Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  Skip stuck his cigar back into place and spit a piece of it out the side of his mouth. “No, you’re not their keeper, but they don’t seem to see it that way. They try to talk like you, act like you, hell, sometimes if I didn’t know better, I think I see them limping like you!”

  Gene glared back at the manager. “Well, I’m here and I’m ready to play ball. If they want to act like me, tell them to get their candy asses up off the floor and get ready for the game! They already know I don’t drink, so this has nothing to do with them wanting to be me.”

  “Gene, let me tell you something,” the manager continued, lowering his voice a few notches. “You’re a natural leader, whether you like it or not. If you go out at night, drinking or not, they are going to go out. Hell, some of these kids aren’t even old enough to go into a bar.” Skip started to walk away, but changed his mind and stepped up in Gene’s face. “Gene. Listen to me. You take these kids out, I don’t care if you’re not drinking. If they drink all night, I will release you. And damn it, I mean it!”

  Gene could not believe what he was hearing. He threw down his mitt and turned his hands up as if to plead his case. “Wait a minute! Let me get this straight. I’m not hung over and I’m ready to play, but if they’re out drinking, you’ll release me? Did I get that right, Skip?”

  “Listen, I don’t have time to baby-sit a bunch of hung-over wannabes who are out trying to keep up with you. Do you understand me, mister?”

  “No, Skip, I really don’t understand you,” the catcher shot back. “But you’re the manager, so whatever you say, goes.”

  “That’s right, and don’t forget it!” Skip turned toward the rest of the team, or at least those players not still hugging toilets. “Get suited up and get out on that field before I say something else I don’t mean and doesn’t make sense!”

  Gene shook his head and sought out his locker. He was surprised by Skip’s attitude, and even thought it humorous in a way, but by the time he was ready to tie his cleats the whole conversation was starting to eat away at him. Steve was walking by when Gene slammed his locker door shut.

  “You okay, Gene?”

  “Did you hear the crap I got from Skip, Steve?”

  The third base coach shrugged. “Yeah, I heard it. You still don’t get it, do you?”

  “No, I guess I don’t, coach,” Gene replied. “Explain it to me.”

  “You’re the leader and these kids will listen to you. You’re older, you’ve been to war, you’ve been part of the Dodgers organization. This team was not going anywhere until you arrived. Skip can smell a shot at the league championship. So can I.”

  Gene took a deep breath and sighed. Steve was right. “Coach,” he began before being cut off.

  “Gene, listen. It’s not just you and Ray who are trying to make it. Skip and me, well, we would love a shot at managing in Pittsburgh, or anywhere else for that matter. We all want to move up, Gene. You think you aren’t a young man any more? Skip knows his time’s running out fast. He needs this team to win and he needs you to get these kids under control. That’s all he’s really asking for. He’s not mad at you. The old guy just wants to win. Will you help him, Gene?”

  A few lockers away, Mike Kick was suffering from the dry heaves. “Sure, coach,” Gene sighed. Everyone has dreams and goals. Gene of all people knew and appreciated that.

  “Look out, Gene. Skip’s about to give his pre-game speech,” warned Steve. “He has his stool with him. Be ready to duck!”

  “Alright everyone, hear this! Take a knee!” Skip announced while standing on a stool at the other end of the locker room. The Pirates gathered around him. “I’m madder than hell. I don’t give a rat’s ass how sick or hung over you are. You will play today, you will play well today, and you will win today. We’re gonna sweep that fat son-of-a-bitch, and leave here with all the marbles. Am I making myself clear?”

  Skip stepped down without waiting for a reply or a question. He grabbed his stool, threw it against the wall, and stormed out the door and onto the field.

  “Told you to duck,” Steve said to Gene.

  It was well above one hundred degrees on the field that day. Not exactly the perfect weather for a hang over. Gene sat the game out, his ankle wrapped in ice. For a couple innings the game remained tied at zero. It busted wide open in the third, and the Greenville Pirates were shut out by the Tuscaloosa Braves 7-0. Skip’s sweep of Leo “The Mouth” Gambini was not to be.

