There were other things to tend to as well, of far less importance, and Mickey helped with those too. The floor needed sweeping, the shelves were dusty and disordered, and the three chairs placed before the desk were in no shape for visitors. The two worked dutifully on all three tasks.
Once everything was in its appointed place, Murph addressed the entire team for the first time. He had been preparing this speech for days but still was not confident that he had found just the right words. His fragmented thoughts and tremulous voice were indicative of the strain under which he now operated. The room appeared a lot smaller now.
“Uh, I know it’s not baseball season yet, and that we all just finished for the year, but I called you all here today just so we could, uh, meet each other and perhaps talk about the upcoming season. I’m sure some of you have a few questions. You know, on my way here today, I was thinking about—”
As he prattled on, he recognized that many of the faces looking back at him were incredulous at best. He could see several of his new charges, most of whom he had never met formally before, yawning and rolling their eyes. A couple were even snickering. He did his best to ignore what was painfully obvious and managed to trudge on, but his foremost thought was fear over the dire necessity of immediately gaining respect and control.
“Look, I know that most of you have grown accustomed to the way Billy Southworth does things, and I can understand that. I’m not trying to make any of you forget about him. He’s a great baseball guy. But he’s not here right now, and we are, and we need to figure out how we’re going to get this thing done.”
The strained silence was fast becoming a sort of initiation into a world where even Murph’s most passionate, compelling arguments would likely be rendered moot.
“What happened to Billy anyway?” asked one of the players who was standing in the shadows in the back of the room. His arms were folded and he had his head propped up against the wall behind him. Only the lower half of his face was visible in the dim light. “None of us heard anything about any of this until a few days ago.”
“I’m afraid Mr. Southworth is ill at the present time,” Murph responded. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I know.”
A low, unremitting murmur ignited and rose steadily to a disquieting level, culminating with another question from a different part of the room.
“So that’s it?” the gravelly voice announced in a peremptory tone. “Billy is sick, and you show up? Just like that. Who the hell are you anyway? And what makes you think that you can come in here and—”
Murph was just about to fire back when a tremulous yet determined voice beat him to it.
“Mr. Murphy is … is the best, the best coach … um … baseball coach, there is,” Mickey said with significant alarm. His face was hot and flushed and appeared distorted from the dim illumination thrown from the frosted lamps; the faint light lingered on the beads of sweat that had begun their descent down both sides of his face.
“You oughtn’t say mean things about Mr. Murphy,” Mickey continued. “He taught Mickey how to play baseball. Taught me real good.”
The entire room grew still. Then, out of this silence that immediately followed Mickey’s impassioned defense came more derision.
“That’s right, Coops,” Buddy Ozmore announced. “You is a bad boy. Now you listen to Lennie over there, and stop bothering that nice Mr. Murphy. After all, he is the best baseball coach you know.”
Laughter erupted among the others.
Mickey’s eyes drooped. His lower lip sagged as well. “My name is not Lennie,” he said once the snickering waned. “It’s Mickey. Mickey Tussler.”
The laughter grew louder.
“Naw, I’m pretty sure that your name is Lennie,” Ozmore continued. “And since you are Lennie, that means that either your coach over there or that colored fellow you came in with would have to be George.”
Mickey folded his arms and began to rock uneasily. He looked to the left, then to the right as some of the other players joined the assault, peppering the tense air with derisive comments like “It’s only a mouse, George” and “That’s good, George. You take a good big drink.” The room erupted once again in riotous laughter.
Mickey was beginning to crumble. His rocking escalated considerably and he had already begun the catatonic recitation of some lines from his favorite poem. The rising panic was reflected in the misery in Murph’s face.
“Well, this is exactly the sort of start I was hoping for,” Murph said with waves of self-deprecation. “Yes, sir. Absolutely perfect. You know, maybe you guys should—”
“Maybe you should just go back where you came from, mister,” another player said. “Ain’t no use for you here. And you can take your retard and his chocolate friend with you.”
The attack hit Murph hard, like a sudden wave of seasickness. He swallowed hard and locked his knees for fear they might give way at any moment. Then, like a true sailor adrift in turbulent waters, he ignored the queasiness with the belief that in doing so, he would rid himself of the malady. He walked deliberately toward his attacker, hands firm at his sides, as if he were trying to steady his gait. His eyes were narrow, his breath hot.
“Your, uh, name is Marshall, right?” Murph asked.
The surly man nodded.
“Well, Mr. Marshall. Let me tell you something.” Murph spoke louder now, turning to face the entire room. “Let me tell all of you something. This so called ‘retard’ here is hotter than a fox in a forest fire. He has one of the best, if not the best, arms baseball has ever seen.” Murph made a point to find the eyes of the one they simply called the Invincible One before continuing. “No offense intended, Mr. Spahn,” he went on. “You are some pitcher.”
Murph licked his lips and drew a deep breath before continuing. “But Mickey here has obliterated just about every minor league record there is. He was virtually unhittable last season. He’s a big boy and throws mighty hard. And I’m gonna bet ya, as sure as I’m standing here, that he could make each and every one of you hotshots swing and miss as well.”
