Dan Dugdale finally spoke. “I hope that’s real soon, Cap. I really do.”
Anson stormed to the visitor’s bench.
The game everyone would talk about for years to come in Kansas City was getting off to a real friendly start.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Catcher Lou Hardie, pitcher John Clarkson, right fielder King Kelly, first baseman Cap Anson, center fielder George Gore, third baseman Tom Burns, second baseman Fred Pfeffer, left fielder Abner Dalrymple, and shortstop Ned Williamson. Facing—after Dan and Mother had to tinker with our line-up at the last minute—third baseman Al “Cod” Myers, shortstop Charley Bassett, left fielder Jim Donnelly, catcher Dan Dugdale, first baseman Mox McQuery, left fielder Jim Lillie, right fielder Paul “Shorty” Radford, center fielder Pete Conway, and pitcher Silver King.
We won the toss, and decided to let Chicago bat first. Lou Hardie stepped over to the umpire, chatted a bit, and turned toward me. “Low,” he said, before tapping his bat against his shoes, and settling into a comfortable position. Umpire Paul Grace gave me the nod.
Here’s the crazy thing. I have to blame it on my nerves. I did not do the can-can routine, and I did not throw a side-arm pitch. I just chunked the ball. No wind-up. Nothing. But Hardie swung and missed. Then he complained.
“He can’t do that, Grace. He didn’t give me no chance.”
“He did it,” Paul Grace countered. “It was exactly where you called for it. And you flat-out missed it.”
Dan Dugdale had stood during that conversation, staring at me incredulously, but he just sighed and threw the ball back to me.
“Try that again, rookie!” Hardie called out.
That made Dan smile, and he gave me that nod that I knew meant, “If the dude asks for it …”
I was not sure I could throw the ball like that again. Didn’t even recall how I’d done it the first time. Yet as I twisted my right foot in the dirt, a familiar voice called out from the seats just behind Mother’s, “Hey, kid! How come you didn’t never pitch that way when I was catchin’ you?”
I turned, and gladness filled my heart when Cindy McKim and even Mr. Bayersdörfer, who was sitting in the next row, helped Fatty Briody stand up. He tipped his Irish cap at me, and the spectators around him, recognizing him, erupted in cheers and applause. If McKim, Heim, and Whitfield had been allowed to sell beer in the stadium, everybody there would have bought a round for Fatty Briody. And, knowing Fatty as I did, he would have accepted every nickel beer.
“Give me a pitch, boy,” Hardie called out. “That ain’t Buffalo Bill Cody in them stands.”
I obliged Hardie. He missed badly. Did the same on my third pitch, and Grace called him out on strikes.
Immediately Cap Anson began arguing and kicking sand across the plate and onto the umpire’s shoes, but Grace was one of those players who always showed kindness to managers. He let Anson kick and scream, but when the Chicago bigot returned to his bench, Grace pointed at the plate and handed John Clarkson the little broom the umpire carried in his pocket.
“I didn’t make that mess,” Clarkson protested.
“But you’re cleaning it up,” Grace told him.
Those spectators close enough to hear erupted in more cheers.
I struck out Clarkson, too.
King Kelly did manage to get a piece of my fourth pitch, but popped it up to the foul line where third baseman Cod Myers snagged it easily, despite being peppered with peanut shells and curses from the White Stockings’ bench.
I felt pretty good. My teammates patted my back as I settled onto the bench. I had thrown eleven pitches in the first inning, and only one player had made contact. This no-wind-up routine was doing something, and it would be only one of my weapons. I knew if they figured out whatever it was I was doing, I could go to my can-can routine, or start that side-arm delivery. This was just the first game of four against the National League leaders, I told myself. Play smart.
John Clarkson must have been telling himself something similar. He did not strike out any of our ballists, but matched my pitch count by inducing Cod Myers and Charley Bassett to ground out to second baseman Fred Pfeffer, and Jim Donnelly to pop up to King Kelly in left-center field.
Kansas City was a railroad town. Still is. And we got a lot of railroad workers to our games, including many folks from Chicago. For this game, there were quite a few Chicago fans in the stands by the White Stockings bench that kept cheering.
