by Troy Soos
Staring me down from the pitcher’s mound was Cleveland’s George Uhle, a burly young fireballer. I faced him right-handed; my wrist was one of the few parts of my body that felt strong, and it was my best chance to get that all-important first hit of the year.
Just meet the ball, I told myself. Get some wood on it ... Whatever you do, don’t strike out. Don’t strike out.
Uhle shook off a sign from the catcher, then delivered quickly. I watched a fastball go past me right down the middle. Strike one!
Jeez, it went by fast. I backed out of the box and knocked my bat against my spikes. Ignore everything but the little white ball, I told myself. Forget that Navin Field is packed with screaming fans, forget that it’s scoreless in the bottom of the second, or that staying on the club depends on your performance.
Squeezing the bat handle hard, I stepped back in. Meet the ball. Don’t strike out. Don’t strike out.
Next came a slow curve that broke low and half a foot outside the plate. The head of my swinging bat missed the ball by at least that much, and I almost fell over reaching for it. 0-and-2.
Okay, is Uhle going to waste a pitch, or try to get it over with right away?
He went for the strikeout: fastball, belt-high, on the inside corner. I took a hard cut, trying to pull it. The ball ticked the bat handle and fell mere inches in front of home plate, plopping into the muck of Cobb’s Lake. I froze for a second, dismayed at the pitiful result—a bunt would have traveled farther. Then I broke for first; no matter how hopeless, run full speed on anything that’s hit. Indians’ catcher Steve O’Neill fielded the ball and threw me out before I was halfway to the base.
I trotted back to the dugout, surprisingly almost cheerful. I didn’t strike out! I didn’t strike out!
When I passed Hughie Jennings in the coach’s box, he said, “At least you didn’t strike out.”
In the dugout, Dutch Leonard spat near my feet. “How the hell am I supposed to win a ballgame with you in the lineup? Jennings gonna put the batboy in next?”
I didn’t respond. I knew Jennings hadn’t given me my first start of the season because he thought I could do much to help the team. It was a move to shake things up, to try something new and see if we could pull off a victory.
After Chick Fogarty struck out to end our half of the inning, I grabbed my mitt and hustled out to second base. I resisted the temptation to gloat to Leonard that at least I’d done better than his buddy Fogarty had.
As for Dutch Leonard, he did have great stuff this game. Through the first three innings, Leonard deftly slid his spitter past the futile bats of the Cleveland hitters. If we could get just one or two runs on the board, we might win our first game of the season. Even though it meant Dutch Leonard getting credit for the victory, I wanted to help bring that about.
My first fielding chance came in the top of the fourth, with two outs and Tris Speaker on third. Cleveland shortstop Ray Chapman hit an easy two-hopper right at me. I casually bent down to field it—and was horrified when the ball bounced low and scooted under my glove, right through my legs. I spun about and retrieved it, but far too late. Chapman was safe at first and Speaker had crossed the plate to put the Indians up 1—0.
I tossed the ball to Leonard, who caught it in his bare hand. Glaring at me, he tucked his mitt under his arm and rubbed the baseball between his palms. Hard, as if trying to tear the cover off; staring at me, as if he wished it was my face in his grip. The sun burst out from behind a cloud, and I felt like I had a spotlight on me. Boos and catcalls from the Monday afternoon crowd registered in my ears. I wanted to dig a burrow under second base and crawl into it.
Leonard finally turned around, and methodically struck out Bill Wambsganss to end the inning. I stayed far away from him in the dugout; he fumed in silence.
We were still down 1—0 in the bottom of the fifth. Two outs, two on: Harry Heilmann on third and Bobby Veach on second. I was the next batter up. As I walked from the on-deck circle to the batter’s box, I looked at Jennings. Partly to see if he was flashing a sign, but also because I expected him to call me back and send in a pinch hitter. That was the advice Dutch Leonard was screaming at him from the bench.
Jennings ignored Leonard’s pleas. The old Oriole let loose a hoarse rebel yell, “Ee-yaaaah!” Then called, “Bring ’em on in, Rawlings! You can do it, boy!”
