Big League Dreams (Small Worlds)

by Allen Hoffman

  Out of breath, battered, bruised, and even bloodied where Cobb had smashed his head, Matti came to rest like a worshipful supplicant with the ball still enveloped in his clasped, extended hands. The umpire raised his arm and whipped his thumb above his closed fingers, screaming “Out!” so loudly that Matti heard him say “ow” before the roar of the crowd descended upon him like a gale wind. As the cheer continued, Dufer dashed in to lift him to his feet and lead him away to the dugout for the bottom of the ninth inning.

  Matti collapsed onto the bench, and the trainer quickly helped him out of his catcher’s paraphernalia. He leaned back wearily as they applied an ice pack to his forehead and eyebrow. Matti blanched at the burning sensation of the wet towel on his raw skin, but he welcomed the numbing cold that soon followed. At first he thought he imagined the low gentle soughing sound, but out of his uncovered eye he saw his teammates standing up and staring toward center field. Zack Freeling came off his perch on the dugout steps.

  “Well, Sirdy, there’s a sub in center field. You knocked Cobb out of the game.”

  Matti looked up at the manager.

  “You stuck him right where he hurt, didn’t you?” Zack said with admiration and a touch of contempt. Matti closed his eyes to absorb more of the numbing cold.

  “Can you bat?”

  “Yeah,” Matti said.

  After Zack returned to his station on the steps, Matti opened his good eye. He watched Smith foul off four or five pitches before striking out on a poor breaking pitch. Matti dropped the ice pack and began to climb out of the dugout to take his place in the on-deck circle.

  “Hey, Sirdy, your leg is bleeding. Are you all right?” Dufer asked.

  Matti paused and looked down at his ripped pants. His high woolen sock was suffused with a dark red.

  “You ought to get it taken care of,” Dufer insisted.

  “This won’t take long.”

  Matti knelt on the ground with his bat in his hands. He didn’t even bother taking any warm-up swings. Very calmly and carefully, he studied the Detroit pitcher’s encounter with the Browns’ right fielder. Tobin lashed two line drives foul, took two pitches for balls, and lifted a high fly to deep center field for the second out.

  As Matti stepped up to bat, ripples of applause began to traverse the grandstands, finally meeting for a brief moment of ovation. The crowd seemed to have little more strength or concentration than the Detroit pitcher. Matti couldn’t care less about the crowd, but he was keenly aware of Morrisett’s condition. The pitcher was tired. Smith, not a particularly good fastball hitter, had fouled off four consecutive fastballs before striking out, and Tobin had managed to get in front on the first two pitches. Moreover, Matti was willing to bet where that first tired fastball would be thrown. Whenever a pitcher or player got rough with Ty Cobb, he suffered instant retribution at the hands of Detroit pitchers. If not, Cobb made life miserable for them, and no one could make life more miserable than Ty Cobb could. Matti stood covered in enough of his own blood to appreciate that. He also appreciated that no one in all of professional baseball played his heart out for a team and its pitchers the way Cobb did for the Tigers. Now that Morrisett had two outs, he could afford to waste a few pitches in order to avoid Cobb’s wrath. Since Matti did not initiate the crash and had been bowled over, bruised, and bloodied, he didn’t think that Morrisett would actually try to stick the ball in his ear. That would put Matti on first base, and Freeling might pinch-hit for Dufer, who followed Matti at bat. No, Morrisett would just brush him back with a tight inside pitch that would knock the bat out of his hands.

  Matti took a warm-up swing and stepped to the plate, crowding it for all he was worth. As Morrisett raised his foot above his head, momentarily taking his eyes off the batter, Matti drifted back two quick steps away from the plate and dug in. The pitcher released the ball and Matti began his swing. The lackluster fastball arrived right where Matti’s stubby hands had been but were no longer. Instead, he was guiding the bat through an extended arc designed to provide the maximum power. As the bat made contact with the ball, he increased his force by turning to the left, generating added leverage with the trunk of his body and pulling the ball toward the left-field line. He knew from the solid sound and light feel that he had hit the ball very well. Following through very deliberately, he concentrated on not lifting his head too early. When he finally did so, he saw that, unlike Tobin, he had timed it right; the ball was at least ten feet in fair territory and would easily clear the left-field fence for a home run. Jogging toward first base on his ritual uncontested circuit of the diamond, he could see the Tigers dejectedly heading for the clubhouse in defeat. As Matti reached second, the applause and cheers of the crowd reached a deafening roar that accompanied him all the way around to home plate. Turning languidly toward the Browns’ dugout, he paused.

