She took a deep breath. She was struggling with the constellation of tears that hung on her lashes. “Where does that leave us now, huh?” she asked.
Those words troubled him now. They stood for a while, as stiff and inanimate as the new candlesticks Molly had purchased, each measuring the other’s gaze with silent purpose. Murph was remembering Molly as she was when they had first met. She was soft and lovely but timid and guarded, like a beautiful flower in early spring—only partially opened in the chill of the morning air. He could see her beauty instantly—but also saw the veil of sadness that hung behind her eyes. He was drawn to her instantly. It was only later that he learned of Clarence and how the man she had married for all the wrong reasons had expunged even the slightest hint of happiness from her life. He was awful to her, made her wince and cringe and wish with every breath she had for anything except another day with him.
“Molly, I love you,” he began. “You know that. I never want to make you upset. You mean everything to me. I can’t imagine my life without you. Or Mickey. But please … please listen. Baseball is in my blood. I need this. We need this. You know that too.” His eyes widened and his breath became forced. There was a discernible impression that he was now fighting for his life.
“This opportunity for me—managing a major league team—is something I have dreamed about since I was a boy. I don’t know. Maybe it’s foolish and immature … and not right for all of us. Not yet anyway. I don’t know. But it’s who I am, Molly. And Mickey—Mickey is a big part of this. You know that, Molly. He’s changed everything. You both have changed everything for me.” He sighed and shook his head, as though trying to free a thought lodged deep within the most remote chamber of his mind.
“Can I tell you something, something I am ashamed to admit? I was nothing before I met both of you. I was a nobody going nowhere. Dennison was right. I was a loser. But not anymore. Don’t you see? Now I have a chance to do something great. Just like that boy of yours. But it’s only great with you and Mickey. I need him, Molly. I do. I need both of you. I’m nothing if you guys are not here with me.”
Outside the window, night was beginning to drop its veil. The moon, peeking through a shroud of thin, gauzy clouds floating intermittently across the steel gray sky, stirred a palpable sense of distant, divine observation. Murph breathed deeply, steadied himself, slipped his hands around her waist, and pulled her close to him so that her breath was soft against his face. Her eyes were wide and soft. She sighed and tilted her head slightly, as if to see him more clearly. All the angst and anxiety melted out of him suddenly as he saw in her a sense of softening, a heartfelt understanding that seemed to welcome him, and all he desired, once again.
“Please, Molly,” he whispered softly. “Believe in me. Believe in this. It’s going to be fine. Really.” She placed her hands on his face, closed her eyes, and let her forehead fall gently against his. For a while nothing was audible but their breathing, gentle and rhythmic.
“Okay, Arthur. I will give this a chance. For you and for Mickey. But please—please don’t lose yourself in this dream of yours. I’m begging you. There are other things to consider here. You understand? Please, hear me. Don’t get lost. I don’t think I could handle that.”
Murph nodded. He knew her words were genuine and that there was no undertone or innuendo in what she had said. He was thankful for that—so thankful that he thought about answering her, of promising her that things between them would remain as they always had been, and that all of her concern was for naught. She deserved that. But before he could form the words, he heard once again the distant cheers that he had always longed for, and all at once he was transported to someplace magical—where he was right and whole—suspended between two pristine lines of wet, unslacked lime.
SANFORD STADIUM
An early morning sun bathed the manicured diamond in warm, luminous hues of golden honey. The players, like restless caterpillars who had finally sprouted wings after a long winter’s transformation, sat restlessly in the home dugout, fidgeting uncontrollably. They chewed their nails and the insides of their cheeks, tapped their spikes on the concrete floor, and kept their eyes on the sprawling green lawn that lay just a stone’s throw away, all while Murph delivered his vision for the upcoming season. It was only a few weeks away.
