Welcome to the Show

by Nappi, Frank;

  “Hey, that’s still amazing,” she said. “Sounds like it was a great game.”

  “Yes. Great.” His curt answers and labored breathing aroused her concern.

  “So if it’s so great, why do you seem upset, Mickey? Is it because you didn’t pitch?”

  “No. no. Mickey is pitching tomorrow. Tomorrow, Jolene.”

  “Then what’s bothering you?” she asked.

  His mania returned again suddenly, but not like the overt assault that has previously rendered him helpless. This time the panic and anxiety set in stealthily, like an ambush.

  “Well, it’s uh—I am sort of—I mean Mickey is kind of—”

  “Mickey, I’m sorry that I couldn’t be there with you—you know, at the funeral and all. I really wanted to be there to help you. But you know what we said. It was probably too soon for that. And I wasn’t sure how I would get there and all that. I hope you’re not angry with me.”

  He didn’t say anything at first, making her think she had discovered something she did not want to know.

  “Mickey is not angry with you, Jolene,” he finally explained. “I am happy talking to you. I am always happy talking on the telephone, or when we sit together at your house, or the park.”

  “So what is it then?” she persisted. “I’m worried about you. Is it Buddy again? Because I thought that—”

  “My pa yelled at me, Jolene,” he blurted out. “Not now, I mean. He’s gone. Buried under the dirt. He called me names and hit me sometimes. Mickey made him mad.” His words were filled with pain.

  “I’m so sorry, Mickey,” Jolene said. “That’s awful. I know what it’s like to feel that way—about parents. You are probably upset with him, maybe even angry about what he did to you. I understand. It’s okay to be angry with him, Mickey. It’s okay.”

  “Mickey is not angry with him,” he said. “I am scared, when I think about it sometimes. And I am sad. I am sad that I did not tell him that I was sorry for making him so upset with me. I wanted to say that I was sorry.”

  Tears formed in the corners of her eyes. She was thinking about how for years the same words were on her lips when she thought about her mother and father. She also thought about all those times she struggled with what was handed to her. Sometimes at night, when the sky was its darkest and the stars were at their highest point, she would lie in bed and imagine who she could have been had God chosen to hand her to different people. The possibilities unfurled before her like the beautiful pink ribbons she always wanted for her hair. She could have been so many people—had only she been given the chance.

  “Sorry?” she said. “You shouldn’t be sorry, Mickey, for anything. You didn’t do anything to be sorry for. What happened with your father was his problem, his fault, not yours. You can’t do this to yourself. Believe me. You will understand that in time.”

  “But I couldn’t get the water from the well, or hammer the nails straight, or understand what he was saying to me. Mickey just kept making mistakes. It made him angry, so angry. It were my fault, see?”

  Jolene tried to convince him that what he was saying was wrong, but her efforts to mollify Mickey’s uneasiness were no match for the guilt and helplessness he was harboring. She wished him luck in his game the following day and told him it would all be all right, but he lay in his bed that night, eyes wide to the ceiling, with thoughts of the farm and Clarence and the great distance between heaven and earth that had now made a reconciliation impossible.

  The sun’s light the next morning slipped through the uneven spaces between the shops and skyscrapers outside Mickey’s room, bursting onto the streets and sidewalks into a million tiny flecks of yellow. Mickey rubbed his eyes as he recalled the multicolored images that only hours before had occupied the darkness with such startling vitality. He was at the ballpark in unusual fashion some hours later, running through his typical pregame practice. He had done the same thing exactly the same way before every one of his starts with the big club, although on this particular day it was taking him longer.

  The ritual always began at his locker, where he would remove his shirt first, then proceed to fold it in half vertically, with the arms together. Then he would fold the arms back onto the shirt, followed by another fold horizontally, so that the hem of the shirt just touched the neck. After a few passes with his hand over the fabric so that no wrinkles were visible, he would place it gently on the shelf of his locker.