  A band of cheering teammates surged out in wild fervor to congratulate him. A whooping, yelling, twenty-game winner raced ahead and draped himself in a bear hug on the short hero, knocking off Matti’s beaked cap with his ecstatic leaps. Matti completely disappeared from view until Dufer in his wild exuberance bent down, clasped his arms around Matti’s waist, and hoisted him straight into the air. As Matti suddenly reappeared, rising head and shoulders above his admiring fellows, a full-throated roar saluted him. A bruised, swollen Matti—hatless, the contusions on his head and cheek were bared for all to see—floated above the field in popular triumph. He wore an expression neither of joy nor of weariness but of somber, serious acceptance that recognized the thunderous adulation as his royal due. Acknowledging the acclaim, he lifted his arms in the ritual of victory. Cameras clicked; it was this picture that was to dominate so dramatically the Sunday sports section of the Globe, the city’s largest morning newspaper.

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  IN FRONT OF HIS LOCKER A VERY CALM MATTI SAT ON A stool in his sweatshirt and baseball pants, his injured foot immersed in a bucket of ice. The adulation continued around the unlikely all-star as newspaper reporters clamored to interview the catcher who had batted in three runs, including a tie-breaking, game-winning home run with two out in the bottom of the ninth inning. All this after having saved the game in the top of the ninth by stopping Ty Cobb from scoring in what the assembled reporters were already describing as the outstanding defensive play of the season.

  How did it feel to get by Cobb? What did you think when you saw him coming? How did you manage to hold on to the ball? Were you surprised when Cobb didn’t take the field? How did you feel when the ball cleared the left-field fence? Matti patiently answered all of these inquiries, stating that it always felt good when one was doing one’s job well. The sportswriters seemed a trifle disappointed at his lack of enthusiasm in recounting his near-legendary exploits. (To become truly legendary, these exploits awaited only the writers’ canonization in the next day’s Sunday press.) Finally, a stark-naked Dufer joined them on the way back from the showers, rubbernecked at Sirdy’s wounds, and announced, “You ought to see the other guy!” providing the ritual manic jocularity that the occasion so desperately needed.

  Bill, the trainer, edged his way forward and announced that Zack wanted Sirdy to see the team physician, Dr. Williams, in the trainer’s room. Matti excused himself. As he did so, Dufer called after him, “Hey, Sirdy, when you’re lying down with that sawbones, you better guard home plate!” and grabbed his groin with both hands, pantomiming just what he meant by home plate. This wit brought forth a burst of appreciative guffaws and cheers that permitted Matti to exit on a manly note of joyous exaltation worthy of the hour. Everyone was more than satisfied; the players turned back to their lockers laughing, and the reporters rushed out of the clubhouse burning to share with the city’s reading public the witty, stimulating, gallant world of the St. Louis Browns’ professional baseball club, of which the press was such an important part.

  “Let’s take a look at it,” the doctor ordered.

  Matti sat on the edge of the padded trainer’s table as the do
ctor examined the facial scratches and bruises.

  “Not too bad,” the doctor announced to Zack with a note of satisfaction.

  This satisfied tone annoyed Matti. Dr. Williams had only one patient, the St. Louis Browns’ baseball club, and only the well-being of that corporate entity concerned him. The team referred to him as “the company doctor,” but Matti called him the “veterinarian” because the kindly, rumpled doctor with his easy manner and gray hair understood the necessity of fattening commercial beasts for slaughter. Even now, when the doctor examined Matti’s eye for injury, he didn’t look him in the eye. The catcher was just one of the herd who must produce.

  “Let’s check the foot, too, Doc,” Zack proposed.

  Matti lay down.

  “Take your trousers off, it will be easier that way,” the doctor suggested.

  Matti unfastened his belt, and Bill, the trainer, helped him pull his pants off.

  “Swelling isn’t too bad. We’ll continue with the ice, but we might need a few stitches here where the gash is.”

  The doctor delivered this unwelcome news very solemnly.

