Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  As we pulled out of the parking garage, a giant weight lifted from our shoulders. I suggested we go to the George Diamond Steak House and celebrate. As we made the drive from the hospital, I thought about the feelings and anxiety I had experienced over the past few weeks worrying about my father’s health. Since it would just be the two of us at dinner, I started assembling in my mind the questions I wanted my dad to answer. There were a lot of things I wanted to ask him and never had. Now was the time.

  We sat down at a small corner table, he on one side and me on the other. I knew there would not be a better time, so I began:

  “Dad, I have a question for you.”

  He just looked at me and smiled.

  “You’ve been a wonderful father. You’ve always supported all of us in any and every way. We were never left wanting anything, and you never missed anything we did—drum & bugle corps, band, you were always there.”

  A warm smile spread across my dad’s face. “I wouldn’t have missed any of it for anything.”

  I took a deep breath, held it a second, and slowly exhaled. “But … you never came to any of my baseball games and you would never play catch with me.” I paused and watched his smile dissipate. “Why?”

  “Baseball is not important. It’s just a game.” His voice was low, measured, steady. He turned to find our waitress and place our order. It was obvious he didn’t want to discuss it.

  “I know baseball is not important in the grand scheme of things. But neither is drum & bugle corps, or band, or much of anything else I did. But you always came to see anything and everything—everything, that is, except my baseball games.”

  Dad held my eye but did not respond.

  “Tell me about that letter, dad.”

  “What letter?”

  “You know what letter. The letter from the Pittsburgh Pirates. The letter that said you were to report to Greenville, Mississippi, in 1949.” I paused again to give him time to respond, but he just looked away into the distance as if studying something on the horizon no one else could see.

  I knew I was pushing things, but I had to know. “You must have been pretty good. They don’t send letters like that to everyone. Did you go?” I asked.

  Dad shrugged before lifting his water glass to his lips. “Your mom is going to be relieved when we tell her what the doctor said.”

  “Dad! Why won’t you talk to me about this?”

  “Because it doesn’t matter. It means nothing. And besides … it’s just not an interesting story. I’ve put that part of my life behind me.” He paused and thought for a moment. “It just doesn’t exist anymore.”

  “But I want to know, dad,” I insisted. “I need to know.”

  “I know you want to know more about it, but it’s just not something I feel good talking about. There are some things that are better left in the past. This is one of them. Let’s change the subject.”

  Neither of us spoke about it again until after dinner. Uncomfortable small talk filled the minutes until the waitress served us our dessert. As we ate in silence I decided to broach the subject one final time.

  “Did you go to Greenville?”

  Dad lifted his eyes and looked directly into mine. “Yes.”

  “And?”

  “And what?”

  I pushed aside my partially finished slice of cheesecake and leaned forward on my forearms. “If you would have died a few weeks ago, I would not have known much about your life before I was born. I am your son, and I want to know. I want to know what there is about baseball that makes you clam up.”

  “Why is this so important to you?”

  The question made me stop and think about it. Why was it so important to me? I had never really thought about it that way. “Because,” I began after collecting my thoughts, “you’re my father. I love you. A few weeks ago, while I was driving to the hospital, I realized that someday you’ll be gone. I want to know everything about your life, and I really don’t know anything about it.”

  My dad placed his elbow on the tabletop and rested his head in his hand, rubbing his furrowed forehead and nodding in slow resignation.

  And then he began to speak.

  Chapter 2

  July 21, 1941

  Summers in Southern Illinois are hot, and July 1941 was hotter and more humid than most. Sesser is a small country town in “downstate” Illinois, ninety miles southeast of St. Louis. Although the entire country had suffered from the ravages of the Great Depression, this small coal mining town was particularly hard hit. Ten years into the economic misery and not a sign of recovery was anywhere to be seen. Once a thriving little mining town, Sesser and its coal mine, Old Ben #9, were now all but spent. Only a skeleton crew remained to work the mine.

