That fervor only swelled when the Braves took the field, led by one Mickey Tussler, who ran directly to the mound where he began his usual groundskeeping routine. First it was the area directly in front of the rubber, where his right foot would eventually pivot each time he fired a pitch. He used his cleat like a gardening tool, moving it back and forth until he had created a divot that was both wide and deep enough. After wiping away the dirt that had landed accidentally on the rubber and restoring the shiny white rectangle to its original condition, he moved to the area toward the front of the mound, where he proceeded to drop to his knees in an attempt to flatten any bumps or irregularities on the earth that spoiled the perfect symmetry in his landing area. Each pass of each palm eradicated any imperfections, so that all that remained was a smooth slope that resembled a scoop of cocoa—the kind Molly always used when baking her chocolate drops or marble pound cake. Then all that was left were the finishing touches—three claps of his hands to rid himself of any remnants of dirt, followed by some spit in the middle of each, and a quick pass down the sides of his pants. Once his hands were clean, he climbed back on top of the mound, toed the rubber, and began his warm-up tosses.
Murph was not in the habit of watching Mickey warm up; he learned early that the number of idiosyncrasies, especially pregame, were enough to drive him crazy. But tonight was different. Tonight, he could not help but watch everything that was going on, trying desperately to glean some meaning behind the peculiar face of things—or any sign that things were going to be okay.
“Hey, Spahny, does he always do that—you know, the whole mound thing, with the hands and all of that?”
Spahn laughed. “No, not always,” he said, winking. “Sometimes he takes off his cleats and socks and runs in circles around the mound.”
Murph leaned against the dugout wall and shook his head. “Well, after what I just saw, I guess anything’s possible.”
The two of them chatted some more while watching Mickey complete his warm-ups. The young man seemed ready to go but was calling to Murph and pointing to the stands.
“What the hell is he doing?” Murph asked. “I swear I—”
“He’s saying something about ‘her’ being here,” Spahn said. “He’s telling you.”
“So what,” Murph grumbled. “Jolene is here every game. Why is tonight any different?”
A sick feeling grew inside of Murph as he continued to watch Mickey carry on. It only got worse as both Mickey’s antics and voice became more and more pronounced.
“Look, Mr. Murphy! Look, over there!” he screamed. “Look! Look!” He exhaled in frustration.
“I know, Mick, I know,” Murph called back. “Come on now, pitch the game. I know. Jolene is here to watch. I know. Just focus on what you’re doing out there.”
Murph’s response did nothing to alter the boy’s hysteria. His fevered cries drifted on the wind, all around the park. Everyone was staring now.
“Murph, just look over there and shut him up,” Spahn said. “It’s getting a little embarrassing now.”
Feeling guilty that he had mishandled the situation, Murph took two steps out of the dugout and looked over to the area behind home plate. He saw her instantly, her familiar eyes and warm smile. He waved to her, as if he were seeing her for the first time in his life. She waved back. Then before he returned to the dugout, she smiled again and mouthed the words “Surprise! I love you, Arthur.” Surprised he was. It was Molly.
He could not believe Molly had kept it from him and laughed now as he recalled some of the more obvious comments she had made regarding why she could not make the trip. He felt foolish that he had doubted her but was still a little annoyed that she hadn’t told him her intentions. Knowing she was coming would certainly have taken the edge off. Still, he was happy she was there. So was Mickey, who finally managed to settle down once he knew that Murph had seen Molly.
With his eyes still engaged in a dance between those two seats behind home plate and the Phillies leadoff man Richie Ashburn, who was just making his way to the batter’s box from the on-deck circle, Mickey stood atop the rubber, readying himself for the game’s first confrontation. It was a matchup that favored Mickey and the Braves. Ashburn was enjoying a good season at the plate, sporting a .303 batting average to go along with his team-leading 180 hits, but he had struggled the few times he had faced Mickey before. Lester recalled the approach that had neutralized Ashburn before—hard stuff in tight to get ahead and off speed away to finish him—and went to work immediately with the same plan. Mickey was his usual agreeable self, nodding each time Lester called for a particular pitch in a certain location.
