* * * * *
They did. Both of them. Boots again stomped, although, as far as I knew, no mustang-riding waddie escorted the Giants to League Park on Wednesday. More policemen arrived at the game. Grasshopper Jim Whitney started pitching for us again, and the end result was the exact same as our Tuesday game. Giants 7, Cowboys 2. But this one had no last-inning controversy or almost heroics.
We did win the last game of the series, however, behind Pete Conway’s stellar pitching, and Charley Bassett’s eighth-inning double. Truthful Jim Mutrie did not say Bassett won that game, a 5 to 4 decision because of Conway or Bassett, however. As the New York manager explained to Mr. Whitfield: “We got jinxed. In the Lindell dining room, a man sat at the table next to us. And he was cross-eyed. I knew we didn’t stand a Chinaman’s chance as soon as I saw him.”
Chapter Thirteen
The next day, we lost to the Boston Beaneaters, 8 to 7. Our crowd, once again, proved to be loud. Well, loud is an understatement, as is obnoxious. From my spot at the end of the bench, I could hear those vile curses above the pounding of boot heels on wooden floors, but our supporters did show some manners on that afternoon, as only one man fired his pistol, and it was only a two-shot Derringer. Two policemen arrested him immediately. They slapped manacles on him, chaining him to a fence rail, thus making him sit in the sun, while they watched the rest of the ball game.
After all, it was a close game.
This time, outfielder Ezra Sutton came bounding around third base on Pop Tate’s hard-hit ball to Dave Rowe. Our manager and center fielder fired quickly to Fatty Briody, who swept the ball toward Sutton’s head and whacked his target a good one. But Tom York ruled Sutton was safe, and that broke the tie in the top of the ninth inning.
“Jesus-son-of-a-bitching-pig-shitting-asshole-damn-it-all-to-hell-bastard-loving-Christ! How much are those Boston boys paying you to umpire, you chicken-livered bastard?”
No, that stream of profanity did not come from Dave Rowe’s mouth, but from Americus McKim’s. Oh, Dave kicked up the dirt in the outfield, slapped his ball cap against his thigh, but said nary a word. After all, he must have felt worn out, for, although it was only May, it felt like August in the Hole.
The umpire turned to face Americus McKim. “Sir, I am paid by the National League, not the Boston Beaneaters.”
“Then earn your damned salary, you blind son-of-a-bitch!”
Shaking his head, but smart enough to avoid any confrontation, Tom York stepped back into position, and told Stump Wiedman to prepare to pitch to Myron Allen. Allen was called out on strikes, which led Mr. McKim and perhaps five hundred other men and women at League Park to think we had a chance to win.
We didn’t.
Old Hoss Radbourn, long past thirty years old by then, struck out Stump, Fatty, and Mox to end the game. And those three Cowboys were swinging—more like hacking against a wily veteran like Radbourn—so Mr. McKim could not blame the umpire for any bad calls.
But, well, he did.
“If you could see, you mealymouthed horse’s ass, what’s a damned strike, my boys wouldn’t have to swing at pitches over their damned heads!”
Empty lemonade cups and wrappers from ice-cream cakes pelted Mr. York as he chatted briefly with John Morrill, Boston’s manager. He was cool, that umpire, for he turned the other cheek, refusing to do or say anything that might lead to a riot. Maybe that’s why four policemen, including the two who had arrested the Derringer-shooter, stepped onto the field. They escorted Mr. York off the field, along with their prisoner.
When I decided it was safe to leave, I glanced up at the empty stadium. To my relief, Mother and Papa had gone. Well, once again I had barely moved off the bench, so there would be little to discuss. I changed my clothes, stuffed my gear in the grip, and hurried out of the stadium.
Most of my teammates had departed for the buckets-of-blood or cathouses. I practically ran to Delaware Street.
* * * * *
Fatty Briody kept telling me that most of the beer-jerkers at every grog shop on the National League circuit not only knew him by name, but would have a stein of foamy beer and a bourbon chaser ready for him as soon as he entered the saloon. That’s pretty much how I felt as I sat at the counter and saw Mr. Bayersdörfer push a mug of cider in front of me. I didn’t even have to ask.
