by Dan Gutman
“Me neither,” the others agreed.
“My brother taught me how to play ball,” Connie said. “He gave me my first baseball glove.”
“You had a glove?” Merle marveled. “Honey, my family was so poor during the Depression that we played ball wearing work gloves. Our bat was the end of a rake, and we used cow pies for bases.”
Tiby burst out laughing, and even Mickey smiled a little.
“Wait a minute,” Tiby said, “you slid into cow pies?”
“Sure ’nuff!”
“If I was sliding into a cow pie,” Tiby said, “I’d want to be wearing work gloves too!”
“Well, we wouldn’t slide in headfirst!” Merle exclaimed. “That would be disgusting!”
All of us broke out in guffaws.
“I don’t know about you girls,” Mickey said, “but when I was growing up, I would do anything to play ball.”
“Ain’t that the truth,” Ziggy agreed.
“I’d even play football with the boys,” Tiby said. “The girls used to laugh at me. They thought I was really weird.”
“You are really weird,” Merle remarked, which sent the rest of us into fits of giggles.
While they swapped more stories of growing up during the Depression, I lay back on the grass and put my arms behind my head to get more comfortable. It had never even crossed my mind that anyone would think I was weird or that it was wrong for me to play a sport. But then, up until today, I thought girls had no place on a baseball diamond. A lot had changed since 1944, but a lot of things were still the same.
There must have been a million stars in the sky. I tried to pick out the constellations, but in just a few minutes I was fast asleep.
15
News
“STOSH! WAKE UP! WAKE UP!”
I felt like I had been asleep for a hundred years. I must have been dreaming of a fire or something. It felt so real, the smell of burning was still in my nose.
“Huh?” I muttered. “Mom? Where am I?”
I opened my eyes to see Mickey Maguire’s face over me. She was in uniform. I was lying on the floor of the Chicks locker room.
“You fell asleep last night at the cemetery,” she whispered, as if she didn’t want anyone to know we had been out so late. “We tried to wake you, but you were out like a light. It started raining and we didn’t know where to take you, so we brought you here.”
“What time is it?” I asked, sitting up. The Chicks were at their lockers, already in uniform.
“Eight o’clock in the morning,” Mickey said. “We have a game at ten. Stosh, your parents must be worried sick! Give me your phone number. I’ll call them and explain everything.”
“You can’t call them.”
“Why not?” Mickey asked. “Don’t you have a phone?”
I couldn’t tell her that it was impossible to call my parents because my parents weren’t even born yet. If I told her I’d traveled back in time to 1944 with a baseball card, she would never believe me.
“No, we don’t have a phone,” I lied.
“Well, where do you live?” Mickey asked. “Merle can drive you home.”
“I live in Louisville.”
“Kentucky? How in the world did you get to Milwaukee? That’s almost four hundred miles! Did you run away from home?”
“No, it’s nothing like that.” I don’t like to lie, but every so often you have to. “I took the train. I’ll head back this morning. My mom knows all about it.”
That seemed to satisfy Mickey, who began taping up her legs. Now fully awake, I was able to think more clearly and figure out my situation. I had left home around six o’clock the night before. It was eight o’clock in the morning now. My cousin had probably stayed up late watching TV and would sleep late in the morning. My mother had probably stayed over at the hospital and wouldn’t be home for a few hours. With a little luck, I wouldn’t get into trouble for being away all night.
The Chicks locker room looked like an emergency room. Mickey was taping her legs. Connie Wisniewski was adjusting her knee brace. The others were applying ointments and medicines to their bruises and strawberries. A couple of new girls had already been brought in to replace the sick and wounded.
“My blister is killing me,” Ziggy complained as she hobbled around.
“I can take care of that for you,” Connie said.
“Oh yeah? How?”
Ziggy hopped up on the training table, and Connie examined the foot. There was a blister about the size of a quarter on Ziggy’s heel.