He paused and raised his eyebrows before removing the baseball from his jacket pocket. “Yup, I’m certain of it. Anyone wanna give it a go right now?”
No one responded.
Each man in the room remained fixed in his place—still and silent, frozen collectively like a row of birds perched on a telephone wire. The quiet made Murph smile and buoyed his resolve even further.
“That’s what I thought,” he continued. “And just so we are clear here about everything, this ‘chocolate friend’ of Mickey’s here is also a good friend of mine. And he just might be the most talented damn baseball player I have ever seen. And with Sam Jethroe … uh, the Jet … we’ve got ourselves two of these so-called chocolate dandies. Now I don’t know about you guys, but I’m pretty stoked about that. So before you go and get your jock straps all twisted about newbies and changes, consider that these two men you just met—Mickey and Lester—have just made your ball club—our ball club—that much better.”
Murph was feeling better all of a sudden, like perhaps he had squelched an impromptu insurrection. He was never too adept at that sort of thing. In fact, he still blamed himself for the whole Lefty Rogers disaster. The fact that his carelessness had allowed Lefty to hurt Mickey—first that night at The Bucket and then again after Lefty had been traded to the Rangers—still stuck in his craw. He should have seen it coming. Now, standing in front of his new team, he felt good, like maybe he had grown some—like maybe he was ready for this.
That feeling, however, slipped away from him—like sand through his fingers—when a few rays of sunlight glinting through the top two slats of the metal blinds fell across a sea of silent faces—faces that were now stone-like and vacant—like souls in purgatory waiting for the culmination of their passage. The fever of discontent made Murph shiver, as did the afternoon shadows that began unspooling across the room. Both unnerved the new manager, something that grew significantly worse once the
insidious whispering became audible. Biting his lip, he faltered momentarily before regaining his composure.
“Well then,” he said, shrugging his shoulders while offering his open palms to the group. “If there’s nothing else—if nobody has anything else to say, then I guess we can assume that we are all in agreement.”
The room was silent, save for the barely audible sound of some restless shoes scraping the cold floor. Murph forced a smile and tipped his cap. “So, enjoy the off-season, fellas. See you all this spring in Sanford.”
BEAN TOWN BLUES
Molly found herself thinking a lot about Diamond Drive and about the old house that stood modestly amid the wooded acres just a few miles from Borchert Field. When Murph first welcomed her and Mickey to the modest gray dwelling that looked as though it had been dropped indiscriminately in the middle of a pale grass field flanked by towering dead trees and restless tumbleweeds, she felt awkward and exposed. She was even embarrassed. It wasn’t just because the place was a wreck and needed attention; it was that the place was his place and she and her son were merely guests.
“I don’t know, Arthur,” she struggled. “It’s very kind of you. Really, it is. I’m just not sure it’s right.”
Murph respected her feelings from the very beginning, but he was persistent. She still was guarded and uncertain, but Murph’s warmth and attention did much to alter that. His affection was soothing, and soon Molly’s trepidation began to wane, particularly after her domestic touches—which included flower beds, tablecloths, and some fresh paint—altered the face of things dramatically.
“Wow, Molly,” Murph gushed. “Will you just look at this place? This is incredible. Really, it is. And it’s all you. Nobody’s gonna recognize it.”
Murph’s genuine appreciation for her was like a tonic. Her heart was still on the mend and she needed some love and affection. As the weeks unfolded, Molly and Murph’s relationship took off and blossomed into what was now a most wonderful union; Mickey benefited as well, thriving in the light of Murph’s patience and guidance. It all happened so fast.
That modest place became their home, a haven from all that had plagued both of them for years. She had come a long way in such a short time. She was whole for the first time in her life and had only just begun getting accustomed to the feeling.
Now, in the flat moments after the move, when the stars from her sky seemed to be falling once again, she was unable to find any solace in unpacking crates and hanging curtains in their new place. She was left with nothing but time to think about the whirlwind that had swept her from the abusive hands of Clarence and the farm in Indiana to Murph’s place in Milwaukee and now to the unfamiliar, bristling streets of Boston. It gave her the discomfort of one out of breath.
“Come on, Molly,” Murph encouraged each time he caught a glimpse of her broken smile. “This is Boston. The big time. There is a whole world out there for us to grab.”
She could not see it. Perhaps he was right, but her inability to embrace her new surroundings prevented any act of compliance. She was out of place for sure, and Arthur’s flippancy, intentional or not, only exacerbated her despondency.
He had always been so intuitive, so attentive. He was her sunshine that followed the rain. No matter where he went or what he did, he could hear her heartbeat, smell her thoughts. These were his guides, his windows to her world. They had served him well. Until now.
“But what if this is just not right for me, Arthur?”’ she asked. “Or Mickey?” She shook her head as desperate tears formed behind her eyes. “What then?”
He stared at her blankly. A palpable awkwardness settled before them. He groped for something to say, something soothing and reassuring, while she lapsed into painful reminiscence, thinking of her first few days in Boston.
