“Yeah, yeah, I’m fine,” he said. “Whatever. Gonna take more than that to get to me.”
“Hey,” Murph said, grabbing Ozmore by the arm, preventing him from walking away. “Nobody screws with my players—nobody.” Then he went to Bickford and with cool deliberation gave him an edict about which there would be no discussion. “First Dodger you face, first pitch, stick it in his ear.”
Bickford heard Murph’s command as a call to arms and did not want to disappoint. The second Carl Furillo stepped in the batter’s box, Bickford sized him up, crafting in his mind’s eye the exact spot he would plant the baseball. He reared back and fired a dart that nailed Furillo square in the upper arm. The Dodger batter was not expecting it but took the shot in stride, tossing his bat aside and trotting to first, but not before shooting Bickford a warning look. The score had been settled—much to the delight of Murph and the rest of his team.
The game continued on, with only subtle hints of the previous aggression punctuating a close contest. The lead changed hands four different times before the Dodgers pulled ahead by one in the top half of the eighth on a bloop and a blast, the latter coming off the bat of Furillo who took just a little extra time circling the bases. It did not go unnoticed.
The bottom half of the eighth frame opened up with Roy Hartsfield grounding out weakly to second base. Sam Jethroe followed with a squib up the first baseline that Newcombe scooped up and fired to first for the second out of the inning.
Ozmore was next. He stepped in, looking for something he could drive the other way in order to get on base. The first pitch he saw was a slider, low and away, that had him leaning out over the plate. The realization that Newcombe seemed to want to work him away was perfect, given Ozmore’s intention of going to the opposite field anyway. It would make it that much easier, especially after he cheated a little closer to the plate before the next pitch was delivered.
The next offering was not what anyone expected. When the ball left Newcombe’s hand, Ozmore could see instantly that the trajectory was off. Although he tried to pull away, there just wasn’t enough time. In the blink of an eye, Ozmore had been drilled in the back, right between the numbers.
There was a collective silence after the thud, as if a giant glass dome had been placed over the stadium. The momentary quiet that fell over everyone was shattered when Ozmore fired his bat in Newcombe’s direction and charged the mound. The Dodgers’ catcher, Bruce Edwards, had anticipated Ozmore’s reaction and tackled him almost instantly, something that ignited a bench clearing melee whose chaos and disorder resembled something straight out of a Jackson Pollock painting. Arms flailed and legs kicked as the crush of players swarmed around the pitcher’s mound, engulfing the original combatants. Random blows rained all around, most missing their intended targets, and it was virtually impossible for anyone to distinguish Newcombe or Edwards or Ozmore from the motley mess.
One by one, players were tossed here and there, to the left and to the right, until all that remained in the center, flanked by opposing players who had paired off, was Mickey, eyes wild with fury, and Ozmore and Edwards, who both were still rolling around on the ground. Then even Edwards disappeared after Mickey grabbed him by his chest protector straps and flung him to the side. The boy was somewhere else and continued to move like a whirling dervish, swept away by the mania of the moment until Murph was able to get close enough to him to get in his ear.
“Mick, it’s okay, it’s over now,” he kept saying. “It’s over.”
Mickey was still absent and his breath continued to come in short, violent bursts.
“Yeah, what the hell is wrong with you, Tussler?” Ozmore said, struggling to adjust his uniform top. “I had it. It was under control. I don’t need no jughead fighting my battles.”
“Hey, easy, Ozzy,” Murph chided. “You don’t know what you’re saying. Go cool off. This jughead just saved your ass.”
“Saved my ass?” he repeated. “Really, Murph? Is that what you think?”
Ozmore’s eyes narrowed and burned a straight path to Murph. He looked ready to fight again, like at any second he would lunge at his manager. All of the muscles in Murph’s body tightened in preparation for the assault, but the umpires, who had proved to be largely ineffectual during the fracas, stepped in and broke up what remained of the skirmish. Murph was feeling lucky to have escaped the debacle with no further incident but found himself in the owner’s office after the game, embroiled in more conflict and controversy.
