When she couldn’t replicate her brother’s talents, she decided to discover one of her own. She tried painting, the violin, and writing poetry. She dabbled in needlework, baking, and pottery. But no matter what she did, it always resulted in the same response from her mother. “You’re just not good at anything, Jolene,” she would say. “It’s okay. Ain’t your fault none. Just pray real hard that one day someone will love you anyway.”
She would have liked to have shared it all with Mickey, to unburden her heavy heart, but knew it would be too much to ask. So she swallowed her pain and continued their conversation as if nothing were wrong.
“Yup, your mama sure sounds like one terrific lady. I cannot wait to meet her.”
“You can’t meet her today, Jolene, or even tomorrow,” Mickey said. “On account of she’s not here in Boston. She’s in Milwaukee, taking care of Duncan and Daphney. You can meet them too. But not today or tomorrow neither, cause they ain’t here either.”
“It’s okay, Mickey,” she said smiling. “I’m not going anywhere. I can wait.”
It was the day before the Braves were to head out on a quick three-game trip to Cincinnati. Mickey and Jolene had just finished eating a late afternoon picnic lunch that she had packed and were sitting in an elementary school playground, on painted wooden railroad ties that framed a giant sandbox.
“Did you like the chicken and everything else, Mickey?” she asked. “I’m afraid I’m not a very good cook.”
Mickey’s feet were busy, making tiny hills in the sand. It had rained the night before, so the sand was perfect for building. When she looked down, Jolene noticed that he had gotten some of the drier grains on her shoes.
“Mickey, did you hear what I said? Did you like the food?”
She was thinking about how he had separated, with painstaking precision, the tiny pieces of celery and carrots she had put in the potato salad.
“Yes, Jolene. Mickey liked it. A lot. I ate five pieces of chicken, three rolls, one scoop of potato salad, and two hunks of cherry pie. I like lemonade too. Three cups. Yes, Jolene. It was good. I liked it. A lot.”
She smiled. “That’s good. I’m happy you liked it.”
They sat for a while longer, listening to the rumble of cars and trucks coming from the road just beyond the tiny brick building, and set their eyes upon a group of sparrows that were busy building a nest in a small birch at the far corner of the school yard. They also talked some more—about the team, and Boston, and what he was going to do once the season was over. It was something she had been thinking about for a while.
“So what do you think you’ll do when the season ends, Mickey?” she asked.
“Well I reckon that me and Mr. Murphy will go back to his house, with my mama, in Milwaukee. It’s a nice house. Duncan and Daphney will be there too.”
A future for which she cared very little began forming in her imagination.
“And what about us? You know, when the season ends?”
“Well we both won’t be at Mr. Murphy’s house, Jolene. Just me.”
“No, I know that, silly. I mean, what is going to happen to us when you are gone? You know, when will I see you or talk to you?”
The thought had never occurred to him until that moment. The dizzying mix of fear and confusion that came across his face surprised her a little.
“I will call you, Jolene, on the telephone,” he said in a desperate voice. “And you can call me too. On the phone. But you have to answer. Answer, Jolene. And maybe you can visit Milwaukee. It’s nice. I think that’d be all right. I think. Unless my—”
“It’s okay, Mickey. I didn’t mean to get you upset. I’m sorry. It’s just that the time is going fast, and I really—well, I sort of—I kind of—”
She was having great difficulty saying the words she wanted him to hear. So she sat there for some time, listening to him roll one idea into the next. He continued with all the possible ways they could still talk to or see each other, then quickly moved to the number of miles that lay between Boston and Milwaukee, which led to a litany of distinctions between the two cities and a five-minute dissertation on the differences between Boston baked beans and the famous Milwaukee real chili.
