Welcome to the Show

by Nappi, Frank;

The Braves remained in mathematical contention, and it was indeed newsworthy, but the real story that had reporters scrambling day after day still belonged to Mickey. They still could not get enough. Before and after every game, they spilled across the Braves locker room like ants at a picnic and settled in front of his locker, bombarding the young man with question after question.

  Hey, Mickey, can you tell us about what it’s like to be in a pennant race?

  Mickey, how are you handling all of this attention you’re getting?

  Talk to us a little bit, Mick, about all the buzz circulating about you being named Rookie of the Year. What can you share with us?

  The barrage went on and on. They were relentless and not dissuaded the least bit by Mickey’s oftentimes circuitous and nonsensical responses. In fact, for some it made the game that much more appealing.

  One of these reporters was Caspar Doyle, a sports writer for the Boston Globe. He was on hand months before for Mickey’s debut and had seen him pitch every time since. But it wasn’t Mickey’s blistering fastball or pinpoint control upon which he was fixated. He was impressed by all of that for sure, but it was Mickey himself that intrigued him. He saw the young man as the ultimate human interest story and was in constant search of the elusive tidbit that would help him break the ultimate story. His questions reflected this lofty goal. He was always probing, inquiring about things like Mickey’s life before baseball, his hobbies, eating habits, and outside interests—anything to unlock the incredible enigma before anyone else did. Most often Mickey would simply sit and answer as best he could, in his own way, and Doyle would chuckle over Mickey’s response while formulating his next question. He had actually developed a good rapport with the young man, something that had him thinking that there were no limits to what he could ask.

  “So, uh, Mickey, rumor has it you’ve been keeping company with a young lady,” he asked one night after a home game. “Can you tell me who your friend is? You know, like her name? Where she’s from?”

  Mickey said nothing. His face showed the signs of something turbulent brewing inside his head.

  “Come on, Mickey,” Doyle persisted. “Your fans want to know all about you. No secrets now. Who is this girl?”

  Only a trace of emotion showed in Mickey’s blank eyes—a mere glimmer of the storm that was raging inside his mind. All he could hear now were the words exchanged between him and Jolene, not so long ago. They had just finished having lunch at a local diner on a day when Ozzy was occupied on the golf course with Spahn, Bickford, and three of the other guys.

  “You know how I feel about you, Mickey, right?” she asked him.

  He was occupied with arranging the sugar packets on the table but heard what she said. It was only after she repeated it that he answered her. “You like Mickey, Jolene,” he replied.

  She smiled. “Yes. I do. I like Mickey very much.”

  “I like you too, Jolene. Very much, too.”

  Her eyes were wide and inviting, but soon a shadow of concern darkened their glow just enough to alter the tenderness of the moment. “That’s really good,” she went on. “I’m happy about that. I am. But we have to be careful, at least for a while. You know, about telling people about how much we like each other.”

  Mickey stared intently at her. “Why Jolene? When you know something is true, you should always say it. My mama always told me that telling the truth is like watering the flowers. Ain’t nothin’ gonna grow without water.”

  “No, no, I know that, Mickey. But it’s not that easy sometimes. You know what I’m saying?”

  His brain sputtered, weaving in and out of the shadowy thoughts that were stretched across his mind.

  “It’s Buddy,” she said, aware of his struggle. “He’s just worried and protective and doesn’t understand. Not yet anyway. But he will. He’s just always watching out for me since my mama and daddy passed. I think he still sees me as a little girl.”

  “But I like you, Jolene,” he said. “Mickey likes Buddy too. I like Lester and Spahny and—”

  “I know you do, sweetie, I do. But it’s just—” She paused to regroup and perhaps alter her approach. He was ever so simple and trusting and pure.

  “Maybe this will make more sense to you. Let’s keep you and me a special secret. Just until Buddy and everyone else has time to get used to the idea. So we won’t tell anyone anything more than we are friends. Okay? Can you do that for me?”

  He nodded as if he understood what she was saying, but his face was tattooed with worry.

