Big League Dreams (Small Worlds)

by Allen Hoffman

  Slightly ashamed and slightly fearful that hard-bargaining Malka might change her mind about paying such good money for something so worthless to him, he quickly shoved the bill into his pants pocket.

  “Say, is he a Jew?” she asked.

  “No, a real Kraut, just like his name, but he’s not a bad fellow at all.”

  “Thanks,” she said.

  “Listen, nobody has to know about this? About me, I mean?”

  “Nobody,” she said.

  Carey nodded and started to go. Malka turned back to face the small hill of tires. She smiled broadly, voraciously sucking air into the gap between her large front teeth as if fueling a furnace, and wiped her brow, this time in growing confidence. Never a passive person, she had finally taken her first step toward solving her problem.

  As she returned to sorting through the tires in search of ones with enough tread to be sold to filling stations and resold as spares, she felt herself calming down. She couldn’t do anything else anyway until this afternoon, when her brother would be in his office. Stepping into the house for coffee or for lunch, she would call his secretary and make an appointment. Until then she would try to stay in the yard; the heavy manual labor had a soothing effect on her, even in the heat.

  She had already flipped a surprising percentage of tires aside into a smaller pyramidal pile. To an untrained eye there might not seem to be any difference, but she knew that they still had life in them and would make it back onto the road, just like before. That seemed to augur well for her marriage, and ignoring the heat, she went at the hill of tires with a vengeance.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  MATTI STERNWEISS HAD SUCCEEDED IN THRUSTING ASIDE his nightmare, and his singleminded concentration had resulted in a three-to-one Browns victory over the pennant-contending Detroit Tigers. Although he was pleased with his performance on the field, he had only postponed making the fateful decision. Oblivious of everyone else in the immediate aftermath of victory, Matti studiously weighed himself in the Browns’ locker room. He was hoping that the numbers would come out even, but the smaller weight balanced perfectly between the two and the three. Squatting behind home plate for nine innings on a sweltering St. Louis September afternoon, Matti lost on the average five pounds a game. This Friday afternoon he had lost five and a half pounds, nothing exceptional about that.

  Not usually given to omens, Matti was aware that his fractional weight was irrelevant to the decision that he was weighing at the moment: whether or not he should fix tomorrow’s game against the Tigers. How else could he afford to marry Miss Penny Pinkham? The small weight stuck between the whole numbers seemed to symbolize his own inability to decide.

  Matti looked around at the tumultuous celebration of victory: sweat, excitement, pride, and a godlike exaltation tempered with a mortal weariness. Around the winning pitcher’s locker a crowd of reporters and well-wishers pressed Thatcher Jones for the details of his great feat, striking out the legendary Ty Cobb three times. Matti knew that they were talking to the wrong man. He looked back at the scale; it hadn’t budged.

  “Hey, Sirdy,” a good-natured, jocular voice called to him. “Quit trying to Jew the thing down. That’s where it is, and that’s the way it’s gonna stay.”

  Without turning around, Matti recognized the voice of tomorrow’s starting pitcher, Dufer Rawlings, one away from his twentieth victory. Aware of the irony that the key to his throwing the game was interrupting his deliberations, he turned toward Dufer with a pensive smile. After seventeen years in America, he had never succeeded in developing a shy, crooked smile; it remained pensive and lugubrious, pure talmudic anxiety from Krimsk. But the smile was sincere; no one, not even Matti—or “Sirdy,” as he was known to the baseball world—could look at Dufer Rawlings and not smile. He was just about the most likable fellow you could ever meet. Always a smile, always willing to do a favor, not a mean bone in his body. Hadn’t he always willingly accompanied Matti to the Pinkhams and talked him up to Penny’s father and brothers?

  “Yeah, Dufer, I guess you’re right. That’s where it is,” Matti agreed.

  Although Matti was standing on the scale five inches off the floor, he still had to look up at the young giant. As usual, a hank of light brown hair cascaded over one side of Dufer’s handsome forehead. Dufer flipped his head slightly to get it away from his eye. On his way to the showers, he wore nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist. If Apollo had parked his chariot outside the ballpark and walked into the locker room for a shower, he might have been mistaken for Charles Dufer Rawlings’s brother. If the sun god had had a shock of straight hair tumbling down onto one eye, he might have been mistaken for his twin. Matti knew that the resemblance ended there. Apollo, an Old World deity, was an anti-Semite. Everybody over there was. Dufer wasn’t, his remark about “Jewing down” notwithstanding; that was how they talked.