  His shoes were next. First the right, along with the sock, followed by the left, then that sock. These were placed in the bottom right corner of the locker. He always sat for a brief time, bare feet on the cool tile floor, staring into the empty space before him as if searching for instructions on how to proceed. The momentary break would last a minute or two, sometimes longer, but it always gave way to the next phase in the routine—the removal of his pants. This was a process that always took longer than the others, for it required that much more attention.

  The right leg always came out first—always. The left followed immediately afterward, at which point he would get up from the bench, turn around, and lay the trousers flat on the wooden surface on which he had previously sat. The intricate process of preparing the garment for temporary storage began with Mickey smoothing out the pockets. He would insert his hand into each one, pushing them to their furthest extent. Then with a flat palm, he would press down and pass his hand over each three times. When he was satisfied with the outcome, he would hold the trousers upright and with a definitive purpose shake them three times. His fingers then found either end of the waistband, where he was sure to keep the seams of each leg straight and visible along the outer side. This was followed by more shaking, two short, emphatic flaps to remove any of the obvious wrinkles. Then he would fold one leg of the trousers over the other, lining up each so that the seams remained on the outside—the final step before folding the trousers in thirds, so as to make them the perfect size for placement next to his shirt.

  The next facet of his ritualistic preparation involved the nine baseballs that he kept on the lower left side of his locker. Clothed now only in a T-shirt and boxer shorts, Mickey removed each pearly white ball, one by one, creating a straight line on the floor just below him. Once each of the nine had assumed its place in the procession, he would begin the process of selecting one at a time, holding each in his hand as he closed his eyes and visualized his approach on the mound—one inning at a time.

  He labored more than usual, his mind’s eye clouded by thoughts and images that had him feeling as though two different people were occupying the space inside of him. The feeling was so palpable that he could barely get through the next part of his preparatory observance. He had only managed to put on one stirrup stocking when Lester, who Murph had sent to gauge the boy’s mood, walked in.

  “Hey, Mick,” he said, dropping his bag to the floor. “Getting ready?”

  “Yes, yes, Lester,” Mickey answered. “Getting ready.”

  Lester took a few steps in the boy’s direction and plopped down on the bench next to him. “Man, old Lester sure is sore today,” he groaned, trying to position himself comfortably on the unforgiving slab of wood.

  Mickey said nothing.

  “What’s eating at you, Mick?” he asked. “You’re usually out on the field by this time, stretching and doing your running. Not like you to break any routine.”

  Mickey was still silent and remained motionless as well. Even his expression, which was largely flat and stone-like, had not changed. The only discernible sign that the young man was indeed still in this world was his breathing, which by this time had begun coming faster and faster.

  “Ain’t no use swallowing worries, Mick,” Lester went on. “They just sit in your stomach.” He paused and shook his head. “My mama use to say that to me. I think about that a lot. And some of the other things she’s say too. Yup, I reckon all of us think about those people close to us who ain’t no longer here. Ya know, Mick?”

  Somehow, the sound of Lester’s w
ords forced its way into Mickey’s brain over the anguished shouting from the past.

  “My pa never said nothing like that to me,” he said. “Not never. Only Mama talks to Mickey like that.”

  “’Cause you got yourself a good one, Mick,” Lester explained. “You and me is lucky that way. Ain’t always like that. You know, you can’t pick yer folks, Mick. No, sir. Someone else decides that for us.”

  Lester’s eyes shifted skyward, as if in search of validation. Then he returned to matters at hand, reaching into Mickey’s locker and handing him his other stirrup.

  “It all works out in the end,” he said. “All of it. The good, the bad, and all of it in between. Just gots to give it time, Mick. That’s all.”

  Time, however, was in short supply. Mickey was on the mound before he knew it, facing a Giants team that was still licking its wounds from the previous day’s drubbing. If anything that Lester had said to him had any meaning for Mickey, it was lost in the immediacy of the moment unfolding before him.

