by Troy Soos
“How about a catch?” came a cheerful voice behind me. I turned to Bobby Veach, our left fielder; he’d finished at the batting cage and retrieved his glove from the bench. Veach was one of the few good-natured men on the Tigers. The kind of guy who, if he was captain of a sandlot team, would always pick the kid brother nobody else wanted.
“Sure,” I said. “Thanks.” That’s what I’d been reduced to: the pathetic kid nobody wanted to play with.
We walked out on the right-field grass and started exchanging casual throws, gradually increasing the distance between us. Bobby Veach was an easygoing Kentuckian who always acted apologetic about being in the major leagues—despite coming off a season in which he’d batted .355 and led the league in hits, doubles, and triples. That kind of performance was almost expected of a Detroit outfielder. The saying was, “Put a Tiger uniform on an outfielder, and you have a .300 hitter.” Unfortunately, there was no corresponding adage for utility infielders who wore the Old English “D” on their jerseys.
The distance was too long to talk, and all I was doing was playing catch, the same as a million kids could do, but that simple act felt good—it gave me hope.
The Detroit outfielders didn’t do much hitting during the first six innings. They did do a lot of running, chasing after doubles and triples banged out by the Cleveland batters. It was no easy task, for League Park had a peculiar outfield. The furthest corner of center field was the deepest in the majors, stretching more than five hundred feet from home plate. The right-field fence was less than three hundred feet down the line, but more than forty feet high, with a screen of chicken wire and steel girders atop a concrete wall. A ball batted into the screen was in play, and could carom unpredictably—Tris Speaker drove a double off one of the girders which ended up being fielded by Bobby Veach in left-center.
On the Tigers bench, with our team down by eight runs and their interest in the game waning, Dutch Leonard and Chick Fogarty turned their attention to me. Fogarty was a lumbering second-string catcher who had trouble remembering that the signs were one finger for a fastball and two for a curve. He’d latched on to Leonard during spring training, serving as a combination sidekick and errand boy.
Leonard gave me worse than Fogarty did, calling me, “war hero” as if it was an expletive and asking if I planned to murder any more old men. Fogarty followed Leonard’s lead like an echo. Then the two of them sat on either side of me and tried to squeeze me between them—a bush-league maneuver that I didn’t think even happened in the minors anymore. I steeled my body against the squeeze and ignored their words. I kept reminding myself that Leonard was a lefty and therefore not a rational person, and Fogarty was merely parroting his roommate. The more I ignored them, the louder and uglier their taunts became.
At the end of the seventh inning, Hughie Jennings pulled himself off the bench. On his way to the third-base coach’s box, he said, “I’m sick of the noise coming from over here. Put a sock in it!” Jennings stepped out of the dugout, then added, “Rawlings, go coach first. That ought to keep things peaceful.”
I squirted out from between Leonard and Fogarty like one of Dutch’s spitballs. Reflexively, I reached for my mitt, then dropped it when I realized I didn’t need a glove. Trotting to first base, I felt empty-handed but full of authority. This was my first time coaching in the big leagues. From utility player to coach seemed quite a promotion, for whatever reason and however temporary.
While Cleveland’s Stan Coveleski warmed up on the mound, it dawned on me that I didn’t know exactly what a first-base coach was supposed to do. I’d seen them in action, of course, but all I could remember was that they clapped their hands a lot and dispensed pointless chatter like “Way to go!” or “Let’s get it started!”
I felt naked and conspicuous in the coach’s box. Looking around, I directed my attention to the Indians on the field. Several of them had been teammates of mine on the 1912 Red Sox: Tris Speaker, now the Indians’ center fielder and manager; third baseman Larry Gardner; and Smoky Joe Wood. Wood was no longer a pitcher and no longer smoky; he was now an outfielder, and with the exception of Babe Ruth, the best hitting ex-pitcher in the game.