The two of them could not have scripted it any better. Ashburn saw just five pitches. The first fastball Mickey fired was a dart that painted the inside corner for a called strike one. He followed that with another heater that Ashburn fouled off, placing the game’s first batter in an 0-2 hole. The crowd, which was just itching for an excuse to get up and cheer, rose to its feet and roared in anticipation of the first of twenty-seven outs they needed to keep their date with the mighty New York Yankees on the biggest stage in sports. They’d have to wait, at least a little longer.
Mickey’s 0-2 curveball was sharp, but Ashburn did not bite. He also passed on the next offering, a letter high purpose pitch that buzzed by off the inner part of the plate. Ashburn removed one foot from the box, collected himself, and stepped back in. Mickey, who had remained on the rubber while Ashburn caught his breath, took Lester’s sign, wound up, and fired. Ashburn, finally aware of the strategy that was being employed, was looking at the curveball all the way. He was not going to get beaten the same way again. He would lay off the breaking stuff until he got something hard out over the plate. He had all but settled the thought in his head when he saw that the ball was not tumbling toward him the way all of the previous breaking balls had. This was a straight, flat trajectory, indicative of a fastball. Even better. He wouldn’t have to wait. He would spoil the change in plans, the stratagem intended to take him by surprise. This was the last thought in his head before he loaded his hands, grit his teeth, and swung mightily.
The bat, which whipped through the hitting zone, caught nothing but air as the ball took an unexpected dive into Lester’s glove, which had been hovering patiently just above the dirt. Once the ball was past him, Ashburn’s shoulders sagged, his head hung, and his legs bowed some. He dragged himself back to the dugout, muttering something about changeups and loaded balls. He was livid, but nobody could hear him because, following the umpire’s call of “strike three,” the crowd erupted in thunderous applause and the collective recitation of Mickey! Mickey! Mickey! It was the perfect start to the game.
As the innings wore on, the contest resembled more of a tennis match than a baseball game. Mickey and Phillies’ starter Bob Miller traded zeroes for the first three innings, each of them cruising through the opposing lineup in perfect fashion. It made for a quick start and had inadvertently subdued the once boisterous legion of Braves worshippers who, despite their vocal support and appreciation of Mickey’s efforts, seemed now to be waiting patiently for their team to break out on top.
“Not much happening so far, huh?” Molly said. “Seems sort of strange.”
“Yes, I know what you mean,” Jolene said. “I’ve seen every game, and this isn’t usually how it goes.”
They both labored a bit beneath the veil of awkwardness that hung over them.
“Well, at least Mickey is doing really well,” Jolene finally said. She was fiddling nervously with the keys in her pocket as she spoke. “He really is something.”
“He is something,” Molly said. “Something very special. It’s important you know and understand that, Jolene.”
Both of Jolene’s hands grew still. A wave of anxiety washed over her. “Look, Mrs. Tussler, I understand completely where you’re coming from. I do. But you have to believe that I care about Mickey. I do. I know all about some of what’s happened to him and I would never do
anything like that. Or hurt him. You don’t know me very well yet, but the truth is that Mickey and me are a lot alike.”
Molly smiled and placed her hand on Jolene’s knee.
“I know, dear. Arthur has told me all about you,” she said. “Thank you for being his friend and for looking out for him. It’s just that—well, he’s not easy, Jolene. It has been a struggle with him. I know you understand that Mickey is not like the other guys you might know. I just think you should know what you’re getting into here.”
Jolene hesitated, considering the implications of such a statement. “That’s just it, Mrs. Tussler. That’s why I feel the way I do about Mickey. Because he’s not like those other guys. I knew it the second I met him.”
Molly was pleased. She felt that Jolene was sincere. It eased her mind considerably and made her comfortable to the point of almost sharing some stories of her son’s life, when Lester, leading off the bottom of the fourth inning, drove a 1–2 slider over the left field wall to put the Braves on top 1–0. The eruption in the stands made it impossible to do anything except revel in the comfort of a Braves’ lead.