“Would you mind telling me, Mr. Murphy, what happened out there today?” The Braves’ owner, Louis Perini, was puffing away on a fat cigar while he awaited Murph’s response.
“What do you mean, sir?” Murph replied. “You know baseball. Things happen. And sometimes it gets a little heated.”
Perini leaned back in his chair, the shift in weight revealing the crisply laundered sleeves beneath his navy suit jacket. Murph could also see a gold Rolex strapped to the man’s wrist. His eyes were briefly fixed on the man’s massive hands and the four great rings that sparkled under the bright lights of the office.
“Mr. Murphy, I haven’t been around as long as you have, but I’m old enough to know that in life—and in baseball—very few things just happen,” he said, releasing a dense cloud of smoke into the air between them. “So I’m going to ask you again—what happened out there today?”
“I don’t know,” Murph replied, shaking his head. “Ozzy went in hard at second, and I guess Reese and some of the other guys got all bent out of shape. So they threw at Ozzy in his next at bat, we hit one of their guys, then they came back and drilled Ozzy. It all sort of exploded after that.”
“And why wasn’t it all square after they threw at Ozmore the first time? They didn’t hit him initially, correct?”
“Well, no, they didn’t, but—”
“And did you give the order for the beanball that hit Furillo?”
Murph’s shoulders buckled a little under the weight of the owner’s stare. “Yes, I told Ozzy and Bickford that I will not have my players thrown at without retaliation. I just don’t think it’s right.”
Perini scrutinized Murph from behind a veil of white smoke. “I don’t pay you to think, Mr. Murphy,” he said, tapping the end of his cigar against the beveled edge of a crystal ashtray. “You are here to manage this club until Southworth is well again. That’s all. Nothing else. Remember that. Your little stunt not only cost us the game but also the services of four of our players who were injured in the scrum. That doesn’t make me happy.”
“Well, with all due respect, sir,” Murph said, “that seems a little harsh—and unfair. I mean, the team is playing well, real well, and—”
“Fair is not a priority for me, Mr. Murphy. This is major league baseball. The highest level of professional baseball. We play hardball here. That means you do as you’re told or you don’t do anything at all. Do I make myself clear?”
“Yes, sir, I understand, but I just thought that since—”
“Have I made myself clear, Mr. Murphy?” he repeated.
The room was rife with resentment. Why was every owner he had ever dealt with such a horse’s ass? Real baseball wasn’t about tailored suits and imported Scotch. It was about spikes on your shins and dirt in your jock and fiery, hard-nosed competition that demanded that justice be served on the field of play—the field of battle.
“Yes, Mr. Perini,” Murph said, his thoughts spiraling in a thousand different directions. “Yes, I understand. Everything you said is now perfectly clear.”
TELEPHONE LINES
Molly missed Murph and Mickey, but it was good to be back. She had spent the entire morning baking and rearranging the living room furniture that she and Murph had picked out together just the way she had always envisioned.
When she finally had every last piece exactly as she wanted, she turned her eye to the knickknacks and the bric-a-brac that filled the empty spaces in the room. Nothing was safe from her restless organizing. Vases, candle la
nterns, and her collection of crystal animal figurines all found new resting places. Other items, like her cherub curio tray and Alice in Wonderland snow globe, occupied new places in the room only to end up right back where they started. Books were reordered and photo frames reconfigured. Some of Murph’s baseball mementos also drew her attention. Her clarinet, however, would remain where it always had been, right on the end table next to the chair where she loved to sit and read or crochet. It was a little dusty, though, so she spent some time cleaning it up, which ultimately led to her bringing it to her lips and playing.
She played longer than she had intended. One piece spilled into the next, and before she realized it she had been playing for over an hour. When she looked outside and saw that the sun had ascended to its highest point and that she still had not touched the laundry, she placed the clarinet back where it belonged.