When Bobby Veach came to bat, I looked over to Hughie Jennings for guidance as to what a base coach should do. Jennings went through his trademark routine, first bending down and pulling tufts of grass from around the third-base box, then standing on one leg and issuing a rebel “Ee-yah” yell. He seemed twenty years older than when I’d seen him eight years ago. The cry was a hoarse echo of what it had once been, and the old manager appeared to have trouble keeping his balance on one leg. And I still wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do.
After Veach popped out to short, Ty Cobb came to bat. “Let’s get it started!” I yelled, clapping my hands.
Cobb did, dragging a bunt single. It wasn’t the best way to try to start a rally when behind by eight runs, but it did boost Cobb’s batting average—which was usually more important to him than the outcome of the game.
Nonetheless, I said, “Way to go!” when he reached first base. Improvising, I clapped my hands again and added, “Way to get things started.”
He shot me a lethal look and hissed, “Shut up, busher, or I’ll knock your goddamn teeth out.” Ty Cobb epitomized the sort of team spirit that existed on the Tigers.
I tucked my hands back in my pocket and shut up. But I silently hoped that Cobb would get picked off or thrown out stealing.
Neither happened. He was left stranded at first, and we went on to lose the game 12–4, our third loss in a row. At least the defeat had nothing to do with my base coaching.
After the game, I went directly to Public Square and checked into my room at the Hotel Cleveland. I was to share it with Lou Vedder, a rookie pitcher who hadn’t worked a single inning in the majors. He’d seemed a nice enough kid during spring training, lacking the cocksure attitude typical of most young pitchers. I briefly considered taking Vedder to dinner, but decided it wouldn’t be fair to him—the other Tigers would have given him a hard time for associating with me. So I unpacked quickly and left the room, with the vague intent of catching a movie.
When I stepped out of the hotel elevator, I spotted Hughie Jennings in one of the lobby’s oversize wing chairs. It was a manager’s job to watch the comings and goings of his players, and make sure they were all in by curfew. What he usually did was use his post in the lobby to hold court, talking baseball with everyone from players and writers to fans and hotel staff. Jennings seldom attracted an audience anymore, though. He sat alone, his eyes directed at the carpet, raising them hopefully now and then at passersby. A newspaper was in his lap, not quite concealing the silver pocket flask underneath it. It was no secret on the team that Jennings was ailing and boozing, and each of those factors contributed to the other.
I’d noticed in spring training that Hughie Jennings had become virtually a baseball outcast. Few of his own players were on speaking terms with him, and he was often ridiculed in print as a has-been. I hated to see him treated that way. Jennings had been star shortstop for the celebrated Baltimore Orioles of the 1890s. Later, in his first three seasons as manager of the Tigers, he led the team to three straight pennants from 1907 to 1909. But in baseball you don’t get to keep your job based on what you accomplished in years past. Jennings was now no longer a winner, his health was poor, and at age fifty-one he was about to be discarded from the game.
There was a bare flicker of a smile as I approached him. Jennings’s once fiery red hair was fading to gray, the twinkle was gone from his Irish blue eyes, and he rarely grinned. But he looked pleased that his utility infielder was still speaking to him.
“Hi, Hughie,” I said, taking an armchair across from his. “Thanks for letting me coach first today.”
“Hell,” he said. “My grandmother could be a first-base coach, and she’s dead. Kept you out of trouble, anyway.”
Ignoring the comparison with his deceased grandmother, I said, “I can play now, whenever
you want me to. Got a note from the doctor saying my wrist’s okay, and it felt fine when I was throwing with Veach today.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” He drew out the flask and took a swallow, then tucked it back under the paper. Prohibition wasn’t taken too seriously in this part of the country but no sense taking chances. Jennings exhaled sharply, the scent of whiskey filling the air like spray from a perfume bottle.
“By the way,” I said. “I was wondering. When we talked on the phone, you said the guys were real pissed at me. Any of them in particular?”
