by Colby Cox
“All right. I’ll take your word for it, Mink. I ain’t in the mood to fire it up right now. I’m more concerned with Tanner.”
Sarge went over to home plate and shared some pleasantries with Biscuit and No Legs. They were there to catch warm up for the two new pitchers. Both men informed him that the new arms showed a lot of potential, especially the golden one from Nebraska. No Legs gave Tanner a raving review.
“Sarge, that Cornhusker has the stuff. If he has a head on his shoulders, then we got something special.”
Sarge thanked them for their assistance and then walked behind Haney and Tanner on the mound so he would not interrupt. While he waited, Sarge looked the wooden indian over. He wondered how the team would manage lugging the thing around. They already made special accommodations for Wonder Boy and Savoy Special. As far as he was concerned, it was just another burden.
Once Haney was done talking, Sarge joined him and Tanner. He yelled over to Biscuit to get ready for a few pitches. Biscuit slid his catcher’s mask over his face and squatted behind home plate.
“All right, kid, let’s see what you got.”
Tanner nodded and went to work and Sarge was extremely happy with what he saw. The pitcher had a nice, smooth delivery. He was graceful on the mound and made it seem effortless as he threw fastballs that popped in Biscuit’s mitt regardless of where the catcher placed it in the strike zone. The young man possessed mean change-ups and Sarge had a tough time trying to predict when they would come. He knew that all pitchers had tells, little indicators to let batters know if a curve or off-speed pitch was coming. However, after watching Tanner, he could not pick up any. As long as he kept his cool during a game, the kid could be the real deal.
After about forty pitches, Sarge dismissed the catchers to the showers. Mink watched from the dugout and when Sarge called the end of practice, he walked over to meet the remaining three men in the center of the field. Sarge spoke with Tanner.
“All right, Chuck. Go hit the locker room. Get up with Rochester and pick out a uniform that fits you. Don’t forget to pack it for tomorrow when we leave for Lynchburg. And for crying out loud, kid. Wipe that cheese eatin’ grin off your face. How in the hell will any batter take you seriously when you always look so damned happy?”
The young Tanner was nothing but excitement. He tried to stop the smile, but was unsuccessful.
“Yes, sir!”
He darted into the dugout and made his way to the team room.
Sarge faced Haney Mane, the Duke of Duluth.
“Well, Mane?”
Haney spat a big ball of tobacco juice into the dirt.
“Potentially one of the best in Carny Ball. Better than Hooligan. And he’s up there with Rube Robinson and even Nap Hill.”
“Thanks, Haney.”
Mink, Sarge and Haney walked together towards the dugout. Just before they entered the locker room, Sarge turned to Mink.
“Hey, Mink. Ain’t you forgetting something?”
“I don’t think so, Sarge.”
Sarge threw a thumb towards the pitcher’s mound and Mink groaned when he saw the cigar store indian standing out there, staring at them with wooden eyes.
“Aw, come on, Sarge. That thing weighs a ton even dragging it around on that cart.”
Sarge winked to Haney and the pitching turned his head to keep from laughing.
“Mink, rule number one of the Wilmington Whispers is that we never leave a teammate behind. Now turn your ass around and go get the indian.”
Sarge stayed at the club house next to the stadium late into the afternoon. He double checked that all of the team’s supplies were packed and accounted for. He made certain there was plenty of bandages, ointments, and towels, as well as extra uniform pants and shirts. He packed the bats and practice balls into two large army duffle bags. These were the less than glorious moments of the Carny Ball coach. He was in essence the mother hen to a gang of men, robots, shamans, and now a wooden spiritual statue.
Sarge heard a loud clang come from the attached garage area and peeped his head around the corner to see what made it. There he found Doc Bismark, busy tinkering with Wonder Boy. Savoy Special stood nearby in the corner.
“Say, hey, Doc. You need any help?”
Bismark removed his eyeglasses and massaged his forehead with his free hand. It left a grease mark on his face.
“Hello, Sarge. No, thank you. I’m just finishing up here.”
“How they making out?”
