by Colby Cox
27. A Plan
Mink threw the list down on the dugout’s floor in disgust.
“Sarge. When those Carny players up in the stands see these criminals storm the field, we’re going to have a riot on our hands.”
Mink’s words hit Sarge on the head like a ton of bricks.
“Mink, you lovable mutt, you’re a genius!”
Sarge grabbed Scratch’s lineup off the ground and threw a couple of teammates out of the way as he scrambled around the dugout. He picked up an old broken pencil and yelled for Lil Boner, who was by his side in a flash.
“Boner. Run in the locker room and find as much paper and pens as you can.”
Boner saluted Sarge and ducked into the clubhouse.
“Mink. Make as many copies of Scratch’s lineup as you can. Get them passed out to the players out in the stands. If anybody is gonna know how to beat this crew, it’s gonna be their old teammates.”
Mink instantly cheered up when he understood where Sarge’s orders were headed.
“Hey! You’re right! I am a genius!”
The starting Whispers team had already taken the field and Tanner threw his five warmup pitches. The home plate paller yelled for Sarge.
“Some time today would be nice, coach!”
Sarge grabbed his mitt and just before he sprinted onto the field, he fed instructions to his pitching coach.
“Haney. There’s not much we can do this inning, but I need you to devise some sort of signal-calling for the rest of the game from our dugout to No Legs and Tanner. I think we just stumbled on a way to wreak some damage to the Devil”s Right Hand.”
When Grodanski dusted the plate and yelled play ball, DRH’s first batter, Stonewall Smith, stepped out of the darkness of the visitor’s dugout, sporting the prestigious white uniform and cleats of Scratch’s side. His two-foot beard and eye patch were unmistakeable forms of identification to the fans. The sight of him stunned the crowd into silence. All heads turned to Max Cox, the voice of the Whispers.
A few teams of the “other league” by 1933 were toying with broadcasting their games on radio. Carny Ball Clubs, however, had yet to dabble in that modern technology. Mark DuCane looked into the project for WIlmington, but for the time being, he hired Max Cox, an eighteen year old junior from the University of Delaware, to announce the name of batters as they stepped up to the plate. Max gave the scores after each half inning of play and in the event the game was delayed by rain, he would recite Shakespearean sonnets as part of Wilmington’s “Educate the Ruffians” city-funded program. It was all achieved with Max’s naturally booming voice amplified by a megaphone.
Max’s insertion into Wilmington baseball was hailed by the Carny League world as a master stroke of smart business and earned the young student a tidy sum on the side in advertising and public appearances. Max sat in a wooden gazebo constructed high above the bleachers on the home team side. The uniform he wore was a Whispers ball cap, a black bow tie with a white shirt, and a black and white striped blazer.
When he confirmed to the crowd that it was indeed Stonewall Smith who stepped to the plate with bat in hand, a force of boos and hisses exploded from their mouths that rattled Mickey the Midget’s fillings. Even Simon Says, deep in meditation, winced at the outburst.
Tanner threw a fastball down the heart of the plate for strike one. Stonewall watched it pass. On the second pitch, however, the DRH catcher stung a liner over Sarge’s head. The ball bounced into the right field corner where Wonderboy finally gained control of it and hurled it toward second base. Smith, the deceased opium addict from Philly, had opened the game with a double. Everything went downhill for the Whispers starting pitcher from there.
Scratch stepped to the plate and smashed a single over Erv Bream. With men at the corners, Noodle Nefosky popped up to Dane Dugas for the first out, but Mad Dog McCann stepped to the plate and drew first blood. He pummeled Tanner’s two and two curveball over Savoy Special’s extended mitt. The metal man could only turn and watch as it landed deep in the left field bleachers. Just like that, the Devil”s Right Hand was up by three runs.
Sarge cursed. He kicked dirt. He thought about taking Tanner out, but decided to give him a chance to finish the inning. As Mad Dog rounded the bases, Sarge looked over to the Whispers bench and saw a group of Carny Ballers crowded around Mink at the edge of the dugout. Mink was handing out copies of the DRH roster as fast as he could. Sarge scanned the crowd and saw small groups of men in the bleachers crowded around scraps of paper. Scratch’s lineup had already made it to Carny League players seated in the outfield. Sarge prayed it would help.