  Dirt poor and seemingly dying, Sesser had its interesting quirks. The town’s single strand of Christmas lights spanned Main Street between the old decaying Sesser Opera House and the now-closed Miners Building and Loan. The lights stayed up year-round, but were only switched on between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day.

  Although most of Sesser’s once-bustling downtown area was now empty, Bruno’s Mine Shaft Inn, the local tap, was always busy. The town’s men gathered there every evening to drown their sorrows in St. Louis’ finest: Busch Beer. Bruno’s atmosphere was dark and dingy. The elegant cherry woodwork had once reflected the craftsmanship of years past. Now the wood was chipped and dusty. Although clean, the hardwood floor creaked with every step and was in desperate need of refinishing.

  Hanging on the wall, opposite the bar that stretched from the front window to the back of the long narrow room, was a reprint of the painting “Last Stand at The Alamo.” The art had been commissioned by the now defunct Radeke Brewing Company of Kankakee and distributed to local beer joints in 1919. The old and dusty print featured Davy Crockett in his coonskin cap, swinging his trusted musket ‘Ole Betsy’ as a club to knock attacking Mexicans off the wall. The beautifully framed print was the focal point at Bruno’s, and never failed to elicit animated discussion. The Alamo was one of America’s defining moments, and it was not hard for the patrons to see similarities between the storm that engulfed the small mission and the tidal wave of despair and bad luck that had swept across Sesser. The town was now as dead as Crockett himself.

  The talk in Bruno’s usually focused on the misery of its patrons. Farms were little more than dust bowls. Little coal was coming from the mine. Few had enough to eat, and many had nothing at all except what others were willing to share. There were many things to argue and disagree about, but one thing nearly everyone in Sesser agreed upon: President Hoover had sold their lives down the river. “You vote Republican, you’ll pick shit with the chickens,” Bruno Pilate often proclaimed from behind the bar. The pronouncement was always answered by raised glasses and salutes to President Franklin D. Roosevelt.

  There was also a popular topic of conversation of a more positive variety: “the kid.” Sesser’s townsfolk didn’t have much, but they loved their baseball. “The kid” who was causing all the talk was a young local named Gene Moore, a teenager from a dirt-poor family living on the east side of the tracks. Gene had been tearing up the Sesser ball diamond, or what the locals called “The Lumberyard,” in a loose reference to the faded sign hanging on the centerfield fence advertising “Huie Lumber.”

  The Cardinals were the favorite Major League team in these parts, but a trip to St. Louis and a ticket to the game were just a dream. So Sesser folk loved their Egyptians. The Southern Illinois team was a semi-pro organization made up of has-been players and young up-and-comers. On paper, the average age of the Egyptians was 27. Gene pulled the average down and skewed the true make-up of the team, however, because he was just 15. The Egyptians were the pride and joy of not just Sesser, but all of Southern Illinois. For reasons long since forgotten, this region of the state was known as “Little Egypt.” Gene was the team’s starting catcher, and was quickly becoming well known across the state—and beyond.

  The only known pi
cture of Gene Moore playing with the Sesser Egyptians, circa 1941. Back row: Gene Moore, “The Pride of the Egyptians,” is standing fourth from the left. Standing next to Gene, with his arm on another man’s shoulder, is Barney Daniels. On the far right is Harry Boyd. Front row: kneeling in the center is Walter Klein, and on the far right is Hobart Sammons. Unfortunately, the names of the rest of the players are unknown.

  In baseball, a good catcher controls the game. He calms or fires up the pitcher, and calls for various pitches to be thrown. With a full view of the field, the catcher can move the defense around to better match his view of where the ball might be hit. At barely 15, Gene controlled the game—not just from behind the plate but also with his bat. He led the team in home runs, walks, and, of course, strikeouts. Gene Moore was a boy playing like a man, in a game played by men who act like boys.

  The Egyptians’ catcher was a big farm kid, six feet tall with his wide shoulders and a large frame set upon a pair of spindly legs. His hair was shiny, thick, and as black as the coal Sesser workers used to pull from Big Ben #9. When he slipped on his catcher’s mask and squatted behind the plate, Gene looked like an all-star catcher in his mid-to-late twenties. It was not until he peeled off the mask that fans in the stands realized he was but a boy, too young to shave.

