Welcome to the Show

by Nappi, Frank;

  All sorts of vague imaginings filled her head.

  “Your mama told you that?” she asked.

  “Sure, my pa said it about Mickey,” he went on. “He told Mama. Before he passed away.”

  “Well then, if that’s what she said, then that’s wonderful, Mickey. Now you can be yourself again and think about pitching and the team and well, of course, me, too.”

  “I always think about pitching, Jolene,” he said. “Can’t be a ballplayer if you ain’t always thinking about it. Mr. Murphy told me that. A long time ago.”

  She laughed.

  “Well, just save some room up there for other things too. You know, like our walks and talks and all that. I’ve missed you, Mickey. I can’t wait to see you. As soon as I do, I’m going to give you a big hug.”

  “As soon as you see me?” he repeated. “You will see me at the ballpark, Jolene. During the game. You can’t hug Mickey while the game is going on. Maybe you can wait until it’s over and we are walking from the stadium to your house. Because I will be on the field, and you will be—”

  “That sounds perfect, Mickey,” she said. “Exactly like you said. Good night. Good luck with the Phillies tomorrow. Have a safe trip home and I will see you when you get back to Boston.”

  “Well, you won’t see me right away,” Mickey said. “First I have to—”

  She shook her head. She couldn’t help but smile when he rambled on. It was a feeling she had never known before. Like all of her vital functions—her blood flow, breathing, and heartbeat—were somehow, after all this time, operating at full capacity. She sat for quite a while, long after they had said good night, staring out an open window into the darkness that no longer seemed so dark. The cool air was sweet too. She wasn’t certain, but she thought she could hear the night singing—a gentle, rhythmic whispering of beautiful things in her ear.

  THE RACE IS ON

  A bright orange sun rose in Boston and burned with the fire and intensity that matched the headline in the Boston Globe that morning. Murph had just sat down to have his coffee when his eye caught the back page of the morning paper. His face exploded into a toothy smile.

  SURGING BRAVES POISED FOR PLAYOFF PUSH

  It was everything that he had ever dreamed of. He still could not believe it was actually happening. He could still feel the poison of a life that was slowly disintegrating right before his eyes. It wasn’t that long ago. He had thought he would never feel anything else, ever again. And now here he was, on the precipice of something even he could never have imagined. His mind flooded with thoughts of more headlines, interviews, and applause. His eyes, which had sagged from the weight of a painful past, were bright and wide and hopeful. He was a new man.

  Yet somehow, he could not shake the feeling that it was not complete. After years of searching, of dreaming of the climb to the top, the sacred chalice was well within his grasp, but somehow it was not polished. He had it in sight, only to discover that the luster he had envisioned was dulled. It gnawed at him a little, but he wasn’t foolish enough to linger there too long. The momentary spasm of doubt yielded to the realization that they were riding a seven-game winning streak after a brilliant performance against the Phillies and had eleven games left. Eleven games to catch those same Phillies, secure the National League pennant, and punch their ticket to the Fall Classic.

  So when the Dodgers rolled into town for a four-game set, everyone had just one thing on his mind—each victory would bring them that much closer to baseball’s promised land. They had three games to make up on the Phillies in the eleven that remained. And with the schedule holding exactly three more head-to-head contests, even with no help from other teams, if they could just keep winning and keep pace with the Phils, they would have a shot for sure.

  The Boston faithful arrived that night at the Bee Hive with the same excitement and expectations. They poured through the turnstiles with insatiable yearning, wedded to the vision of what awaited them in a little more than an hour’s time. Then, soon enough, under a late September sky from which emerged the fullest, brightest moon anyone had ever seen, Warren Spahn delivered the game’s first pitch.