The new manager was intoxicated by the moment. He hemmed and hawed, careful to mention everything he had been ruminating over since he was appointed skipper. There was so much more he wanted to say but so little time. So he suppressed the impulse and abbreviated his address. It began with “Today, fellas, we stand on the brink of a new opportunity” and concluded with “Now let’s go accomplish something really special.” There were other things he wanted to say, but he swallowed the last few thoughts, and once that final word had been spoken and he waved them onto the field, the group exhaled with a palpable zeal, laughing and slapping backs before flitting onto and across the diamond in a display of unbridled rejuvenation.
Murph observed with considerable excitement the alacrity with which his new team bounded into the start of spring training, but his enthusiasm waned when he observed the dynamics that emerged almost instantly. On one side of the field, stretched from the first base bag all the way down the right field line, were many of the Braves’ regulars, including Sid Gordon, Earl Torgeson, Buddy Ozmore, and Warren Spahn. They had formed an impromptu circle, a neatly crafted barrier in which they proceeded to banter in relative privacy about this and that while stretching out their stiffened muscles. Murph frowned at the somewhat obvious stratagem, particularly when he saw another group of players, including Mickey, Lester, and Jethroe setting up on the third base side. He sighed. There they were—his team, his very first big league club, nothing more than a splintered group consisting of rival factions that could barely share a field just ten minutes into the new season. So much for Shangri-la.
“Ozzy!” Murph yelled, his right arm waving in the morning air. “Hey Ozzy! Can I see you here a minute?”
Murph anxiously watched as the cagey veteran loped with purposeful strides down the right field line toward home plate. Buddy Ozmore was the undisputed leader of the Braves team. While his on-field production as one of the league’s premier hitters certainly qualified him for the moniker, it was his unmatched brand of square-jaw commentary and unflagging commitment to the “good old boys” that anointed him as such. He expressed his thoughts with deliberate purpose and pride, and dispatched his idea of justice with attention not only for his self-satisfaction but for the approval of those he led as well.
“Yeah,” he said, adjusting his cap with both hands. “You wanted to see me, Mr. Murphy?”
“Uh, yeah … yeah I did.” Murph knew it was a bad idea to go right after him, but he could not arrest his increasing concern. “Listen, Ozzy. It seems as though—”
“The name’s Ozmore,” the man said; his restless hands coming to rest on his hips. Murph’s brain fogged up, and he stared now at the surly outfielder as though looking at him through a gauzy curtain.
“Okay then, Mr. Ozmore. It seems as though we have a bit of a problem here,” Murph began.
“How’s that?” Ozmore answered.
“Well, where I come from,” Murph explained, “baseball players who play on the same team do everything together. You know—practice, shower, dress, socialize. You understand?”
“So?”
“So I don’t particularly care for what I’m seeing here. You and most of the others on one side of the field and the new guys on the other. I was sort of hoping that you would help bridge that gap a little.”
There was a brief awkward pause. Then Ozmore turned his head and released a thin stream of tobacco juice out of the side of his mouth. It landed just before Murph’s feet. When he turned back to face Murph, both men just stared at each other. After a few long seconds, Ozmore pushed the tension to its inevitable conclusion. “I signed a contract to play ball, Mr. Murphy. Baseball. And that’s what I do. Ain’t nothing i
n ink that says anything about babysitting or any other bullshit you’re talking about. So you can take your whole mom and apple pie routine and try selling it somewhere else.”
After practice, Murph sat in his office in silence, his mind a ship of memories that tossed violently across a vast, turbulent sea. He thought of the friendly confines of Borchert Field and of the success he had enjoyed the last two seasons. Losing to McNally was a bitter pill, but, in retrospect, it was the most rewarding time of his career, despite Dennison’s abject criticisms and the disappointment of finishing behind the Rangers in back-to-back campaigns. He had really found a home in Milwaukee—the elusive niche he had sought his entire life. His days there were certainly rough at first, but out of the cloud of struggle and disappointment emerged an excitement and wonder ushered in by the improbable rise of young Mickey Tussler and his newly inspired teammates. It was the sort of experience that every coach dreams of—the proverbial aligning of the stars.
