Welcome to the Show

by Nappi, Frank;

  Mickey did not disappoint. The next pitch was equally powerful and precise, but was made even more awe inspiring by the feckless flailing that occurred, courtesy of a batter who was completely overmatched.

  “Strike three!”

  The crowd, still stunned by what it had just witnessed, only managed a smattering of applause. It was as if the rush of the moment had temporarily paralyzed the limbs of most of the spectators; they could not move. But Mickey’s quick disposal of the next two Giants to face him was enough to awaken the Boston faithful and send them into a riotous chant of “Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!” The incantation rained down as Mickey jogged off the field.

  When he arrived back at the dugout, he was greeted by a chain of incredulous smiles and just as many celebratory pats on the back. And of course, there was Murph, right there in the middle of it all.

  “That’s the old pepper, Mick,” he said, throwing his arms around the boy. “Whoa baby!” Mickey sat down next to Lester and wiped his face with a towel that he proceeded to fold and place neatly next to him.

  “You didn’t say nothin’ about no pepper, Mr. Murphy,” he said quizzically. “Apples. Mickey was thinking about apples out there. Not peppers. Peppers are green. Maybe yellow or orange. Sometimes they are red. But those are always too hot. Mama sometimes uses them when—”

  “Hey, it’s okay, Mick,” Murph said, laughing. “Just an expression. Apples are fine. Just fine.”

  Lester laughed and shook his head. “Same old Mickey, through and through. Gotta love him.”

  The Braves managed only two hits over the next seven innings, squandering a brilliant performance by Mickey. Murph spoke briefly after the game about the anemic offense, but the most telling comments came when Murph ran into Ozmore on the way out of the clubhouse.

  “Tough one today,” he said. Ozmore smirked. Murph knew he should have just left it at that but could not help himself. “You know, Ozzy, maybe you should spend a little more time worrying about who’s pitching for the other team instead of us.” The loss was of little consequence it seemed. Nobody who was at the game was talking about the Braves being shutout 4–0. The subject on the lips of those who exited through the turnstiles was young Mickey Tussler and his eight-inning gem that included ten strikeouts and only four hits allowed. The press was equally captivated, devoting the entire back pages of both the Boston Globe and Boston Herald to the young man. The headlines told the whole story. BRAVES’ BATS SILENT, BUT MICKEY ROARS. TUSSLER TAMES GIANTS IN LOSING EFFORT.

  News was spreading fast. Every barber chair, bar stool, and coffee shop housed some Bostonian bantering about the Braves and their fireballing phenom who had emerged out of nowhere. Even Red Sox fans, who rarely gave the other Bean Town club the time of day, could not help but entertain the rousing discourse.

  Days later, Mickey and the Braves were still riding the swell of popularity. But Molly’s feelings were conflicted. The early morning song of the European starlings mirrored Molly’s joy over Mickey’s success. She was so pleased that her boy had once again silenced his critics—had overcome his inner demons and the cynics who projected failure for the young phenom—and had emerged a real force to be reckoned with on the professional diamond. She couldn’t help but smile, especially when she recalled the excitement in his voice as he told her all about his recent exploits.

  “Mickey is just like one of the guys, Mama,” he said. “Just like them. And the newspaper men sit by my locker, too, after the game, just like they do for the others. I told them all about Oscar and that there are 108 stitches on a baseball.”

  She had never seen him so connected to anything before. “Mickey even has a new friend,” he said with what Molly swore was a tinge of embarrassment. “Her name is Jolene. She goes to all the games. She’s Ozzy’s sister. But she likes Mickey. Not like Laney. Jolene is a good girl.”

  “You have a what?” she asked. Her brow furrowed.

  Murph swore he could hear the commentary raging inside her head. “Hey, let’s not talk about that now, okay?” he interjected in timely fashion. “It’s not like that, Molly. It’s okay. Look at the boy. He’s doing great.”