  “You know you look like Apollo, you big lunk,” Matti said.

  “Who’s he play for?” Dufer asked seriously.

  Matti smiled at the pitcher’s innocence. This marvelous Iowa farm boy didn’t know enough to hate Jews.

  “A Mediterranean club. Don’t worry about it. He hasn’t got your speed.”

  Dufer’s handsome brown eyes brightened at the mention of his marvelous fastball. Matti yawned.

  “You’re not too tired, are you? You got something for tomorrow, don’t you?” the pitcher asked in his most somber manner.

  “You bet, Dufer,” Matti said energetically. “Have I ever let you down?”

  Dufer smiled and shook his head.

  “Not you, Sirdy. You never let any of us down. We all know it, too—” He nodded in the direction of Thatch Jones. “We know the score. You’re okay.” He gave Matti an appreciative pat on the back and headed for the showers. “I’ll even save you some hot water if you hurry!”

  Matti thought he detected a shadow of doubt in Dufer’s eye, but before he had a chance to analyze it, Zack Freeling, the Browns’ manager, was standing next to him. The short, graying manager listened to Thatch expound on his memorable accomplishment. The pitcher’s voice was almost hoarse, but suffused with the delight of triumph.

  “The first time, I got Cobb on a good fastball low and away, and then I came back the second time to get him on a sharp hook that had a real good hop on it.”

  “Good game, Sirdy,” the manager said, without looking at him.

  “Thanks, Skipper,” Matti said.

  The manager turned to his catcher. “Is anything he’s jawing about over there right?”

  Matti modestly shook his head.

  The manager shrugged and smiled. “And compared to Dufer and MacGregor, he’s a genius.”

  Zack Freeling carefully eyed the catcher to see if he would join in his joke, but Matti didn’t respond. It wasn’t in his interest to disparage the pitchers who were his meal ticket.

  “Of course, if they could use their heads, too, then you wouldn’t be here,” the manager said somewhat caustically. “How did you do it?” he asked Sirdy.

  “In batting practice I noticed that Cobb was cutting his stride, and in the field he didn’t follow through on his throw,” Matti answered.

  The manager nodded in admiration, and his eyes flickered in enlightenment. “Cobb’s got a side pull and can’t get around inside,” he said, almost whistling in fascination.

  “Today he couldn’t,” Matti smiled.

  The manager looked at Matti with a shrewd expression of his own.

  “Never underestimate him, eh, Sirdy? You’re something else. You could manage this club right now. Tomorrow’s a big one. If they don’t win tomorrow, they’ll never catch the Indians.”

  Matti nodded.

  “Get some rest, Sirdy. It won’t be any cooler out there tomorrow.”

  Matti watched the manager walk away. Freeling was a smart, cynical little man. If Matti stayed in baseball for a few more years of catching in the big leagues, followed by twenty of coaching and managing in the minor leagues, and everyth
ing went right, that’s all he would be, too.

  Matti had to keep his eye on Freeling. Although the manager needed him, he also felt very nervous about a catcher who was smarter than he was. Unlike Dufer, Freeling wasn’t too fond of Jews. When they were in the ballparks where they got down on Matti with cries of “sheeney” and “kike,” Freeling would say curtly, “Keep your mind on the game,” as if he were embarrassed to have Matti on his side. Matti detected in Freeling’s eyes more than a glimmer of identification with the vociferous patrons of the national pastime.

  “They don’t bother me,” Matti would retort with an arrogance calculated to irritate the manager.

  He had to laugh. In the old country they killed Jews for sport without saying hello. Here these Yankee Doodle Dandy clowns thought that a few names were so god-awful. They could yell themselves hoarse. Some things you have to put up with.