  “Buddy just doesn’t want anyone talking about me, that’s all, Mickey. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Mickey understands.”

  “So friends with a special secret?” she asked again.

  “Yes,” he repeated. “Yes, Jolene.”

  The whole exchange with her swirled in his mind. But as he sat there, trying to organize it while caught in the crosshairs of Caspar Doyle, one thing stood out from all the rest. He just doesn’t want anyone talking about me. It’s what echoed loudest in his ears as he finally addressed the question posed to him.

  “Mickey’s not talking about that, Mr. Doyle.”

  “Not talking about it?” the obdurate reporter repeated. “Come on now, Mickey. Your fans want to know all about you.”

  Mickey sat in front of his locker, trying to free himself from the confusion.

  “So come on, Mick. Tell me. Is she just a friend or maybe a groupie—or has she stolen the heart of our young Bean Town Blazer? Tell me. What’s the story?”

  “Mickey’s not talking about that,” he repeated a little louder. His face was a shade darker and his hands were opening and closing in a frenzied rhythm.

  “Don’t be bashful now, Mickey,” Doyle persisted. “We’re all friends here. Just give me something—anything. You know, is she the kind of girl you take out in the alley when the sun goes down or the sort you bring home to Mom? People just want to know if—”

  Before Doyle could even complete his thought, Mickey had succumbed to his nervous misgivings, grabbing the startled man by the shirt collar in what had quickly become a fit of unbridled rage. He was shaking the man and hollering uncontrollably. His eyes were wild with anger and escalating confusion.

  “Jolene’s a good girl!” he shrieked. “She said no talking about it. No talking. No groupie. No alley. Friends. Special friends. Mickey likes her. No talking about it. No talking.”

  Others heard the commotion and ran to intercede, pulling Mickey off his muted victim.

  “Come on, Mick, it’s okay, it’s okay,” they offered, patting him on the back and guiding him gently away. He resisted at first, twisting and flailing his arms. He was still shrieking.

  “No talking about it! No talking! Mickey said no talking!”

  A group of them just held onto him, listening as he worked out his rage and frustration. He ranted for a while, but it wasn’t long before his face showed signs of melting—changing slowly from harboring fiery rage to a more sorrowful emotion—regret, uncertainty, or perhaps shame. Then the young man grew silent, as did the entire room, and it was over.

  Afterward, all anyone could talk about was Mickey’s violent, erratic behavior—how he was just plain crazy and a threat to both himself and everyone around him. Murph tried his best to mitigate the damage, explaining to both the media and his own players that the boy was a gentle soul who posed no danger to anyone unless provoked. But it was of little use, as they all had seen way too much and had drawn conclusions that could not be altered. So Mickey now faced the judgment of everyone around him—a group that suddenly saw him not as the quirky but talented darling that had stolen the hearts of everyone even remotely affiliated with baseball but as a disturbing, enigmatic, alien presence who could no longer be trusted.

  Everyone on the team was filled with questions and doubts about what the future could hold for Mickey. Everyone, that is, except one—someone with a quick temper and a sister who he had to protect, someone who had witnessed the entire
fiasco and was left speechless as he struggled now to lift the weight of the truth, the uncompromising reality that maybe, just maybe, he had been wrong about the kid all along.

  GHOSTS OF INDIANA

  The last thing Murph needed was any more controversy. He was still smarting from the last lashing he took from Perini and he was not about to put himself in that position again. He needed to mitigate the dissension and the gossip as quickly as possible, so he decided to call a closed-door meeting with just him and the team. He had barely formulated the idea in his head, and had just sat down to map it all out, when he heard a knock at his door.

  “Ozzy, listen, this is not a good time,” he said, waving at the air. “I’m in the middle of something here.”

  Ozzy had barely stepped into Murph’s office before sensing the manager’s angst. “This won’t take long, Murph,” he said, pushing his way inside.

  “I said I don’t have time, Ozzy,” Murph complained, this time with a voice laced with bitterness. “I’ve got a team to take care of here—one that is moving in the wrong direction—and a mountain of bullshit. So whatever it is you have to say is going to have to wait.”

