Carnival Baseball

by Colby Cox

  Clyde settled into a comfortable office chair when the Captain threw some manila folders in front of him.

  “These are the three men you are here to take a look at. Charles Tanner, Anthony Cosgrove, and Sarge Safran.”

  The scout pretended to peruse through the files, but he did not really read them. He merely felt the indentations that the typewriter keys left on the papers and he glanced at the photos of the men clipped to the inside. He acted interested as the Captain spoke about the secret missions that were being accomplished by these fine Americans, but Clyde was thinking more about how to get the guards off his back later so he could thoroughly enjoy the people (more specifically, the young women) of this particular French locale.

  Suddenly, the baseball scout caught a word amongst the Captain’s pleasantries that struck his ears funny.

  Vampires.

  “Forgive me, sir, but could you repeat that last part?”

  “You heard me right, son. These three are the best damned vampire killers I ever had the pleasure of commanding.”

  Clyde studied the Captain’s aura and saw no indication that he was lying. The officer actually believed his own words. Oh, well, the scout thought. It was not the first crack pot he had met, and it certainly would not be the last. He was disappointed, though. Astor was a very likable guy.

  “These men have been like sons to me and I want to make certain that they are provided for when they leave their current duty. That is why I contacted Mr. DuCane to inquire about careers for them when they transitioned back into the private world. I certainly hope this works out. God willing, if they can get through the next three months, they will be back home with good jobs, this madness behind them.”

  Decker assured the Captain that he would give them a fair shake and he was eager to meet the soldiers whom he spoke so highly. More to the point, Clyde wanted to get as far away as possible from Astor after his introduction dipped into the realm of crazy.

  Clyde first met Tanner, Cosgrove, and Safran the next morning amidst all sorts of training equipment in an exercise yard. The soldiers were seated in chairs propped up against their barrack’s wall. The little guy, Cosgrove, wore dark shades and chewed gum as if it was a race. Tanner seemed pretty amicable, a regular hayseed from Nebraska.

  Safran was something entirely different. He was massive. His chest looked like a beer keg in the white tank top he wore and his forearms would have made Popeye jealous. His right one bore a skull tattoo in black ink. It showed two huge fangs protruding from its mouth and underneath the design was a series of tic marks grouped into fives. They covered his arm down to his wrist. The sergeant casually puffed on the remains of a cigar and displayed the brightest red aura that Clyde had ever seen. It pulsated when he exhaled. Clyde immediately knew that the “Sarge” was worth watching.

  With the help of a couple of French soldiers, Decker constructed a pitching mound and then paced off 60 feet and change. He dug his heel into the soft ground to mark where home plate would rest. The scout then brought Tanner and Cosgrove over to the hill of dirt.

  “OK, fellas. My understanding is that you guys are pitchers, so let’s see your stuff.”

  Clyde caught pitches from the two men. He was impressed. Both were deadly accurate. Wherever Clyde put his mitt, both Tanner and Cosgrove found their mark. The two soldiers put good zip on the ball, too, although Tanner interested Clyde more because he was a lefty. The pitchers would certainly have little difficulty working into the Whispers lineup as long as their heads were not too warped under the command of Captain Astor .

  Clyde was excited to see Sarge’s performance and he was not left disappointed. He watched Tanner and Cosgrove (who preferred to be called “Mink”) throw a barrage of pitches to the big man. Sarge sent them sailing over a barbed wire fence at least 400 feet away. Sergeant Safran wielded a bat like a weapon and he could hit a ton from both sides of the plate. Players with his ability were a rarity and Clyde could not wait to report back to Wilmington and let the front office know about his findings.

  Before he was scheduled to leave, Clyde met with the three prospects in their barracks. He thought it odd to see garlic cloves hanging from the doors and windows, but being a scout for a Carny Ball club had its moments.

  “Gentlemen, I certainly appreciate meeting you all and I look forward to seeing the three of you when you return home. The moment you touch down on American soil, you contact me and I will get you to Wilmington to sign contracts A-S-A-P! I haven’t seen talent like yours in a good while.”