But the jubilation did not last long. The Phillies answered right back with a tally of their own, manufactured by a walk, a single, and two sacrifice fly balls. The seesaw battle continued for the rest of the game, with the teams changing leads on four different occasions. The last one came when the Braves tied the score at 6–6 in the home half of the eighth after Sam Jethroe’s suicide squeeze bunt scored Earl Torgeson, just when it was beginning to look like the hometown heroes were going to fall just a little short.
The euphoria created by the turn of events spilled into the ninth and final frame and then into extra innings as well, where the mirth and merriment that had flowed suddenly converted into heart-pounding anxiety at the thought of just how tenuous the future really was. Fortune could be decided by one bad bounce or a few inches one way or another. They all knew how fickle the game could be. All of it could disappear in a heartbeat. All of it, just like that. Hopes, dreams, and this incredible run they had all been enjoying. Up in smoke. It gave pause for thought. All forty-five thousand minds were joined by this one horrible thought—the end of the season would bring with it not only the usual emptiness that accompanies the season’s end but the death of the vision to which they were all wedded—a date with the mighty New York Yankees in the Fall Classic.
The anxiety-riddled spectators breathed a little easier when Murph sent Mickey out for the top of the tenth. Even though the Phillies had managed to scratch out five runs against Boston’s rookie sensation, all but one were of the unearned variety. Mickey had been sharp all night, still had good stuff, and appeared to be just as strong—if not stronger—as he was at game’s start.
Murph had struggled a little over sending Mickey out again, simply because the young man had never pitched this far into a game before and certainly not one of this magnitude, but the concern left his manner instantly when Mickey disposed of Del Ennis with easy fashion, fanning him on a 1-2 fastball that exploded in Lester’s glove. The crowd was delighted, roaring its approval with an impassioned homage to its favorite player.
Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!
The energy inside the Bee Hive increased more and more with every pitch Mickey threw. Every strike recorded was like a magic carpet, transporting everyone in the building closer and closer to baseball’s promised land. It was pandemonium. When the final strike of the inning was thrown, and the Braves hustled off the field and prepared to take what everyone hoped was their final at bat, all in Braves nation were on their feet, chanting and screaming in a frenetic attempt to will the team to victory.
Bob Miller began the bottom of the tenth inning for the Phillies. He had not been as sharp as Mickey, but had been helped out by some stellar defense behind him and a couple of fortuitous bounces and calls by the umpiring crew. He had also been largely unaffected by the raucous atmosphere that seemed to deepen as the night wore on. He was still okay as he prepared to face Buddy Ozmore to begin the first extra frame, but after he bounced the first pitch in front of home plate and missed again in the dirt with his second delivery, Miller began to unravel. All at once he felt sick and swallowed. The despair was palpable. Everyone in the Braves dugout saw it. Every fan saw it. Everyone—even the two pigeons that had come to rest atop the screen behind home plate—saw it. Eddie Sawyer was watching too. And he had seen enough.
“Time,” he called. Then he began that long walk out to the mound, his eyes fixed to the ground the entire time. It was only when he reached the mound that he picked up his head.
“Did a good job, Bobby,” he said flatly. “Really. Pitched your heart out.” Miller slumped. Then Sawyer held out his open palm, and the hurler dropped the ball and limped off the field.
After a motion to the outfield, summoning reliever Kenny Johnson from the bullpen, Sawyer sighed. He stood with his hands on his hips, his feet busy moving some loose dirt around with his feet while he waited for Johnson to arrive. When he finally got there, the exchange was brief.
“Throw strikes, Kenny,” he said handing him the ball. “Just throw strikes.” Sawyer raised his eyebrows and tilted his head slightly to one side. Then he patted his catcher on the back and followed the same path back to the dugout.
Johnson, who had only just begun to get loose when Sawyer made the call and thus was visibly annoyed by the premature request, was equally unhappy about the 2-0 count he had inherited. His irritation was evident by his uncharacteristic lack of control—both of his first two offerings missed high, sending Ozmore to first base and an inconsolable Eddie Sawyer to the water cooler.