With one out, Third Leg Simpson jumped on Tanner’s first pitch. It was a shallow line drive that should have dropped for a hit, but Gary South charged it like a bull. At that moment when most outfielders would have backed away, South slid forward on his knees. The baseball fell with a smack into his mitt. The second base paller threw a thumb high in the air, and the crowd rose with a holler to show respect for the incredible play.
Max Cox cringed when he saw the name he was to announce as the next DRH hitter. In Carny Ball culture, to utter it aloud would be like punching somebody’s Mom in the mouth. He sighed deeply and raised his megaphone.
“Batting sixth for the Devils Right Hand, left fielder, Lawrence Wachorski.”
The boos and jeers were deafening. Max ducked down into his gazebo as soda pop bottles and popcorn boxes bounced off its sides. It was going to be a rough night.
Larry Wachorski strolled to the plate like he was the most loved player in the world. His skin was oddly pale, as if he was transparent. His adam’s apple bobbed up and down and seemed to only accentuate his misshapen head. Lawrence was stone-cold ugly, and sadly, his brothers and he were identical triplets.
Several members of the Charlestown Chopsticks tried to storm the field, but they were physically held back by two Wilmington cops. They begrudgingly returned to their seats. Someone from the crowd yelled for Tanner to kill him. The rookie refrained, but he did strike him out with four pitches to finally retire the side.
As the Whispers headed for the dugout, Sarge grabbed hold of Tanner Junior. The boy was pale and sweating buckets. He was exhausted. Sarge immediately guided him over to the bench and yelled for the guys to make room. The coach soaked a washcloth in cold water and slapped it on Tanner’s neck. The rookie mumbled deliriously. He could barely keep his eyes opened. Sarge put the back of his palm against the pitcher’s forehead. Fear shot through him.
“Good God! He’s burning up with fever! Simon Says! Get over here!”
Simon’s eyes opened wide from his trance-like state. He sprinted over to Tanner and gingerly pushed Sarge out of the way. Simon laid Tanner Junior prone and popped the pitcher’s shirt open. The witch doctor pulled a pouch from his belt and sprinkled a white dust over Tanner’s exposed chest. It instantly calmed the pitcher and he fell into a deep sleep.
Mink yelled for the stretcher crew, but Simon Says grabbed him by the wrist. The witch doctor closed his eyes and slowly shook his head. He then tapped Tanner on the shoulder and made the “A-okay” sign. Sarge and Mink threw a look at one another. Simon Says definitely came with personal hang-ups, and he could be a giant pain in the ass, but when it came to the health of their teammates, they trusted him emphatically. Mink and Sarge set up shop on the other side of the dugout and conferred with Haney Mane.
Sarge spoke with Haney.
“Are we all set up with signals?”
“Yeah. I think we’re good. Once Boner and Mink got the lists out to the Carny Ballers out in the crowd, they were champing at the bit to help out.”
Haney pulled out a pile of ripped-up cracker jack boxes and paper cups. They were covered in hand-written notes and diagrams.
“We’ve gotten all sorts of tips on how to pitch to these DRH bums. There’s certainly no love lost between them and their old ball clubs, that’s for sure. Me and No Legs got a series of codes worked out. I’m sorting through this stuff now
and trying to put it all in order.”
The crack from a bat and a roar from the crowd interrupted their talk. Sarge ran to the dugout steps and looked out on the field just in time to see Morgan Wachorski snag Savoy Specials line drive for the Whispers first out. The coach felt bad not watching every play. So much was going on at once. He returned to Haney.
“All right. You done good, Haney. This might turn it around for us, maybe stop the bleeding.”
Sarge turned from his pitching coach to watch Dane Dugas dig into the batter’s box, but he was again pulled away from the action. This time it was was Mink.
“What the hell is it?”
“Look, boss, I know you’re frustrated, but this is something you need to know.”
