by Colby Cox
“All right, Sarge. Fine. It will be soon, and I will win. I have Tanner’s soul. I will take his boy’s soul, too.”
Scratch’s eyes clouded over and Sarge caught a glimpse of a deep and black evil. Pure evil.
“And, rest assured, Tristan Safran, I will have your soul as well.”
Dr. Otto Bismark fell squarely on his ass when Sarge suddenly rose up from under him in the locker room and fiercely yelled.
“No one calls me by that name!”
Mink and Lil Boner quickly scooped the German scientist off of the floor and sat him down on a stool. Mink then grabbed Sarge by the arm.
“Hey, boss! Take it easy. Poor Doc’s ticker can’t take that kind of nonsense. Get a hold of yourself!”
Sarge found that he was no longer in Scratch’s mansion, but was again with his team in the visitor’s locker room of Poe Park in downtown Baltimore. The Whispers had gathered around him in a semi-circle. They were all still in uniform, a motley crew in dire need of hot showers and cold beer. Sarge looked at the lot of them, his group of misfits he commanded. Mickey the Midget chewed on a lit cigar. He grabbed Sarge’s hand and bent his crooked mouth into a grin.
“Thank, God, Sarge! We all thought you were a goner. I sure am glad you’re OK.”
Sarge picked up his ball cap and pulled it firmly on his head. He swung his legs over the bench to face the bat boy.
“Shut your damn trap, Mickey, and hand over my fourteen bucks you filched out of my pants.”
The surprised Mickey hurriedly retrieved a wad of bills from his back pocket and placed them in Sarge’s extended hand.
“Sure, thing, coach. I was doing some safe-keeping for you, in case we had to get you to the infirmary. Scout’s honor.”
“Don’t sweat it, Mickey.”
The coach shoved him in the chest with an open hand and the midget went sliding across the concrete floor. He struck the lockers on the opposite side of the room. A stack of dirty towels fell on top of him and a mop slowly teetered over. The handle struck him in the head. Everyone stared.
Sarge stood up, straightened his back and fought against a throbbing headache left by Hooligan Pete’s final inning antics.
Without giving him a moment to reflect on his meeting with Scratch and what laid ahead between him and the broker of souls, his best friend Mink and Lil Boner pressed through the crowd of spent men to get Sarge’s attention.
Mink’s hair fell out of place and hung in front of his sunglasses. He was out of breath. A toothpick darted back and forth in his mouth. He chewed on it incessantly and it flitted between his word’s like a mouse’s tail.
“All right, Sarge. Here it is. I got good news, and I got really bad news.”
Sarge placed his hands on his hips and looked towards the ceiling. His uniform was caked in a combination of sweat, blood, and dirt. The room was quiet, but the muffled sound of yelling and hollering could be heard from outside the back steel door.
Mink threw the toothpick from his mouth and popped in a stick of gum to replace it. He threw the wrapper over his shoulder. It hit Lil Boner in the face.
“The good news is me and Lil found Simon Says.”
Sarge was not in the mood to wait for the other shoe to drop.
“Go on.”
“Now I got two pieces of bad news. The first bit is that me and Lil found out that a cock fight in Baltimore don’t mean the same thing it does back home in Wilmington.
The second piece of bad news is that Simon Says got pinched by the Baltimore Police Department. Turns out the mighty Ty Cobb is in town.”
Upon hearing the name of one of the most famous professional baseball players of all time, half of the team’s faces turned sour. The other half spat on the floor. Mink continued.
“From what I can gather, Cobb was all nestled up for an afternoon nap. He woke up to find crazy-ass Simon hovering over top of him with a pair of barber scissors, so Cobb clobbered Simon with a vase. Fortunately for Simon, the police were in the lobby on another matter and the ruckus caused them to investigate. If they hadn’t been there, Sarge, there’s no doubt in my mind that bastard Cobb would have killed him. The coppers snatched Simon Says and got him at the precinct downtown. Cobb is screaming for his head on a platter.”
Sarge tried not to move. He took deep breaths and restrained himself from ripping lockers out of the floor.
“I ain’t no Dick Tracy, Sarge, but this has Chew-on Man written all over it.”
