—a lot more work. But this team is a winning team and we only put the best players on the roster. Therefore, at this time, we can only sign one new player.

  “You, the tall skinny kid—the guy in right field. Step forward and introduce yourself.”

  “Uh, my name’s Piddington; Gopher Piddington.”

  “Son, that’s one Hell of a handle. Where you from?”

  I was born in England but moved here when I was four.”

  “Where exactly is here? And I don’t give a tinker’s damn about your surname. What’s up with the name Gopher?”

  “Sir, my home is in Santa Fe and I was named after a dog that saved my Mother from a rattlesnake.”

  “Well, by golly, that’s a pretty good name for a ball player. Welcome aboard, son. Now let’s go get you signed up and figure out if we got a uniform to fit you.”

  Gopher surprised the manager when he said he could read his contract without help.

  “Now ain’t that something; a kid with an arm and an education. Now I’ve seen everything.”

  After his name was penned on the bottom line, he was told to report again next Saturday morning but not as early, unless he needed to warm up that wing of his.

  It was the manager’s way of saying he was now an official member of the Denver Grizzlies.

  “When will I get to play in a real game?”

  “Whoa, big fella, you’re on the roster but you won’t be playing until we need you or until the score is so lopsided that we stick rookies in the lineup. You understand, don’t you? This ain’t like that sand lot you’ve been playin’ on. This here’s for real—this here’s big time ball.

  “You sure you don’t need your mama’s permission to travel when we got an away game?”

  Gopher chose to ignore the slur. “See you Saturday,” was all he said.

  Ellen was elated at the news, at least on the outside. Inside she suspected her young man would become so entangled in the sport that he thought of little else, for she knew that was the way of young men. When they sink their teeth into something, it becomes their obsession. She smiled at the thought of that, because it’s just that form of passion that ignites worthwhile intimate relationships. Down deep inside she wished for just such a companion, but knew he was only a youngster and had no knowledge of the glories two people can achieve in each other’s arms.

  The following Saturday, Ellen sent her boarders out for the day and locked her house. She wanted to see what Gopher had going for himself. It would be the first time she had ever seen a real, big time base ball game.

  When they arrived, the rookies were already busy with infield and outfield practice. Gopher pointed out exactly what each player was attempting to do.

  One of the older veterans spotted him sitting in the stands with Ellen. “Hey, Gopher, you gonna sit all day or is your mama got a leash on you?”

  Immediately, Gopher was on the field and in the older boy’s face. “You take that back or I’ll punch you right in the face.”

  Even though the taunt came from an older boy, Gopher was much taller. The older boy quickly retracted his insult.

  “Besides,” Gopher added, “She ain’t my mama. She runs the boarding home where I stay and work.”

  The manager interrupted the two and ordered Gopher to take his position in right field. A few minutes later, his mighty throwing arm was put to the test, as fly ball after fly ball was caught and thrown with authority to each base the manager hollered out.

  Ten minutes later, all the outfielders were replaced and Gopher took his seat next to Ellen.

  “My, but that was quite a show. I can see why you are so interested in this game. You seem to be pretty good at it.”

  “I haven’t had a chance to go to bat yet. But I think that is coming up next. I see their pitcher warming up over there.”

  Ellen looked down the right field side of the infield where a tall fellow was throwing the ball to another man who was squatting low and catching the thrown ball. “That catcher fellow, what’s wrong with him? Why is he crouched so low? It must be terribly uncomfortable.”

  “He’s called the catcher and that what he does all through the game.”

  “He must become very tired a the end of the day.”

  “No you don’t understand. Each team has its own catcher and hurler. They don’t do for the opposing team.”

  “Well, now that clears up everything, doesn’t it? Really, it seems much too complicated to me. What comes next?”

  Just then the manager sent his pitcher out to the pitching box. After a few warm-up tosses, the first batter was called to the plate.

  “What’s the purpose of all this?” Ellen asked.

  “Well, during a game, the pitcher of one team tries to hurl the ball past the batter of the other team. The batter tries to put the ball into play without it being caught by an opposing player—or he could knock the ball over the fence—that’s called a homer.”

  “Still too confusing.”

  An hour later, Gopher was told to grab a bat and take a few swings. He was told to get a good stance and take a hefty cut at the ball.

  His first few tries were dismal failures and he got a good round of friendly insults from his teammates. Windmill was one friendly insult hurled at him. Mosquito killer was another.

  Once he figured out the best place for the bat to intercept the ball he did much better and even managed to put one ball cleanly over the left field fence.

  “First homer for you, son?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Felt good, didn’t it?”

  “Yes sir.”

  “Can you do it again?”

  “I’ll try, sir.”

  The manager told everyone to resume play. The pitcher fired in another hard fastball. Gopher estimated its trajectory and took a mighty swing. Too late, the speeding ball had gone past by the time he swung the bat.