  Mickey was great. He was much calmer now and having the time of his life. Molly was thrilled for him and smiled when she spoke of the recent turn of events, but the outward bliss belied the lengthening shadows in her heart. Boston was becoming more and more foreign to her, and her patience and resiliency were waning. The promise of getting accustomed to and eventually growing to love this new city had seemed to come and go with the passing of early spring. She felt a little guilty saying anything to Murph, for he had never appeared happier and she did not want to dampen his spirits, but she could not remain silent any longer.

  “Arthur, this whole Boston thing is just not working out,” she said when she finally got him alone. The two had just finished their dinner at Frank’s Chop House and were sitting quietly now in the glow of the dimmed lights, sipping coffee.

  “Not working out?” he asked. “Molly, are you kidding me? Things have never been better. How can you say that?”

  “Never been better for you,” she said. “For you, yes, life is great. But if you—”

  “And Mickey? What about Mickey, Molly? You’ve seen him. The kid is delirious.”

  She was at a loss for the proper words to express how she missed him and the way things used to be. They had always been on the same page, even at the very incipient stages of their relationship when she was still with Clarence. But now it all seemed different. Boston and the call to the major leagues had altered all of it. She was sad, frustrated, and very aware of this vague dissatisfaction over having grown to need him more than he needed her.

  “Arthur, look at me,” she said. “I don’t belong here. I just don’t. This is your world, not mine. You have everything that you need, everything that you have ever wanted. I have no place anymore.”

  “Come on, Molly, how can you say that? Can’t you see that—”

  “What I see and what I know is that things have changed, Arthur. Look, I’m not blaming you. I knew who you were when we decided to do this. But you have to understand—I lived a long time as a shadow. But you already know that. It was you who helped me see it. So while I love you, Arthur, and appreciate everything that you have done for both me and Mickey, I just can’t go back to being a nobody. I can’t.”

  He reached across the table and grabbed her hand. “But why does being the wife of a major league baseball manager make you a nothing? I don’t understand.”

  “It’s not only about the baseball, Arthur,” she replied. “Sure, things now are a little more intense, and we do have less time to ourselves than we used to, but you’re missing the bigger picture here. Life back in Indiana was not life in Milwaukee. That didn’t matter, though. I got used to Milwaukee and all the changes that came with that. It wasn’t so easy but I did it. But Boston? Boston is a whole other place, Arthur. It’s not for me—at least not on my own it’s not.”

  “So what are you saying, Molly?’ he asked. “You’re just gonna quit? Give up? Just like that? What about us? And Mickey? You really don’t want to be a part of what’s happening with him here?”

  She entertained flashes of her boy and his unexpected success and how she had seen him evolve into this remarkable young man who somehow, despite his limitations and an upbringing that would have crushed even the strongest of wills, had become successful. She had loved watching it and experiencing it firsthand, but all she could think about now was the unending concrete sidewalks and streets and the vast emptiness created by the clusters of towering buildings all around.

  “Of course I do,” she said. “But Mickey, just like you, Arthur, is only in town half the time. The other half you guys are traveling with the team. It gets lonely here, especially in a city that does not really care for those who are not equipped to survive.”

  He leaned back and sighed. His hands were sweaty and fastened behind his head. He stayed in that position for a while, li
stening to Molly plead her case, until his wrists began to ache from the strain. When the discomfort became too much to handle, he unclasped his hands and rested them on the table.

  “So what is this, Molly? Are you telling me you’re leaving me? You’re just going to pick up and leave Boston, just like that? Is it really that bad?”

  Molly shook her head. “No, I am not leaving you, Arthur,” she replied. “And I did not say that I am definitely leaving Boston either—not yet anyway. But I have to be honest. If I don’t feel any better in the next few weeks, and by better I mean more like I am home, I may have to figure something out. You know, you did say that—”

  “Figure something out? That doesn’t sound so good, Molly. Here I am, trying to—”

  “Relax, Arthur; this is not about you. Understand? It’s not always only about you. This is about me. Me continuing to find me. I know you cannot argue with that. Besides, we both said that someone should be looking after things on Diamond Drive. After all, it is still our home, right? How bad would it be if one of us were there, making sure everything was right?”

