Carnival Baseball

by Colby Cox

  Mink insulted her again.

  “Hey, no offense Marielle, but I don’t think you thought this through too well. At what point as a little dolly vampire did you think it was a good idea to come by yourself and try to gun down two of the best vampire killers that ever lived?”

  His words pushed the girl over the edge.

  “I will kill you Mink Cosgrove! I will eat your glowing gray eyes on top of crepes!”

  Sarge heard in her voice that her back was turned to him. She was no longer the stone cold murderess she was just moments ago. She was now nothing more than a confused, petulant eight-year-old in way over her head. Marielle fired off the tommy gun indiscriminately. Bullets screamed into every direction. She began to cry. Mink was relentless.

  “You’re looking a little pudgy, too, Marielle. Have you been eating too many A Negative muffins?”

  When Sarge heard Mink give the code word, he was on his feet. With one swift movement he launched himself from the top of the folded chairs bolted down in row C, Aisle 5. Sarge already had the high ground and he was several feet above Marielle, who was busy trying to change out an empty ammo drum for a loaded one. Mink had the girl flustered. She turned just in time to gaze up and see a flying Sergeant Safran with a makeshift wooden stake held firmly in his left hand. With a sickening thud, he drove the pointed shard of bleacher directly into the center of the vampire’s chest. It pierced her black heart and ended her tragic curse of a life (or no-life, however you want to look at it).

  Sarge bore his full weight on the sharp piece of wood. Blood from his hand ran down the stick. His body shook. He hummed with raw energy. Sarge’s face was only inches away from Marielle’s.

  He realized that he spent far too long feeling sorry for himself. He had let himself get soft. As Mink ran across the field and hopped onto the top of the dugout to join him, Sarge thought about his possible death at the hands of Scratch.

  He never felt more alive.

  He returned to his cottage at the horse barns around three in the morning. He found Delilah waiting for him. She rose to her feet when he walked up the front steps. His tuxedo was in shreds. A bloody cut ran from his forehead to his jaw line and he stunk of cigars and sweat.

  Sarge read the anger on the woman’s face. It was in her stance. Before Delilah got the chance to yell at him, before she told him how worried she was and asked where the hell he had been, Sarge grabbed her around the waist and kissed her hard. Her knees buckled.

  “My God, have you been practicing your kisses on watermelons?”

  He peeled his jacket off and picked her up. He kicked the front door open, walked her inside and threw her on his bed. He made love to her like a man on fire.

  The next morning Delilah awoke to find him out back feeding carrots and handfuls of oats out of a tin bucket to the horses. It was early and there was an unseasonable chill in the air carried by a quiet breeze. Sarge heard Delilah behind him and he turned to face her. He locked eyes with the woman and spoke. Delilah sat down on the porch swing to catch her breath.

  “I love you, Delilah. I loved you the first moment I saw you at Henry’s Swing Club and I will love you until the day I die. Your life has given my broken one meaning.”

  20. The Gang Pitches in

  Sarge stepped out onto the Whispers field the next afternoon amidst chaos. The entire right side of the field was covered in tarp and several men in coveralls were working on a series of huge lights that laid in a row. There were seven systems in all.

  As he watched the workers assemble the lights, he heard Mickey the Midget behind him.

  “Hey, Sarge. I got here early and saw we wouldn’t be able to use the field for practice, so I sent the guys down to Emberton Park for practice. I even stuck some notices outside the locker room doors.”

  Sarge was impressed. For once, Mickey actually did something right. He turned to thank the bat boy for taking care of it all, but the sight of the man shut down the coach’s train of thought. Mickey the Midget stood in front of him with a fat churchill stuck in the side of his mouth. He wore a brown derby and two days worth of beard. He was also wearing Marielle’s red dress and matching tap shoes.

  “Mickey, what the hell is that?”

  Mickey stood with fists on his hips. He pulled the monster smoke from his teeth and looked down at his outfit as if he had just noticed it. He swayed the hemline back and forth in his hand and pointed his toes upwards so his coach could see every detail.