  After Giants’ pitcher Jimmy Hearn retired Murph’s boys one, two, three in their half of the first, Leo Durocher’s crew went right to hacking. Eddie Stanky saw just one pitch from Mickey, a fastball he left over the plate that Stanky laced to center field for a clean single. Whitey Lockman stepped in next. Mickey stared at him, then Lester’s signs, struggling to focus amid the images emerging from the long stretches of shadowy memory.

  Murph, recognizing the look on Mickey’s face as one he had seen before, called to him from the bench, trying to push him past the struggle. Lester did as well, pounding his glove while urging Mickey to bear down and fill up the target. Mickey heard them, but he could not extricate himself from all things Clarence—the man’s voice, his face, and the wicked combination of whiskey and tobacco that always lingered in the air after he walked past.

  Lockman watched Mickey’s first offering miss wide outside. The next pitch was low and missed its mark as well. So did the next. Mickey’s control and command of the strike zone was as erratic as the cyclone of thoughts that swirled inside his mind. A few deep breaths and some desperate cajoling got him through the next two deliveries, running the count full. Mickey managed to locate the strike zone again with a pretty good hook that Lockman spoiled at the last second with a desperate flick of his wrists that sent the ball out of play. The rhythm and sequence of the last few pitches had Murph feeling a little more hopeful, but any twinge of optimism was cast off with Mickey’s next delivery—a fifty-five-foot fastball that took everything Lester had to keep the errant toss in front of him.

  Bobby Thompson was next. With runners on first and second, the Giants’ center fielder made his way from the on-deck circle into the batter’s box with thoughts of drawing first blood. Mickey watched as New York’s most popular player dug in, spinning his foot back and forth until it was securely planted. Thompson continued his pre-at-bat routine in classic style, loosening his arms with a few practice swings before finally bringing his hands to rest over the hitting zone. He stared out at the pitcher’s mound as Mickey took his sign, came set, checked the runners, and fired.

  In the blink of an eye, the ball left Mickey’s hand, was in front of Thompson, then on its flight—a high, arcing voyage that took the ball closer and closer to the promised land that lay just beyond the left field fence. Everyone at the Polo Grounds watched as the ball spun hypnotically toward its appointed destiny—only to exhale in disappointment as a last-second turn took the blast to the wrong side of the foul pole and transformed what looked to be a home run for sure into just a very long strike. The frustrated crowd barely had time to reconcile their disappointment before Thompson sent another towering drive the opposite way—an equally impressive blast that wrapped itself around the wrong side of the other foul pole. The unbelievable spectacle had everyone out of their seats and the entire Braves’ bench marveling at Mickey’s luck.

  “Now that’s living right,” Keely commented to Murph, who was still trying to remember a time when he had seen anything like it before. “That boy sure is lucky.”

  “Lucky?” Murph asked. “You look at what’s going on out there and you see lucky?”

  “Come on, Murph,” Keely explained. “Two foul home runs? Back-to-back? And not a crooked number to be seen on that scoreboard? I’d say that is pretty lucky.”

  “Well it’s the luckiest 0-2 count I’ve ever seen, I’ll give you that, Bobby,” Murph said. “But I ain’t so sure that’s the kind of luck that’s gonna bring home any prizes.” Murph’s commentary proved to be more of a premonition than mere conjecture. After missing up and in with his third pitch to Thompson, then low and away with a curveball that spun harmlessly out of the strike zone, Mickey fired a 2-2 fastball that cut in on the hands of the Giants’ slugger. It appeared at first as if the placement of the pitch would be enough to tie him up, but somehow Thompson was able to drag the barrel of the bat through the zone and drop a parachute that landed just inside of the right field line before skipping up against the side wall. In the process, Stanky scampered home with the game’s first run, and the Giants had runners on second and third with nobody out.

  “Where are your leprechauns now, Bobby?” Murph griped.

  A sacrifice fly, walk, and a timely double play had Mickey out of the inning with just two runs having crossed the plate, but the damage seemed far worse. Murph’s panic was no longer contained, departing from his body like bees from a hive.

  “Hey, Les, I thought you said you talked to him? What the hell is going on?”