  The action moved along at an extraordinarily rapid clip, with Spahn and Dodgers’ ace Don Newcombe stifling batters in what quickly had become a good old-fashioned pitcher’s duel. They traded zeroes for the first six innings, with neither team’s offense mounting anything even close to a threat. In fact, both hurlers were so effective that no runner on either team had even reached second base until at last, in the home half of the seventh inning, Lester scorched a double off the left field wall, instantly infusing life back into the crowd that had been almost lulled to sleep. All at once the Bee Hive was buzzing, alive with the sounds of clapping hands and stamping feet. The reenergized crowd had found its voice as well, chanting with dizzying enthusiasm the words Let’s Go Braves! Let’s Go Braves! over and over. It was pandemonium inside the Bee Hive, a tumultuous outpouring of enthusiasm that only waned after the next two batters struck out, stranding Lester at second base.

  Spahn did his part to keep the crowd poised for another outburst by disposing of the heart of the Dodgers order in easy fashion. A dribbler to second, a pop up to shortstop, and a routine fly out to center field ended the top half of the eighth inning and had the hometown heroes ready again to draw first blood. This time, the crowd would not be disappointed.

  The inning began innocently enough, with Earl Torgeson and Tommy Holmes each flying out harmlessly to right field. Newcombe was still bringing his fastball, and the smattering of off-speed deliveries he had been using was still proving quite effective in keeping the Braves’ hitters off balance. Both Torgeson and Holmes returned to the dugout muttering and scratching their heads.

  “What’s he throwing, Torgy?” Ozmore asked.

  Torgeson and Holmes both just shook their heads.

  “Shit that we can’t hit,” Torgeson said. “We better start praying for some walks or something. ’Cause we sure as hell ain’t touchin’ anything anytime soon.”

  It was almost as if Torgeson’s words ascended into the heavens and altered the grand design the minute they left his mouth. Sam Jethroe leaned into an inside curveball that did not break and ended up plunking the speedster on the elbow. Jethroe then swiped second on the very next pitch and came racing around with the game’s first run when Willard Marshall blooped a single over the second baseman’s head. The ball fell like a wounded pigeon, but once it touched down on the outfield grass, it seemed to take on the properties of a grenade. The explosion in the crowd that followed the landing rocked the stands and shook the entire building. There was hooting and hollering and cheers as the legion of Braves’ followers sensed another victory.

  “Sure does get loud in here,” Mickey said, covering his ears.

  “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet, kid,” Johnny Sain said, laughing. “These folks love to win.”

  Spahn gave them just that—a 1–0 shutout that allowed them to keep pace with the Phillies, who also happened to win that night. The excitement was infectious; everyone, even the most reserved players on the team, could not help but gush with unfettered optimism and predictions of future glory.

  Mickey, who loved to win but was ordinarily unfazed by the emotion of any game, also could not help but join in. “Mickey hopes we win again, and again, and again,” he announced to the entire locker room.

  They all laughed.

  “So, looks like our boy has caught pennant fever,” Holmes joked.

  “Yeah, guess so,” Lester said, putting his arm around Mickey and pulling him in close. “That right, Mick? You caught the bug now, did ya?”

  Mickey scanned the room, his eyes flat and clouded with their usual obscurity, and shrugged.

  “I don’t know nothing about no bug, Lester,” he said. “No, sir. No bugs. But Mickey wants to hear how loud the Bee Hive’s gonna get next time.”

  Mickey exited the room to a full chorus of laughter. He smiled—uncertain as to exactl
y why—but carried his good feeling with him nonetheless and shared it immediately with Jolene, who was waiting for him in her usual spot just outside the tunnel.

  “Jolene, did you hear all the cheering and clapping and yelling?” he asked as soon as he caught sight of her.

  “I sure did,” she said, opening up her arms as he walked toward her. “Now come over here right away. I owe you a big hug and it cannot wait any longer.”

  He bounded toward her, but once within her reach, he sputtered awkwardly. She sensed his apprehension, but threw her arms around him anyway.

  “Oh my god, it’s so good to see you,” she said, kissing his cheek while squeezing him tightly. “I really missed you.”

  “We won the game, Jolene,” he said, his arms still stiff within her embrace. “Spahny pitched.”

  “I know, I know, silly,” she said. “I was here, remember?”

  “Mickey pitches tomorrow,” he continued.

  “That’s great, Mickey. So you’re feeling good?”

  “Yeah. Feeling good.”