  On July 21, 1941, Gene was warming up Davy Thompson in the bullpen a few minutes before the game. Davy was a tall, red-headed 23year-old flame-thrower. He was playing with the Egyptians during his recovery from a spring training injury he suffered with the Class C minor league team of the Detroit Tigers in Evansville. Almost fully healed, Davy was looking forward to returning to Evansville the following week.

  “Come on Davy … your slider’s not sliding! Get your release up over your shoulder or they’re gonna knock you off the mound today,” spat Gene through his mask. The 15-year-old was coaching the pro pitcher with the confidence of a veteran. The odd thing was that Davy, eight years older than Gene, listened and responded with enthusiasm.

  After a few more pitches, Davy was ready. He walked out of the bullpen, slipped his jacket over his arm, nodded and smiled to Gene, and headed for the bench.

  The umpire was old Joe “Vino” Caveglia. Joe lived for baseball, and he had played the game passionately until his body no longer permitted it. Unable to stay away from ball park, he began calling games. Old Joe was the preferred umpire for any game played in and around Sesser.

  “Vino” watched as the young catcher ambled onto the field and stood behind the plate. With his mask in hand, Gene looked over the Lumberyard. It was barely suitable for a game of baseball at any level. There were more weeds in the field than grass, and the weathered green bleachers were in desperate need of a fresh coat of paint. Despite its ramshackle condition, The Lumberyard was home and all Gene could think of when he slipped his mask over his head was how much he loved to play the game. His thoughts were interrupted by a stranger’s voice coming from behind the chicken-wire backstop.

  “You catch one heck of a game, son.” Gene twisted his head to see an older man standing behind the backstop. He was dressed in a long sleeved, starched, and pressed white shirt, accented with a bright blue tie. His tan face, rugged and weathered, was framed by short light brown hair highlighted with a touch of gray on both temples.

  Gene flipped up his mask. “Thanks.”

  “You hit that ball last night four-hundred feet,” the stranger continued. “I know. I walked it off this morning. That’s one heck of a wallop for a kid!”

  “I am not a kid!” Gene snapped.

  “How old are you, son?”

  “I’ll be 16,” Gene answered, looking over the field before turning his gaze back to the stranger, adding in a barely audible voice, “next year.”

  The stranger laughed, “Well, I didn’t mean anything by that, other than to compliment you on your skill on the field for such a young man.”

  “Thank you,” replied Gene, who trotted off toward the dugout wondering who the stranger was and why he was sitting behind a chicken-wire backstop in Sesser, Illinois.

  Frank Boudreau knew baseball, and he had an eye for talent. A veteran scout for the Brooklyn Dodgers, Frank knew a future Major Leaguer when he saw one, and Gene Moore was exactly that. The kid swung a big bat fast and hard and controlled the game like a field marshal. What really impressed Frank was that older ballplayers listened to this kid about how to play ball. Gene was not just an equal, but a team leader. Frank knew from experience that the only thing that mattered when you stepped onto a baseball field was what you know and what you could do. And Gene seemed to be able to do it all and everyone respected him for it, fans and teammates alike.

  “I gotta sign this kid before anyone else sees him,” Frank mumbled to himself as he walked back to the bleachers. “Yeah, I gotta sign this kid.”

  Frank had been around the game for a long, long time. He knocked around the Dodgers’ farm system as a mediocre utility infielder, then as a pretty good coach. But his abilities were best employed as a scout. Frank knew and loved baseball, but never had the tools to make it to the big leagues. The Dodgers organization liked his sharp eye for talent. He was a trusted scout, but like every other job in baseball, on or off the field, he had to keep producing. Frank needed a big signing. The last three players he had inked deals with fizzled, so his standing in the organization and his future with the Dodgers depended on his bringing in a big fish.