Bismark plucked Wonder Boy’s metal chest and it rang out like a bell.
“They are both fit as fiddles.”
“Listen, Doc. The robots will sit out against Lynchburg. I can’t take the chance of them being struck by lightning. No sense in you hauling them all that way. Why don’t you stay home. We only have the three scheduled league games and then one exhibition.”
Bismark smiled and shook a finger at Sarge.
“Sergeant, you are a wise man. I am very happy that I decided to bring my boys here to Wilmington. I fear that other coaches in the league would not have been as caring.”
He stopped to search for the appropriate words to express himself. He ended up just looking at Sarge with gratitude.
“Thank you, sergeant.”
Sarge couldn’t figure out why, but the moment left a lump in his throat. He turned to Bismark and saluted.
That night, Sarge lay his bed with his arm draped around Delilah. It was their last evening before he left for a few more days, a few more baseball games. They never spoke during those moments. Part of them felt as if words would somehow cheat them of the precious little time left before they parted once more. They listened to crickets, bullfrogs, and the sound of their own breathing late into the summer night.
Whispers Fans gave the team a send-off at the train station, well-wishers who yelled for their team to bring back a couple of wins. Kids on summer break crowded around for autographs and a few little girls held Chew-on Man replica dollies. Sarge made certain that the whole roster was on board and that all of the equipment was safely tucked away.
Mink Cosgrove received a last-minute shoe shine from thirteen year old Michael McCallister, the officially endorsed shine of the station. It had become a ritual for Mink to receive a polish before away games ever since he pitched his no-hitter against the Philadelphia Pharaohs back in 1926. Carny Ball players were a superstitious lot, and Mink was no exception. He tossed Michael a generous silver fifty-cent piece and hopped on the waiting train. As they pulled off, Lil Boner and Kid McCoy hung out of their windows and waved goodbye. The entire front side of the team’s passenger car was an ad for Big Injun Chewing Tobacco complete with an eight foot tall painting of the company’s mascot, Whispers utility player Chew-on Man, dressed like a Mohican warrior. Sarge tilted his pork pie hat over his eyes and sprawled out in his seat. Within ten minutes he was asleep. They slowly gained steam and rolled south.
12. Welcome to Lynchburg
When the team pulled into the Kemper Street Station, the Virginian town was already bustling with the excitement of Carnival Baseball. Known as the “City Unto Itself,” Lynchburg housed some of the most rabid Carny fans there were.
The beloved Lynchburg team started as a small negro league club back in 1927. Known as the Lynchburg Royals, they played throughout Virginia, Maryland, and the D.C. area. The Royals rarely won half of their scheduled games and were looked upon by the rest of the Mid-Atlantic Negro League as sort of a joke. They were an easy win.
That was all before their 1928 July Fourth game with the Norfolk Nasties. During the top of the fifth inning, storm clouds marched over the Blue Ridge Mountains and were upon the baseball diamond before anyone had taken the time to notice. Lynchburg was losing as usual that day and were attempting to get a third out as the Nasties scored six runs on four hits and three errors. Cold winds moved through the sticky, hot air. Everything went dark and the few fans on hand ran for cover. In an instant the entire ballpark flashed white as if all color had be
en washed away. A giant bolt of lightning lashed forth from the storm clouds and touched down on the head of Lynchburg’s pitcher, Nap Hill.
In the aftermath, four Royals lay dead in the field. The other five on the starting roster barely survived. They were transported to the nearby Appomattox Hospital and stayed for weeks as specialists of all sorts came to examine the men and see first hand the unusual side effects that now afflicted them.
For starters, the five men would at times glow with high intensity. Nurses and doctors received shocks when near them and as a precautionary measure, they began to wear rubber gloves and shoes for protection. The amazing feats that followed did not come until October, when the five Royals returned to the ball field to work out the cobwebs.
Two of them discovered they possessed the ability to travel as fast as lightning. Second base could now be stolen in the literal blink of an eye.
Another player could attach electricity to his pitches and the baseball was followed by dazzling displays of heat and light as it reached the catcher’s mitt (which now had to be coated in rubber).