She hung some sheets and blankets she had washed on the line out back, then stood before a gathering of whispering sycamores. She still recalled with difficulty Murph’s reaction to what she had shared, and perhaps had she thought about it much longer she may have begun to doubt herself. But a stiff wind blew through the grassy ravine and across her face and all she could see now was sunshine—alive with hope—and that gathering of sycamores, nodding their heads together in approval.
When she walked back inside and observed her handiwork from earlier in the day, she thought she might have to make a few more adjustments. She had just begun formulating an idea for the five mini golden barrel cactus plants she purchased the day before when the phone rang.
“Arthur, is that you?” she said. His voice was weak and distant. “I can barely hear you. Are you okay?”
He wasn’t sure how to answer her.
“I don’t know, Molly. I guess so.”
“What’s wrong? Is it Mickey? Is he okay?”
He laughed. “Is he okay?” Murph repeated. “Okay? He’s better than okay. Never seen the boy better.”
“Then what’s the matter? Is it you? Do you not feel well?”
He was still at a loss. The shit with Perini had him feeling used and foolish—powerless—like he had only been pretending to be a big league manager the last few months. And if that wasn’t bad enough, Ozmore was at it again, and it was worse. His discovery of Mickey and Jolene’s budding romance had him ornery and looking for a fight.
“I told you, Murphy, I didn’t want your boy anywhere near my sister,” he ranted the day one of the other guys teased him about it. “You should have listened to me.”
“What are you getting all bent out of shape for Ozzy?” Murph said. “Jesus, they’re friends. Friends. And I told you Mickey is true blue. Salt of the earth. You couldn’t have a better friend. I should think you’d know that after he pulled you, you of all people, out of that scrum.”
“First of all, your definition of friends ain’t mine. So don’t you go preaching to me, damn you. Just don’t. You try listening to these jackals in the locker room talking about my sister and wonder boy. It ain’t right. And I told you once, and I ain’t about to say it again after this. I didn’t need Mickey’s help that day. I can handle myself. You best remember that. Especially now.”
“Why does it bother you so much that they like to spend time together?” Murph asked. “You don’t know him, Ozzy. He’s simple, good. If you would just get to know him, I think—”
“Stop your thinking and start listening, you hear? I do not want that boy with my sister. And nothing you say is gonna change that. And if you can’t understand that, then I am going to have to help you.”
Ozmore’s words were fresh in his mind, but how could he even begin to tell Molly about all that without alarming her. Besides, his real concern remained Perini and this nagging sense that he had perhaps been duped.
“It’s probably nothing, Molly,” he said, taking a stab at expressing his feelings. “The owner, Lou Perini, called me in the other day and I guess it’s still bothering me. That’s all.”
“Called you in? For what? You guys are playing so well. What’s going on?”
He sighed loudly “I don’t know. The other day we got into a brawl with the Dodgers and—”
“Brawl?” she asked sharply. “Is everyone okay? Is Mickey—”
“Everyone is fine,” he said. “It really was no big deal. I don’t know why everyone is getting so freaked out about it. It’s part of the game. But it seems Perini didn’t like the way I handled it, that’s all.”
“And that’s it, Arthur? You’re upset just because he didn’t approve of what you did during the brawl? I think I know you a little better than that.”
He tried to fortify himself with another shot of whiskey. The enormity of his concern, however, proved far too formidable.
“Well, he did say something else that is sort of bothering me.” He went on to tell her all about how Perini more or less said that he was only there for a little while—temporarily. And how it had really hit him hard. He had known when he accepted the position there were no guarantees, and perhaps he was worrying for nothing. But after the job he had done, he expected a little more appreciation and loyalty.
“So I sort of feel like what I’m doing here is going unnoticed, you know what I mean, Molly?”
“I do, Arthur, but—” She stopped herself prematurely.
“But what?” he asked. “What were you going to say?”