They booed us. Our patrons booed them. They cursed us. Our fans cursed them. All friendly, though … well … for the moment.
For six innings, that’s how the game went. I kept the White Stockings in check, and our offense could not figure out a way to score against Clarkson. Mother told me how to pitch each batter, and what she told me worked. We did score a run in the fifth, but Anson drove in a run to tie the score in the sixth.
In the top of the seventh inning, my right elbow and shoulder throbbing, my fingertips raw from gripping and throwing the ball, I walked Abner Dalrymple and the power-hitting Ned Williamson. Then Hardie came to the plate.
“Can-can!” Mother called out.
God, how I wished she had told me to throw side arm or without any wind-up at all. I admit I had much success with that dance, but it felt so damned embarrassing. Still, it worked. Hardie popped up Mox McQuery for the first out.
As pitcher John Clarkson came to the plate, I looked to the seats for Mother’s instructions. All I could see were several ticket-takers and Mr. Joseph Heim himself surrounding my mother. A burly man in a fine suit, with gold-rimmed spectacles and a thick, neat mustache, bowler hat in his hand, stood sweating.
“Silver!” Cindy called out.
Confused, I thought of something on my own. “Hey, Mister Grace?”
The umpire stepped toward me. “Yes?”
“Laces broke.” I pointed at my shoes. “Can I have time to replace them?”
Lucky for me, Grace trusted me. He didn’t examine my shoe laces, merely motioned me toward the bench, then went over to the fence and called out for a sarsaparilla from a vendor. Only Mr. Heim asked the umpire for a moment of his time.
Dan Dugdale went to the fence, asking, “What’s going on here?”
“They’re making Missus King move!” Fatty Briody yelled.
“Mister Heim?” Dan asked.
Our team president meekly pointed at the man with the bowler, who had come to the balustrade and was quietly speaking with Paul Grace.
My stomach twisted. I didn’t know what was going on. No one did.
“Boys,” Mr. Heim said, “this is Nick Young.”
That, of course, would be Nicholas Ephraim Young, Civil War veteran, former employee of the US Treasury Department, one-time manager and umpire, and, for better than a year now, president of the National League.
“So?” I said.
“Well, this is the best seat we have,” Mr. Heim said with no conviction.
That’s when Mr. Bill rose, a move shadowed by his sons and cowhands.
“You kick a lady out of her seat?” Fatty Briody said with uncontrolled rage.
Mr. Bayersdörfer tugged on Fatty’s arm.
That’s when Mr. Bill’s sons and hired men, back for another Cowboys game, put their right hands on the butts of their revolvers.
“No … no … no! None of that!” Mr. Heim’s face paled. “We want none of that. Listen, we’re just relocating Missus King to a shadier spot, to the coolest seat at League Park. That’s all we’re doing.”
“Is that the kind of gentleman you are, sir?” Cindy, having joined the fray, said as she wagged a finger at President Young. The president ignored her.
“This stinks,” Fatty said.
“What stinks,” came a voice behind us, “is a baseball man who takes his instructions from a petticoat.”
I whirled, and started for Cap Anson, who s
tood on the first-base line smiling smugly, only to be intercepted by Dan Dugdale and Frank Ringo.
“You got your laces fixed, Silver?” Paul Grace stepped up to diffuse the volatile situation.
Mother did the rest.
“It’s fine,” she said, and curtsied to President Young. “You will find no better seat at League Park than here, sir, and no better baseball team than these Kansas City Cowboys. Allow us to show you our Western hospitality.” She held out her hand, and President Young stared at it as if she had handed him a deep-fried turkey leg. Gradually he lifted Mother’s hand to his lips, and stepped aside as she moved into the aisle.
When Cindy started to follow Mother, she stopped and, turning to Cindy, said, “Please, Cindy, keep President Young company.”
I understood what Mother meant: See what he’s up to. My heart was pounding with anxiety as Mother disappeared in the crowd, followed by both policemen and ticket-takers. I looked at Mr. McKim, who did nothing but glower at his partner and President Young.
“Let’s play baseball, boys,” Grace announced.
Still smugly smiling, Cap Anson returned to his bench.
Dan Dugdale walked me back to the pitcher’s lines.
“What’s that about?” I asked. “Why would they make Mother …?”