  “Catcher, isn’t he?”

  “Yeah,” Zack answered, “and you said Swede won’t be ready for at least another week.”

  The doctor nodded thoughtfully.

  “Sirdy’s going real good, Doc. Wouldn’t want to stop him now. Right, Sirdy?”

  “The team needs him,” the doctor announced sagely.

  “He played a whale of a game today. We could use more like that,” Zack informed the doctor.

  “I imagine so,” the doctor agreed, but it really wasn’t clear what he was imagining.

  “How does it feel, Sirdy?” Zack asked.

  “It hurts, but the ice helps,” Matti answered.

  “Sure it does,” Zack said curtly.

  Zack wasn’t at all pleased with the answer. He wanted no stitches so that Matti could catch tomorrow’s doubleheader. The manager was trying to simplify the doctor’s job by having Matti play down his pain. Matti wasn’t terribly concerned about his leg—it wasn’t all that bad—but he wasn’t going to lie to play baseball. Those days were over.

  “Well, we might avoid the stitches and keep him in the lineup. We could try taping it together. That might do it.”

  The doctor spoke slowly, as if he were weighing things very carefully.

  “Good,” Zack said quickly, encouraging him.

  “But we would have to keep the ice on it and rest it as much as possible. Elevate it slightly and stay off it. Especially for the next few hours, to make sure the bleeding has stopped.”

  “If it’s all right, I could stay here and rest for a few hours. I need a little rest,” Matti suggested nobly.

  “Sure, we could do that. Bill will stay here with you as long as you like. We could have some supper brought in from the grill. Maybe even a little something in a brown paper bag, too. On the club’s account, of course.”

  “But I want you to stay off it for several hours, Sirdy,” the doctor insisted.

  “Until it’s dark?” Matti suggested.

  “Yes, if that’s all right,” the doctor said, as if he were agreeing to bad news. What red-blooded American all-star would want to celebrate victory in the trainer’s room?

  “Then it’s settled. I’ll remain here until well after sunset,” Matti declared.

  “That’s the spirit, Sirdy,” Zack said approvingly.

  “We’ve got a good man here,” the doctor announced.

  “A ballplayer,” Zack said.

  “Forget the booze,” Matti added.

  “Not even suds?” Zack asked.

  “Not even suds,” Matti answered.

  After cleaning the wound, the doctor tightly taped the edges together. Matti felt the pressure and the cold of the ice packs. He lifted his head to see his foot encased in tight sterile wrapping like a mummy. What he needed was a few neat stitches and time to heal, not the bright sheath of adhesive sticking to him like a false skin.

  “With a little luck, we’ll have you behind home plate tomorrow,” Dr. Williams said, proud of his artistry.

  “Yes,” affirmed Matti.

  “No doubt about it,” Zack said. “If you want anything, ask Bill.”

  Matti nodded. Zack and the doctor disappeared for what Matti knew would be a private conspiratorial conference in the manager’s office about his slightly elevated and thoroughly mummified foot.

  On their way out of the clubhouse, players ducked in to wish him well or to give a few words of encouragement. The Browns weren’t going anywhere this late in the season, and most were not overly concerned about a minor injury, even if it meant someone would be behind home plate who was not a trained catcher. Dufer solicitously asked whether he could help. Most concerned was Mack MacGregor, who needed two more victories to become a twenty-game winner. He was scheduled to go for the first of those triumphs in tomorrow’s doubleheader.

  “Can I drive you home, Sirdy?”

  “You want to tuck me in, too?”

  “I need you, Sirdy,” Mack said seriously.

  “Not as much as you think, Mack,” Matti answered in sober honesty.

  “Are you kidding? You know the hitters,” Mack protested.

  “You could learn them.”

  “I haven’t so far, have I?”

  Matti didn’t respond.

  “Hey, Sirdy, can I ask you something?” Mack requested, filled with curiosity.

  “What do you want to know?” Matti answered without committing himself.

  “What were you looking up at that little airplane for?”

  “I thought the pilot was somebody I knew,” Matti said.

  “Well, Sirdy, I hope it doesn’t come back tomorrow.”

  “I don’t think there’s any chance of that.”

  “I hope so. I’ve got a big game coming up,” Mack said.

  “We all do, Mack,” Matti corrected him.