  “Yeah. Real nice, huh? Like I said, I came out to the field early today and this pretty little number was lying on the top of the dugout. Looks brand spankin’ new. There was a bunch of ashes lying all over it and there’s this hole in the chest, but it’s still in fine shape. What do you think?”

  Sarge had no idea what to think, so he played dumb.

  “It looks real swell on you, Mickey.”

  “Yeah. Thanks. It fits like a glove, too. I think it’s French.”

  Mickey threw the stogie back in his mouth and threw his thumb behind him.

  “Oh, yeah. I almost forgot. A bunch of coppers were here earlier, too. The guy who cuts the grass in the morning found a bunch of bullet holes up in the stands. Someone tore up a bleacher, too. That’s weird, ain’t it? But on the plus side, I found two nickels by the dugout.”

  Sarge changed the subject as quickly as possible.

  “Hey, Mickey, thanks for all of your hard work today. I really appreciate you pitching in a hand like that.”

  “No prob, Sarge.”

  The bat boy tipped his derby, blew a puff of smoke past his lips and sashayed down the block towards Emberton Park.

  All during practice, Sarge heard quiet talk from his players about the posters that were showing up around the city. A lot of them asked Mink and Haney Mane about the schedule change and wanted to know more about “The Devil’s Right Hand.” None of them ever heard of such a ball club. Was it some sort of gimmick?

  At the end of practice, Sarge yelled for them to bring it in around a large tree that stood behind the diamond. The field was nothing more than an empty lot used by local high schools. Sarge told his men to take a knee and they knelt down in the oak’s shade. He spoke briefly to them about lineup changes for the opener with Lancaster and a few players patted Gary South on his back when Sarge announced that he would start center field. When he finished the scouting report on the Shoo-Flies, he paused with a heavy sigh and craned his neck so that he looked straight up through the tree’s branches. He then addressed his team.

  “Listen, fellas. After two games with Lancaster, our schedule has been cleared until August first. We are going to forfeit our third game with the Shoo-flies and our scheduled game with Pittsfield.”

  Some murmurs erupted from his teammates as they looked to one another for answers. Mink and Haney Mane stood on either side of Sarge. Mink was able to hide his feelings behind his sunglasses. He stared straight ahead, poker-faced. Upon hearing the news, Mane looked down towards the ground and toed a rock with his cleat. He did not like what he heard, but he did not want to let it show.

  Sarge took a moment. He held his hands flat out in front of him and moved them slightly up and down to quiet down the talk.

  “Hear me out, guys. Just hear me out. You guys know I ain’t the type to forfeit games. I’d sooner take the field and get beat up by a twenty run difference than quit. You guys are professionals and like I said last night, you are the best team I have been associated with.”

  Doctor Bismarck stood behind the group between Wonder Boy and Savoy Special. As he listened intently, he pulled a pipe from his back pocket and knocked the old tobacco out of it against the cigar store indian who laid flat at his feet. Sarge continued.

  “We are living in crazy times, guys. We play baseball side by side with magic men and robots and guys who refuse to die. Hell, we’ve even seen one of our own struck down dead with lightning only to get up and shut down the side for a win.”

  Tanner tucked his chin down and his cheeks t
urned bright red. Ralph Sankey nudged the rookie pitcher with an elbow and Erv Bream pulled Tanner’s cap down over his face. A few guys said his name out loud to recognize his incredible feat.

  “Well sometimes, fellas, all of this black magic and spirit work comes back from your past and it bites you in the ass. I ain’t getting into specifics but I had a friend who needed some help. I put my neck out on the line for him and it now has come time to pay the piper.”

  The park went silent. No one had ever heard their coach speak that way before. The seriousness of the situation resonated around them. The July air was thick with it.

  “It boils down to this: We win on the first, nothing changes. We lose, I am out of Carnival Baseball forever.”

  The air sapped out of every player’s chest. They could not believe their ears. The thought of the Wilmington Whispers without Sarge Safran was unimaginable. The one could not exist without the other.