  “Yeah, but still, Molly. The thought of me here and you—”

  She had to think for a moment. She didn’t like the idea of being separated from him either. It hurt her deep inside, stabbed at her very core. But in another place deep inside her resided another fear, just as painful and perhaps more terrifying. It was the fear of her disappearing again—vanishing like a shadow at day’s end. Losing herself after all she had accomplished was not something she could endure. So she stumbled a bit.

  “Just give me some time to sort it all, Arthur. Just a little time. I need to think about all of this, okay? That’s not too much to ask, now is it?”

  JUNE MOON

  The Braves only managed to play .500 baseball over the next month, a stretch punctuated by lackluster hitting, inconsistent pitching, and a defense that, for some inexplicable reason, was leaking like a sieve. But Mickey was spectacular; there was nothing mediocre about anything he was doing on the field. Three impressive starts, highlighted by one in which he began the game throwing twenty-six consecutive strikes before finishing with a pitch count under ninety, had everyone talking.

  “You know, Murph,” Keely said, scratching his head. “I like to think of myself as a pretty savvy, knowledgeable baseball guy, but I don’t think I have ever seen anything like this. It’s like a damn event when the kid does not throw a strike.”

  Murph just laughed. “I know, Bobby. The kid is a baseball oddity for sure. But, he is something special. It’s what I’ve been trying to tell all of you ever since we got here.”

  The fans saw the same phenomenon unfolding and were not shy about expressing their ardor for their newest baseball idol. They were no longer invoking the Spahn and Sain and pray for rain mantra that had helped them deal with the yearly disappointment attached to the Braves’ lack of pitching depth. Instead, what was on the lips of Braves supporters and local media was a pronouncement that captured the depth of feeling for Mickey and what he had come to mean to Boston baseball.

  Spahn and Sain and then the rain, but when things get sticky, send us Mickey.

  Mickey was also finding that life outside the ballpark could be just as wonderful. The first inkling of this came unexpectedly when, after one of his stellar pitching performances, he found himself in another conversation with Jolene. The two were standing by the turnstiles, just outside the tunnel. The crowd had exited some time ago, and most of the other players had left as well, including Ozmore. Now, in the waning sunlight that struggled to light the dreary concrete corners of the aging edifice, Mickey and Jolene stood and talked.

  “You sure do know how to pitch, Mickey,” she said, shaking her head and smiling. “Not sure I ever seen anything like it.”

  “You’ve seen lots of baseball games, Jolene,” Mickey said. “Remember, you told me that.”

  “No, what I mean is—”

  “I reckon it’s on account of your brother, right? You must watch baseball all the time. Must have seen hundreds of games—thousands of pitches.”

  She stepped a little closer so that he might hear her more distinctly.

  “I just mean I ain’t ever seen anyone pitch the way you do.”

  “Mr. Murphy taught me to pitch,” he said. “He came to my farm. Oscar was there. I always … I always …”

  He was having trouble getting the words to come.

  “Are you okay, Mickey?” she asked, putting her hand on his arm.

  “Oscar were my pig. My favorite. Every day I would collect apples, lots of ’em, and then throw ’em into a barrel—to make the slop for him and the others. Mr. Murphy saw us.” Mickey was remembering and relaying to Jolene with startling clarity the first exchange he and Murph experienced. Murph had just turned the corner past the stable to discover Mickey standing next to a curious pattern of crab apples resting in the dirt—six rows across, five apples deep—firing one at a time from one hundred feet away into a wine barrel turned on its side. What followed was the exchange that changed both of their lives forever. “You’ve got quite an arm there, Mickey, really. Ever play baseball?” Then Murph had smiled, handed him a brand new pearl he retrieved from his car, and the covenant was forged.

  “Apples?” Jolene questioned. “Are you serious? You went from throwing apples in a barrel to pitching for the major leagues?”

  Mickey scrunched his nose and shook his head.

