“Curt Simmons opened up a new world for all these guys,” one of the Indians players said, “but I’ll bet you can’t find ten ballplayers in both leagues that can tell you who he was. The shame of it is that Simmons was near broke when he died.”
As coffee and dessert were being served, the owner of the Red Sox, who was hosting the game in Fenway Park, welcomed them to Boston. He was younger than everyone in his audience and was someone whose name had been in the newspapers often as a candidate to be the next baseball commissioner. He joked about how much money it was costing his club in health insurance to have their group play three innings in the anniversary game, and gave them a preview of the activities that would take place at the ballpark the next day. “It was a sad day for the City of Boston back in 1952 when the Braves left here for Milwaukee,” he said, “but unfortunately there didn’t seem to be enough fans to support two ball clubs. The Red Sox are happy to have you play your anniversary game in our park and we look forward to seeing all you great old-timers on the field.”
The owner was followed by the team’s general manager, a very congenial man who had been in baseball for over 40 years himself — as long as some of them had been out of it, Nugent realized — but all of it in a front office role, never as a player. He recalled listening to the ’48 World Series on radio and spoke nostalgically about some of its highlights as if they were games he could never forget.
“It’s not often you have a Series that goes seven games and isn’t decided until the ninth inning,” he said. “But that’s what you guys did, and it was a helluva Series from start to finish.”
Nugent tensed up again at the sound of the words “ninth inning,” but the GM then thanked them all for making the trip to Boston and said there would be a gift waiting for each of them after the game. One of the players hollered out that he’d have preferred to have his gift waiting for him in the bedroom when he got back from dinner. That brought a laugh from everyone, including the waitresses who had begun clearing off the tables. Minutes later the players were up and mingling again.
“Who’s the guy who said that?” May asked as they were leaving the table.
“That’s Whitey Semanski,” one of the Cleveland players told him. “Now he’s got the hair to go with the name. But he was always a joker.”
* * *
When Nugent returned to his room, he saw that the telephone message light was on. Evelyn had told him on the way to the airport that she was joining several friends for dinner at a new restaurant that had opened on their side of Santa Fe, but would call as soon as she got home. She’d made sure he had the plastic container with his two-day supply of heart pills in his jacket pocket, and assured him again that he was doing the right thing by going to Boston. It was difficult, but she had done her best to convince him that no one would say a word about the play that had haunted him for so long. Her hope was that once he mingled with his teammates from that Series and had an inning or two of fun with them on the field, he’d be able to put the game behind him and let go of the guilt he had lived with all those years.
When he returned the call, she picked up the phone on the second ring, confident it was him. “Hello sweetheart.”
“Hi Evy, how’d you know it was me? Oh, never mind, is everything okay there? Did you have a good time at dinner?”
“Yes, we all did. It’s a lovely place. We’ll have to go there sometime. How was your evening?”
“It was good. I talked to a bunch of the guys, mostly about what they’re doing these days and how they try to stay healthy. Frankie May and Johnny Foster are both here, but a couple of the others I looked forward to seeing couldn’t make it, especially Al Barilla, the relief pitcher we used to call ‘Gorilla.’ And I chose the fish instead of the steak.”
“That’s wonderful, Dan. Did you remember your pills at dinner without me there to remind you?”
“Yes, my love. I put them on the table in front of me as soon as I sat down. One of the Cleveland players sitting with me did the same thing, so we had a laugh over it.”
“Good, and everything’s all arranged for tomorrow?”
“Yup, our game starts at one o’clock, and then the Red Sox play at three.”
“Well, remember what you promised me. Don’t play more than you should and don’t overexert yourself. You’re 68, not 28. You know what Doctor O’Brien said when you had your last physical.”
“Okay, Evy, okay, I know all that.”
“Then get a good night’s sleep and call me tomorrow when you get back to the hotel.”
“I will. Good night, Evy. Love you.”
“Love you too, Dan.”
As soon as he switched off the light above his bed and found a comfortable spot for his head on the stiff pillow, Nugent was back in his World Series, 40 years earlier. He saw himself crouching a little lower on the infield dirt, the back of his glove almost resting on his left knee as Johnny Foster got ready to throw the two and nothing pitch to Semanski. The curve fooled the Cleveland hitter again, but he had started into his swing at the fastball he was expecting and couldn’t hold back. Nugent was certain that any contact with the ball would take place on the outside part of the plate, and he anticipated it coming in his direction. As he took a couple of quick steps to his left, the ball came off Semanski’s bat as a flare heading into short right center field. Nugent turned and began racing into the outfield, looking back moments later to check the flight of the ball. He could see immediately that neither the right fielder nor the center fielder — both of whom had been playing the powerful Semanski deep — had a chance of reaching the ball before it dropped. It was his play to make, and the two Indians base runners were on their way home as he raced farther into the outfield. Another quick glance over his shoulder at the downward flight of the baseball let him see where it would land, and he knew he might not get there in time. Running at full speed, he stretched out his left hand and saw the ball kiss the tips of the leather fingers of his glove before continuing its fall onto the grass. Even as he picked it up and threw it home — too late for a play — Nugent was telling himself he’d have made the catch if he had dived for the ball.