  “Trust me, fellas. The Devil’s Right Hand is no joke. It ain’t no publicity stunt. It will be the toughest nine innings of Carnival Ball that we have ever played, I can assure you of that. This team will make the Lightning look like a bunch of little leaguers. If any of you don’t want to play, tell me now. There ain’t no shame in walking out on this one, guys. This is my burden, not yours.”

  Dane “Defense” Dugas stood up from the center of the pack. His practice grays were covered in the orange dirt of the base paths.

  “Sarge, you always stood by me when I needed help. You took care of my gambling debt with Godfrey. Nobody is gonna stop me from playing in that game.”

  Dane’s words started a flood. Each man stood and declared their allegiance to Sarge Safran, the Babe Ruth of Carny Ball. It seemed every player was somehow indebted to their head coach. He came to their aid when needed over the years, and not a single Whisper opted to walk away.

  Sarge crossed his arms and nodded his approval. Day in and day out, his men faced adversity under his watchful eye. Each member of his team had proven themselves. He knew that not a one would shy away to suit up against Scratch. They were, after all, the Whispers of Wilmington. They took their lumps as a team should - together.

  21. The Hype

  Hype is a strange thing. It is the pebble dropped in a pond. The circular waves at the epicenter start no bigger then the tiny rock itself. Then, slowly, they move. They take their predetermined path and travel. As they do, they grow. By the time they hit the water’s banks, their size encompasses the pond’s entire surface. Nothing is left unaffected.

  The posters traveled by train. Within hours, they surfaced in Dover, Baltimore, Washington, Norfolk, Philadelphia, and all points between. Wild rumors flew. The Devil’s Right Hand Baseball Club was on everyone’s lips. Newspapers began to circulate outlandish stories that pushed word about the game to Pittsburgh, New York, and Atlanta. Soon, the legend of the pending contest was born.

  The nation’s bookies, gamesters, and backers were completely baffled. People were beating down their doors to lay money down on a Carny Ball game that they knew nothing about. Any schedule they checked showed the Whispers were supposed to play Pittsfield on August the first. There was certainly no mention of the Devil’s Right Hand (soon known as “DRH” thanks to the shorthand being used to spread word of the game by tickers and telegrams). How were they supposed to place odds? Nobody had even heard of the DRH ball club, much less seen them play. More rumors flew.

  Finally, famed Jewish bookie and numbers runner “Fisticuffs” Rosenberg of Hoboken, New Jersey, was given the inside scoop. Rabbi Rabinowitz, who was ninety-four years old, approached Fisticuffs after Sabbath. The Rabbi wanted to place a sawbuck on the DRH to take the win of the “Fury on the First” (the recognized monicker of the imminent Wilmington game).

  Fisticuffs balked.

  “Look, Rabbi, no offense, but I ain’t takin’ no bets on that game. Nobody knows who the heck the DRH is.”

  Rabinowitz then took Fisticuffs into his private chambers and, very quietly, told the bookie about Mr. Aldous Scratch and the man’s employer. The rabbi explained that Scratch was the team’s head coach. The bookie was dumbstruck. He took the rabbi’s money and ran all the way from the synagogue to his office at Bloomfield and Fourth where he maintained five telephone lines. Within minutes, they were all alive. Fisticuffs sent word to everyone who would listen. He was accepting bets on the Whispers and DRH game. His odds were 100 to 1 in favor of the Devil’s Right Hand Baseball Club.

  As the extremely focused Wilmington Whispers destroyed the Lancaster Shoo-flies in a seven to one rout, more than just bookies took notice of the awaiting “Fury on the First.” The news spread to every official and unofficial Carnival League ball club east of the Mississippi River. Team owners called DuCane’s Wilmington office non-stop and learned the seriousness of the situation. It was dire. Upon hearing that one of their own was in need, agreements were soon formed between ball clubs. News releases were sent to the local newspapers and the administrators who ran them finally got the chance to perform the one task that they always dreamed about. The thought of the action guided many into the journalism business to begin with. Up and down the coast, Editors-in-Chief ran around the loud printing machines and yelled at the top of their lungs those three words that, in their minds, declared the greatest moment of their careers.