“Have you been waiting long?” I asked Cindy McKim.
“No.” The empty bowl of soup told me the truth as she absently rubbed her thumb across the lip of her mug.
“You lost today, eh?” Mr. Bayersdörfer commented as he stood in front of me again. “But close game, right?”
“Yes, sir,” I answered. “They beat us by one run.”
“Miriam today make good soup,” he said, changing the subject. “Chicken. Make feel better. You want?”
My stomach rumbled, but I shook my head. “No thank you, sir.” I waited until he walked down the counter to wait on a priest who sat next to a railroad worker. This place brought everyone in, but I just cared about one, and she sat next to me.
“What’s the matter?” I asked.
Cindy shrugged, and this was not like her at all. I found myself worthless in such a situation. Do I wait for her to tell me? Do I pry? Do I dare put my hand on her shoulder and whisper that everything would be all right?
With a sigh, she pushed away the cup, which, like the soup bowl, had been emptied. Her eyes were red, and that caused me to bite my bottom lip.
“I do not understand my father, Silver,” she said.
“Oh.” I let out a sigh, and my head bobbed. “He gets …” I tried to find the correct word, “… excited.”
“Abominable,” she said, and her voice rose. “His actions today were repugnant.”
Guessing the meanings of such words, I tried to paint a softer portrait of her father, and put today’s actions into context. “Well, he wants to win, and he was not alone today. Didn’t you see the man with the Derringer, the one the constables had to arrest?”
I’m not sure she even heard me.
“He rarely touches intoxicating spirits,” she said, and shook her head. “And he’s in the beer business. So that’s not what lights the fuse. He’s a fine father at home, rarely raises his voice to my brothers or sisters or me. He goes to church. He gives to the poor. Yet, the moment the umpire yells for the game to begin, he turns into some … some … some ogre. No, it’s even before that. As soon as he steps through the gates to League Park, he’s … evil.”
“People pay their money,” I said, “and fifty cents is a lot of money for most of those people. So they think that gives them the right to cheer or boo or curse or anything. When Mother and Father and I attended the Onions games, we yelled, too.”
“Did you or your parents ever yell ‘Jesus-son-of-a-bitching-pig-shitting-asshole-damn-it-all-to-hell-bastard-loving-Christ?’”
The priest, who had paid his check and was heading out the door, stopped and turned, frowning. Mr. Bayersdörfer, who was bringing over a plate of cornbread, stopped, pivoted, and took the bread to the railroad worker.
“My goodness!” shouted a woman, and, covering her toddler’s ears, pushed him to the far corner of the store.
I waited for the priest to leave before I answered. “Well … no … but …”
“And Father does not pay to go to any of your games,” Cindy said. “He owns the team, after all.”
“Which maybe gives him even more right to …” I shook my head, staring at the mug of cider without touching it.
“What does it mean?” Cindy asked.
Shrugging, I said, “‘Jesus-son-of-a-’” … but that was as far as I could get. “It’s something Dave Rowe says. Your father just picked it up, is all. I’ve even heard a few other fans … sort of … adopt it, I guess.”
“No, silly.”
I stared into Cindy’s blue eyes, and caught a glim
pse of her smile.
“Not that foul phrase, Silver. I mean … the … it’s an angry mob at those ball games.”
“It’s the West,” I said.
“I went to Unions games, Silver,” Cindy said, “and one or two last year. This is different.”
“National League,” I tried to explain. “You should have been in St. Louis.”
“That’s St. Louis,” Cindy clarified, and I knew she had a point. St. Louis had never been civilized. God help any umpire who made a wrong call that went against the home team in that unruly town.
“They know baseball in St. Louis,” Cindy said, “but humility and sportsmanship escape them.”
“Amen,” I said.
Mr. Bayersdörfer, sensing all had returned to normal at our end of the counter, returned with another plate of cornbread. Cindy even thanked him as she picked up a piece to nibble.
“Sometimes,” she said as she dabbed her mouth with a napkin, “I wish I were an orphan.” She giggled. “Is that un-Christian?”