“This is a piece of cake,” Connie said as she went to a cabinet mounted on the wall. She came back with some tissues and a single-edged razor blade in her hand.
“You’re going to slice it off?” Ziggy squeaked.
“Of course! You can’t play ball with one of those on your foot. Just hold still.”
Ziggy leaned back so she wouldn’t have to watch and gripped the sides of the table with both hands. Expertly, Connie sliced off the blister, to the disgust of the others, who couldn’t resist the temptation to gather around and view the operation.
“See?” Connie said. “All done. Good as new. The show is over, girls.”
The players returned to what they had been doing, and Ziggy held a tissue to her foot. There was a soft knock on the door to the dugout and somebody opened it. Max Carey came in with his ever-present clipboard.
“Gather around, everyone,” he said, and the players instantly obeyed. “Time for a little lesson in fundamentals.”
A few groans were heard as Carey wheeled in a large blackboard from behind the lockers. With a piece of chalk, he drew this picture.
With a piece of chalk, Carey drew this picture. “We’re in the field. Bottom of the ninth.”
“Here’s the situation. We’re in the field. Bottom of the ninth. We have a one-run lead. Runners at first and second. One out. The count is two balls and one strike. Now I want each of you to tell me what you are thinking at this moment. Pitcher first. Connie?”
“I’m thinking, don’t make the pitch too good,” Connie said immediately. “I have two balls to work with. But I don’t want to walk her because that would put the tying run in scoring position. They might put on the hit-and-run play. Keep an eye on the runner at second. I want a double play, but I’ll take an out. On a grounder to me, I’ll throw to third to get the lead runner and maybe start a double play. If she bunts toward third, I’ll try and make the play there. If she bunts toward first, I’ll throw to first. If the batter gets a hit, I’ll back up home plate.”
“Very good,” Carey said. “Mickey, you’re next.”
“I’m thinking, how well does this batter hit Connie?” Mickey said. “Is she a pull hitter, or does she hit to the opposite field? Is she hot or cold? Is she a low-ball hitter? What’s her weakness? How did we get her out last time? Who’s on deck? Should I call for a pitchout? Is Connie getting tired? Should I call for a fastball, curve, or change up? Watch for the double steal. Be ready to pounce on a bunt, maybe try to make the play at third.”
I just sat there, my mouth open. I’m a pretty decent ballplayer, but I never saw the game at this level. There was so much to think about, so many possible things that could happen in any situation. It was like a game of chess.
“Left field next.” Max Carey pointed. “Tiby?”
“I’m wondering, should I play this hitter straightaway or shade her to the left or right? If the batter singles, I have a good shot at throwing the runner out at the plate. If there’s an extra-base hit—”
A knock at the door to the dugout stopped her.
“Who is it?” Carey barked.
A woman came in. She was older and all dolled up in a fancy blue dress, frilly hat, and high-heeled shoes.
“I beg your pardon,” the lady said, pronouncing every word slowly, clearly, and politely. “My name is Judith Vanderbilt, and I represent the Helena Rubinstein School of Charm.”
“Get out,” Carey said gruffly. “We’re not intere
sted in your products. We have a game soon, for crying out loud.”
“You don’t understand,” the woman said. “Mr. Philip Wrigley commissioned our services. He is the owner of the league, if I am not mistaken. Mr. Wrigley most specifically insisted I speak to the players at this time.”
Carey took off his cap and slapped it against his knee. “Make it snappy,” he said, sitting down on a stool.
“When you become a player in the All-American Girls Baseball League, you have reached the highest position that a girl can attain in this sport,” the charm school lady began. “You have certain responsibilities because you are in the limelight. Your actions and appearance both on and off the field reflect on the whole profession. It is your duty to do your best to uphold the standard of this profession.”
Max Carey rolled his eyes.