“So you got to see, Jolene, the beans baked in Boston are navy beans. They are smaller than the kidney beans in the Milwaukee chili. Taste a little better too, but the chili has meat, and I like hamburgers so I kinda like the chili better. Oh and it has cheese, too, instead of molasses, which my mama always—”
Her focus shifted from Mickey’s ramblings to the square in front of her. She was still searching for the right way to tell Mickey how she felt, and nothing was good enough. She found her words were often misconstrued or ill timed. She couldn’t bear the thought of screwing this up. Then, in the midst of her staring, while Mickey continued to drone on, an idea swept across her.
Mickey was so engrossed in what he was saying that he never saw her reach down, index finger extended, and begin scrawling a message in the sand. Her entire arm moved artfully, in passionate, graceful bursts that produced what she had been trying to say all afternoon. I like you, Mickey.
When he stopped rambling, she took his chin in her hand and gently guided his eyes in the direction of her message. He looked with noticeable interest and read. She waited breathlessly for his reaction. He said nothing. Did nothing. When she saw this, she looked down and then away, embarrassed by what she had written. She wasn’t sure why she had done it. Perhaps it was because the words were too hard to say out loud—for both of them. Or maybe it was that writing it in the sand just seemed safer than saying it. Once it was said, it was out. But the sand could be erased, along with the embarrassment of unrequited affection—and it would be as if it were never said at all. This realization spurred her to action. She turned back with the intention of dragging her foot across her message when she noticed something else was now written below.
Mickey likes Joleen
The c in Mickey and the e in likes were backward, and of course her name was spelled incorrectly, but she couldn’t help but smile nonetheless. She felt happy and protected all at once and wanted to capitalize on this newfound method of communication. So before the splendor of the moment had any time to dim, her foot had cleared the makeshift slate and her finger was back in the sand.
I am very happy.
Mickey read this message, too. It did not take him long to respond this time.
Me also.
They both sat quietly, dreamily, as the sunset rolled pale tints of yellow and orange across the playground. Jolene felt her heart beating stronger than before, and though she tried to control the swell of emotion rolling inside of her, she couldn’t stop the pounding. Mickey’s receptiveness to her was soothing, almost calming, and made her entire body feel as though it were submerged in warm, pulsating water. She thought about how at that moment she had never been happier. But each time that thought gave way to the consideration of what she wanted to write next, her heart was jolted and she was caught in a torrent of desire and fear and helplessness. It was all so much more than she had anticipated. And it left her wondering what Mickey was thinking—until, without any warning, he took her hand in his.
It was warm, and she could feel the moisture in his palm. Her heart beat even faster as he stroked the back of her hand with his thumb. Maybe she wouldn’t have to write anything else. Maybe, if she could get the words to come, she could just whisper what she wanted to ask, gently in his ear.
“Mickey, is it okay if I kiss you?” she asked with far greater ease than she could have ever anticipated. She also did not expect what happened next.
The second the words left her lips, Mickey began spiraling out of control. In the short time it took for him to process what she was asking, he was back there again—at The Bucket, with Laney. He could still feel her warm breath against his neck and could smell her perfume. The ugly recollection rocked him slowly first, then with more aggression. Jolene was beside herself with worry and self-lo
athing.
“I’m sorry, Mickey, I’m sorry,” she pleaded desperately. “Please, it’s okay. It’s okay. I shouldn’t have said that. It’s okay.”
The rocking continued, accompanied by a steady but inaudible mumbling. The only words she could make out were “Mickey fooled—Rosco,” and “head hurts.” At first it seemed like a random flurry of thoughts, spawned by her moving too quickly for him. But then a switch clicked in her brain. She remembered what he had told her about that night at The Bucket, and she felt even worse. But at least she knew what was happening and why.
“No, no, sweetie, it’s okay,” she said, stroking his hair. “I know that was a bad night for you. And that girl was bad too. But you’re okay here. You’re okay with me. It’s Jolene. Jolene and Mickey. I like you. Remember?” She pointed to the sand.
His breathing eased and the severity of his spasmodic movements began to lessen. She could see in his eyes, which were dark and distant, that the stroking of his hair was bringing him back.