“You sure you wanna leave all of this, Murph?” Farley Matheson asked him when he had shared his news at the end of last season. “Now? I mean, I know the grass in Boston seems greener, but I’ve been across the bridge and back enough times to know that all that glitters ain’t always gold. Ya hear?”
As he had done so many times before when Matheson began philosophizing, Murph turned a deaf ear. In that moment, all he could hear were cheers from a big league park and the distinct sound of a dream finally fulfilled. Now what resonated most powerfully were Matheson’s clichéd admonitions—and Molly’s misgivings as well.
“Arthur, why is this so important to you?” she had asked shortly after he learned of his promotion. “Especially now, when everything is right in our world. Isn’t all this enough?”
Her eyes welled with fear. The prospect of leaving burned her stomach. He wanted to express the same uncertainty, but the call to glory was seductive.
“Come on, Molly. You know I love you and what we have here. I do. And the guys—the guys have just rallied and responded time and again. Played their hearts out for me and for this town. I couldn’t be more pleased. But you know that I—”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “I know. You always had the dream of being a part of a big league team—of getting back there. I get it, Arthur. I do. We all have those dreams in some form. But sometimes dreams change, Arthur. Because life does. Think about this. Not as the old Arthur Murphy, but as the man I know now.”
The corners of his mouth sagged, and his entire face dulled to an anxious, shadowy mask. “It’s not that simple, Molly,” he explained. “This is not some foolhardy, wish-upon-a-star fantasy we’re talking about here. This is baseball. This is my life. It’s what I do. It’s who I am, Molly. Do you know how long I’ve waited for this? What this means? Why would I even think about saying no? It’s my time.”
Sitting there, with only echoing voices and a montage of strange photographs on the wall for company, he began to doubt himself again. What had he done? Maybe Molly and Old Man Matheson were right. Maybe he was not cut out to be part of the major league scene. It seemed plausible now. He had barely gotten his cleats dirty and already he was in over his head. Buddy Ozmore was a thorn in his side and not going anywhere. He was a real badass, baptized in dirty water, as Matheson would say.
Murph had heard the story of how Ozmore was elevated to the distinction of the meanest SOB around. The bilious outfielder had only been in Toledo a couple of years at the time of the incident. Despite his brief tenure, he had already become one of the more vocal players on the team. The way Murph had heard it, the Mud Hens had just finished a rather uneventful road trip, one that saw them drop five of six games, and were summoned by manager Eddie Mayo for early batting practice the next morning. Buddy Ozmore had a very fastidious practice routine, one that included stretching, extensive tee work, soft toss, and then live swings. He was most certainly a creature of habit.
He also always hit sixth in the group. That July morning, however, he found himself at the cage waiting behind Clint Barnaby, an eighteen-year-old lanky kid from Fanshawe, Oklahoma. Barnaby had just joined the club the day before amid all sorts of talk about how talented he was.
“Pardon me, shit-kicker,” Ozmore said, tapping Barnaby on the shoulder. The other guys laughed the way they always did when Ozmore got rolling. “This ain’t no barnyard hoedown, son. Round here we have an order to things. And you ain’t following it, clodhopper.”
There was more laughter, along with a steady murmur that signaled the furor of what was to come next. The guys had all seen Ozmore in action before. Once he got going, he was relentless. But Barnaby was unfazed. He simply tapped his spikes with the barrel of his bat and turned his head ever so slightly—so that only part of his face was visible to Ozmore and the other guys behind him.
“I ain’t no shit-kicker, jackass” he replied. “And I was also here a half hour before you. So I have an idea, boss. Why don’t you dummy up back there, step off, and just worry about yourself.”
Later that day, under a starless sky, Ozmore and three of his boys slipped out sometime after midnight and took Barnaby’s red ’41 Chevy AK pickup and rolled it onto the field, letting it come to rest just behind the pitcher’s mound. It sat there all night and was still there the next morning when, at the request of Ozmore, half the team arrived early for extra batting practice.
“Ozzy, you are something else man,” they all said, trying to speak through fits of uproarious laughter. They were all staring at the dew-laden truck, which in the early morning sunlight looked like it was adorned with hundreds of tiny diamonds.