  The manager advised, “Gotta swing earlier if you’re gonna put ‘em outta the park. Trick is, watch the hurler’s hands, arms and his windup. Once you figure out what he’s doin’ in the box, the easier it is to hit the ball. Sometimes it comes in fast and high; other times its slow and low. But you’ll get the hang of it with practice. Now get in there an take a few more hacks.”

  Of course, the fellow in the box had no intention of allowing a rookie to put another one out of the park, so he fired his best ones, hard and right down the pipe.

  Gopher managed to put another one over the fence, but the rest were hit to waiting infielders.

  The manager took the bat and handed it to the next in line, saying, “Not bad for your first day, rookie. Stick around and we’ll finish up with runnin’ the bases.”

  When the manager ordered each player to run from home plate around the bases from and all the way back to home plate, Gopher awaited his turn eagerly.

  “Go.”

  Gopher shot away from the mark with all his strength and raced to first and then second and third, finally arriving a bit winded back at home.

  “What took you so long? We been waiting for ya. Now try it again but throw a little hustle into it.”

  “Go.”

  Gopher had never been considered a fast runner, especially around curves or obstacles. That’s why Hairrup was always able to catch him. But on this occasion, Gopher simply pushed himself beyond any effort he had ever given before.

  . . .And fell headlong into the first base bag in a big cloud of dust and an equal measure of shame.

  “Son, you might be a top-notch arm and you can wield a fair-to-middlin’ bat, but you sure as Hell ain’t no base runner. I can teach you to catch, bat and throw but
only God Almighty can give you wheels.”

  After the practice was over, Gopher and Ellen walked all the way back to her home. Neither said much, as there really wasn’t much either could say. He had truly failed—failed to the point that the manager had not mentioned the upcoming Saturday practice. Whether or not that meant he was still on the team, he had no idea. But thoughts of failure crept into his waking and sleeping thoughts for the entire week.

  Then it was Saturday.

  Rather than assume he was immune from the early-bird practices reserved for stiff old men, rookies and newbies, he left the house early and arrived at the Grizzly’s home field well ahead of many of the established players.

  “Hey, Gopher. Good to see you this morning; say, why don’t you grab left field and show these losers what a throwing arm looks like?”

  Gopher Piddington had been accepted, even though he couldn’t run around corners worth a tinker’s damn. On top of that, he had just been promoted from the lowly position of right field to the highly respected and very demanding left field.

  The summer came and went with Gopher Piddington becoming a valuable outfielder and a reliable batter. He spent the winter dreaming of opening day standing on that green grass awaiting the next fly ball. He yearned for the thrill of knowing where that ball was going to come down and catching it. He recalled over and over the mighty throws from deep in the outfield, where he was able to gun down even the fleetest of base runners.

  And, the crack of the bat! What a wonderful sound, when a hard thrown ball meets the stout wooden bat head-on. The only bad thing was for the hurlers that had to deal with hard-driven balls right back at them. More than one suffered from being hit by the batted ball.

  But overall, it was a glorious time; a welcome adventure for Gopher Piddington and he couldn’t wait until spring.

  STIFF COMPETITION

  It seemed every Saturday Gopher and the Denver Grizzlies played in a different town. Base ball was everywhere. A town could honestly claim civility if it boasted a ball field and a team.

  There were good teams at every major college and some of the Indian schools were fielding teams. A few army forts produced teams made up of off-duty soldiers and more than one territorial prison managed to field a team manned by convicts.

  If one took the time to look, base ball was everywhere. The Denver Grizzlies were one of a handful of minor-league teams scattered throughout Colorado. That did not mean those teams only played each other. No, it was good for business to play any team claiming it had players good enough to provide an afternoon of entertainment. The bottom line in base ball was not the game itself, but the image of civility and the revenue it generated.

  No one in the minors was going to get rich, not the players or the owners, but it was a living that did not include digging for precious metals in the cold, foreboding mountains that surrounded many of the ball fields.

  General admission seats usually sold for ten cents; reserved seating cost a nickel more. During really important games and the season finals, the price often went up but little kids always got in for a nickel.

  A starting player was guaranteed a dollar and a half for each game played. Those with exceptional skills and abilities often demanded more; otherwise they threatened to join up with a team willing to meet their demands.

  Bench players could count on a dollar for each game, whether or not they got the call to play.

  It wasn’t much more pay than the average factory worker received in a day but it wasn’t a physical ten hour ordeal, and that made all the difference to Gopher, who was able to put some money aside each week while he continued to work for Ellen Nielsen.

  When traveling, the entire team’s rail expenses were met, as was room and board.

  Gopher was not too keen on the traveling end of his contract, as he was now fourteen years old and had reached the height of six-foot two. Most beds were now two inches too short for him. On top of that, team members were expected to sleep two to a bed to save money—not fun at all when the roommate snored like a raging bull.

  As for the road food, Gopher was usually disappointed in what was served and very often disgusted—sometimes nauseous. But he was told it was better than toiling in the mines or standing in ice-cold snow-fed streams panning for those elusive nuggets.