“It’s okay, Mickey,” she kept whispering. “It’s okay.”
Eventually, his anxiety flattened. Gone were the thoughts of Laney and Lefty and that horrible night, replaced by new thoughts that were far more pressing. He had taught himself about all of the relationship rules and social cues germane to the locker room and baseball field. He slipped up now and again, of course, but his vigilance in reviewing these guidelines regularly had allowed him entrance, and now finally acceptance, into that world. But this thing with Jolene, and the feelings that accompanied it, was a whole different story. He had no idea what he was feeling, or why, or how to handle it. He had even less understanding of her and what it was she was feeling and wanted him to do. The maelstrom of insecurity and confusion was overwhelming.
Then he felt Jolene’s hand on his shoulder. The ticking of his watch seemed to slow to almost nothing. So did the rocking. She was whispering beautiful things in his ear now. Her voice was soft and warm. He wanted to answer her but couldn’t say anything, as his words were blocked by the lump in his throat.
“Is this okay?” she finally asked him. He nodded without speaking. She massaged the top of his shoulder, then moved her hand up and down his bicep, squeezing gently from time to time. He liked that. It felt good.
He let her soothe him while he continued to try to put in order all of the thoughts that were bouncing off the walls of his mind. On more than one occasion, he opened his mouth as if to speak, then discovered he did not know what he would say. He wanted to tell her that her hands were soft, just like her curls—and that the way she smelled made him think of spring on the farm when everything was bursting with new life. He would have also liked to explain the rush he was feeling all over his body, how it seemed as though he could feel each drop of blood gushing through his veins. But again, he had no words. So instead, he decided to follow her, to use her as a guide. He touched her gently, with fingertips that tingled, the same way she was touching him.
At first it was just her shoulder. He made tiny circles with his fingers, up and down the entire length of her arm, the same way he did when petting Duncan and Daphney. Her skin was smooth. It was soft too. So soft.
When he saw that it was okay and that she liked what he was doing, he moved his hand to the back of her neck where he lingered for a while, his fingers engaged in the same circular motion. He spun each one tighter now, so that in time, the loops began to overlap. He was thinking about the rings that formed in the pond back home when he dropped a pebble in the center. The more he thought about it, the faster his fingers worked, until his excitement created a tangle in the fine hair at the nape of her neck and she lurched forward and cried out in pain.
“No, it’s all right,” she said when he abruptly halted what he was doing. “It’s fine, Mickey. You just pulled my hair a little. That’s all.”
He was inconsolable. All he could see was her face when she pulled away. All he could hear was the sound of Clarence’s voice berating him for the couple of times he mishandled the chicks.
“You damned lunk-head. Ain’t right to put those paws on them chicks like that. Don’t you know nothin? Ya’s got to be gentle with ’em, see? Not rush in there like a confounded grizzly bear, all full of happy and stupid. Never let me catch you near ’em again.”
He was rocking again, and his eyes were beginning to fill with water. Jolene panicked. She was angry with herself, not so much for her reaction but because she feared that she had lost him, destroyed the magic of the moment. She sat dumbly, listening to herself breathe, trying to divert her attention away from what had just happened and help her focus on what to do next. Each breath she took was like the ticking of a clock and for a moment; it was too much for her. Then she forgot the incident as if it had never occurred and took his face in her hands while she sang softly to him.
“Sentimental me, guess I’ll always be, so in love with you, don’t know what to do, sentimental me.”
Her voice was enchanting, each word she sang a beautiful, melodious bubble that, if pierced, would flood the earth with a warm, magic glow, illuminating everything in its path. She continued to sing, looking into him and he into her. Then there were no more words, just a soothing silence that gave way to the gentle pressing of her lips against his.