  “Stop the presses!”

  That afternoon, thousands from New Orleans, Louisiana to Bangor, Maine read the headline:

  “Commish of Carny Ball Suspends all August 1st Games Except Pending Fury.”

  The next day, the Whispers of Wilmington sent the Shoo-flies of Lancaster packing. The final score was twelve to two. Mink pitched four innings, followed by a barn-burning performance by the old pro, Haney Mane, The Duke of Duluth.

  It was the Whispers bats, however, that received the most ink in the paper, as Wonder Boy, Savoy Special, Gary South, Sarge Safran, and even No Legs Ruben, all slammed solo homers, a new league record. The team tallied up 24 total hits for the day. One was posted by Simon Says on a beautiful drag bunt during a pinch hit appearance for Mink. Their performance was so good in fact, that the odds for the Fury on the First were cut down to 80 to 1.

  When Michael McCallister was not shining shoes at the Wilmington Train Station, he either played stickball or worked on his Carny Ball card collection. He was still gloating about the rookie Sarge Safran and Nap Hill cards he obtained on a trade with Gus Jensen. Jensen was a fan of the “other” league and Michaels was able to sucker his neighborhood friend into trading Safran and Hill for an old Honus Wagner tobacco card Michael had found in his basement. Boy, thought McCallister, was that Jensen kid dumb.

  Michael watched the Lancaster Shoo-flies leave for home on the Northbound 263. He gave a shine to their veteran pitcher, Bob Daddio, and was able to grab an autograph from Shaky Legs Hutson. It was turning out to be a good day. The crowds waiting for trains were a bit heavier than usual. Michael already earned over two bucks and by the looks of things, he could probably squeak out another buck twenty-five.

  He was in the middle of a buff and polish job when the 212 rolled into the station. Michael normally would not pay the exiting passengers any mind, but the first guy to step off grabbed his attention. He could not believe his eyes, but the perfectly waxed mustache and parted hair left little room for doubt that he had spotted Hooligan Pete, the greatest Baltimore Bomber ever.

  As if that sighting was not strange enough, right behind Hooligan, Michael saw Jeremy Brunswick and Andy Stover, infielders for the Toledo Terrors. Unfortunately, he was in middle of a wax job. By the time he finished his work with the rag and his customer threw him his nickel, the pro athletes were long gone.

  When the Triple One train showed up an hour later, however, Michael kept his eyes peeled on the departing passengers. Sure enough, he saw more Carny players. Once six o’clock struck, Michael closed shop and scrambled for autographs as a regular “Who’s Who” of the league hopped off of every arriving train.

  Th
e Charlestown Chopsticks. Zanesville Zeroes. Wheeling Wildmen, Springfield Straight Razors and the Beckley Stranglers. The Huntington Huns. There were even men from the Savannah Plague. Michael was beside himself. He walked home that night with over a dozen signatures from the biggest names in the sport. He asked them all what brought them to Wilmington. Each and every player gave the shoe shine the same reply. They were there to watch the biggest Carny Ball game ever.

  While at the station, Michael had been so focused on identifying club players that he paid no mind to an oddball group who arrived on the 7:05. Each one wore hats pulled low. Each one wore sunglasses and each one wore unseasonably long trench coats with upturned collars. If he had noticed, Michael may have thought them suspicious and took the time to count them. There were five in all.

  22. Insurance

  Sarge pulled a London Dry grape soda from his ice box and sunk down onto his bed. He stared at the ceiling. After their final game with Lancaster, he told his team to take the next two days off. There would be no practices before the much hyped game with the DRH. He told them to get plenty of rest and when Tuesday night came, they would walk out on their home field and give it their best.

  “Fury on the First.”

  He took a long pull of cold pop and laughed at the nickname bookies had given the much anticipated nine innings. There was going to be some fury, all right. It brought to mind what his brother said to him before they left for Jim Bo Mo’s hangout together that hot night long ago. Mycroft had grabbed him by the shoulder and squeezed hard enough to leave a bruise. Sarge would never forget his words.