A thought raced through Sarge’s mind and he could have kicked himself for even letting the wild Tanzanian witch doctor bring Chew-on Man with him to away games. From that moment on, the thing would have to stay in Wilmington under lock and key. The little freak creation was more trouble than it was worth.
“Sarge, I took the liberty of wiring the news back home to Wilmington. Front office wired back. They sent word to some hotshot lawyer who’s one of Mr. DuCane’s boys. The guy is supposed to live and breathe Baltimore law. His name is Haverslack, and he’s on his way to the jail to see what he can do.”
Sarge placed a hand on his face and almost rubbed it clean off of his head. He finally spoke.
“Haney Mane. You get the boys loaded up and grab the first train back to Wilmington.”
Haney Mane, “The Duke of Duluth”, was a veteran reserve pitcher for the Whispers. Haney acted as an instructor for the rest of the pitching staff and he took over as coach of the team when pallers tossed Mink and Sarge out of games, which happened quite frequently. He was the only person out of the bunch that could be trusted to take care of such matters.
Haney nodded to Sarge and that was all the coach needed to know that it would get done. Just then, Duke Dugas piped up.
“Hey, coach. I ain’t trying to be a killjoy, but what about this crowd out here waiting for us? “
As if timed for effect, a bottle smashed against the back door. Duke flinched at the noise.
“I don’t think they are none too happy that you sent Hooligan to the hospital and beat their team to boot.”
Sarge mulled it over. He then addressed his team.
“Don’t worry, fellas. I’ll take care of the crowd. Everybody get showered and dressed. Mink, you get us a taxi. Me and you are going downtown to spring Simon out of the slam. The rest of you are to be in Wilmington by day’s end, tucked in with your jammies on. Got it?”
A few nervous laughs could be heard. A lot of the players had been in worse situations and the Sarge always seemed to take care of them. He always saw things through.
The Baltimore rowdies that had congregated outside of the Whispers locker room swelled to a number around two hundred. A flatfoot called it into his station and two mounted policemen now mustered at the end of the block in response. The clack of horse hooves could be heard in the brick paved alley. They hoped the crowd would tire and peter out, but at that present moment it seemed the opposite had occurred. Men who had not attended the game heard the commotion or caught wind of the excitement from afar and strutted over to join in the fun. Several members of the mob stood with two-by-fours and a few were armed with tire irons.
Although Hooligan Pete’s pride was wounded more than his body, the leaders of the informal gang spoke of Baltimore’s star Carnival Baseball player as if he had one foot in the grave. Thanks to their hyperbole, lies, and some cheap gin distilled in a bathtub from Wagner Park passed around in mason jars, the crowd expected to show the Carny Club from Wilmington a lesson in brutality.
What they were not expecting under any circumstance was the back door that they had been eyeing for almost two hours to suddenly fly open and slam against the side of the building. They also were at a loss as to how they should react when Sarge Safran stepped through the threshold holding a baseball bat in front of him. He wore a bow tie, a pork pie hat, and clenched a fat stogie between his teeth. A cloud of smoke shot from his mouth when he spoke.
“I got plans for this evening, gentlemen. So be men about this and get in line for a coming-to-Jesus me
eting you won’t soon forget.”
Approximately fifty percent of the crowd just remembered a grocery list of tasks that they were supposed to finish. Whether it was painting a fence, walking their dogs, or stopping by the butcher, they thought of any excuse that would carry them far way from the alley behind Poe Park. Bottles and pieces of iron clanked on the brick street as men shuffled away.
The other fifty percent got a good look at Sarge’s sheer mass, his tattooed forearms that were thicker than their legs, and the crazy look in his eyes shaded by his upturned hat. Those men suddenly found the ground a very interesting place and they turned their gazes downward and kicked at pebbles. A few began to whistle and secretly prayed that they would not be noticed. The mounted police at the end of the alley laughed out loud at the turnaround in the mob’s attitude.
“What, no takers?”
Sarge scanned the crowd, but no one would meet his gaze.
“Well, then, if you will excuse us, my teams got a train to catch.”