“This has not been an easy few weeks, Arthur,” she said, dabbing the corners of her eyes. She had gotten lost on the wintry city streets on her way to the local hardware store. All she wanted to do was purchase some curtain rods and a few flowerpots for their new place, but the city seemed so vast and maze-like. Worse than her disorientation was the cold indifference with which she was greeted when she asked some locals on the street for help.
“Sorry,” each person responded as the aloof mass of city dwellers stampeded right past her as if she were a ghost. “Can’t help you.”
She had never felt more alone. She retreated deeply into herself for days afterward. It was a loneliness she had no desire to revisit.
“I do not like the way I feel, Arthur,” she said, struggling for breath. “Not at all.”
He was trying to hear her over the locker room voices still echoing in his head.
“Come on, Molly,” he responded. “Give it some time. We just got here. It’s an adjustment, for sure. This is new for both of us. But you can do it. We can both do it. You need to just give it time.”
Time was not something she cared to relinquish. She had already wasted enough. She knew herself like never before, and all the time in the world would not soften her angst. Her heart raced with breathless worry; her concern for herself only faded some when she thought of Mickey and recalled with painful clarity the difficulty her son encountered the last time he was asked to make such a difficult adjustment. It was a while ago but she could recall the scene as if it had just happened. The pain and shock were still all so real.
“Why, Arthur?” she had asked him. She kept on asking him. He had just sat down to break the disturbing news to her. “Why Mickey?”
He was fearful on how to answer; he was still getting to know her at that point. “I don’t know what to say, Molly. The guys all love him—truly. They had this idea that they wanted to take him out—to a bar—and it just didn’t work out.” He lowered his head, wading through the unfortunate circumstances while nervously picking away at the skin around his thumb. “We all figured that—”
“You knew about this? Before it happened?”
She stood up and turned her back to him. He could no longer see her face but imagined, based on the rigidness of her posture, that it had hardened considerably. “I’m sorry, Molly. Really. I know it was stupid. I just wanted so badly for all the guys—especially Mickey—to spend some time together so that they felt like they were part of something.” His mouth was dry. He stopped for a moment, unable to complete his thought without moistening his lips. “I don’t know. It’s hard to explain. Baseball is funny. You can have all the talent in the world, but if you’re not a team, it’s all for naught.”
Standing with him now, many months removed from that awful scene, she remembered all of it. And felt it too. She recalled painfully how his words had pierced her like a blade. And she remembered crying softly. Her head had drooped and he could see the spasmodic rising and falling of her shoulders.
“So my baby was in a bar, drinking, when all of this happened?” she gasped through suffocating lungs. “Nobody was watching out for him?”
She touched her mouth, perspiration breaking out all over her face and across the nape of her neck. She turned and stared at him—in a catatonic stupor, through eyes both distant and glazed.
She wore those same eyes now. And her knees were just as weak.
“So you see, Arthur, it’s not just that I do not fit in here,” she said, gripping the arm of a chair for support until the strength returned to her legs. “It’s Mickey, too. Especially Mickey. We are country folk, Arthur. Simple. Honest. And Mickey? Well, Mickey is Mickey. Have you forgotten so fast? You know that. The life of a big league ballplayer in a big league city is not something that I think he can handle.”
Murph, sensing the seriousness of the predicament as reflected in the panic implied in her every word and pained expression, took her hands in his and brought her fingers to his lips. He kissed each finger tip gently.
“I really am worried, Arthur,” she went on, pulling her hands back from him. “Really worried. This is not at all like last time.”
Murph, conscious that his heartbeat wa
s suddenly timorous and erratic, sighed heavily and folded his arms.
“Look, Molly, you have to trust me on this,” he began. “Sure, the location has changed. So have most of the faces. But it’s baseball. Cripes, it’s still just baseball. Understand? There’s beauty and comfort and safety in the game. The game is home. That’s the answer when all else fails. For all of us, sweetheart—especially Mickey. This game of baseball is his lifeline—it’s his sanctuary from all that has threatened to destroy him his whole life. Don’t you see?”
She tried to turn her head away but he would not let her.
“Look at me, Molly. When he steps onto that field and stands on that mound of dirt in the center of it all, he is no longer a charity case, someone who people ridicule or pity. He is special. I mean really special. It’s the one place he has a chance to not only be normal but great. You just don’t turn your back on greatness like that. And the bigger the stage, the greater he becomes. That’s all I’m saying. I think that you are worrying for—”
“And what about when he steps off the field, Arthur? Huh? What then? Baseball is just one part of all this. And what about me and—”
“Come on, Molly, you know what I’m—”
“Can you guarantee me that he will not be swallowed up by all of the lights and fast cars and smooth-talking city slickers who would love nothing more than to take advantage of this slow-witted country boy? Huh? Can you?”
“Molly, I told you that—”
“No, you cannot, Arthur. Can you make sure that he won’t get hurt? Or taken advantage of? Or that he will be as happy here as he was back in Milwaukee? That any of us will? No, you cannot. As much as you would like to, you cannot make that promise to me. And I would not ask you to because I know that it is impossible. So here’s the real question then.”
Welcome to the Show Page 2