I wished that I shared Jennings’s confidence. The fact that George Uhle greeted my appearance with a confident grin on his face didn’t help.
Uhle promptly blew a fastball by me as I swung late; it was in the same location as his first pitch in my previous at bat. Then the curve, low and away; I again fished for it, and again I missed.
If he was repeating the sequence from last time, the next pitch would be a tight fastball. It was. But this time I didn’t try to pull it. I met the ball with an inside-out half swing, trying to push it toward right field. The bat handle shuddered on impact, but my grip was firm. The ball looped its way over the second baseman’s head. As Veach and Heilmann raced in to the plate, I tried to stretch it into a double, aware that the right fielder was dead-armed Smoky Joe Wood. His arm turned out to be livelier than I expected, and I was thrown out at second to end the inning.
I ran off the field triumphant. My first base hit of the season, and two RBIs to give us the lead in the game. I didn’t have to go all the way to the bench to get my glove. Harry Heilmann brought it out to me as he went to take his position at first base. “Way to go, kid!” he said. Dutch Leonard gave me no such praise, but he had a happy glint in his eyes and a determined set to his jaw. He was going to win this game and I’d given him two runs to work with.
It was all he needed. I got no more hits in the game, though I did steal second after walking in the eighth. Donie Bush had a double and triple to extend the winning score to 5—1.
The fans cheered wildly at the Tigers first win of the season. Somehow, overtones of sarcasm rang through the applause. It’s amazing how a crowd can express itself collectively like that.
Until we were in the locker room, the Detroit players all acted is if the win was nothing special. Once in the clubhouse, we celebrated like we’d just won the World Series. The curse was lifted.
My teammates included me in the celebration. Politics and personal grudges were forgotten for the moment. I’d helped win the game, and that’s all that counted right now.
I lingered in the locker room, savoring the feel of the game: the stinging raspberry on my left thigh from sliding into second, the mild throb in my wrist from when I’d connected for the game-winning single, the dull cramp of calf muscles that had grown unaccustomed to so much use. Mostly, I was just glorying in the fact that I’d played my first baseball game in Navin Field as a member of the Detroit Tigers.
When I finally did exit the park, I was whistling “Mademoiselle from Armentieres, Parlay-Voo” and almost skipping as I walked. It seemed life couldn’t get any better.
Then a throaty female voice behind me said, “Hi, slugger.” The sound sent a tingle through me. I didn’t have to turn around to recognize Margie Turner.
Half an hour later, we were strolling through Grand Circus Park, nibbling ice-cream cones. We debated whether vanilla or chocolate was the superior flavor of ice cream, commented on how perfect the weather had become, and verbally replayed most of the ballgame—Margie graciously avoided mentioning my error.
Warm, gentle breezes washed through the park and a soft evening sun filtered through the shade trees. The smell of the greenery provided relief from the odor of automobile exhaust that permeated the rest of the city. Hundreds of people were taking advantage of the fine weather and the downtown oasis. Most of them walked; some sat on the benches that faced the fountain. A few, less particular about their clothes, sprawled on the grass.
Of all the women in the park, Margie Turner was the prettiest. She wore a loose-fitting, sky-blue organdy dress embroidered with white flowers. On her head was a white straw bonnet too small to quite contain her long brown tress
es. She swung a beaded handbag as we casually made our way through the crowd. Because of her limp, her hip bumped against me as we walked—and I enjoyed the contact.
“I didn’t expect to see you again,” I said. “Weren’t you going to Toledo?”
“Oh!” She smiled mischievously. “Did I forget to mention that after Toledo we were coming to Detroit?”
I grabbed her ice-cream cone and took as big a bite as I could from it as revenge for teasing me. “Must have slipped your mind,” I said, handing it back to her. “How long are you here for?”
“Unlimited engagement. At least two weeks.” She looked at me. “You dripped.”
I wiped my mouth with my handkerchief.
“You missed it.” She touched my arm and we pulled to a stop. Then she dabbed at my chin with her finger, coming away with a dollop of vanilla. “The Toledo run ended early—our fire-eater set the curtains on fire.” She put her finger in her mouth and sucked off the ice cream. “I have all this week off.”