  Freeling would take credit with the owners for Cobb’s three strikeouts. Occasionally he told Matti not to be in such a rush, he would get his. But Matti was in a rush, and when he looked at Freeling, “his” didn’t seem to be worth waiting for, even if he could afford to wait. Matti wanted to marry, stay home, and enjoy his wife. Enough of all the traveling that once had thrilled him; besides, the manager didn’t make more than Matti did. As Freeling once confided to him, “It beats having to make an honest living. I’ll say that much for it.” Kike or not, Matti was the only one on the Browns team to whom Freeling thought it worthwhile to speak. Beyond a polite smile, Matti never responded to his mock confidences.

  Matti moved over to the stool in front of his locker and sat down to rest a minute. Normally, he savored that weary, private moment before showering when he stared at the symbols of his success—bulging catcher’s mitt, spikes, and hat in his locker and the soiled, crumpled uniform at his feet. Then he would joyously marshal his strength, fling his flannels into the large laundry basket in the center of the room, and go in to soak under the hot water.

  Today, though, he just sat. He could see the scales before him. He wasn’t getting any younger. The Browns weren’t going anywhere this year, anyhow; without solid pitching even George Sisler’s incredible hitting couldn’t carry the club. They had had a lousy start and had not more than a so-so shot at third place. When the starting catcher, Swede Jansen, broke his leg in Chicago, Matti had taken over, and the club started winning. With him calling all the shots behind the plate, Dufer and MacGregor had a good chance of winning twenty games apiece. The two had marvelous arms, and even Thatch wasn’t bad. Had Matti been behind the plate all season, they might have been right up there fighting for the pennant with the Tigers and the Indians.

  They weren’t, though. As usual, the marvelous George Sisler was generating excitement at the plate, leading the league with a near four hundred average, but for St. Louis fans, Sisler of the Browns and Rogers Hornsby of the Cards were not news. The papers were making a big thing about St. Louis’s chances of having two twenty-game winners. Matti would never be rewarded for that success. Dufer and MacGregor would barely be remunerated. Ball players made peanuts. The owners raked it in, and they didn’t share it. A short, slow catcher who had a hard time hitting two thirty wasn’t going to get a cigar when it came time to talk contract. Not when that polar bear Swede Jansen hit over three hundred. If the Browns were smart, they would trade Jansen for a good hitting outfielder, fire Freeling, and make Matti the playing manager. But not much chance of that.

  Who besides Freeling really knew how important Matti was to the club’s success? And he wasn’t telling very many people. If Matti were manager, the pitchers would follow his lead, but many of the other players probably would not. Matti had never asserted himself as a leader. Perhaps it was a mistake, but he had never had the confidence. He just wanted to stay on the team. He did things to ingratiate himself. Selflessly and tirelessly, he would quietly coach the other players, but he still suffered his share of jokes and pranks. No more than others, but too many for a managerial candidate. Freeling always seemed to enjoy the jokes on Sirdy.

  Take his detested nickname, “Sirdy.” As a rookie three years ago, everyone had called him “Matty,” just like the great Christie Matthewson. Most of the game he rode the bench behind Jansen, but when they had two days of doubleheaders against the Yankees in August, Matti had made it into the last game. With Lou Gehrig on second, Babe Ruth knocked one off the center-field fence. Matti blocked the plate, even though Gehrig barreled into him as the throw came home. Matti knew that his career was at stake, and he refused to give an inch. Gehrig sent him sailing into the air, but Matti held on to the ball for the out although he landed on his head. Dizzy, he insisted on staying in the game. He knew what was going on, too. When the next batter tapped the ball back to the mound, Ruth had strayed too far down the line from third. Matti yelled over the crowd for MacGregor to throw to third to pick off Ruth. But the collision with the locomotive-like Gehrig had smashed Matti’s tongue back into Yiddish-speaking Krimsk. Instead of calling third, he had screamed, “Sird! Sird! Sird!” Much to his teammates’ amusement, he had become “Sirdy” Sternweiss.

  The next day the nickname appeared in all the papers—no doubt, Freeling’s doing. It stung, for if the truth be told, Matti was one of the few Browns who had finished high school, and he spoke and wrote better English than anyone else on the team. He had worked long and hard to master the strange tongue that he had encountered at the age of ten. Occasionally, Freeling referred to him as “Professor Sirdy.”