  “That is so great. I’m so happy to hear you say that.”

  She did not spend too much time thinking about his recovery as she was occupied with thoughts of a different nature.

  “So, Mickey. Can I, uh, ask you a question?”

  He nodded.

  “Did you miss me too? You know, while you were away?”

  The mere mention of the emotion sparked something deep inside him—like a reigniting of some old, familiar flame. He felt the same rush of blood, the same happiness of their first encounter—all the same comfort and joy filled his insides and lit his memory before traveling to his lips.

  “Mickey likes your hair, Jolene,” he said. “Looks pretty. Smells nice too.”

  “So did you—”

  “Your face is soft too. I like the way it feels on my face. Where’s your rabbit’s foot, Jolene?”

  She laughed. “Oh, I don’t need that anymore,” she said, laying her hand softly against his cheek. “I have all the luck I need.”

  Mickey seemed to be enjoying his share of good luck as well. He rode the swell of happiness he was experiencing all the way to the ballpark the next night. The emotion coursing through his veins was strong and swift and found its way to his arm. Then, in the light of a full moon that had attached itself to the young man, casting him in a celestial glow, Mickey went to work.

  It did not take long for everyone to see that he was the sharpest he had been all year. He struck out the side in the first inning on just ten pitches, and in doing so, produced a rush of thunderous applause that resonated throughout the entire ballpark. The game had only been underway a few minutes, but it was bedlam in Boston.

  “Shit,” Holmes said after trotting in from the outfield. “These people are jazzed up tonight.”

  They would have a lot to cheer about the entire night. Mickey and his pitching prowess seemed to take center stage. It began with the chants. First it was Let’s Go Mickey! Let’s Go Mickey!—a rhythmic recitation that was followed each time by a feverish clapping of hands and stomping of feet. Then, as Mickey blazed through the Dodger lineup, ringing up strikeouts at a dizzying pace, the declarations of love and affection became truncated and far more passionate. Mickey! Mickey! Mickey! rained down from the rafters as the hometown hero continued to fill the scorebook with Ks—eleven in just the first five innings.

  “He is scary tonight, Bobby, huh?” Murph whispered to Keely.

  Keely just shook his head. “I ain’t never seen anything like it. Ever.”

  By the time the seventh inning rolled around, the Braves had shifted into cruise control. They had plated seven runs and Mickey still had a stranglehold on the Dodger offense. With victory no longer a question, the crowd began amusing itself with other ways to pay homage to their rookie phenom. A group of younger, opportunistic Tussler fans made good use of a paint can the maintenance crew had left out and drew Mickey’s number eight in dark green on each other’s backs. Another group went around collecting all the hotdog wrappers they could find, which they then tore into tiny pieces and cast into the air every time Mickey fanned another batter. Others who were less resourceful, but equally inspired, simply held or waved the placards and banners they had brought with them, creating a sea of heartfelt sentiments such as MICKEY MANIA, IN MICK WE TRUST, and MICKEY FOR PRESIDENT. And of course Jolene was there too, smiling from her seat the way she always did.

  All Mickey did was continue his domination, delighting an already delirious crowd with his assault on the record books. They savored every last second of it, and when it was all said and done, the young farm boy from Indiana, who the city of Boston was still just getting to know, had punched out a record twenty batters en route to the 9–0 shutout victory. An infield single and a walk in the last inning were the only blemishes on an otherwise perfect performance and the entire team wasted no time in celebrating baseball history after the final out was recorded. An eager swarm of Braves players, led by Lester, who was still holding the ball from the final pitch, charged the mound and proceeded to jump on a stunned Mickey, who knew all the numbers but not what they meant. Then the boisterous mob hoisted onto its shoulders the brightest star that night and carried him off the field to the fevered chant of Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!

  A few hours later, Mickey and Jolene walked hand in hand from the stadium, marveling at how the brilliant moon spilled its luster over the trees that lined Commonwealth Avenue, making electric lightbulbs out of the leaves that had yet to fall.

  “Just like in that poem of yours, huh, Mick?” Jolene said. “You know. ‘Silver fruit upon silver trees?’”