Foster returned to the mound from behind home plate where he had gone to back up the catcher. Brenner moved around in the dugout but showed no sign of taking Foster out of the game. Two pitches later, Vic Walters made the third out on a one-hopper to the first baseman. In the last of the ninth, Boston put a base runner on first, but then the overflow Braves Field crowd watched in stunned silence as a bunt — meant to advance the runner into scoring position — was turned into a double play. Moments later the third out was recorded and the Braves’ marvelous season was over. The second run that scored for Cleveland on the bloop hit had given them a World Series victory.
In the clubhouse, as the players showered and dressed, some of his teammates told Nugent he’d made a “nice try,” or words to that effect, as they walked past his locker. He waited for someone to ask whether he thought he could have caught the ball with a dive, but no one did. Ballplayers were trained to forget the game that had just been played — win or lose — and start getting mentally prepared for the next one. But this game cost all of them a winner’s share in the Series, and they wouldn’t be putting on their uniforms again until the next season. Since he was already certain that leaving his feet would have given him that extra little extension he needed, Nugent was convinced that some of the players in the room blamed him for the loss they had just suffered. While his teammates were silent about it, several baseball writers from among the many sent from all over the country to cover the game speculated in their columns the next day that the ball might have been catchable if Nugent had only made a greater effort on the play.
* * *
There was a breakfast buffet in the dining room the following morning. Nugent waited for a vegetable omelet cooked to order on a mobile gas oven located just beyond the dessert display. He added two cups of black coffee to his tray, avoided looking toward the
front of the room where he had seen a number of players eating, and found a table in the corner, beyond the buffet line. He was nervous and wanted to eat without having to converse with anyone. His call to Evelyn earlier had gone unanswered, which meant that she had chosen to attend the early mass that morning. He hadn’t slept well; the thought of playing baseball again in front of a large crowd was giving him butterflies, and he felt the need for a fresh dose of his wife’s encouragement. “Pray for me not to screw up,” he’d thought to himself as he hung up the phone.
The schedule called for them all to board a bus at eleven o’clock for the short ride to the ballpark. Nugent lingered over breakfast so as to avoid having to join the players who he was sure were sitting or standing around in the lobby talking and joking with one another. He had considered taking a walk around Kenmore Square to see what changes had taken place in the area, but decided that it would be best to save all his energy for the game he’d be playing in shortly.
Moving down the aisle of the bus, Nugent nodded his head and smiled slightly at the players he passed before he found the first empty row and sat down. He turned his attention to the window and watched the flow of traffic make its way through Kenmore Square in both directions. Minutes later, as the bus was moving, his reverie was interrupted by the voice of a player who had quietly slipped into the seat next to him.
“Hi, I’m Whitey Semanski. I don’t think we’ve had the chance to talk to each other this weekend.”
Nugent turned and offered his hand. “No, we haven’t, though I got a laugh out of what you said to the Sox GM yesterday. I’m Dan Nugent.”
“Nugent! You were the Braves second baseman.” Semanski shook Nugent’s hand as he spoke. “You’re the guy who made a hero out of me when you didn’t catch up with that bloop of mine in the ninth inning. I’ve been living off that hit for 40 years.”
“Yeah, I came close, but no cigar,” Nugent said.
“Foster was one tough pitcher. He scared me and I never did much off him. The truth is I was hoping back then they’d put me on and pitch to Walters.”
Nugent was pleased to hear that strategy reaffirmed. “As it turned out, that would’ve been the right move for us,” he replied. “I was thinking at the time we should’ve done it.”
“Yeah, that story about the game in today’s Globe said the Braves made a mistake not walking me. The guy who wrote it actually was there at the time. Egan, his name is. Did you read it?”
“No, I haven’t seen a paper today.” Nugent felt the tension coming on quickly, and was afraid of what Semanski might report next.
“And I remember Foster had me completely fooled on the pitch,” Semanski said. “I was lucky to get the end of the bat on it.”
As Semanski spoke, Nugent saw himself racing into the outfield for the ball, knowing he was going to come up inches short but more certain than ever of making the catch if he had dived for it. It hurt too much to think about the play at that moment. He had to move the conversation in another direction. “Yeah, anyway, so where do you live and what do you do now?”
“I’m in a little town just outside Orlando. Been selling used cars for the past twenty years. Beg your pardon, pre-owned cars we call them now. That’s supposed to make you think they’re in better shape than they are.” Semanski smiled as he said it. “Maybe all us ballplayers ought to be called pre-owned or something, instead of old-timers.” Semanski chuckled at that. “What about you? Still working?”
Nugent saw that the bus was pulling up in front of the players’ entrance to Fenway Park. “Looks like we’re here,” he said. He waited a few moments as Semanski glanced out the window. “I live in the Santa Fe area,” he continued. “We put some money in real estate there years ago and we’ve made out okay. So I take care of a bunch of rentals and keep my eyes open for any good deals that come along.” After a pause, he added, “Keeps me busy and I enjoy it.”