  The others would laugh, but they all knew Freeling was ridiculing them, too—if not publicly, then privately, and certainly to the front office. The manager’s job was not so very secure either. The joke among the players was that Freeling worked harder upstairs and in the pressbox than he did on the field.

  Should Matti fix the game? Perhaps he could think things through better under the showers. He wearily flipped his uniform into the basket. As he walked past the crowd around Thatcher’s locker, he heard Ty Cobb’s conqueror saying, “No doubt about it. We miss Swede’s bat in the lineup. With him behind the plate, we would be right up there with the Tigers and Indians fighting for the pennant.”

  That dumb son of a bitch, thought Matti. With the Swede they would be in sixth place right now, and come winter, the club would be wanting to cut Thatch’s salary. Instead of fourteen wins, he would have seven at best, with fourteen losses to go with them. I should work for that ingrate? The hell with him! Better take mine while I can.

  Such thoughts encouraged Matti toward his fateful decision against the Browns, but he could not bring himself to throw the game. He was afraid of getting caught. How was he to evaluate the risk? And was the reward worth that risk? Penny Pinkham’s lovely face, framed by the freshly starched white nurse’s cap, came to mind. It was worth any risk. Matti had an overwhelming desire to see Penny this evening and propose marriage. With her companionship, he knew that the issue would be resolved.

  But today was Friday, wasn’t it? On Fridays he ate the Sabbath evening meal with his widowed mother. Penny wouldn’t be expecting him; he would have to call and tell her that he was coming over later. Explaining Penny to his old Jewish mother would be another problem, but Matti was confident that she would come around. After all, this was America!

  Standing in nothing but a towel, he called the clubhouse boy and told him to telephone the Pinkhams’ home. Matti did not enjoy speaking to Penny’s brothers or her father. In addition, having the clubhouse boy announce the call always impressed everyone.

  “A call from the St. Louis Browns’ clubhouse. Just one minute, please,” the boy announced and handed the receiver to Matti.

  “Hello?” Matti said, his voice so filled with excitement he didn’t sound like himself.

  “Charles? You will be able to come this evening, won’t you?” The lively, melodic voice of Penny Pinkham quaked with anxiety.

  Matti felt a rush of blood to his head that threatened to blind him in shame and anger. Speechless, he continued t
o hold the receiver to his ear.

  “Charles? Charles, that is you, isn’t it?” Penny asked in embarrassment. Receiving no response, she asked fearfully, “Who’s there? ... Sirdy, is that you?”

  Matti slowly hung up the telephone and turned around.

  “Hey Mack!” he yelled gruffly to the tall pitcher, who was on his way out of the clubhouse in his street clothes. “Come here a minute, will you?”

  The lanky left-hander hurried over with a friendly smile. “Hey, Sirdy, you called a great game today,” he said.

  “How long has Charles Dufer Rawlings been running around with Penny?” Matti asked harshly.

  A look of severe discomfort creased Alex MacGregor’s thin face.

  “Sirdy, I promised to be downtown at six,” he said, begging to escape.

  “Tell me, Mack,” Matti insisted.

  “Don’t ask me that, Sirdy,” Mack said, his eyes avoiding Matti’s.

  “Then don’t ask me when you’re going to win twenty games,” Matti said in icy anger.

  Mack’s face registered hurt and shock; then he looked directly at Matti in reproach, as if to ask how the short catcher could suggest any connection between something so holy as his winning twenty games and something so profane as a woman. He saw that this strange little genius, who knew more about his pitching than he himself did and more about American League batters than anyone who ever lived, wasn’t kidding.

  “You aren’t going to do anything foolish, are you?” he asked, preparing the way for his admission.

  Not promising anything, Matti just stared at him.

  “All summer,” Mack said quietly.

  “Ever since I brought him over there to help me out?” Matti asked.

  Mack nodded. “Yeah, I guess so,” he said quickly, wanting to get away from the particulars. “Sirdy, you know Dufer. He wouldn’t hurt nobody. It wasn’t his fault. He wouldn’t do that to a friend.”

  “No?” Matti asked cynically.

  “Hell no, he wouldn’t. She was chasing after him like all blazes. She’s nuts about Dufer. Sirdy, it was her fault.”