Now it was her turn to measure what it was she would say. There was so much right at the edge of her tongue, but she did not want to make the moment worse for him. “Well, I can’t say that I’m surprised,” she finally said. “That’s all.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
The brief hesitation became the new focus between them.
“You’re too good for them, Arthur. It’s a business up there. There’s no heart, no feeling. It’s as cold as the streets of that city.”
“Molly, this isn’t about Boston. Not everything is about Boston. It’s not even about being here, in the majors. I’m just saying that this snot nose Perini really pissed me off. I’m just looking for a little support here.”
“And that’s what I’m giving you,” she snapped back. “I just told you. You’re too good for this, Arthur. For all of it. It’s not all bright lights and fancy hotels—rubbing elbows with politicians and celebrities. And I didn’t want to say this but I feel like I have to now. I told you this when you were given the offer.”
“How is saying ‘I told you so’ supporting me? Don’t you think I know all of that? I do; believe me. But what you don’t know, or perhaps have forgotten, is that politicians and bright lights are not reasons for me being here, Molly. I love the game. And when you love the game, you go with her as long and as far as you can.”
Her courage faltered. It was not a complete malfunction, but enough of a glitch so that she could not release what she had been harboring for so many months. What she really wanted to tell him was that this dream of his was becoming a nightmare. She settled for something less inflammatory.
“And what happens when the game stops loving you back, huh? Then what?”
“Is that what you think? That I’m washed up. Done?”
“I’m only reacting to what you’ve told me, Arthur. Don’t get angry at me.”
“That’s not what’s happening here, Molly,” he answered back. “It’s not. And I’ll tell you something. If you were here with me, you’d know that. And maybe—”
“And maybe what, Arthur? This wouldn’t be happening to you? Is that what you were going to say? Because if it is, stop right there. Don’t you dare blame me for this. I never—”
“I’m not blaming you, Molly, for anything. I’m just saying that it might be a little easier for me if you were here—and if there was more connecting us than these damn telephone lines. That’s all.”
She paused.“That might be true, Arthur,” she said in time. “But consider this. It’s quite possible that it might be a lot easier for you—all of it—if you wer
e here.”
ROOKIE RUMBLINGS
With more than two-thirds of the season in the books, news of Mickey’s exploits on the field was no longer news. In fact, most people involved in the league—players, coaches, upper-office brass, and news media—had grown so accustomed to reports of Mickey’s incredible feats that they only found it noteworthy when something superhuman didn’t happen.
Mickey’s last game was a case in point. The Braves entered play that day in third place, trailing the Dodgers by five games and the first-place Phillies by eight. They had been playing subpar baseball for a while and now found themselves in a dogfight with these two teams as well as a more daunting battle with an hourglass whose sands were quickly falling.
They were hosting the first-place Phillies on that day, and by all logical estimations put forth by baseball pundits everywhere, a Braves loss would have just about sealed their fate. It was a classic case of “do or die.” Everyone knew it, especially the guys sitting in the home dugout. Nobody said anything, but there was a tacit, albeit palpable, angst in the air.
Mickey took the ball in front of a sellout crowd that was there as much for him as it was to witness what could have been the last game of the season with any meaning. He saw the banners and heard the cheers, but in typical fashion went to work without giving any of it a second thought.
There wasn’t anything electric about his performance that day, at least by his standards. He got through the first two innings in uneventful fashion, retiring all six batters on routine plays in the field. The Braves scratched out a run in their half of the third and Mickey made it stand up until the top of the seventh, when a walk, a seeing-eye single, and a miscue in the outfield knotted the contest at 1–1. The sudden turn of events had Murph a little concerned and got him off his perch and out to the mound for a visit with Mickey and Lester.
“Hey, Mick,” Murph said. He struck the classic managerial pose—hands on hips, head tilted slightly to one side, eyes wide and full of speculation. “How do you feel?”
Welcome to the Show Page 16