  “You never let us down. Not you, Sirdy.”

  Matti didn’t answer. Lying on his back, staring at the ceiling, he seemed absorbed in his own thoughts. Feeling ignored as Dufer had earlier, Mack glanced around uncomfortably.

  “We’re going to get them tomorrow, aren’t we, Sirdy?” Mack asked, trying to promote the proper bubbling optimistic mood.

  “Mack, would you trade your life for another?” Matti asked seriously.

  “Heck no! I love throwing baseballs,” he answered without hesitation.

  “Then you don’t have anything to worry about.”

  “Gee, that’s great!” Wanting to leave on this enthusiastic, upbeat note, Mack added, “I better let you rest so we’ll be ready. Take care, Sirdy.” Mack tapped Matti’s shoulder in affectionate farewell. “See you tomorrow, Sirdy. You sure had a great game!” he crowed and left.

  Only the cleanup crew and Bill remained in the locker room. Stools scraped, a wet mop flopped onto the floor, and Matti began to think.

  A great game, and only he, the hero, was left with his mummified foot. The rebbe wouldn’t be a bit surprised that as a souvenir of his lack of faith he now lay with a foot resembling that of a dead pharaoh. The game had gone very smoothly until the airplane appeared at the end of the eighth inning. He had put the rebbe’s fateful predictions out of mind. All at once the airplane appeared, and everything seemed to unravel. Losing confidence in the rebbe, Matti was left with chaos. He was certain that the airplane was going to nose over and plunge into a fiery crash. With any luck the all-metal plane would explode and bury itself in center field; without any, it would incinerate the grandstands in a mushrooming ball of flames in America’s greatest aviation disaster.

  Matti had looked up helplessly at the plane; there was no thought, no analysis, just impending disaster with Matti staggering beneath, no more able to influence matters than a simple blade of grass. Planes fall out of the sky, men die fiery deaths, and there isn’t even any mail for the survivors to read. In his loss of faith, he had cried in despair, “The rebbe is nu
ts!” As an ill omen presaging the great catastrophe, the baseball kept falling from the air, striking innocent men, plunging them into agony and deathlike unconsciousness. Matti dimly recalled looking around and finding limp bodies scattered around like unread letters with their addresses rudely smudged.

  The unlikely person of Zack Freeling had saved him from the debilitating lack of faith. Zack’s anti-Semitic mouthings bespoke evil—not the impersonal evil of an amoral chaos, but a virulent evil of willful hate and illusion that necessitated its opposite, good and reality. Matti then turned toward that reality—the holy Sabbath day, when evil spirits and Zack’s ghosts were impotent illusions—just as the rebbe had taught him. When the vicious Ty Cobb had sent him flying head over heels, Matti had seen fiery stars that convinced him of his success in “burning the cats.” Just like Zloty, Cobb had torn at his legs, bloodying them with his razor-sharp claws. The home run had demanded concentration, but it had been preordained when Matti had seen the stars. For Matti, too, was to become a star. Indeed, he already had by successfully tagging out Ty Cobb in the collision at home plate.

  Lying on the trainer’s table, Matti supposed that the home run following so closely after the defensive play illustrated the rebbe’s teaching: all one had to do to reach the heights was to extricate oneself from the depths. Matti had literally risen to the heights. As they lifted him above the cheering crowd, he had seen everyone clearly. Penny Pinkham stared at him in worshipful, lascivious excitement, for whomever the beastly crowd worshiped excited her. Liberated from her whorish, idolatrous passion, he turned to see a confused and fearful Barasch, the blood drained from his horsey face. Surveying this scene, Matti sensed how it felt to be a prince of the people, but the royal house of the American League ruled a nation of idolatry, sexual lewdness, and bloodshed. The Sabbath had saved Matti from such seductively vile temptations. He therefore welcomed the absurd medical treatment that permitted him to rest and to faithfully observe the remainder of the Sabbath as he once had as a boy in Krimsk. This meant that he could not drive his car: sparking the engine violated the prohibition against kindling fire. He did not want to turn lights on or off; he did not want to handle money; he did not want to use the telephone. The rebbe had told Boruch Levi, “If you protect the Sabbath, it will protect you.” Matti was in debt; the Sabbath had protected him, and it was only fair that he protect it. Now was the time to start.