Not as much as saying Jesus-son-of-a-bitching-pig-shitting-asshole-damn-it-all-to-hell-bastard-loving-Christ. That’s what ran through my mind. I did not, however, say it. What I said was, “I have similar thoughts … sometimes.”
“Your father seems right pleasant,” Cindy said.
“He is.” I began to sip the cider. “Henpecked might be a better word.”
She laughed again. “I guess I don’t want to be an orphan. Mother is a saint.”
“Mine’s not,” I said.
“No?”
“Oh, she means well. So does your father, I guess, in his own way. And I wouldn’t be on the Cowboys’ roster if not for Mother. She pushed me. Pushed me and pushed me. She even taught me how to pitch. Papa? He knows how to build a pier-and-beam foundation and how to mix mortar. He knows how to …” I stopped, deciding that describing his job at Armour might not be proper conversation while eating. “Well, he’s a good man, a kind man, but he never was a sound ballist … even for a town team. So …”
I stopped, having realized I probably talked too much.
“What …?” Cindy began, but waited for Mr. Bayersdörfer to refill her mug with cider. “What would you be if you weren’t a professional baseball player?”
“Cowboy,” I said without any hesitation.
“You are a Cowboy,” she said.
“No.” I laughed. “Not a Kansas City Cowboy. A real cowboy. Riding horses. Roping … I mean … lariating steers.”
“Lariating?” she asked.
“Umm … yeah. Dug, he told me it wasn’t a rope, but a lariat. So that would …” My shoulders slackened. “No. He might have said roping … yeah … he never said lariating. I just … well …”
“You are such a funny boy.” Cindy laughed, wiped her eyes, and leaned over and kissed me. Not on the cheeks. But full on the lips. I held my breath, and prayed this moment would never end, but even when it did, I felt mighty fine, considering I had been riding the bench for five consecutive baseball games.
“You know how to cheer me up.”
All I could do was stare. Cindy excused herself, and said she wanted to go pick up some lemon cookies to take home to her parents. I kind of thought that maybe her parents were beginning to wonder about why she would need to rush off to Delaware Street to buy sweets or a gallon of cider or candies at Mr. Bayersdörfer’s shop. I watched her hurry to the far side of the counter, where the Goldmans displayed their baked delicacies for the day, and watched as Miriam Bayersdörfer helped her select the cookies. My fingers traced my tingling lips.
“A wonder … eh?”
My eyes blinked and focused on Mr. Bayersdörfer, the fat, bald man with the Dundreary whiskers and fat nose.
“Sir?”
“A wonder …” His accent, though harsh and heavily European, I always understood. He handed me the check.
“Being in love,” he said, and walked away. “Same way I feel … and Miriam and me … we are married … thirty-two years … come September.”
* * * * *
We beat the Beaneaters on Saturday, 9 to 1, had Sunday off, so Mother made corn pone and sausages after church, and then took me to the empty lot where she made me work on pitching. I felt such practices worthless since all I needed was a hard behind to sit on the bench.
Papa then asked if he could borrow me to help lay bricks for some work he was doing at the Robinson home.
“The Sabbath,” Mother reminded him, as she often did.
“It’s not work. It’s fun. And it is good for his hands.” Papa always said that since it was his only day off from the packing house, thus the only day he could lay bricks for extra money. “Builds muscles. Toughens hide.”
“Very well,” Mother said, accepting Papa’s reasoning for getting around her Sunday-day-of-rest argument one more time. I didn’t mind, either.
I ate-drank-breathed-sweated baseball six days a week, and for a couple of hours on Sunday after church and dinner. About the only time I didn’t think about the game was when Papa had some small job to do, and these days I could only help him on the Sabbath. I used the trowel to apply just the right amount of mortar, then set the brick in place, over and over again. Mindless work, but in the months to come, this was the work—not throwing the ball or swinging the bat or anything else that my mother, or Dave Rowe, wanted to work on—that would lead me to a successful career on the baseball diamond.