“You know why,” Dan said. “Cap Anson’s voice is heard back East.”
“But Cindy’s father could have …”
“Done nothing. That’s the president of the league sitting there, Silver. Brought in, likely, by Cap Anson. Maybe Detroit’s brass moaned some, too. And you know what those umpires and a lot of teams have been saying about us. Not us, but those folks who come to see us play. How rowdy things get. How umpires don’t feel safe at games here.”
“I don’t feel safe in St. Louis,” I said.
Dan just tried to put me at ease. “We have one out. Two more.” He pointed at John Clarkson. “Side arm. He can’t figure that out.”
He didn’t. I struck him out, but King Kelly stepped up next. I knew I had made a mistake the moment the ball left my hand. Kelly swung hard. I grimaced, throwing up my hands and ducking, trying desperately to knock the ball to the ground before it had a chance to tear off my head. But I missed. The ball rolled to center field.
“Back me up!” Dan was screaming. “Back me up!”
I reacted, moving quickly past the plate, watching as Abner Dalrymple scored and burly Ned Williamson rounded third, trying to make it a two-run lead. Pete Conway had scooped up the ball in center field, and came up firing. I held my breath, moving behind Dan, watching, praying, seeing the ball skip on the dirt near the first-base-side pitcher’s line, come up high and straight into Dan’s big glove. Ned Williamson did not slow down, and Ned Williamson was no small man. He weighed better than two hundred pounds, most of that muscle, and he had a reputation for dirty, dirty play—which is one reason Cap Anson loved to play him. Williamson leaped, and I yelled, my stomach roiling, watching those big feet of Ned’s tear right into Dan’s left knee as he turned to make the tag.
“He was out!” Mr. Bill and Fatty screamed from the stands, but Paul Grace kept yelling, “Safe! Safe! The runner is safe!”
“No!” I shouted. “Williamson never touched home plate.” Hell, I had a better view of the play than that umpire.
“You bum!” Fatty was yelling from the stands, and that was as polite as any Cowboys’ fan got.
Then I saw something else. My focus was on Dan Dugdale. I ran as quickly as I could to him, feeling sickened by the way he was gripping his knee. I kneeled down as one of Mr. Bill’s waddies was yelling at Paul Grace, “How the hell are you gonna get out of this Hole alive, you worthless bastard?”
“Gentlemen!” I recognized Mr. Heim’s voice and glanced over to see him pointing to the sign someone had hung in center field a few months back:
DON’T SHOOT THE UMPIRE!
But I didn’t care about the run, or Ned Williamson’s dirty play. I gripped Dan Dugdale’s shoulders as he cursed and twisted his leg this way and that. Then Mert Hackett was beside me, cutting away Dan’s torn baseball pants.
“Sumbitch … sumbitch … sumbitch,” Dan kept repeating.
“Are you all right, Dug?” Grace asked as he stood over us.
“No …” Dan groaned.
I looked around for my mother, not knowing where she had been moved, but I only could see the National League president trying to light a long cigar. I returned my attention to Dan, asking, “What can I do, Dug?”
Somehow Dan managed to smile, but only briefly. Grace had moved back to the stands, calling out to Mr. Heim and President Young, “Dug needs medical attention. It’s his knee.”
“I can’t … stand,” Dug muttered, before returning to his string of “sumbitch.”
I watched as policemen and a doctor I recognized headed toward us. Dan saw them, too, and he reached up, gripped my shoulders, saying, “Finish this.” For a man in such pain, the grip he held on my shoulders hurt like the blazes.
“Do you have a replacement for Dan?” our umpire asked.
I looked up at the stands again, and yelled, “Fatty!”
“No, damn it,” Dan said as he gripped my arm.
The doctor shifted Dan’s leg, and Dan screamed.
“Fatty!” I shouted again, but Dan lifted his head and gripped my shoulder again. He hissed at me, “He can’t play. Unless you want to kill him.” His head collapsed back onto the dirt. “Ringo,” he whispered. “It has to be Frank Ringo.”
In the meantime, the crowd was getting restless for the game to continue. Chicago fans began chanting for the White Stockings. Cowboys enthusiasts cursed Chicago players and spectators. Our city policemen, who had grown accustomed to such rough play and rowdy crowds, appeared to be getting nervous. No. Not nervous. Scared out of their wits.