  Tanner and Mink’s auras told Clyde that they were excited and that they intended to follow through in contacting him when they left France. Sarge, however, showed signs of indifference. His surrounding red glow remained constant. He sat with his arms crossed on the edge of a cot. He only stared at Decker. It unnerved the scout how cool this giant man was being.

  “Sarge, I hope I didn’t offend you. I think you have a lot to offer our ball team and once you men fulfill your somewhat unusual duties to the eccentric Captain Astor....”

  A sudden squint in Sarge’s eyes told Decker he should probably stop talking.

  “Mr. Decker, would you like to come see our obligation?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I’m asking. You think Captain Astor is loony and that the three of us should be in a funny farm for following him. So I’m askin’. Do you want to come see our obligation?”

  Clyde stammered. It was not like him. He was usually very calm under pressure, but the sergeant was so damned unsettling. Sarge stood up and told the scout to follow him. Clyde was uncertain what to do, so he looked for guidance from Tanner and Mink seated on their bunks. They only stared back at him, so he hurried across the concrete floor to catch up with the walking giant.

  Clyde followed Sarge to a small building next to the barracks and found that it was some sort of darkroom. Sarge pulled a string that hung from a single light bulb inside. Without the light, they would have been standing in complete darkness. There were no windows and the walls were painted black.

  “Listen, Sarge. Again, I am not trying to offend you or anything. I was merely saying...”

  Clyde saw that the sergeant was busy dragging a box over to the center of the room and was ignoring his words. The wooden crate stood about four feet tall. A heavy drape was on top of it. Sarge grabbed the fabric and yanked it off of the top like a matador with a cape.

  When Clyde Decker bent down and finally got a glimpse of the thing inside the box, he immediately planted himself firmly against the room’s back wall and attempted to crawl up it. Clyde, being fluent in French, was all the more terrified when the little creature inside spoke to him through the box’s chicken-wire window. She screamed. She cursed him. She yelled that she would drink his blood and bite his kidney. Her skin was so pale that it literally glowed and with sickness in his stomach, he realized the girl resonated a black aura. She was walking death - a bona fide, genuine vampire.

  “All right, Marielle. That’s enough.”

  Sarge kicked the side of the little prison with his hulking boot. The vampire girl cowered into a corner of the container at the sound of his voice. Sarge threw the cover back on top, grabbed the terrified baseball scout by the arm, and pulled him out of the room.

  Needless to say, Decker left France on the first boat back home. He conferred with DuCane about the powerful prospects he found there, but wavered when asked how confident he was that they would sign with the Whispers. After Sarge’s presentation to him in Cordes-sur-Ciel, Decker did not know how to answer the question.

  The following October, Clyde enjoyed an outside lunch at Brown’s Cafe, a quaint Wilmington restaurant with a view of the Brandywine River. He was going over his picks for the afternoon horse races when he was interrupted by an unexpected visitor.

  “Those oysters sure look tasty, Mr. Decker.”

  Clyde glanced up to see Mink Cosgrove in front of him. Mink wore sunglasses and a wide smile that moved with every chew he gave his g
um. Clyde laughed loudly and offered him a seat. The scout immediately called over his waiter and told him to bring another order of oysters on the half-shell.

  “Mink Cosgrove! I must admit that I did not think I would ever lay eyes on you again. You look great! How are Sarge and Tanner?”

  Mink’s smile faded.

  “Sir, Charles Tanner did not make it. He was killed in action over in France.”

  Decker’s chest felt deflated. He could say nothing. Even though he had only met Tanner briefly, he was truly saddened by the news of his death. The world could be such a wicked place, a cruel joke.

  After a long silence, Clyde extended his condolences to Mink. He was afraid to ask, but he finally coaxed the words out into the open.

  “And the sergeant? What about Sarge?”

  Mink’s ear-to-ear grin returned along with the furious gum-chewing.

  “Well, you can ask him yourself.”

  At that moment, Decker felt a shadow cast across him and he half-turned in his chair to find Sarge Safran looming over him. The man stared out across the river, his short-cropped hair covered by a flannel driver’s cap. He wore a dark cable-knit sweater and a question suddenly popped in Clyde’s mind: Where does a man as huge as the Sarge find clothes that fit him?