* * * * *
We won Monday’s contest, too, holding off the Beaneaters, 5 to 4, when Mox McQuery turned a double play, stepping on the bag at first, and throwing hard to Charley Bassett, who tagged out John Morrill himself to end the game.
“All right, gents,” Dave Rowe barked. “Be at the station at 8:05 tonight. If you get left, you don’t get paid.”
“Hell, Skip,” Fatty said. “We wouldn’t think of missing this trip. We’ve won three of our last four games.”
“That’s right!” This came from Mr. Americus McKim as he made his way among the team members, shaking hands, patting backs, bragging that we had found our way. He was certain we’d return from our trip east with a two-game lead in the National League standings.
Staring at the stands, I saw my mother and father—smiling at the victory, even though I had never left the bench—but no Cindy McKim. So when Mr. McKim practically knocked me to my knees with that slap on my back, I turned to him.
“Are you going on the trip with us, sir?”
He laughed, saying, “I got a telegram from the president of the National League begging me to stay put. Nick Young doesn’t seem to like our Western hospitality in Kansas City.” Then, addressing Rowe, “Do you know what we were called, Dave?”
“No,” Rowe answered curtly.
“Hooligans,” Mr. McKim answered. “Hooligans. Jesus-son-of-a-bitching-pig-shitting-asshole-damn-it-all-to-hell-bastard-loving-Christ, don’t that beat all!”
“Yeah.” Rowe drew the self-cocker from his back pocket and dropped it inside his satchel. “8:05, boys. Even you, King.”
My mouth fell open, and I spun, eyes hopeful, at our manager.
“With luck, I can pawn you off on those turds in Philadelphia.” Rowe picked up his grip, and walked toward the steps.
Fatty Briody, however, came and put his arm around my shoulder. “Don’t let that boy get you down, kid. This is gonna be your first road trip, ain’t it?”
I sighed. “I was at St. Louis. Remember?”
The fat catcher laughed. “That don’t count, kid. That ain’t even out of this state. Denver didn’t mean nothin’, neither, as we was just barnstormin’. You gonna see it all, Silver, and I’m gonna make sure you do. I’ll see you get either the cure or the clap, I guarantee you, kid.”
I wasn’t sure I wanted the cure, and I knew the latter would not please Mother or Cindy, or me.
“Hell�
��s bells.” Fatty laughed. “This is why I play the damned game. We ain’t back home for almost a whole damned month.”
A month on the road … a month with Dave Rowe riding my bench-hardened arse, and maybe even leaving me with the Phillies for the rest of my career … and a month without Cindy McKim.
Chapter Fourteen
“Kid,” Fatty Briody said, nudging me awake. Yawning, I sat up in my seat and stared out at the Missouri countryside as the sun broke over the trees and hills. Or maybe it was Iowa. We certainly had not reached Philadelphia. The pudgy, kind-hearted catcher handed me a cup of steaming black brew.
“Thanks.” I blew on the coffee, and, after testing it and yawning again, saw Charley Bassett and Mox McQuery sitting across from me. My grip rested on Mox’s lap.
“We borrowed yours,” Mox said. “It’s the flattest.”
“All right.” Not fully awake, I tried another sip of coffee. Black, strong, but surprisingly sweet, only not from sugar. Mox pitched a flask at Fatty, who unscrewed the lid, took a morning bracer, and held the pewter container toward me.
“Sweet enough for you, kid, or do you need another cube o’ sugar?”
The three of them laughed. I shook my head, and Fatty handed the flask to Charley Bassett.
“It’s a long way to Philadelphia, kid,” Fatty said, “and I didn’t bring no book to read.”
“Like you can read,” Mox McQuery said.
“So we figured to pass the time with cards,” Fatty said. “You ever played poker, kid?”
“No,” I answered sleepily.
Mox McQuery and Charley Bassett grinned with eager anticipation.
“That’s what I thought, kid. Don’t worry. After we clean you out, your marker will be good.”
* * * * *
I laid down my cards on my grip. Mox McQuery groaned and tossed his cards atop the pile of greenbacks and silver in disgust.
Smiling, I slid the pot off the case and into my hat, which I kept between my legs.
The Kansas City Cowboys Page 11