“It is most desirable that each girl be at all times presentable and attractive,” the charm school lady continued. “Study your own beauty culture possibilities, and without overdoing your beauty treatment at the risk of attaining gaudiness, practice the little measure that will reflect well on your appearance and personality as a real all-American girl.”
Max Carey shook his head and looked at his watch.
“Because of your strenuous activity on the diamond, you are exposed to dirt, grime, dust, and perspiration,” the charm school lady said. “When you bathe, use cleansing cream around your neck as well as over your face. Apply a lotion to keep your hands as lovely as possible.”
A few of the girls snickered. Max Carey closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose with his fingertips.
“Always secure your stockings so they are smooth and neat and remain in place. Arrange your hair neatly in a manner that will best retain its natural style despite vigorous play. Deodorant keeps you fresh and gives you assurance and confidence in your social contacts. You should walk with poise at all times.”
Merle raised her hand, and the charm school lady called on her.
“What’s a poy?”
“Poise,” Mrs. Vanderbilt repeated. “It means dignity and confidence. Walk with poise. Are there any other questions?”
“Yeah,” Ziggy said. “How is any of this gonna help me make the double play?”
The players laughed and Max Carey got up off his stool.
“Okay,” he said, “can we get back to our meeting now? We got a game to play in less than an hour.”
“There are still a few more things I would like to go over about grooming and etiquette—”
The phone on the wall rang behind me. Max Carey gestured for me to pick it up.
“Milwaukee Chicks locker room,” I answered.
“May I speak with Dorothy Maguire, please,” a serious-sounding woman said.
“Sure, who’s this?”
“Her mother, in Cleveland.”
“Mickey, it’s for you,” I said, and handed her the phone.
Mickey listened for a few seconds, then closed her eyes and leaned heavily against the wall. The phone dropped from her hand.
“Get out!” Max Carey ordered the charm school lady.
“But I still have a lot—”
“Get out!”
The charm school lady looked shocked and insulted, scooting out the door without saying another word. Tears were running down Mickey’s face and she was sobbing quietly.
“Tom’s dead,” she said simply. Then her knees buckled and she slid down against the wall until she was sitting on the floor. The rest of the team rushed to her side. Max Carey hung his head.
I picked up the phone. Mickey’s mother was still on the line. She told me that Corporal Tom Maguire had been killed in action several days before while fighting in Italy. His body had not yet been recovered. She didn’t have any other information. I told her how sorry everyone was and hung up the phone.
For a few minutes, nobody said anything. Mickey’s teammates just held her as she cried. Those of us who had been with her the night before knew she wasn’t all that happy in her marriage. I remembered that she had said her husband was going to make her quit playing ball as soon as he came home. If he was dead, she wouldn’t have to quit. I know it was wrong to think that her husband’s death could be a good thing, but I thought it all the same. I wondered if she was thinking that, too.
Mickey must have loved her husband to a certain extent. It was several minutes and a bunch of tissues later when she was able to get to her feet.
“Mickey,” Max Carey said as he came over and put an arm around her, “sit this one out today. Take as much time as you need to come back.”
“I can catch, Mr. Carey,” I volunteered.
“No,” Mickey said. “I want to play.”
“Go home,” Max pleaded. “Rest up. We’ll talk tomorrow.”
“A split lip didn’t keep me out of the lineup,” Mickey said, strapping on a shin guard. “A busted toe didn’t keep me out of the lineup. This won’t keep me out of the lineup either.”
Carey sighed and patted her on the back.
“I’ll have them make an annoucement over the PA for the press and the fans,” he said.
“No announcement!” Mickey asserted in a voice that said she meant it. She strapped on her other shin guard and led the Chicks out to the dugout.
16
Heading Home
THE TIME HAD COME FOR ME TO GO. THERE WAS NOTHING more for me to do in 1944. I was alone in the locker room now. It was quiet. I still had my baseball cards.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” I heard the public address announcer boom, “in ten minutes, the Milwaukee Chicken will throw a strike for freedom!”