Mink pulled Scratch’s lineup out of his pocket. It was the original copy of his roster, the one he handed Sarge before the game.
“When we were making duplicates, I flipped it over and saw this.”
Mink pointed to a name on the back side of the paper. It was the third one down under the headline “Reserve pitchers.” Sarge felt as if he had been socked in the gut.
The name Mink pointed to was Charles Tanner Senior.
Dugas went down swinging for the second out. Fans groaned.
Gary South stepped away from the on-deck circle and pulled his cap low. He gripped the bat tightly as his new tattoo began to itch. Gary had stared at its image in the bathroom mirror before leaving home. He focused on the pain in the devil’s face caused by the hammer crushing its little hand - its right hand.
Gary stared Cobra Kemp down. Somehow he knew the first pitch would be aimed at his head, so he kept his hands low and prepared to hit dirt.
Sure enough, Cobra chunked a beanball straight for South’s jaw. The action was so sudden and violent that if Gary had not predicted it, he would have been killed. As soon as he struck the ground, Gary jumped back to his feet without dusting himself off.
He prepared for a meatball and Kemp served it to him on a platter. Gary ripped the pitch hard down the right field line. The ball looked to curve foul, but a white cloud rose from where it landed squarely on the line. The paller called it fair, and Gary rounded first at full speed. Mickey the Midget’s cigar accidentally caught a pine tar rag on fire during the excitement, but no one noticed. Gary sprinted towards second. He put third base coach Biscuit Wagner in his sights. Biscuit waved him on and Gary gave it his all. Only fools tempted the arm of a Wachorski brother, and Gary felt just foolish enough. He pushed off second and his cap flew off his head. Gary barreled towards DRH’s third baseman Mad Dog McCann, whose eyes and body position betrayed what Gary feared. Morgan Wachorski’s throw came in hot right behind him. Biscuit screamed for him to get down and the tattooed wonder threw his legs in the air. Gary curved himself into a question mark and hook-slid just beyond McCann’s sweeping tag. South’s spikes struck the bag and jolted his legs.
Dirt flew. Biscuit, Gary, and Mad Dog’s attention fell on the third base paller, who squatted low. His stove pipe hat bobbed back and forth. He threw his arms across his chest and extended them outwards. He yelled the one word that the out-of-breath Gary craved to hear
“Safe!”
While Gary stood upon the bag and wiped dirt off of his pants, the fifteen thousand plus on hand went hoarse with excitement. Mickey the Midget ran onto the field and retrieved South’s cap. He handed it over and slapped the man’s thigh.
When it seemed the cheers for the triple would subside, Max Cox’s megaphone sounded out the name of the next batter. The applause and whistles for Wilmington continued to rise like a swell against a breaking levee.
Sarge Safran strode to the plate. He carried his Louisville Slugger at his side. He stepped into the box and spat. Cobra, still frustrated and angered by Gary’s triple, hurled his first pitch hard, high, and inside. It was reckless and verged on criminal. If the Whispers coach had not swung, it would have easily been called a ball. Sarge, however, threw all of his power at it. The arc of his bat went high over his head as if he was trying to bust open a piñata. The wood’s sweet spot caught the pitch perfectly and Sarge felt as if he was swinging through butter. He pulled his head down, dropped his bat, and took off for first, but he had hit enough home runs in his life to know the ball was long gone.
It was now Scratch’s turn to stand at first and kick at dirt in frustration. The home run struck the right field scoreboard and the “J” on the “Injun Joe Chewing Tobacco” ad fell out of sight behind the fence.
The Whispers dugout emptied out onto the field. The entire team, save for Simon Says and Charles Tanner, crowded behind home plate to greet their coach. Their attention was so focused on Sarge’s trek around the bases that only Mink noticed the pitcher, Cobra Kemp, disappear.
As Sarge rounded third base, Kemp began to writhe in agony. He yelled out in pain, fell to a knee, and was gone. An empty uniform dropped in a heap on the pitcher’s mound. Smoke hung in the air.