  Sarge held his massive right hand out to Decker and the scout caught a glimpse of the tattoos surrounding his wrist. Clyde stood and shook hands with the toughest guy he would ever have the pleasure to call a friend. Although he hid it from Safran and Mink well, Clyde’s throat went dry when he saw a small grin appear on Sarge’s solemn face.

  “Say, Hey, Mr. Decker. What’s the rumpus?”

  Clyde failed to make an appearance at the horse track that night. He was too busy introducing two American soldiers to every speak-easy known in the port city of Wilmington. It was a night of no limits, a night not to be forgotten, and a night that began a great friendship between an athletic scout and a couple of soon-to-be players for the Wilmington Whispers Carnival Baseball Team.

  4. Whispers vs. Bombers

  When the waitress in the Baltimore diner brought Sarge the check, he left the money on the table along with a hefty tip. He checked his wrist watch, retrieved his pork pie hat and threw Mink’s hat to him. Mink covered his cloudy eyes with his sunglasses and the pair strolled out of the diner into the bustling city morning. They made quite a spectacle together, the thin, small Mink and the herculean Sarge. Occasionally a passerby would glance at them and realize who Sarge was. People were awestruck at the sight of him. Sarge was a celebrity and Mink always felt his best when he was spotted with him. He knew he amounted to what could be defined as sidekick status, but Mink could care less. He basked in Sarge’s glory. From time to time, he caught bits of the hushed talk when people passed.

  “That’s Sarge Safran, the Babe Ruth of Carnival Ball! There he goes!”

  Once in a blue moon, Mink heard someone mention his name, too. After all, for an older pitching coach, he was not too shabby himself. With a lifetime ERA of 2.2, he could still put the fires out when the Whispers needed him.

  His arm always felt great. It was his damn eyes that were failing him. The chemicals the army used on them during his missions in Belgium and France were finally catching up with him. They allowed him to see in pitch black as if it were high noon and that was certainly the kind of ability to have when your job was spotting vampires on nightly prowls, but now it seemed his vision was fading and he suffered from booming headaches unless he wore his shades. For the first time in his life, Mink Cosgrove felt his age - and it scared him.

  Five blocks later, the two were allowed into the visiting locker room at Edgar Allen Poe Park, the Bomber’s stadium near Inner Harbor. They found a few of their teammates there as well, even though they still had a full hour until they were required to suit up. Sarge scanned the crew that was already present: Catcher Jimmy “No Legs” Ruben stood (or what counted as standing for a man with no legs) next to the Whispers bat boy, Mickey the Midget; Pitchers Lil Boner, Haney Mane, Marty Wood, and Rube Robinson crowded around a folding card table involved in a game of spades; Third baseman Erv Bream chatted with the janitor next to the towel rack, and center fielder Kid “Crazy Legs” McCoy was sprawled out on a wooden bench reading Life magazine. The place reeked of medicinal balms and feet.

  Sarge grabbed a piece of loose paper and pencil from the counter and wrote down his starting lineup and batting order:

  1 Kid McCoy - centerfield

  2 Erv Bream - third base

  3 Dane Dugas - shortstop

  4 Sarge Safran - first base

  5 Savoy Special - left field

  6 Biscuit Wagner - right field

  7 Ralph Sankey - second base

  8 James Ruben - catcher

  9 Rube Robinson - pitcher

  The head coach looked the list over and sighed. It was only July and already the Whispers were having a tough year keeping players. Carnival League rules allowed twenty to a team, but the Whispers were down to sixteen heads. They were a tough bunch and would never complain, but even hard eggs like them would eventually break going through a grinder of a season like the current one. They lost Jesuit Sawyer to a shark attack in early May (don’t ask) and the left-handed knuckle baller Rex Wildblood left them for a woman on the first day of June.

  A telegram from owner Mark DuCane had met Sarge at his hotel when he arrived in Baltimore on Friday. It read that two pitchers were on their way, but that was forty-eight hours ago. There was no follow-up message on the matter and the promised pitchers had yet to appear. The team was breaking down. Even the trusty Wonderboy was out of commission.