A Model A Ford bus swung around the corner and the two policemen led it down the narrow street. The Whispers shuffled onto it one by one as they lugged their gear on board. Sarge looked to the other end of the street and watched Mink, Lil, and Sankey help Doctor Bismark load up Savoy Special and Wonderboy into a work truck. Sankey and Lil then trotted over to the bus and climbed aboard. Mink ran across the street and flagged down a taxi on the main thoroughfare. Sarge could hear his whistle and the honk of horns from the road.
Haney Mane hung from the front door of the bus to receive any last instructions from the head coach. Sarge shot a stream of smoke out his mouth away from Mane and held the cigar down to his side. He handed the baseball bat over to to the pitching coach.
“Haney, get these boys out of this town as soon as possible. Any more problems like this, have Doc fire up Savoy Special. We got a good four days of rest before we head to Lynchburg, so make them count.”
The quiet man from Duluth replied.
“Sure thing, boss. Consider it done.”
Haney gave a casual salute to Sarge and headed into the bus.
Sarge saw Rube Robinson seated next to the front window. He slapped the vehicle’s side to get the young pitcher’s attention. When Rube turned to face him, Sarge saw the exhaustion in his face. Robinson threw a smile his way. A piece of cotton was shoved up his left nostril to stave off a nosebleed.
“Hell of a game, kid. I don’t know how you did it, but that was one of the finest pieces of pitching I ever saw.”
Rube’s smile widened and the boy’s cheeks went flush.
“Thanks, Sarge.”
Sarge smiled back, threw the cigar back in his mouth and watched the bus drive off past a waving Mink, who waited for him at the corner. Mink opened the back door of a taxi wide with a foot planted on the running board. Sarge shot a stink eye toward the rest of the crowd as they pretended to inspect the power line poles. He walked towards Mink and their ride, took one long pull from the cigar, and flicked the butt down the alley. He slid into the backseat of the automobile.
“All right, Mink. Let’s go save our damned witch doctor and his precious Chew-on Man.”
6. Simon Says and Chew-on Man
The race for spirit forces and magic in Carnival Baseball began during the 1925 season when the Scranton Lanterns proudly displayed a Tibetan monk on their bench during their home opener. He sat indian style in orange and red robes with closed eyes. The monk was a little guy with a shaved head. Most fans initially thought his presence was a gimmick, but around the third inning, he levitated off of the bench and the Lanterns hitters hammered every pitch thrown their way. They won the game with twenty-one hits and then went on to make Carny Ball history by winning their next fifty games straight.
It did not matter what opposing teams threw their way. Scranton was unstoppable with the content monk by their side. Georgie Breemer, the Lanterns’ head coach, began to tie the monk’s ankle to the bench in fear that the guy would float away. It looked as if the Lanterns would easily win the Carny Ball title until the start of the seventh inning of their fifty-first contest.
There were no outs and Scranton base runners stood on second and third. They were up by four runs when suddenly, out of the blue, the monk opened his eyes, walked over to Lantern’s head coach Breemer, and lightly tapped him on the shoulder. When he had Breemer’s full attention, the robed priest thanked the coach for the wonderful experience, but informed him he had to leave. When Breemer inquired as to what the hell the bald guy was talking about, the monk explained to the skipper that he had finally obtained nirvana. He then bowed to the irate Georgie and with what sounded like the pop of a balloon, he vanished into thin air, never to return. Scranton lost the game five runs to four, and then soundly lost their next thirty-nine appearances.
Although he failed to produce a title for the Lanterns, the Tibetan monk showed club owners that mystical powers could do wonders when combined with the sport. Every Carny Ball club harangued their scouts to find the best and the brightest spirit men available. Native American medicine men, shamans, African high priests, Egyptian mummies, you name it. The flood gates were opened. By the time spring training began in 1926, each of the ten teams in the officially sponsored Carnival League Baseball Federation had at least one player with some type of other-worldly power. It got a lot of attention from local newspapers who loved to print little biographical pieces on their home town spirit men.
Not all fans, however, were enthusiastic about the magical direction the game was moving. The League received threats of Carny Ball bans from large baptist and catholic churches up and down the east. Fortunately, a compromise was reached and the Spirit Rule was created. Magical powers were forbidden during Sunday games. The Spirit Rule appeased the holy rollers, but it did nothing to halt the influx of abnormal forces into the game. They quickly became an integral part of the Carnival League.