The Kansas City players had gathered around home plate. I stood and stepped back as the peace officers and doctor loaded Dan onto a blanket and carted him away. Mert Hackett went with him.
“Shit,” I heard someone in the grandstands say. “There goes Dugdale. Shit!”
“Shit is right,” his companion said. “Not only is the catcher goin’, so’s our mascot. We’re doomed.”
Paul Grace said we needed a replacement catcher immediately. Those who had heard what Dugdale had said eyed Frank Ringo, who seemed to be growing paler as we stared at him in silence.
It was Charley Bassett who broke that silence. He came over, put his arm around the shivering Ringo, and said, “Come on, Frank. Let’s get those two runs back and beat these bastards.”
Mr. James Whitfield would write two columns about that incident. About how Charley Bassett, the son of a famed Kansas cow-town lawman, and Frank Ringo, his mortal enemy and a direct descendant of a notorious gunman named Johnny Ringo, put “their mortal feud”—Mr. Whitfield’s words—aside for the spirit of baseball camaraderie.
It was horseshit, of course, but, hell, it sure was great writing. And Charley Bassett, while he might not have been anything close to a Western legend, he was a fine ballplayer and a great teammate. And that encouragement, that of putting an arm around Ringo, gave our replacement catcher a bit of confidence. He picked up Dan’s padded mitt, found his spot behind home base, and gave me a powerful nod. We resumed out positions on the field.
“Let’s play some baseball,” Grace said, and the crowd—more than seven thousand strong by that time—roared its approval. Even the White Stockings supporters cheered.
I managed to get Cap Anson, the bastard, to fly out to Shorty Radford in right, but the White Stockings led 3 to 1.
No runs in the eighth. But, somehow, I sat three batters down in order in the ninth. We had three outs remaining, and we trailed by two runs.
Cod Myers flied out to King Kelly on the first pitch. The crowd groaned. One out.
Charley Bass
ett walked, and Jim Donnelly came to bat. One ball. Two balls. Three balls. I held my breath. Grace called the fourth pitch a strike. The crowd booed. Then Donnelly hit a ball weakly back to Clarkson. He bobbled the ball, looked at second, knew he had no shot there, but threw hard to Cap Anson to retire Donnelly.
Two outs. A runner on second. We needed two runs, and Frank Ringo was stepping to the plate.
I closed my eyes. I even said a little prayer. I heard Frank Ringo grunt, and the crowd groaned. He had swung at Clarkson’s drop ball, and missed. Strike one. Clarkson did his wind-up and threw again. Ringo did not swing. He should have.
“Strike two,” Grace said.
I opened my eyes and looked at Frank Ringo. I wanted to give him some encouragement, but as pale as Ringo looked, and as hard as that bat seemed to be shaking in his arms, I closed my eyes again. That’s why I did not see that great hit until I heard what sounded like a detonation. My eyes shot open, and I saw King Kelly running as hard as he could for the center-field fence. Kelly leaped, but the ball tipped off his fingers, hit the wall, and bounced toward right field.
We watched as Charley Bassett scored easily, as Frank Ringo showed no signs of slowing down. I looked at right field. Kelly had reached the ball first, grabbed it, and threw it. Ringo was running around third. I screamed at him to stop, but he either ignored me or didn’t hear. My eyes clamped shut. That’s why I missed the fact that Cap Anson, beautifully arrogant and mercilessly evil, dropped the ball that Kelly threw to him. Had he managed to hold onto that throw, and had he done what he was supposed to do and relay Kelly’s throw to Lou Hardie, the Chicago catcher would most likely have tagged Ringo out and the White Stockings would have won by a run. But Anson dropped the ball, Ringo scored, and we had tied the score.
Mox McQuery grounded out to Fred Pfeffer. Three outs. We were going into extra innings.
I worked my way through the tenth inning, my arm feeling as brittle as dried-out leather reins even though I did not feel tired. It was lucky I had foregone my wind-up through most of the game. As I sank onto the bench, Pete Conway said, “Silver, your mother wants to know if you need to come out?”
The Kansas City Cowboys Page 21