  Sarge thanked his lucky stars that it was Sunday, which was fortunate for two reasons. First, it was the last of the three-game series with Baltimore. Second, Carnival Ball rules strictly forbade any use of the supernatural on Sunday. If a team was caught using a hex, summoning demons, or possessing other players, they forfeited the game. A day of baseball without a bunch of hocus pocus was a good day in Sarge’s book.

  The one problem that Sarge faced as head coach during Sunday games was keeping an eye on Simon Says. The only Wilmington player who possessed prohibited Sunday powers, Simon Says was the Whispers witch doctor. (Clyde Decker was the one who had created the name for him since no one on the team could pronounce his native one).

  Sarge delegated the job of keeping Simon out of trouble to Mink. It was not that Simon would intentionally cheat. He simply could not help himself. He used his powers whenever possible. It was his nature. Sarge was also fairly certain that the Tanzanian understood almost nothing that went on around him. He was, however, the best spirit man in the league who could also lay down one mean drag bunt.

  Sarge chuckled to himself as he wrote down the reserve player’s names. His pencil suddenly froze in place and the tip snapped when a thought of panic raced through his head:

  Where was Simon Says?

  He swiveled around the room. All the other players were ambling in and were starting to dress in their away uniforms (light gray wool with with “Wilmington” in navy blue stitched across the chest), but there was no smell of burning incense, no shrunken head on a stick, and no witch doctor with the given name “Simon Says” to be found.

  Mink’s shoelace broke off in his hand when Sarge yelled his name across the locker room. His foot slipped off of the long, wooden bench and he bit his tongue when his chin connected with his knee. He looked up to see Sarge at the back of the dressing area, his massive chest rising and falling with each breath. With a wild look on his face, Sarge held a crumpled piece of paper and a broken pencil. Mink’s shaded eyes connected with Sarge’s and they both said the name at the same time.

  “Simon.”

  Mink kicked his baseball cleats off and stripped away his uniform. He hopped around the room on one foot as he pulled on his street pants and grabbed a plain buttoned-down shirt hanging from his locker. He slid his feet into a pair of Oxfords sans socks before he spoke. Words shot out of
his mouth as he hustled towards the exit.

  “I’ll check the police blotters and the soda jerks and the trollies. Dammit, Sarge! I’ll find him!”

  Only his shadow was visible through the light of the swinging back door when Sarge yelled after him.

  “And check the zoo, too! That’s where I found him that time in Atlanta!”

  The back entrance swung closed and every member of the Whispers team stayed as still as possible. They exchanged glances and raised their eyebrows or sucked air through gritted teeth to try and communicate. They dared not talk. Even wise-cracking Mickey the Midget kept his trap shut. He had learned his lesson the hard last season when Sarge stuffed him in a trash can and sent him rolling down a West Virginia hill.

  The head coach stood there, looking at the back door for what felt like an eternity. He suddenly snapped out of his trance and twenty-four spiked feet (and two stubs, courtesy of “No Legs” Ruben) slipped and slid across the concrete floor towards the field entrance when he bellowed, “What the hell are you clowns waiting for? An invitation? Get your asses out there for some batting practice!”

  Sarge was left alone with the custodian who was doing everything he possibly could to look busy at arranging towels. The coach picked up a still-burning cigar butt that fell out of Ralph Sankey’s mouth when he fled for the field. He looked the stogie over for a moment and then took a long pull from its tattered end. He blew smoke over his head and then pitched it to the corner of the room. Sarge walked towards the unmistakable sounds of wooden bats and the slap of glove leather. He mumbled the words that gave him the greatest meaning in life. They were also the words that gave him the most sleepless nights and heartache, too.

  “Carnival Ball.”

  Sarge jogged up the the three steps of the visitor’s dugout into a clear July day in the city of Baltimore. He pulled his wool ball cap down almost to his eyebrows and popped his uniform’s collar so it stood straight up. He felt the fresh cut grass under his spikes and as hard as he tried, he could not help but smile. All of the headaches and the worries and the babysitting were worth it to feel what was inside him at that moment.