Sid Gordon was next for Boston. Johnson regrouped once Gordon stepped in, his wide, gleaming eyes stared at the catcher, who was hard at work flashing signs. Common sense dictated that Sid Gordon would be squaring around to bunt in order to advance Ozmore into scoring position. So with the most rudimentary of baseball logic as their guide, the new Phillies battery opted for a curveball to start off Gordon, knowing full well that a breaking pitch was a lot harder to lay down than a fastball.
With the crowd now fully immersed in a fit of delirium, Johnson came set. He checked Ozmore at first, refocused his ambition on Gordon and the catcher’s glove, then broke off a beautiful curveball that initiated its flight at shoulder level but began a sharp descent as it entered the hitting zone. Gordon, who had squared around early and had both eyes fixed on the spinning ball, followed its path dutifully, determined to offer himself up as part of Murph’s plan to build the winning run. He watched it all the way in, and just as it was about to cross the plate and touch down softly in the catcher’s glove, he dropped the bat head and caught it on point, deadening the pitch so that it rolled quietly and with purpose up the third baseline. Johnson, the catcher, and the third baseman all converged on the ball, but it was Johnson who fielded it, turned, and fired to first base, nipping Gordon by an eyelash. The athletic play resulted in the inning’s first out, but it was of small consequence; the mission had been accomplished—Ozmore was standing on second base clapping his hands and calling to the bench for someone to drive him home.
Connie Ryan would be the first one to take a shot at fulfilling Ozmore’s request. He came to the plate, serenaded by thunderous applause and the rhythmic chant of Connie! Connie! Connie! His adrenaline surged with each blast of his name. He had been given an opportunity of a lifetime, the kind of moment that every little boy dreams of while playing pick-up games with his friends. One hit—just one hit could send the Braves and their fans to the World Series. And now there he was, determined to do just that.
Johnson, however, seemed unfazed by the implication of the moment. He felt only a tiny pinprick of anxiety—not enough to make any real difference in his performance—and even that subsided when he considered that he had an open base to work with. He was a seasoned veteran, one who had managed to extricate himself from similar jams many times before. This was no different. He had the upper hand for sure. Ryan
would have to hit his pitch.
To the casual observer, Ryan appeared to be sporting the same equanimity. Perhaps it was because he, too, knew that Johnson was not obligated to throw him anything good to hit. So he dug in the way he always did, loaded his hands in the hitting position, and waited patiently for Johnson to initiate the dance.
But Ryan’s icy veneer belied the storm raging inside of him. His heart was rioting, pounding against the walls of his chest so violently that he could no longer hear the hoots and hollers from the crowd. His blood bubbled and burned, passing under his skin like a rush of lava. The sudden change in temperature made him sweat beneath his flannels. It cooked his thoughts as well. What if Johnson did challenge him? Crossed him up and decided to go right after him. Would he be up to the task? Would he be ready? The uncertainty was killing him. He thought about calling time, about stepping out to regroup, but he felt paralyzed and before the words could pass his lips, Johnson had reared back and fired.
The ball approached him as if it had been thrown in a wind tunnel. It was a fastball but he saw it as if it were traveling at half its speed. Somehow it appeared larger, too. His eyes widened as it came closer and closer, and for a split second disbelief sullied the vision. It had to be a mistake. How could Johnson leave such a fat pitch over the center of the plate? He had to be dreaming. But illusion or not, Ryan was there to play. He started his hands, swung with great power and precision, and slammed the sweet spot of the ball with the barrel of his bat. The collision jolted him back into the game and had him entertaining visions of postgame adulation and glory.
The contact was perfect and sent the miscue screaming toward the left center field gap. Phillies’ center fielder Richie Ashburn, who had been playing more shallow than normal in order to shorten any potential throw home, got on his horse instantly—turned and hightailed it toward the cavernous area for which the blast seemed destined. His cleats tore through the grass, leaving behind him a mini-cyclone of severed green blades.
Welcome to the Show Page 24