  “I know all about it,” Ozmore said. He closed the door behind him and eased himself into one of the chairs across from Murph’s desk. “That’s why I’m here.”

  Ozmore’s face was a blend of altruism and self-loathing. His mouth was twitching oddly from side to side and his eyelids sagged and were heavy, like a late-summer sky that promised plenty of rain but could not deliver. He appeared to be mustering the strength just to breathe, and thus sat dumbly for some time—silent and blank. Murph stared at him with a swelling curiosity that soon turned to agitation.

  “Well Ozzy? I’m waiting.”

  Ozmore leaned forward in his chair as if to shorten the distance his words would have to travel. “This isn’t easy for me, Murph,” he offered in hushed tones.

  “What isn’t easy, Ozzy?” Murph complained. “Good God, are you trying to kill me? I told you. I’m busy. I don’t have time to be—”

  “It’s about Mickey,” he blurted out, collapsing back into the chair as if the force of the announcement pushed him there.

  Murph set down the paper he was holding. His eyes were wide. “Yeah?” he asked. “What about him?”

  “I saw everything the other day. You know, with the reporter, Doyle. When Mickey freaked out and nearly killed him.”

  “So,” Murph said. “Big deal. All of us did. So what do you want, Ozzy? You want to gloat—rub my nose in it? Tell me you saw it coming all along?”

  “I don’t think you’re understanding me here, Murph,” Ozmore said. “It’s not like that.”

  There was indeed no indication that Murph understood Ozmore’s intent. The manager just sat behind his desk, his insides twisted, staring at the guy who was responsible for a good deal of the knots.

  “I mean I saw why Mickey did it,” Ozmore explained. “And I want to tell everyone today that he was not wrong for doing it. And that if anyone was wrong then … well, uh, that person is me.”

  “Come again?” Murph asked.

  “Look, you have to understand, Murph. I know what people say about me. I do. And I’ll tell you something else. I can’t say I blame ’em. I’ve got a way about me, I know.”

  Murph raised his eyebrows, nodded, and laughed out loud.

  “Yeah, yeah, I get it, smart guy,” Ozmore said. “But what folks don’t realize is that my sister is my only family. All I got, ya know? And she ain’t totally right herself. So I’m protective of her. I gotta watch out, especially for others who might take advantage or hurt her. So that’s why—”

  “That’s why you had a problem with Mickey.”

  “Yes, that’s why I had a problem with Mickey. But what I know now—I think—is that the kid has his heart in the right place. Seems like it anyhow. Head’s still a little screwed up for sure, but the heart is good. So, if you don’t mind, after I let him know he’s all right by me, I’d like to tell the fellas too. Sort of clear the air and get us back on track. Would that be all right?”

  Murph had to laugh. He couldn’t believe the sudden turn of events. “Yeah, Ozzy. Sure. I think that would be all right.”

  Less than an hour later, Murph called the team together for a meeting. But it was Ozmore who had the floor right from the beginning. He postured for a bit with a peremptory air and insisted that everyone stand or at least sit at attention, but his voice was low and faltering, far less certain than it had been with Murph in his office.

  “So, uh, I thought I should talk to all of you about the other day. You know, with what happened with Mickey.”

  The mention of the boy’s name spurred everyone’s eyes in his direction, something that caused Mickey to call out unexpectedly. “But, Buddy, I thought you said that it was okay that—”

  “Yeah, yeah, I did Mick,” Ozmore answered. “I did pal. It’s all good. I’m just trying to explain everything to the rest of the guys.”

  The room seemed to lapse into a silent state of suspended animation as Ozmore unburdened his soul. He described in passionate detail how he had watched Mickey attempt to defend Jolene’s honor by refusing to answer Doyle’s questions. And how it was only after the merciless newsman pushed the issue that Mickey got agitated and had to use physical force to end the assault. The minutes passed slowly, with most of the guys still struggling to understand. It was not so much the words that befuddled them but the mouth from which those words came.