  The players loaded their gear on the bus for the long ride home. Gene found a seat near the front.

  “Gene, you got a minute?” Skip asked. He was remarkably calm after the game, almost eerily so.

  “Sure, Skip, grab a seat.”

  “First of all, let me tell you something,” he began. “I don’t apologize well, Gene. I hate it, but it’s the truth. I’m sorry.”

  “No need, Skip. I’m fine,” Gene responded.

  “I wanna tell you what was on my mind this morning and why I acted like I did. Hell, I know what I said didn’t make sense, and I knew it when I was yelling it. You wait until you have kids. You’ll find yourself yelling stupid things at them all the time.” He shook his head.

  “Skip, you don’t have to tell me anything.”

  “Yes, I do. So hear me out.”

  It was then that Gene realized something besides that day’s loss was bothering the manager. “Okay, you’re the boss.”

  “When you first got here, I didn’t think you had a snowball’s chance in hell of making it,” Skip admitted. “I was mad as hell with Frank for sending you to me. Your ankle, it’s a mess, and you have to admit,” Skip continued, trying to keep his voice as low as he could, which took some effort, “you didn’t exactly make a stellar first impression.”

  Gene smiled, remembering how he arrived smelling of beer and onions. “No, I suppose I didn’t.”

  Skip pulled out his cigar and studied it. “But you’ve made a believer out of me. If you had two good ankles, you’d be catching in Pittsburgh right now and we’d all be reading about you in the papers.” He sighed. “But that’s not how it is, son. You’re here, on this old bus, playing in the minors with a has-been old manager on the wrong side of sixty, and your ankle is what it is. You know what I mean?”

  “I know it, Skip, and it eats at me every day. I have no illusions about my future. My goal is to get Ray to Pittsburgh. If I can do that, I’ve done my job.”

  “I want you to make it to the majors, Gene. More than I’ve wanted any other player to get there. Your ankle is what it is because you served your country. But you have the bat, and you still have the arm—everyone knows you have the heart. It seems only right for you to make it all the way.” Skip pulled at his nose as if the compliments made him uncomfortable.

  Gene shrugged. “I try not to think about it, Skip. Being here in Greenville, I’ve come to terms with reality.”

  “I sense that, I do” answered the manager as he eyed his catcher closely. “You’re protecting your feelings. But Gene, if you are going to make it, it will be only because you believe you can and play as if there is no tomorrow. I was angry this morning—not really at you, but about you. I’m going to bat for you, son. I will make sure the Pirates take notice. I want you playing at Forbes Field. I want you to own that damn old stadium. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

  Gene didn’t know what to say. He thought for a few moments before replying, “I appreciate it, coach. Let’s get Ray there and we’ll see what happens with me. Fair enough?”

  “No, damn it!” Skipped barked, “that’s not fair enough and that’s what I’m getting at. If you don’t believe in yourself, it will not happen, period. You believe more in Ray Laws right now than you do in Gene Moore.”

  Gene tightened his ankle, felt the ache, and bit his lip into silence. “There is a good reason for that,” he thought.

  The player and manager sat quietly for a few moments. Skip broke the silence by slapping Gene’s thigh and standing up. “We should b
e leaving soon. Try to get some sleep.”

  Gene nodded and limped to the back of the bus. Skip looked out the window, and when he saw Ray and Steve talking, decided to join them. “What are you two yapping about without me?” he asked as he stepped off the bus.

  Steve answered, “Nothing important, Skip.”

  “Well, let me give you something to talk about, and it’s damn important,” Skip said. “I think we’ve got a problem. I don’t think Gene believes he can make it. He’s playing great, but I see it in his every move. He’s doing this for you, Ray. If you weren’t here, the pain he’s in he’d quit tomorrow. His goal is to get you to the majors, and that’s admirable, but he’s cutting himself short.”

  “How can you say that, Skip?” Ray protested. “The guy almost knocked over the scoreboard two days ago, and saved my perfect game yesterday. That’s what you call giving up?”