She kissed the spot on my chin that she’d just cleaned. Then I kissed her on her lips, full and long. As she responded, I put my arms around her and dropped my cone to the ground. By the time we broke apart, most of it had melted.
When I suggested dinner, Margie suggested that we dine on additional ice cream. Even in dietary preferences we were compatible.
After consuming lavish sundaes at the nearby Statler Hotel, we returned to the park and sat on one of the benches. The shadows had lengthened, most of the people had left, and the air was a little less temperate. I put my jacket around Margie’s shoulders, and she snuggled close to me. I was totally content. My muscles had a satisfying ache, my belly was full of ice cream, and my heart was astir.
We talked off and on about nothing in particular, the long silences in between not at all uncomfortable. Among the things we did say, I mentioned that I had a friend staying with me and she mentioned that she had her own room at the Hotel Franklin.
A cool breeze gusted and I felt Margie shiver. I put my arm around her, marveling at how well she fit.
“Would your friend miss you if you didn’t come home?” she asked.
The stirring in my heart moved south. “Not a bit,” I said.
Chapter Fourteen
The next three days and nights blended together in a delicious, exhilarating sequence of Margie, baseball, and Margie. We were rarely out of each other’s sight, and often in each other’s arms. I was so intoxicated with Marguerite Turner, and so oblivious to all else, that it required a conscious effort to check the clock now and then to make sure I’d be at Navin Field in time for batting practice every day.
Margie accompanied me to each game and sat as close as possible to the home dugout. Never the shy type, Margie made her presence felt, brandishing a Detroit pennant like she was leading a cavalry charge and cheering louder than any leather-lunged bleacher bum.
Except for the pitching rotation, Hughie Jennings stuck with the same lineup that had produced the season’s first win, giving me three more full games at second base. We won the final game with Cleveland and split the first two games of a series with the St. Louis Browns. Despite the distraction of Margie in the stands, I made no more errors and continued to hit. Over four games, I totaled six hits in fourteen at bats, for a batting average of .429. Or maybe 428—I never was quite clear on how to round off. Whatever my exact average, Ty Cobb was batting .203 and I was leading the team in hitting. None of my hits was longer than a single, but one of those singles was a drag bunt that I’d laid down left-handed against the Browns’ Urban Shocker; it was my first major-league hit batting lefty and gave me hope that I could be a successful switch hitter.
After each game, I showered and changed quickly, then hurried out to meet Margie at the gate.
Our dinners were also hurried. On Tuesday, we picked a restaurant near her hotel; the following nights, we remained within the confines of the Hotel Franklin, eating in the Franklin’s cafe so that we’d have less distance to travel to Margie’s room afterward. We ate just enough for sustenance, talked little, smiled a lot, and skipped dessert. Later in the evening we would wash, dress again, and go out for ice cream—then it was back to her hotel. The nights were curiously refreshing although we didn’t get much sleep.
I saw little of my apartment, going home only for fresh clothes and to check the mail. I saw nothing of Karl Landfors. So soon after having urged him to do more about Emmett Siever’s death, my own interest in it had virtually vanished. The pressure seemed to have eased. Hub Donner’s deadline had come and passed, so I assumed my talk with Frank Navin had settled that issue. Leo Hyman’s deadline was still more than two weeks away; in the back of my mind I knew the days were ticking by, but I no longer felt an urgency about it.
It was basically wishful thinking on my part. I hoped that my romance with Margie would, like a magic amulet, somehow protect me from danger—that trouble would veer around me the same way that passersby make extra room when a courting couple comes down the sidewalk. It wasn’t impossible that nothing more would happen to me, but I knew in my bones that it was no more likely than me batting .400 for the entire season.
With Friday an off day in the schedule, Margie and I planned a picnic outing to Belle Isle Park. I probably should have spent the day working on Emmett Siever’s murder, but Margie’s show would open on Sunday and the run wasn’t guaranteed for more than two weeks.