  The Denver Grizzlies proved a team to be reckoned with. Only the better teams from Leadville, Pueblo and Colorado Springs provided real competition.

  Tales of bravado from the mighty professional teams east of the Mississippi spurred everyone to greater endeavor. To the men on the Denver team, each game was just as important as the playoffs.

  Gopher continued to improve. He figured out the best way to hit any particular hurler, which infuriated every one of them. If they had a lot of movement on the ball, he often set himself farther back in the batter’s box to allow the ball to commit so he could see it better. By moving all the way forward, he could put the bat to the ball before much movement took place. He soon found himself enjoying a starting position near the top of the batting order—a spot reserved only for the most adept at hitting the ball and getting on base.

  Being able to play all three outfield positions also put him in good stead with the manager and the other players. His strong, accurate throws never failed to awe the crowd and the opposing team, as he threw out one player after another.

  Of all the teams the Grizzlies played, none were more difficult to beat than the mighty Leadville Blues. It was rumored they had a habit of hiring major league players from teams like the Philadelphia Phillies, the New York Giants and the Boston Red Stockings, among others.

  All the way to Leadville, Gopher kept an eye on the sidings and rail yards searching for the colorful Fairlie engine he had come so far to see. His teammates suggested he should try to get some rest, as playing at altitude could easily tire someone short on sleep.

  Gopher didn’t listen. He was intent on spotting that locomotive, if it was somewhere in the mountains.

  When the early morning train arrived in Leadville, there were no cheering fans to greet them, just the biting chill of high mountain air. The sun was up but it had not had time to warm the buildings, much less the barren ground. Everywhere he looked, Gopher could see enormous mounds of tailings. The Earth in this part of the country was treeless and damaged.

  The Grizzlies hauled their gear to the visitor’s shelter and began to loosen up their sore, tired and thoroughly chilled bones.

  The Blues arrived some time later, having enjoyed the luxury of a warm bed and a hot meal.

  When the time came to travel to Leadville to play the powerful Blues, Gopher was put into the starting lineup. He decided he was going to put on the very best performance he possibly could. He would show those Blues just how good a hometown team like the Grizzlies could be.

  As custom dictates, the visiting team took the field first and began their arduous practice. On this particular day, Gopher had been assigned to play right field, back where he had started. He preferred to be put into left, but in an effort to outplay their tough opponent, the manager’s lineup leaned toward the more seasoned players getting the key positions. Still, it was great being written down as a starting player. Not only that, but his paycheck was guaranteed to be more impressive.

  The game ended with the Leadville Blues defeating the Grizzlies by a score of 23 to 12, nearly doubling the run count put up by Gopher’s team. Gopher had done himself proud. He had two good hits but no homers. And, he made every right field catch without an error. His arm was tested but once, when a Blues player tagged up and tried to reach second base on a long fly ball. Gopher threw an accurate rifle shot to second and got the fellow out.

  The train ride back down the mountain was not nearly as enjoyable as the ride up and Gopher spent very little time searching for the bright red engine. His mind was on the game of base ball.

  Once back in Denver, the manager said he had analyzed the reasons for the defeat and began a planned regimen designed to cor
rect those mistakes. He intended upon inflicting much more damage on their next outing, just to prove his tactics were working.

  Their next opponent was the Pueblo Past Times. They were one of the few teams that boasted a number of Indian players. Gopher had heard of several all-Indian teams in the Oklahoma Territory but had never played against any of them.

  The Grizzlies manager said of the Indian players: “Some of those fellas are quite adept in their respective positions—and all of them damned good at running, so be on your toes and keep your mind firmly set in the game.”

  This time, the Grizzlies were better prepared and dispatched the Pueblo team by a score of 9 to 7. It was a close game only because both hurlers were on their game that day. As for the skill of the legendary Indian ball players, Gopher had to admit; those fellas could certainly run like the wind. Some of them kept their black hair long, while others had their locks cropped short. Gopher asked the manager what tribe the Indians came from, as he once had an unpleasant experience with the Apache when he was a little boy.

  “Heck, who knows? They all look the same to me,” the manager said. “Why don’tcha go ask ‘em?”

  Gopher declined, as some of those dark-skinned players looked downright mean and nasty.

  The base ball season continued through the long, hot summer and well into the fall when the leaves began to turn. The finals between the two best teams in the Colorado State League were finally set: the mighty Leadville Blues against the Denver Grizzlies. Because the Blues enjoyed a better win-loss record, they were selected to be the home team and play on their own field.

  Again, the long early morning train ride up the mountain to Leadville was filled with enthusiasm and dreams of magnificent plays. This particular game was, as the manager said, “For all the marbles.”

  What the manager failed to tell his team were reports that major league scouts might be in attendance, looking at the players to select one or two of them for the big league teams back east. He tended to dismiss such rumors, as he had heard them all before and they rarely panned out.