I stopped. The chicken suit was in the open locker next to Mickey’s.
There was no reason for me to stay. I didn’t have to participate in any silly promotion. It wouldn’t make any difference whether or not I could throw a stupid ball through a stupid hole in Hitler’s face.
But I wanted to. I wanted another chance. I wanted to redeem myself for yesterday.
I put on the stupid chicken suit.
When I opened the door leading to the dugout, I saw one of the strangest sights I had ever witnessed. The field was on fire.
The infield dirt from first base to third was ablaze, with some of the flames reaching two or three feet high. Black smoke rose up from the diamond.
I was about to run for help or get a fire extinguisher, but the Chicks, milling around the dugout, seemed totally unconcerned.
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“It rained last night,” Connie Wisniewski told me, “so they spread gasoline on the field and lit it to dry it off.”
That seemed like the silliest idea in the world to me. Hadn’t these people ever heard of a tarp? But the gasoline must have worked. Soon the flames died down, and those two burly guys named Bob went out to smooth the dirt with rakes. The players went out on the field to toss balls around.
Smoke was still hanging over the diamond when I spotted somebody in the distance hop over the center field fence and onto the field. It was an African-American, I noticed first. As the figure got closer, I could tell it was a girl. She couldn’t have been more than eighteen or so. Under her arm was a baseball glove.
As the girl marched toward second base, one by one the Chicks noticed her. They stopped playing catch with each other. The girl didn’t turn to look at them. She was heading for the dugout.
Max Carey had been writing on his clipboard, but he looked up when he noticed the sound of balls popping into gloves had stopped. The African-American girl walked right up to him.
“Are you Mr. Carey?” she asked.
“I am. What can I do for you?”
“I heard that your first baseman broke her leg yesterday,” the girl said.
“That’s right,” Carey replied.
“My name is Toni Stone, and I can play first base.”
Carey looked the girl up and down silently, the way he would size up a prospect. The Chicks were all staring at her, too. Toni Stone p
ut her hands on her hips.
I noticed for the first time that all the Chicks were white. All the Rockford Peaches had been white, too. It was an all-white league, I realized. African-Americans were still banned from baseball. Jackie Robinson wouldn’t break the color barrier with the Brooklyn Dodgers until 1947—three years in the future.
“I can run a hundred yards in eleven seconds,” Toni Stone told Carey. “I can hit. I can throw. I can field. I’d like a tryout, Mr. Carey.”
He looked at Toni Stone for a long time. I thought he just might give the girl a chance. The Chicks, after all, had been shorthanded even before Dolores Klosowski broke her leg.
“I’m sorry, Miss Stone,” Carey finally said. “The league holds tryouts in the spring before the season starts. I can’t sign anyone now.”
Toni Stone looked in Carey’s eyes, like she was trying to figure out if he was telling the truth or not. So was I. Carey went back to his clipboard.
“I heard some other girls were signed up in mid-season,” Stone persisted. “White girls.”
“I’m sorry,” Carey said. “It is not my decision.”
Toni Stone pawed the dirt with her foot for a moment.
“Didn’t want to play ball in a dress anyway,” she said, before turning around and jogging back toward center field. The Chicks resumed their warm-ups.
Soon the smoke was gone and fans had filled most of the bleachers. The two Bobs carried out the giant Hitler head and set it up at home plate. I stretched my legs and windmilled my arm around to get ready to throw my strike for freedom.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the public address announcer, “please direct your attention to the home plate area. If the Milwaukee Chicken can throw a ball through Hitler’s tooth, each and every person in the ballpark this morning will receive a free pass to see Meet Me in St. Louis starring Judy Garland, now showing in air-conditioned comfort at the Palace Theater on Wisconsin Avenue.”
“Boooooo!” rained down on me as I jogged toward the mound. A few people threw things on the field.
“That chicken can’t hit the broad side of a barn!” somebody hollered.