After I left her room Friday morning, I stopped at the hotel newsstand for the Detroit Journal, then hailed a cab to take me home for suitable clothes. During the ride, I flipped open the paper to check an ad I’d seen before for the Coliseum of Amusements. I found it listed with the movie and vaudeville shows. The amusement park, near the Belle Isle Bridge, boasted “Rides, Slides, Games.” I thought we could go there after the picnic—it might be as close as we could come to reliving some of the times we’d had at Coney Island.
I next turned to the sports section to read about my 2-for-4 performance at the plate in yesterday’s game. Next to the account of the game was an article headed Traitor to the Team? The “traitor” was me.
The gist of the story was that the Tigers’ good fortune was about to end. I was going to publicly criticize the players’ union, and the resulting ill feelings on the team would start us losing again.
Whoever wrote the piece was clever about it: there were no quotes attributed to me or to anyone else—nothing that could directly be proved wrong. The story combined speculation, lies, and editorializing to produce something that sounded like news. There was no byline to the piece, but I had no doubt that the man behind it was Hub Donner.
I had the cab drop me off half a block from my apartment so that I could pick up the Free Press and the News. Scanning these papers as I walked up the stairs, I saw that they also carried the story, but in shorter versions.
As usual, Karl Landfors was out. I brewed a pot of coffee and thought about the newspaper stories.
At first, I put part of the blame on Frank Navin for not telling Hub Donner to back off. Then I realized that I had assumed too much. Navin had never said he would intervene with the League’s union buster; all he’d said was that he wouldn’t kick me off the team if I elected not to go along with Donner.
Thinking about it further, I started to suspect that Donner’s main allegiance was to Ban Johnson and the American League, not to the Tigers’ owner. The stories in the papers were almost as bad for Navin as they were for me. There’s no way Navin would want Donner to be instigating dissension on the team just when we were starting to win. Or maybe the planted stories weren’t at the behest of either Johnson or Navin. Perhaps Hub Donner had personal reasons for going ahead with his publicity campaign: to take attention off himself. Whatever Donner’s reason, this move was sure to cause more trouble between me and my teammates.
One thing was clear: I was going to have to take on Hub Donner. Even if I couldn’t pin Siever’s murder on him, I had to find some way to stop what he was doing to me.
I pictured Donner as he’d sat across from me in the Men’s Grill of the Hotel Tuller, fingering his bullet wound and telling me how rough he could get. Perhaps my bravery had something to do with the fact that I was hitting .400, but I decided to give Donner the chance to show me how hard he could play.
Most of the coffeepot was empty by the time I came up with a plan. It occurred to me that if Donner and the IWW spied on each other, then maybe the Wobblies could tell me where Donner had really been the night Siever was killed. At the very least, I was sure they’d be willing to help me give Donner a little grief. I had wondered for a while why Leo Hyman had given me a reprieve in the first place—what did it matter to him if the Wobblies went after me to avenge Siever’s death? Then I realized that he might be giving me the time to cause trouble for his old enemy Hub Donner.
At about the time I should have been leaving to meet Margie, Karl Landfors walked in. He looked like an undertaker who’d been on a three-day binge. His collar was no longer clean, his shirt was wrinkled, and the crease was gone from his trousers.
“Long night?”
He grinned. “And morning.” I was glad to see he was no longer blushing about his activities with Connie Siever. “Sorry I haven’t been around much.”
Struggling to keep a straight face, I said, “Well, I’ve missed your company. But I understand.”
He pulled off his coat and headed to the closet. “I just stopped in for a few minutes. We—Connie and I—are going out again.”
As if I’d thought the “we” was Landfors and Ty Cobb. “No problem, Karl. Say, have you had a chance to ask her about her father yet?”
“Well, I’ve broached the subject a few times.” He found some fresh clothes and started changing into them. “The conversation always seems to go off on another path, though.”
“You sweet talker, you.”
He paused in his efforts to attach a new shirt collar. “Actually, the conversation—her end of it at least—usually turns to the Suffrage Amendment and her plans to organize in Tennessee.”