  Frank took a seat in the bleachers near the plate, on the first base side. It was there he began questioning his instincts. His current prospect was a 15-year-old boy? Sure he hit the ball a mile last night, but the shot could have been nothing more than a lucky fast swing at exactly the right place. Did he want to risk his reputation on one long ball? What are the odds a young kid could consistently do that? Frank’s anxiety grew as he waited to see how Gene did that day against a quality team. And the Paducah Wildcats were recognized as the league’s best. They swept last year’s championship series and looked unstoppable again this year.

  Frank watched as Gene walked out of the dugout and took his place behind the plate as if he owned it. Davy Thompson ambled up to the mound and took his last few warm-up pitches. Davy threw hard. Frank didn’t know how fast Davy’s fastball was, but he could hear the ball pop into Gene’s mitt. It was a sound every ballplayer loved to hear.

  From the first pitch Frank was drawn deeply into the game, mesmerized by what he saw the boy behind the plate do on the field. The game was tight for a few innings. Gene homered in the first, struck out in the third, smacked a double in the fifth, struck out again in the seventh, and hit a long line drive double in the ninth. Through it all Frank saw exactly what he knew to be true: a boy who knew the game of baseball inside and out and could control the game from behind the plate. The Egyptians won 12-2.

  As the teams cleared the field, Gene paused to talk with his teammates and dissect the game. Frank made his move, sliding his way between players and fans to reach the knot of elated Egyptians.

  “Gene, can I speak with you for a minute?” asked Frank, guiding the catcher over to one side. When they were out of earshot of the rest of the players he made his own pitch. “My name is Frank Boudreau. I’m a scout with the Dodgers.”

  “Dodgers? Where do they play?” Gene asked.

  “Brooklyn, of course! You’ve never heard of the Brooklyn Dodgers?” Frank’s eyebrows arched up in a look of genuine surprise.

  Gene stared at Frank for a moment and rubbed his eyebrows in disbelief. “You’re a scout for the Brooklyn Dodgers Major League baseball team?”

  Frank nodded and reached inside his shirt pocket. “Here’s my card, Gene.”

  The catcher gazed at the crisp white card he suddenly found in his dusty hand. He ran his finger over the raised “Dodger blue” letters as though holding something of great value. He looked up at the scout. Unsure what to say, he said nothing.

  “I don’t know if you know this, but there is a Gene Moore playing for the Dodgers right now,” s
aid Frank.

  A small smile broke across Gene’s face. “I know. An outfielder. He came up through the Reds organization.”

  Frank laughed. “You know more about him than I do. But, today, you are the Gene Moore I’m interested in. Let me tell you what I saw. I saw a young man with tremendous bat speed who hits harder than anyone I know, and certainly harder than anyone I have ever seen at your age. There are a lot of hard hitters around, but the fact is, you catch one hell of a game and shoot the ball down to second base as fast and as accurately as I have ever seen. Good catchers are common, Gene. Great catchers, now that’s something altogether different. They are few and far between.” Frank paused for a few seconds to let his words sink in. “Gene, you are a great catcher.”

  “I love to catch,” Gene answered truthfully. “More than anything.”

  “I know and it shows every time you take the field,” Frank continued. “Mechanically, you’re excellent, but what makes you so much fun to watch is how you control the game. You’re mature beyond your years and you play each game like it’s the seventh game of the World Series. I love passionate ballplayers, and, above everything I’ve seen while watching, you play with heartfelt passion. I think the Dodgers would rather have you in their organization than have you playing for the opposition.”

  “What do you mean?” Gene asked innocently.

  “Gene,” Frank continued, “I’d like to meet your parents.”

  “Why? What do they have to do with the Brooklyn Dodgers?”

  “I need to discuss this with your mom and dad. If you’d like to play professional baseball, I’d like to offer you a contract with the Brooklyn Dodgers. But you’re only 15, son, and I need to talk this over with your parents.”

  Gene stared down at his worn catcher’s mitt, not believing what he was hearing. He tried to swallow but his mouth was so dry he could barely open it to speak. He looked up one more time at the stranger with the pressed white shirt and sharp business card and managed to stammer out, “You mean Leo Durocher’s Brooklyn Dodgers?”