  “My mama taught me that,” he said.

  “I know. I remember you telling me.”

  “But ‘Silver’ is only for trouble, Jolene, or when Mickey feels bad. That’s what Mama told me.”

  She squeezed his hand a little tighter when she felt him beginning to detach himself. “Well then, that’s not what we should be talking about now, is it?” she said. She paused for a while, as the two of them measured their steps on the sidewalk. “I got it, Mickey. How’s this? Those leaves look like tiny stars that fell from the sky. All here to say hello to you and tell you how wonderful you were tonight.”

  Mickey smiled. “Phillies lost to the Pirates. Murph told us.”

  “That’s wonderful,” she said. “Wow. You guys are even closer now.”

  “Two games behind, Jolene. And we have just a few left to play.”

  “Well, it looks like you guys are going to do it. It’s so exciting. Really. Tonight was just so great.”

  They walked some more, their thoughts colliding with the trees and sky and shadows all around them. Mickey went on some more about the games and how Murph and the others were certain that they were destined for the World Series. His mind took him to other topics as well, ranging from the shape of the carrots in Molly’s chicken potpie to the number of spokes in a bicycle wheel. His mind was racing.

  Jolene just listened. She was thinking too, but her thoughts were far more focused. All she could think about was the two of them—how they met, the improbability of such a union actually working out, and the undeniable truth that her life was markedly better since Mickey had entered her life. She was fairly certain she loved him and was remembering all the times that she had almost told him. And of course she was imagining his response—and hoping that she would know when the time was right to share her feelings with him. The uncertainty remained suspended in the artificial haze created by the red lights burning atop the Skyliner Diner.

  “Hey, Mickey, do you think we could stop for a minute before we go inside to eat?” she asked. She was lost suddenly in the soft, chilly night air; the spectacular moon that seemed set in a sky more blue than black; and the shadowy banks of New England asters that lined the sidewalks on either side of the street.

  “Mickey is real hungry, Jolene,” he said rubbing his stomach.

  “Oh, I know,” she replied. “It will o
nly take a minute or two.”

  For a split moment the weight of what she was about to say was too much for her. She even let it go momentarily, certain that it would not unfold the way she wanted it to, but recovered in time so that Mickey was still with her.

  “Remember when I asked you before if you missed me?” she asked.

  “I remember that,” he said, his attention diverted slightly by the smell of french fries and onion rings.

  “Well, the reason I was asking is—”

  “Mickey smells something good, Jolene. Real good. Do you smell it too?”

  She sighed, grabbed him by the arm, and held him still. She was so enveloped in the moment and what was about to happen, so possessed by it that she suddenly had nothing apart from it.

  “Mickey, stop for a minute,” she said. “Come on now. I’m trying to tell you something here.”

  “I know, Jolene, but I was just thinking that—”

  “What I meant by saying that I missed you is that—well, you see … I love you, Mickey. I’m happy when we’re together and sad when we’re not. I think about you all the time and when I do I get this funny feeling like maybe—”

  “Mickey loves you too, Jolene,” he said without warning.

  “What did you just say?” she asked him. Her eyes were wide and wet with growing emotion.

  “Mickey said I love you too,” he repeated. “You know. Your hair, the way you smell, and the squeaky sound you make when you laugh. Sounds like a chipmunk, I reckon.”

  “Yeah? You love those things about me? You do?” Her face glistened from the procession of tears that had begun to fall.

  “Sure, Jolene,” he said. “Heck, Mickey reckons nobody’s ever been like you before. I mean my animals and all, but that don’t count none cause they is just animals. People is what Mickey means. No people is what Mickey means. Well not always I guess. There’s my mama, and Mr. Murphy, and Lester, and when Mickey was with the Brewers, Pee Wee—”

  Before he could say another word she had both of her hands on his face and was staring into his eyes. He blinked a moment, then stared deeply into hers as well—suddenly thoughts were flashing like heat lightning. Spellbound, the two of them melted into each other, their lips locked in the perfect embrace. They were really together now.