  Skip dug into his pocket to find another cigar. “Laws, I know you got something upstairs, so try and focus on what I am telling you.” When he found his fresh cigar, Skip bit off one end, spat it to one side, and stuck the stogie into his mouth. “I didn’t say he’s given up. I just don’t think he’s got that edge that comes with realizing your dream is within your reach. He’s still a great ballplayer, and how the hell he catches like that is a real head scratcher. I’m just saying that with his ankle, he has to be better than great, or the Pirates won’t take a chance on him. They know his story, and they want to. But they’re a business that depends on winning.”

  “Let me talk to him,” Ray answered. “I’ll get him motivated.”

  “That’s not it, Ray,” the manager continued. “The guy is already the most motivated player on this team, but he’s motivated to move you up and I think he’ll be satisfied when that happens. Unless he’s flawless and down right dazzling, when you move up Ray, they’ll move him out.” No one said a word. They all knew it was true.

  “If Gene will listen to anyone about this, it’s Frank Boudreau.”

  “I thought of that already,” replied the manager. “But I doubt the head office will look kindly on me if I call in a scout from halfway across the country to help me convince a ballplayer he can make it.” Skip sighed heavily and looked at Steve. “I wonder where Frank is.”

  “I can find out in the morning,” replied Steve.

  “Alright, do it. But don’t make a request to have him here. Not yet, anyway. If he’s in the area, great. If not, well, let me think on it a while.” Skip glanced over at the bus. “We’ve got one of the greatest ballplayers I’ve ever seen sitting on that old bus. He’s only missing a healthy ankle. Damn it all to hell, I’d give him my leg if I could. I surely would.”

  Skip, Steve, and Ray boarded last. The door closed behind them and the lights went dark. The rickety mode of transportation supplied by the Pirates slowly headed back to Greenville, leaving behind it a trail of dirty gray diesel smoke.

  Chapter 38

  Frank Boudreau

  Gene walked into the locker room a few days later and heard Skip calling out his name. “Gene, come in to my office.”

  Gene entered to find a familiar face waiting for him inside. “Mr. Boudreau!” Gene exclaimed, offering his hand to the smiling scout. “What are you doing here?”

  “Well, if it’s not the pride of the Egyptians, Gene Moore!” laughed the scout. “After all these years, though, would you please call me Frank?” He reached out and clasped Gene’s hand in both of his own. “To tell you the truth, I was close by, scouting some kids, and thought I’d drop in and see how you’re doing.”

  “It’s so good to see you, Frank. I’ve been wondering how you are and what you’ve been up to,” Gene replied.

  “I’m getting older, I guess, and up to no good. I hear you almost knocked down the scoreboard in Tuscaloosa! Really connected, huh?”

  “Yeah, I still get lucky now and then.”

  Skip got up from his chair and walked to the door. “Frank, I’m going to leave you and Gene alone to talk up old times. My favorite cigars are in the top left drawer, and I have them counted, so keep your hands out of them!” The manager left, closing the door behind him.

  Gene stopped smiling, and felt a small wave of anxiety course through him. “This is the first time all season I’ve seen the door of this office closed. I guess this isn’t exactly a social visit, is it?”

  “Not entirely, Gene,” Frank admitted. “Skip asked me to come by and speak with you.”

  Gene sighed and nodded. “Do I take the train home today?”

  For a moment Frank looked confused, but he replied quickly, “Oh, no. Not at all. Your numbers look good, considering your ankle, and Skip tells me you have moments of greatness that are becoming more and more frequent.” Frank pushed aside a few items and sat down on the edge of Skip’s desk. “He tells me he thinks you don’t believe you can make it to the majors. Is that true?”

  Gene’s eyes narrowed as he considered the question. “Frank, are the Pirates, or any other team for that matter, looking for a crippled catcher?”

  “Nope,” Frank answered honestly, “I’m sure they’re not. Is that what you think you are?”

  Gene rubbed his eyes and slumped into a chair. “I don’t know Frank. At times, I feel as if there isn’t anything I can’t do. No pitcher I can’t hit, no play I can’t make. Then, after a few innings, the pain—it gets so intense … I guess it brings me back to reality.”

  “How’s your Greek mythology?”

  “Come again?”