“Now we’ve seen everything. Only you, Ozzy.”
The surly outfielder just shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know what you guys are talking about,” he said. “I just called some extra batting practice this morning because we ain’t hitting a lick. Not sure why the chawbacon parked his truck on the field, but, heck, the show must go on.”
Some forty-five minutes later, when the rest of the team filed in, the response to the unusual situation was notably different.
“What the hell is going on here?” Mayo thundered, looking at the truck that was now riddled with round dents and busted glass. “Who’s the asshole who did this?”
Barnaby’s reaction was equally noticeable. He walked over to the vehicle and traced a couple of the deeper dimples with one finger. His shoulders sagged and his face became a ruddy mosaic of anger and defeat.
“Hell if we know, Skip,” Ozmore yelled to Mayo. “I was just as shocked as you are. Tried to move it, but couldn’t. Sorry about the mess, but we had no choice. We gotta take BP, right?”
A faint swell of laughter could be heard as Mayo walked over to the truck and kicked aside some errant baseballs, each which bore the red tinge of calamity.
“Bullshit!” he hollered. “Absolute bullshit. I won’t stand for this. Ya hear? I want to know who did this. And when I find out—and make no mistake about it, I will find out—there will be hell to pay.” Nobody said a word.
Murph knew how influential Ozmore was. It was only a matter of time before his polluted attitude infected the others. This realization, which had already begun to slip its tentacles around Murph’s neck, would have all but suffocated him had Lester and Mickey not wandered in.
“So, how we looking so far, Mr. Murphy?” Lester asked. He still had not shed his shin guards and chest protector. Only his mask, which Mickey held dutifully in both hands, had been removed. “Planning on another practice session I don’t know about?” Murph said, acknowledging the catcher’s present state. “You know we have a locker room, Les.”
Mickey’s eyes lit up. “Yes, Lester,” he said. “The locker room is on the other side of the dugout, down a ways from the big equipment closet. Mickey’s locker is third from the end, against the wall. If you turn around and—”
“It’s okay, it’s okay, Mick,” Murph said, winking at Lester. “I think he knows where it is.”
Lester laughed, then flopped into t
he chair directly across from Murph. “So why the long face, Murph?” he asked. “What’s eating away at you?”
Murph sighed as his shoulders fell. “Aw, I don’t know, Les,” he replied. “I don’t know anything anymore. Cripes, I thought this was exactly what I wanted, you know? The call to the show. The big time. What every little boy dreams of while he’s pitching rubber balls against the side of the house. You know? It should all be good, no? Like sitting atop the world. Instead, all I feel is this hammering at the back of my head. This steady beat that seems to be whispering all sorts of bad things to me.”
The defeated nature of Murph’s expression tested Lester’s patience.
“Ain’t it a bit early for the white flag, Murph? Shit, what’s so bad, huh? A couple of big mouths jawing at you? That’s what’s got you down?”
“It’s that, and then there’s—”
“Forget all of that, Murph. It’s baseball, man. Baseball. After all is said and done, we take the field. And the field has a way of making everything seem right. Ain’t that what you told me once?”
Murph remained dejected, but Lester’s words had conjured thoughts of something ethereal, almost mythological, deep within the recesses of his troubled soul. He recalled the exploits of Mickey the past two seasons and the way the forlorn boy had managed to bridge the expanse between ignominy and success with just a few steps to the pitcher’s mound. Then there was Lester and his remarkable resiliency despite all of the racial epithets hurled his way. He, too, had beaten the odds and was now standing on the threshold of baseball greatness as well. It buoyed Murph’s resolve. He breathed a little easier now. Maybe he was overreacting. Maybe what he needed was to take a lesson from the two unlikely characters who had gotten him here. They each had a world of trouble yet somehow prevailed. Now maybe it was his turn. Maybe he just wasn’t seeing it. So he decided that he owed himself, if not both of them, to at least try. If they could do it, why not him?
Welcome to the Show Page 3