At first his whole body stiffened, as if his limbs and extremities were cast in cement. He could not move, and she could feel his rigidity and the shame and fear and confusion washing over him. Her lips remained pressed on his, moving slowly, softly, like a tiny heartbeat. There was no response at first, and she began to feel that same shame and fear and confusion as if it has been passed from his body to hers. Then it happened. He stirred.
It began with his eyes, which rolled into focus to reveal her face, beautiful and safe and close to his. Then came the sleepy awakening of his hands and fingers and other places, too. The wonderful rioting of energy and emotion surged, igniting something deep inside him that triggered a current that coursed through his entire body before finally finding his lips. And at that moment, two separate souls that were equally lost became one.
GOOD OLD-FASHIONED HARDBALL
Early August brought with it thick air and oppressive temperatures that flirted with triple digits for several days. It also ushered in an unexpected stretch of spirited play that became the hallmark of a Braves team that was already entertaining dreams of the postseason.
Murph’s crew was winning games in every imaginable way—pitcher’s duels, barn burners—and coming from behind, late-inning dramas. They could do no wrong. They even eeked out a victory one night on a Sid Gordon squeeze bunt that scored not one run but two when Sam Jethroe caught the opposing infield napping and came around to score all the way from second base.
Mickey was also in the midst of his best stretch of the season. He had won his last three starts, compiling a staggering 1.27 ERA over that stretch to go along with twenty-six strikeouts and only six walks. He had surrendered just twelve hits in those twenty-seven innings and opposing batters were batting a paltry .108 against him. It was perhaps the most dominating exhibition of pitching prowess ever recorded.
But the numbers only told a small portion of the story. All around the city of Boston, signs of this infectious excitement were cropping up everywhere. Naturally, the Bee Hive became the epicenter of this idol worship, with legions of fans sporting Braves jerseys with the number eight on the back, while packs of others brought placards with messages such as WE LOVE YOU MICKEY, TUSSLER TIME, and MICKEY FOR PRESIDENT.
The media was also captivated by the young man’s sudden rise to stardom. After every game, even the ones in which he did not pitch, a legion of reporters camped out around his locker with a list of questions for Boston’s most popular celebrity. They wanted to know everything, ranging from what cereal he ate for breakfast and his shoe size to who taught him to throw and how he was enjoying his time as a big league pitcher. And they all got a hearty laugh after his last outing, when one reporter asked him why nobody had h
eard anything about him before.
“Cause Mickey was not here yet,” he said in typical matter-of-fact form.
The stir he had created cast a spotlight on the entire team. Murph and his boys were the toast of the town. Everyone was talking about the Boston Braves. They were the hottest team in the league and appeared unbeatable. The string of victories had catapulted them almost to the top of the division, so when the Dodgers came to town on August 10, the Braves found themselves with an opportunity to leap into first place.
Vern Bickford got the call for the hometown crew and cruised through the first three innings. Dodgers hurler Don Newcombe matched Bickford pitch for pitch for two innings but found himself in some trouble in the home half of the third after a leadoff walk to Ozmore and a hard ground ball off the bat of Marshall that appeared to be a tailor-made twin killing until shortstop Pee Wee Reese mishandled the ball on the exchange and all hands were safe. The miscue left Newcombe in a jam, but that wasn’t the real story unfolding. In his eagerness to beat the throw to second, Ozmore came in hard at the bag, spikes flying, and took out Reese. The Dodgers did not take kindly to Ozmore’s aggressiveness and in the bottom of the fifth, when he came to bat, made their displeasure known.
The first pitch Ozmore saw was a high fastball that rode up under his chin, sending him to the dirt. Ozmore went down in a heap, but got right back up, dusted himself off, and nodded at Newcombe. He had been expecting retaliation and was okay with that. It was good old country hardball and everyone knew the rules. But when Newcombe came back with another heater that buzzed right by his head, Ozmore glared out at the mound and bared his teeth.
When the tension-filled inning came to a close, Murph found Ozmore and asked if he was all right. The outfielder was visibly agitated.
Welcome to the Show Page 15