  “How’s your Greek mythology?”

  “Frank, you’re talking to a kid from Sesser who dropped out of school in the eighth grade to help his family on a small pig farm.”

  Frank smiled and said, “Well, I thought you might have had a pig named Homer.” Frank lifted his eyebrows and waited for a response.

  “A pig named Homer,” repeated a completely bewildered Gene. “No, can’t say I remember that one. Why?”

  Gene didn’t understand his humor. “I’m sorry. Bad joke,” Frank explained. “Achilles, he was the greatest warrior in the entire ancient world. He inspired his fellow Greeks to feats of combat and bravery even they thought impossible, and he struck fear in the hearts of the Trojan enemy.” Frank paused. “You have heard of Achilles and the Trojan War, haven’t you? The subject of Homer’s Illiad?”

  Gene nodded and shook his head at the same time. “Sort of.”

  Frank continued. “Well, when Achilles was on the field of battle, victory for the Greeks was assured. I was driving here today and I thought of you … and Achilles. It was then it struck me how similar you two are, one in the same, really. You inspire your team and strike fear in the hearts of your opponents. When Gene Moore is on the field, the outcome is rarely in doubt. When I see you, Gene, I always call you what?”

  “The pride of the Egyptians,” he laughed. “What are you getting at, Frank?”

  “Well, Achilles was the pride of the Greeks. When he was born, his mother dipped him into the river Styx, which protected him against any mortal injury. But he remained vulnerable in one place.”

  “His heel, the Achilles Heel,” offered Gene quietly.

  “That’s right,” Frank replied with a nod. “His mother had held him by the heel to dunk him, and so the water never touched that part of his body. During the siege of Troy, a God told Paris where to send his poison arrow, which struck Achilles in the only place that could hurt him. It took him down in the end, but not before he made history and inspired nations not yet in existence—millions of people not yet born. More than two thousand years later, Gene, in this dirty old locker room in Greenville, Mississippi, we’re sitting here talking about Achilles.” Frank paused and cleared his throat. “Gene, your ankle is your only weakness. And it will be your demise … someday … in baseball. We already know that. But you can make history along the way. Someday, somewhere, sometime, I want someone … like me, maybe, or your kids … to tell the story of Gene Moore to a few kids who will be inspired to over
come the odds and accomplish something special in their lives.”

  Gene swallowed hard and looked at the floor. “I don’t know what to say, Frank.”

  Frank leaned across the desk toward the catcher. “Then let me tell you what to say, son. Look me in the eye and tell me you believe you can make it to the big show. Tell me you believe you are the best who has ever played the game of baseball behind the plate. Tell me that even with your bum ankle, you’re going to give it everything you have, to achieve your dream of baseball greatness. Tell me that regardless of what happens, you will play in a way that will inspire others, and make people remember you for years to come.”

  Gene lifted his eyes and looked at the scout. “I don’t think I can say that and mean it, Frank. You take a peek at my ankle about the fifth inning of any game. Do that, and then tell me what you think.”

  “I know, Gene. Skip told me. But Gene Moore can do more in five innings than most major leaguers can do in an entire game.” Frank looked into Gene’s eyes and could tell his words were making Gene think. For the first time since the day way back when on the dusty old ball diamond in Sesser, Illinois, Frank could see the sparkle in Gene’s eyes. “You think about what I’ve said, Gene. Think about whether you can tell me what I want to hear—and mean it. Go out there tonight and play like you are Achilles. Inspire your team, as you always do. Strike fear in the hearts of your opponent. Then, after the game, look me in the eye and tell me what I want to hear.” Frank waited for a reply, but Gene merely nodded and looked away.

  Frank stood up. “I’m going to go watch this game. I hear Greenville has a hot catcher with a strange squat.” Frank hoped the words would trigger a smile, but they didn’t. “Go win this one, and I’ll buy you dinner.”

  “Okay, Frank.” Gene finally answered. He even managed a weak smile. “It’s a deal.”

  Frank shook Gene’s hand. “It’s always good to see you, Gene. I’m only here tonight because I care about you, and want nothing for you but the success you so richly deserve.”