  “I did, Murph,” Lester replied. “But he wasn’t giving me that much. Damn if I know how to get to him.”

  “But you said he was good to go. You said that—”

  “Hey, I ain’t wearing no white coat, Murph. I said I thought he would be okay. Still might. Damned if I know. I’ll keep talking to him out there, but if you want to get inside that head of his, you need to do it yourself.”

  Mickey stumbled through the next three innings, pitching well enough to hang around. Midway through the game, he had been tagged for seven hits and had surrendered four walks, all of which resulted in six runs for the home team. But he was battling and had showed signs now and again of coming out of it. The clock, however, was ticking and already down four runs. Murph did not have the luxury of rolling the dice and risking falling further behind. It killed him to do it, but Murph pulled the kid after the fourth inning and handed the ball off to Bobby Chipman. The move, which was born strictly out of the need for damage control, acted like an ember blown in just the right direction, sparking a deflated Braves crew who just saw their rookie sensation falter. Chipman didn’t have his best stuff either, but he got the bats back in his team’s hands with much-needed dispatch, retiring the Giants in order in the home half of the fifth inning.

  Sam Jethroe got things started by working out a walk. He stole second on the very next pitch and scored easily on Ozmore’s ringing double to left field. Lester singled sharply to right, plating Ozmore, and when Tommy Holmes ripped a 2-2 changeup over the third-base bag, Holmes came around to score, carrying with him the third run of the inning. The assault was on, and even though the inning concluded with the Braves still trailing by a run, the groundswell of optimism had risen to the surface.

  Chipman further fueled the momentum by fanning the first two batters he faced in the bottom of the sixth and recording the third out on a weak comebacker. The Giants looked ill, flailing against a tide that was poised to wash over them with fury. It appeared that the home team had made some progress in stemming the swell when Sam Jethroe grounded out weakly to begin the Braves’ half of the seventh. But consecutive doubles by Willard Marshall and Bobby Elliot followed by a towering home run off the bat of Sid Gordon opened the floodgates for good.

  The Braves went on a rampage, banging out thirteen hits over the final three innings, resulting in their most prolific offensive demonstration of the season. The carousel of base runners kept spinning, depositing player after player at home plate
. It looked as though it would never stop. Many New York fans left the ballpark—it was more than they could stomach. Those who chose to stay booed loudly. And all Durocher and the Giants could do was play out the rest of the contest, hoping for an expedient, merciful end. When the final out was recorded, the scoreboard told the tale: Braves 21, Giants 8.

  Even though the Braves were feeling pretty good, there wasn’t much time to hang around and shoot the shit in the locker room; they were all due on a bus heading to Philadelphia in less than two hours for a quick two-game set with the league leaders. Mindful of their abbreviated postgame stay, most of the guys showered quickly, packed a bag, and grabbed some food that the clubhouse manager had arranged for them. The few who moved at a much less urgent pace, including Mickey and Lester, hung around at their lockers chatting before going through the necessary preparations most of the others had already completed. Murph could hear through the clubhouse office door some of the good-natured ribbing going on between both groups and smiled, even though it was distracting him from completing the next day’s lineup card. His thoughts came to a complete standstill when Ozmore walked in and sat down.

  “Hey, listen, Murph,” he began. “I know you’re busy and all, and I guess we can do this on the bus if you want, but we really need to talk about Mickey.”

  Murph nodded as if he was receptive to the request, but his face was hard and stiff and told another story.

  “So you want to talk about Mickey, now do ya?” he said, folding his arms before leaning back in his chair. “You know, Ozmore, you are really some piece of work. It’s never enough with you, is it? We’re winning, you’re hitting, and still you have to continue to—”

  “Whoa, hold on there, Murph. Easy. I think you have the wrong idea here. I just want to ask if you know what’s bothering him. And, uh, if I can help in any way.”

  Murph shifted his eyebrows and leaned forward so that he was almost entirely off his chair. “Let me make sure I heard you right. First a public declaration? And now you, you want to help Mickey? Really?”