  “So what I’m trying to say here is that I was wrong about Mickey,” Ozmore concluded. “And also wrong to give him a hard time about some things. Murph was right. The kid has our backs. I know that now—just took me a while.” The raw sentimentality of his expression was powerful and effective but made him balk once he remembered who he was.

  “So if any of you sons a bitches want to mess with Mickey, you’re gonna be messing with me too. Now let’s do what Murph said and be a team—a family—and win this damned thing.”

  When Ozmore completed his oration, there was a long silence. Everyone was still stunned, trying to reconcile the sensitive, thoughtful sentiments just expressed with the cantankerous SOB who had just spoken them. For Murph, the silence was more of a pause for relief and celebration than for confusion, but he understood why the others were having trouble. So rather than risk squandering the goodwill that Ozmore had just laid at their feet, he decided to ensure that the moment would not slip away in vain.

  “Okay, fellas,” Murph said, clapping his hands a few times as he surveyed the room. “You heard what Ozzy said. It’s official. We’re all on the same page. Finally. Now there’s but one thing left for us to do. So let’s get it done.”

  Murph spent the rest of that day basking in the glow of this most recent turn of events. He was feeling as though something celestial had occurred, something in the most remote sector of the galaxy, like the cosmic alignment of the stars or some other ethereal event. Whatever it was, it had rendered him poised to achieve what had seemed impossible just a few days ago.

  Hours later, he still found himself wonderfully happy, like what had happened was too good to be true. The implications of Ozmore’s radical departure from his previous mien were too much for Murph. He could not wrap his brain around it with all the fuss and buzzing in the clubhouse. It was only after he had broken away for a spell and had time to digest it alone, did it finally become real. Then, there was only one thing he wanted to do.

  “Molly? It’s so good to hear your voice. Listen, honey—I have the greatest news to share. Really. I just could not hold on to it any longer.”

  The phone line held some static but he could hear her breathing.

  “Hi, Arthur,” she said in a hushed tone. “It’s, uh, funny you called. I was actually just getting ready to—”

  “Molly, you cannot believe what happened to me. And Mickey. I still feel like I’m dreaming.”

  Absorbed completely in her own thoughts, she hardly heard him
as he chronicled Ozmore’s impassioned speech supporting Mickey and the subsequent goodwill and camaraderie. He was rambling on, his breathless excitement fueling all sorts of gilded images of the future. She said nothing until he mentioned something that jostled her from her overwrought state.

  “Arthur, I can’t come there to be with you,” she said. “Not now.”

  “What is wrong with you, Molly?” he asked. “Don’t you know what this means? I mean I know you’ve been unhappy, but can you at least—”

  “I can’t come see you, Arthur,” she said. “It’s not a good time.”

  All of Murph’s ebullience left him, like air exiting an opened balloon. He was instantly on guard, battling the surging suspicion that Molly was attempting to renew their fight.

  “Really, Molly? Not a good time? Why, because you’re still angry about Boston? You know, I really think you are being—”

  “Clarence passed, Arthur,” she said, thwarting any further attack on her. “I got the call last night.”

  Only the sound of Arthur’s labored breathing was audible.

  “Passed? Really? But how? Why? What happened?” His words came slowly and in short, intermittent bursts.

  “Jonathan Krupsky found him on the ground, out behind the barn. Heart just gave out most figure.”

  Silence stole the moment once more. At first he was just numb, frozen by the inability to process the news. Then slowly, his mind thawed, giving rise to a rapid montage of images of the surly farmer and his abusive exploits. It was difficult for him to feel any real sorrow for the man, knowing all he knew. But somewhere in the blurred succession of scenes still filtering through his brain, he imagined Clarence’s final breath, the struggle for life, and the inevitable end, one that was met all alone. That made him a little sad.

  “So now what, Molly?” he asked.

  “Well, that’s the other part of why I needed to call you, Arthur,” she replied. “It seems that Clarence left the farm to me. I’m not sure if—”

  “What? He left you the farm? Well, I’ll be. How did you find out?”