Sarge had just earned the head coaching spot of the Whispers when the witch doctor, Simon Says, was sent his way. Wilmington’s best and brightest scout, Clyde Decker, was the man fortunate enough to introduce Simon to his new coach.
Simon Says hailed from Tanzania. He was rail thin, had the darkest skin Sarge ever laid eyes upon, and wore deep scars on his face in sets of three on each cheek. Simon’s eyes were bigger than golf balls, his hair went every which way, and a bone ran through his nostrils like a cheap cliche.
When Sarge met Simon, he quickly learned that his new baseball player could not catch, hit or throw. For obvious reasons, this revelation somewhat vexed him. Sarge commenced to yell at Clyde until his face was blood red. Tobacco spittle stained Clyde’s starched collar and silk tie, but nonetheless, the scout patiently waited for Sarge’s rant to end. Once the storm was over, he wiped his face clear of all offending debris and surprised Sarge by agreeing with him. Clyde conceded that Simon Says would never be able to play the game of Carny Ball. The witch doctor was worthless in the field. His batting skills were abysmal. It was all true and then some. Clyde then asked Sarge to give him five minutes of his time so he could demonstrate Simon’s true talents.
Clyde strode over to Simon and quietly spoke with the jungle man. Simon nodded and pulled something out from a piece of fabric tied around his waist. He then stepped in front of Sarge and held out his thin hand with the palm facing up. His other hand remained at his side. Sarge felt it would be pointless to speak directly to the Tanzanian, so he looked past him to Clyde.
“Decker, what the hell does this guy want?”
“Sarge, give Simon your plug.”
The coach stared over the wild man’s tangled hair at the baseball scout.
“Clyde, have you lost your damned mind?”
Clyde nodded.
“ As a matter of fact, Sarge, I have. I lost it back in France when you did your show-and-tell trick with the little vampire girl in the box. Now, please, hand over the tobacco in your mouth to Simon.”
Sarge sighed and pulled the brown wad of tobacco out
of his mouth. He slapped it down into Simon’s extended hand. The black man winked at Sarge and showed the coach the strange object he held in his other hand. Sarge thought it looked a lot like a little doll made of cat turds.
Before the coach had the chance to start hollering again and before he was able to throw Decker and Simon off of the baseball field, Simon pressed Sarge’s wet tobacco plug onto the little figure. He then placed his face close to the thing and said a few soothing words in whatever language Tanzanian witch doctor’s spoke. He gingerly placed the doll down on the grass.
Sarge stood dumbfounded as the doll lifted its head up, looked around, and bolted across the field in a sprint. The creature was as fast as any man Sarge ever played against.
Clyde doubled over in laughter. When he finally got a hold of himself, he told Sarge to throw a ball at the thing.
“Go on, coach, throw one out to him.”
Sarge obediently grabbed a loose ball lying near him and chucked it as hard as he could. The little tobacco doll honed in on it like a bat to a bug, jumped about four feet high, and snatched it clean from the air.
It landed onto its feet and immediately launched the ball back to Sarge like a missile. Sarge dove down on the ground to keep from getting hit. It took a few minutes before Clyde had regained his composure.
“It still needs to have some kinks worked out of it, but Simon Says here can control that little guy and bring him out whenever he’s needed. Just be careful, Sarge. There can be some drawbacks.”
About that time the doll came running through the infield and it jumped up to the witch doctor. Simon clamped a fist around its waist. As soon as it hit the man’s hand, it froze and reverted back to a lump of nastiness.
The witch doctor smiled at Sarge and in his native tongue said something that sounded like “Cha-chooman.”
Chew-on Man had been born.
At first, the Chew-on Man and Simon were blessings for the Wilmington Club. 1927 became the Whispers first season to win over half of their ninety scheduled games. Everyone loved it when the little tobacco creature was unleashed on the field and the team reaped major monetary benefits when Mark DuCane brokered a deal with Big Injun Chewing Tobacco out of South Carolina. The company’s new ad proudly displayed the weird Chew-on wearing an indian headdress and holding a tomahawk. That deal alone bought new uniforms, equipment, a team bus, and their very own train car complete with bunks. Thanks to the baseball playing hunk of shredded leaves, things finally came together for the Whispers.