“Sounds good,” Semanski said. He watched as the players in the rows in front of them got off the bus, then stepped into the aisle and winked at Nugent. “Well, see you on the field. Good luck today.”
Nugent stayed in his seat. He’d wait until everyone else was off the bus, just as he always did whenever a plane he was flying on had landed. “Thanks. You too,” he answered. The conversation with Semanski had gotten rid of his butterflies. He knew it was a lucky hit, he thought to himself.
Sandy Koufax, a close friend of Tommy Brenner, the pennant winning manager of the ’48 club who had died about five years earlier, had agreed to drive down from his home in Maine and manage the Braves fortieth anniversary team. He confessed to the eighteen players who were there that he knew very little about them, and asked them to help him make out the lineup. As a result, Nugent was back at second base, batting eighth. Koufax wanted everyone who had made the trip to Boston to play in the game, and substituted freely as the Braves took a 3-2 lead after one inning and a 6-3 lead after two. He sent Charlie Banks, a pitcher, up to pinch-hit in the second inning, and told Banks to take Nugent’s spot in the field when Cleveland batted in the third. But when Banks fell down, running to first on a ground ball to shortstop, he took himself out of the game and Nugent returned to play second for the Indians’ last at bat.
The three-run lead was reduced to a single run very quickly. After the first Cleveland batter reached on a muffed popup by the third baseman, the next hitter lined a drive toward the “Green Monster” that split the distance between the left and the center fielders. Neither one was inspired to chase after the ball and each, with the clearest of Alphonse and Gaston hand signals, invited the other to retrieve it. As this went on, and as the crowd roared with delight, the two Indians players circled the bases. After they crossed the plate, the Braves pitcher got into the act by feigning a show of anger as he first pointed at his two outfielders, threw his glove down onto the mound, and stalked off the field.
With the fans on their feet, cheering and laughing at the scene, Koufax emerged from the dugout and signaled for a new pitcher from the bullpen. The only one still there to answer his call was Johnny Foster, about 100 pounds heavier than when he was the losing pitcher, 40 years earlier, in the seventh game of the Series.
Foster got the first two Indians he faced to swing late and hit easy ground balls to the right side of the infield, one to Nugent and one to the first baseman. The final out should have come just as easily except that the third baseman made quite a show of inspecting the baseball after he fielded it, and his hurried throw bounced in the dirt before hitting off the first baseman’s glove. The next batter punched a soft line drive that landed directly on the chalk down the left field line and rolled slowly toward the corner. The runner on first, representing the tying run, made his way to third. Nugent, covering second base, called for the ball as the hitter rounded first and slowly chugged his way toward him. But the left fielder never heard him and tossed the ball into third instead.
As Nugent moved back into position and saw that Semanski was approaching the batter’s box for the Indians, he suddenly realized that all the ingredients of the inning that had been haunting him for 40 years were back in place. Foster would again be attempting to preserve the victory by retiring Semanski without allowing either of the Cleveland base runners to score. There would be no thought of giving him an intentional walk to load the bases for a force play because it was understood that everyone there wanted the chance to hit in what may be their last opportunity to do so on a major-league field.
Nugent called for time and jogged over to the mound. As the catcher started toward them, Nugent waved him off. “Listen, Johnny,” he said, “I rode next to Semanski coming over on the bus here today. He told me he’s been living off that hit he got in the last game of the Series for 40 years. Don’t let him beat us with another one now or he’ll be in my nightmares the rest of my life.”
Foster turned away from Nugent for a moment to spit and wiped his mouth with the back of his wrist. He looked grim, as if he were pitching again in the decidin
g World Series game. “You’re forgetting, Danny boy, that I was the losing pitcher in that game. Today’s supposed to be all for fun, but I still don’t want that “L” next to my name in any box score, even if it’s just for three innings. So if he hits it to you, don’t disappoint me again.”
The word “again” stung Nugent hard. It told him what Foster thought of the catch his second baseman didn’t quite make four decades earlier. But it also revealed that he wasn’t the only one who had carried the memory of that play with him over the years. He suddenly felt as bad for Foster as he always had for himself. He wanted to make amends, if he could. “You’re right, Johnny,” he said, “I should’ve had it. I cost us the game. You lost it on account of me.” Nugent looked hard at his pitcher, who said nothing. He turned and went back to his position.
On the third pitch to Semanski, fate took hold of the proceedings and caused him to hit a flare into short right field. Nugent started back and realized at once that he was the only one with a chance to reach it. His heart pounded as he quickly grasped the drama into which he was again being thrown and as he willed his older body toward the spot where he thought the ball would land. Again, the fear of not quite reaching it overtook him, but then he saw a vision of himself diving for the ball at the last instant and having it drop into the pocket of his glove as his body slammed to earth. An instant later, he sucked in all the breath he could, threw himself in the air and stretched his gloved hand out over the grass. He heard a loud shout from the crowd at the moment of impact with the ground. He looked, and it was there. Nugent saw the beautiful white baseball nestled in the soft brown leather. He started to smile…
Painting the Corners Page 17