Still, two more of the survivors could harness the power of lightning into their swings and would crush baseballs so hard that they would sail over the James River to never be seen again. All five could bring down tiny strikes of electricity from the sky simply by stretching their arms upward towards the heavens.
An entire team was soon built around the unstoppable electric men, and the mediocre Lynchburg Royals of the Negro League were transformed into the formidable Lynchburg Lightning of Carnival Baseball. Oscar “Hot Foot” Clayton, Nap “Shocker” Hill, Clint “Volt” Jones, Art “Thunder” Teasley, and Ted “Sparky” Siddle, became the toast of the town as the Lightning earned their position in history as the only team to win two consecutive Carnival League Titles (1928 and 1929). The largest baseball stadium in the Commonwealth was erected near the Old City Cemetery and named John Lynch Park, after the town’s founding father. The foul line poles that stood in left and right fields each stood twenty feet tall and were topped with giant metal lightning bolts that pointed inwards toward the diamond. Power lines dangled from their tips and ran the perimeter of the park where they attached to a massive series of lights on wooden poles. Lynch Park was the only field on the Carnival League circuit that hosted night games.
With a only a few moments of sunlight left, both the Whispers and the Lightning were going through their stretches and pre-game warmups as the stadium filled with a near-capacity crowd. Suspenders and bow ties peppered the mass of fans as children ran amok with lit sparklers. Vendors hocked the usual fare, lemonade, beer and sausage, as well as the home town specials such as hush puppies, sweet potatoes on sticks, and rubber beanies and galoshes.
The four pallers congregated toward home plate. They finally motioned for Sarge and Thunder Teasley, the Lightning’s head coach, to join them. When the two coaches met at the plate, Teasley tipped his cap to Sarge. No one dared shake hands with any Lynchburg players before a game, especially one of the five founding fathers. The potential was always there to be shocked out of your spikes and thrown into the crowd.
“Say hey, Thunder. How you been?”
“Evening, Sarge. Word up and down the south is that you did quite a number on Hooligan Pete and his bunch up in Baltimore.”
“Yeah, it worked out.”
“I sure wished I was there to see that. If there was ever a man that needed some sense knocked into him, it would be the Hooligan.”
Teasley wore a light gray uniform that buttoned up the front. The team logo, a jagged bolt of black lightning, was stitched across his chest. The head umpire, Deacon Willard, went over the basics. It was a muggy night and Sarge noticed a ring of sweat already forming around the man’s stovepipe hat. Deacon ended the formalities with a personal request to Thunder Teasley.
“Mr. Teasley, I am aware that certain members of your team simply can not help it, but could you please make an attempt to keep the random strains of electricity to a minimum? The last time I officiated here, I was shocked so much that I couldn’t taste my food for a week.”
The group shared a laugh at the plea and Teasley said he would do his best, but he recommended everyone wore rubber on their feet as a safety precaution.
He and Sarge then nodded to one another, wished good luck, and trotted back to their respective dugouts to start the game.
Sarge gave a loud whistle to his teammates and they all huddled around the man near the on-deck circle.
“All right. Listen up. They are getting ready to fire up the lights. For those of you who haven’t played at night like this, be alert. The lighting system can cast some funny shadows and will make routine pop flies look more intimidating then they are. Just keep focused and keep your eyes on the ball. No hot dog stuff. Use two hands. Mink’s on the mound tonight. He’s familiar with Lynchburg’s lineup. If Hot Foot Clayton or Sparky Siddle get on base, don’t even try to hold them on. Let them go. It ain’t worth it. They can’t be stopped. We need a mean defense tonight and we need to turn the bats on. These guys are a good club, but we can take them.”
He knelt down on the grass and looked up to the huddle of faces around him. It was a moment that he would always remember long after his days of Carny Ball were over. He removed his cap and wiped sweat off of his crew cut.
“Men, wear your shoe rubbers and get ready to be part of one of the greatest spectacles in the sport.”