  “No, Miss Jolene,” he explained. “I went from the apples and my farm into Mr. Murphy’s car. We drove to Milwaukee, to his house, where I stayed a bit. Met the guys. There was Pee Wee, my friend, and Boxcar. Boxcar were my catcher. He died because the doctors could not fix him. I cried a lot. Just like when Oscar died. ’Cause of Lefty Rogers. I don’t want to talk about that.” A heart-sickening silence seized him and held him in its grip.

  “Hey, it’s okay, Mickey,” she said. “It’s okay.”

  “I can still tell you about the others like Woody Danvers, Clem Finster, Farley, there was—”

  “It’s okay, Mickey, really,” she said. Her eyes were a bit wet and glassy, and her face revealed a softness that even she had not anticipated. “I’m just so impressed with how you pitch. You are wonderful. Unlike anyone I have ever seen. That’s all. And I know I said once that you don’t look like a baseball player, but after watching you today, that sure doesn’t matter a whole lot.”

  They stood for some time, two shadows whose silhouetted outlines seemed joined in a celestial dance. Mickey told her more about the farm, and Clarence, and how even though he loved most of the people he had met in baseball he still trusted animals more. She listened and shared with solemn gravity some of her own stories of hardship and disappointment. Mickey had a lot of questions, all of which appeared troubling to her, but she answered with a hint of sadness that seemed to drain from her more and more as they spoke.

  “You know what, Mickey Tussler,” she said after the conversation had slipped into a comfortable silence. “You and I are a lot alike.”

  They walked a while from the stadium, down Commonwealth Avenue, talking and even laughing. She found it easy to share things with him, even if he didn’t always understand exactly what she meant. She was just happy to have someone to talk to, and even though Mickey seemed a bit wearied by the afternoon, he was still very much engaged.

  All around them floated the sounds of a busy city—car horns, street vendors, and inconsequential chatter. The streets and sidewalks were clicking and grinding like the gears in some massive machine that was about to overheat. But as the sun went down in a brilliant swirl of orange and varying shades of scarlet, all of it seemed to bounce off the two souls, now hand in hand, who were floating down the street.

  When the day finally gave way to night’s veil, they said good-bye. By now the crickets had begun their moonlight serenade, and Jolene found herself standing at the kitchen counter, thinking about the events of the previous few hours. Buddy was still not home, so the house was qu
iet and afforded her the opportunity to reflect.

  One thing in particular was still making her blush. Mickey had walked her all the way home. When they arrived, she asked him in, just so he could use her telephone. After removing his cap and announcing that his mama always said wearing hats in the house was impolite, he made his phone call to Murph, then waited with her by the door to be picked up. The two just stood rather quietly, looking at each other, a little lost in the unexpressed feelings that had bubbled to the surface.

  “Mickey thinks you sure are pretty, Jolene,” he said unexpectedly. She was instantly uncomfortable. It was not the emotion attached to the sentiment that troubled her but the unfamiliarity of such an expression.

  “Thank you, Mickey,” she said, slightly lowering her head. “You know, nobody has ever said that to me before.” She could feel all of her insecurities burst into flaming fragments beneath her skin.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “Why?” she repeated. “I don’t know. I guess most folks don’t see me that way.”

  He looked at her intently now, as if observing her from an immeasurable distance. “I like your hair, Jolene,” he said. “It’s the same color as the wheat field next to my farm, back home. I used to hide there, a lot, when my daddy got to yelling at me.”

  His eyes were distant as he continued to explain about all the times he had run from Clarence, but his hands were right there. He reached suddenly, unconcerned with how she would react to his advance. His fingers found the sandy ringlets that fell gently over her shoulders and he began to talk some more about Indiana. “Yup, it’s the same color as that wheat field,” he explained while continuing to touch her hair. “But a lot softer. It’s very soft, Miss Jolene. Like rose petals, or Duncan and Daphney’s fur. More like Daphney’s. Duncan is soft, too, but not like Daphney.”