“You think I got nuthin’ better to do than listen to them babies bellyache? They piss and moan about every damn thing. Was never like that in the old days.” He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Used to be a player didn’t think about nuthin’ but baseball.” His dim eyes grew dreamy, and I thought he was about to launch into stories of the “old days.”
As much as I would have liked to hear them, I realized I might be able to direct his recollections to a more useful purpose. “You were playing about the same time as Emmett Siever,” I said. “Did you know him at all?”
Jennings nodded. “We were teammates once. Came to mind when I read about you killing him.”
“I didn’t . . .” I dropped my protest when I realized Jennings wasn’t listening anyway.
“My first season,” he went on, “with Louisville, 1891. A bum team, no pitching staff. Same as I got now—how the hell am I supposed to win a pennant without a goddamn pitching staff?”
“Got to have pitchers,” I said. “So what about Emmett Siever?”
“He was an outfielder. But we already had a solid outfield: Patsy Donovan, Farmer Weaver, and Chicken Wolf. Siever hardly got into a game all year. So he did his playing at night—whorehouses and saloons. From what I heard, he’d always been like that—knew the red-light districts better than he knew the ballparks. And him with a wife and baby girl at home. Shameful, if you ask me.” He paused for more whiskey. “Patsy Donovan, he turned into a fine hitter. And his little brother—Wild Bill—was about the best pitcher I ever had. Couldn’t have won them pennants without him. Him and George Mullin. If Navin would get me pitchers like Donovan and Mullin, I’d win him a goddamn pennant. But can’t—”
“Can’t do it without pitchers,” I finished. “You remember anything else about Emmett Siever?”
“We never played on the same team after that one year, but we saw each other from time to time. Even met his wife once—sweetest little lady you ever saw. Shame what happened.”
“You mean about him running around on her?”
“I mean about her dying. In childbirth, trying to give him a son. Her and the baby both. After that, Siever changed his ways for a while, but then took to feeling sorry for himself and went back to whoring and boozing.”
When Jennings took another pull at the bottle, some of it leaked down his chin. Embarrassed for him, I turned my head and saw a foursome of Tigers get out of the elevator. Dutch Leonard was one of them, with Chick Fogarty on his heels. Leonard pulled up short, elbowed Fogarty, and nodded in my direction. They probably thought I was trying to play teacher’s pet in talking to the manager. After a lingering look at us, they went into the hotel dining room.
Trying to elicit a little more information from Jennings, I asked, “Siever was never active in unionizing back then?”
“Hell no,” he snorted. “Barstools and bordellos, that’s where he was active. And sometimes on the ballfield. There wasn’t much union talk anymore anyway by the time I came up to the bigs. Players League had just folded, you know.”
I murmured that I did know.
“Damn fools, if you ask me. Monte Ward and Tim Keefe were the ones behind it. Complaining about the reserve clause and saying ballplayers were treated like ‘slaves.’ We made damn good salaries for ‘slaves’—hell of a lot more than you could ever make in the coal mines.” Jennings coughed, long and hard. After he caught his breath again, he said, “Baseball is the way it is, and you don’t go trying to change it—that only causes trouble and nobody likes trouble. Keep your nose clean, and you’re set for life. After you stop playing, you can be a coach. Then, if you got brains, a manager. And—” His face furrowed, and I could tell that he was wondering what came after managing. “All I need is a couple good pitchers,” he murmured.
I soon took leave of Jennings and left the hotel to find a meal. Strangely, having learned what a scoundrel Emmett Siever had been, I felt less guilty about taking his life. I had to remind myself that I really hadn’t killed him.
One thing I was clear on: it was unfair that a man like Siever could do what he’d done and be remembered as a great guy while Hughie Jennings could give thirty good years to baseball and be discarded like an old scorecard.
I wondered what Jennings would do if Frank Navin fired him. Would he end up a night watchman or a bartender like so many other former stars?
Then my thoughts turned to myself: what would I do if I could no longer get a job in baseball?