A few of the Whispers voiced excited cheers and the team trotted down the three dugout steps to grab seats and strap special booties around their spikes. Lynchburg hit the field and the crowd roared with applause. The five men of lightning, the pinnacle of the team, stood in a circle around their young starting pitcher, Johnny Jackson.
The five laid their gloves down in the dirt and in unison, raised their hands into the air. The crowd rapidly stomped their feet on the bleachers and when they struck a fevered pace, the men swung their arms toward the ground.
Out of no where, bolts of lightning flew toward the foul line poles and connected with the metal ends. It was so bright and intense that those who did not close their eyes momentarily lost their vision. Deafening thunder cracked the air. When things returned to normal, everyone witnessed a wondrous thing. The entire stadium was bathed in the glory of artificial light. Paller Dean Willard threw on his protective face mask. His stove pipe was now covered with a rubber beanie. He yelled “Play ball”, and the game began.
As Crazy Legs McCoy stepped to the plate, Sarge slid down on the bench next to Simon Says. The witch doctor had been left under the protective eye of Lil Boner, who had strict instructions not to let Simon go anywhere unattended. If the Simon Says went to the bathroom, Sarge wanted Lil there holding the man’s grass skirt.
“Simon, try to use your Mojo as much as possible today to keep the electricity off of our backs.”
Simon went wide-eyed and grinned. Blue plumes of smoke puffed out of his nostrils.
Whether it was the bug-eyed witch doctor’s doing or just good ball playing on his team’s part, Sarge was satisfied with the results. Crazy Legs stood on first after a perfectly laid bunt and then stole second base, barely beating the arc of electric that followed the throw from Lightning catcher Hot Foot Clayton. Erv Bream’s deep pop up to right field got Legs to third and a sacrifice fly from Dane Dugas brought him home.
Sarge slammed a scorching line drive that would have fallen in for a hit against any other carnival team, but center-fielder Volt Jones streaked across the distance in a line of hot light to catch it for the third out. Mink was able to take the mound with a Whispers one to nothing lead under his belt. He knew he would need it, because no one brought the lumber to the plate like Lynchburg.
The Lightning fans roared with approval as the first two men Lynchburg sent up to the plate, Volt and Hot Foot, were safely on with two bunts. The speedsters instantly stole second and third base on the first pitch Mink offered to Sparky Siddle. The only thing that prevented home plate from
being stolen was the fear that Volt Jones would run into the baseball as it was thrown. Yes, he was that fast.
Siddle hit a high pop up to Wilmington’s second baseman Ralph Sankey. The Lightning’s base runners were already standing on home plate and third base. They stood in place and waited to see if Siddle would glove it. Once he caught the ball for the out, Volt and Hot Foot instantly reappeared back on second and third trailed by a glowing flash of energy. Lightning’s clean-up batter and head coach Thunder Teasley grounded out to first base, but it gave Volt Jones the instant he needed to zoom home. Hot Foot Clayton advanced to third on the same play but that was where he would remain when Sam Pickens struck out on five pitches. After one inning of play, it was tied one to one.
Spectators pointed towards the visiting team dugout as a noticeable blue fog crept out of it and onto the field. Simon worked his magic at a fevered pitch and smoke poured from his mouth, nostrils, and ears. Sarge sent Mickey the Midget into the locker room to see if he could find an electric fan to clear the mess away.
The Whispers coach was impressed with Biscuit Wagner and Gary South as they started the next inning with back to back doubles. Sarge normally used them as reserve players or pinch hitters, but they were going to start in all three games of the series as substitutions for Wonder Boy and Savoy Special. The two robots would not have survived a single inning with all of the electricity whipping around Lynch Park and its home team. Wagner saw more regular game time than South, but there were times over the last two seasons when South’s quiet way and the talents of his tattoos won games for the Whispers during clutch moments.
Gary “Tattoo” South was the fourth son of the United States Senator Edward Phillip South who hailed from Providence, Rhode Island. His father’s status and wealth allowed Gary to enroll at Yale where he threw himself into the study of political science. The Senator saw himself in his youngest son and he hoped that Gary would one day follow in his footsteps to national politics and hopefully, one glorious day, to the White House.