I walked through Cleveland’s theater district, a spaghetti dinner sitting heavy in my stomach, still fretting over just about everything. Amid the vaudeville and burlesque houses were movie marquees advertising Mary Pickford’s Pollyanna, Gloria Swanson in Cecil B. DeMille’s Why Change Your Wife, and The Sporting Duchess starring Alice Joyce. None of them tempted me. What I needed was something to make me laugh.
At Ninth and Prospect, I came to The Strand, which was featuring Harold Lloyd’s latest comedy Haunted Spooks. I was about to enter when a poorly lit marquee half a block away caught my eye. Headlining at Grand Vaudeville was Serial Queen Marguerite Turner. I grinned so broadly at seeing the name that the muscles in my cheeks ached. Margie Turner!
Harold Lloyd forgotten, I rushed to the Grand’s ticket booth and paid thirty cents for a third-row seat. I walked into the half-empty theater as the Four Harmony Kings were perpetrating a barbershop quartet rendition of “How Ya Gonna Keep ’Em Down on the Farm After They’ve Seen Paree.” The shabby interior, reeking of mildew and perspiration, smelled almost as bad as the music. A smattering of applause greeted the end of the song, and “Eccentric Comedian Milo” came out to perform bird imitations. I sat through three more acts until the card on the easel read:
MARGUERITE TURNER
Recreating Scenes from
“Dangers of the Dark Continent”
The curtain parted to reveal a jungle set consisting of potted trees, hanging vines, and a backdrop illustrated with birds, snakes, and monkeys. The painted creatures on the canvas sheet were more frightening than the live, ancient, shaggy-maned lion that stood in the center of the stage. The heavy chain attached to one of the animal’s unsteady legs eliminated any sense of danger.
From the wings, a young girl in a frilly pink dress walked out twirling a parasol. The lion roared something like a yawn, and in fine melodramatic style the girl squealed, “Help! Help!” A rolled-up newspaper poked out from behind a potted plant and smacked the lion’s rear paw, causing him to roar again.
Bounding into the scene came Marguerite Turner, wearing jodhpurs and a pith helmet. “Get back!” she warned the passive beast.
At the sight of Miss Turner, I stopped wondering why a little girl would be strolling through the jungle with a parasol in the first place. My complete attention shifted to the actress I had known as Margie.
It had been six years ago, when I was playing for the Giants and Margie was making pictures with the Vitagraph Studio in Brooklyn. I’d watched her film scenes for the serial that she was now “recreating”—I’d even gotten bit parts in a couple of them. The movie versions hadn’t been much more realistic than the portrayal on the stage, but Margie Turner was very real—and very special. We’d had an incredible time together until her career took her to Hollywood.
Margie moved slowly toward the lion. She then sprang at him, her helmet falling off. Her long brown hair tossed from side to side as she wrestled the big cat hand to hand. The little gi
rl put her hand over her eyes, but there was no cause for fear. The lion looked pleased that someone was playing with him.
I went back to thinking of the times Margie and I had had together—at Coney Island, in the movie studio, at the ballpark. The romance had been more magical than anything the movies could create. Despite the fact that a friend of hers had been murdered and we’d had to track down the killer.
The lion made a playful swat with its paw, and the girl screamed. Margie pulled a revolver from its holster and fired at the animal. The report of the cap pistol was so feeble that some in the theater laughed. The big cat rolled over, supposedly dead, but looking like he wanted his belly rubbed. Margie untied the girl, who gratefully hugged her rescuer. The curtain fell and the audience applauded—not as enthusiastically as they had for Milo’s bird imitations but louder than for the Four Harmony Kings.
When Josie Flynn’s Female Minstrels took the stage, I debated whether to leave quietly, grateful that some fond memories had been rekindled, or take the risk of meeting her again and possibly having those memories diminished somehow.
The debate took all of about a minute.
I found the usher, a teenage boy with a spectacular case of acne, sweeping the lobby floor. I told him I wanted to see Marguerite Turner.