Mink went cotton-mouthed. He stepped away from his jubilant team and put an eye on Scratch. The DRH’s coach had his lineup out of his back pocket. Even from a distance, Mink could tell Scratch was crossing a name off his list. A new member of the Devil’s Right Hand stepped from the visitor’s dugout and jogged to the mound with his mitt tucked under an arm. A shiver went down Mink’s spine as what he saw sunk into his consciousness. He had just witnessed a pitching change - Scratch style.
The new DRH pitcher, left-hander Bobby Boyles, made Cobra Kemp look like a christian saint on Easter Sunday. Boyles beaned both Wonder Boy and Ralph Sankey just for personal kicks. He then struck out No Legs Ruben with three straight fast balls to end the first inning.
When Sarge hit the field, Scratch stood on first base waiting for him.
“Nice hit, Sarge. That was certainly one for the record books.”
Sarge ignored him and began to toss warmup grounders to his infielders while waiting for play to begin. Either Scratch did not get the hint or he did not care.
“You know I am toying with you. At any moment during this, I can break it open. But that would not be very sporting, would it? On this day, Sarge, your luck has run out.”
When Sarge finally snuck a glance behind his shoulder, Scratch was no where to be found.
Rube Robinson was called to the mound for Wilmington. The string bean loosened his arm as Tanner Junior still laid unconscious.
During the last half inning, Haney Mane, No Legs, and Rube devised a series of hand signals that would have mystified even Helen Keller. Haney had taken all the information about the DRH players supplied to him from the dozens of Carny Ballers in attendance and wrote down a grocery list of plans and strategies for each.
While the crowd showed their disapproval of Morgan Wachorski’s arrival to the plate, No Legs leaned back from his catcher’s squat to get a good look at Haney in the dugout. Haney checked his notes and then touched his nose, closed his right eye, and patted the top of his head twice. No Legs gave him a nod, got back in position and flashed three fingers down between his legs. He then touched his right thigh. Robinson stood on the mound and nodded to his catcher that the message was received. The pitcher let loose a slider that dropped low and outside. Morgan Wachorski whiffed at it for a strike.
The Whispers had discovered a chink in the DRH armor and they exposed it for all it was worth. The signals and signs went from Haney to No Legs to Rube for the next five innings of play. No matter how angry Scratch became, no matter how many player “substitutions” he made, Whispers pitcher Rube Robinson made DRH’s batters look like chumps.
The introduction of new DRH players into the game created a rush of their ex-teammates to the Whispers dugout waving scraps of paper that detailed Carny Ball weaknesses. There were times the scene resembled the trading floor of the New York Stock Exchange. The only wood that DRH got on Rube’s pitches was fouls, pop-ups, and easy grounders.
Scratch was the exception to the rule. He smashed a double in the third and a triple in the sixth, but one m
an can not carry an entire ball club. He seethed while his team stranded him on base, victims of grudges carried by those who knew them all too well. As the game progressed, Sarge could see that Scratch’s easy way and demeanor unravelled. Scratch began to wear his frustration and anger on his sparkling white uniform sleeve.
After every inning in the field, Sarge descended the dugout steps and went straight to Simon Says to find out how Tanner Junior was getting along. The rookie was still asleep, but his fever broke and some color was back in his face. Simon, as best Simon could, assured Sarge that Tanner was going to be all right.
A small piece of information Simon neglected to tell Sarge, though, was what he discovered during the fourth inning. As Simon applied a medicinal paste to Tanner Junior’s chest, his hand brushed against the claddagh ring that hung around his neck. Simon was struck by a vision (after all, that was the sort of thing that happened to Tanzanian witch doctor’s on a daily basis).
Simon saw everything in a flash of time and space. He saw Tanner Senior and Sarge hanging in a cave upside down. He saw Scratch appear and claim Senior’s soul. He even saw the doomed Tanner hand over to Sarge the very claddagh ring before him, worn by his patient.
Simon’s eyes darted right and left. When certain that no one was paying him any mind, he quietly whispered an old and ancient spell. With a tiny creak, the two golden hands of the claddagh ring design opened. They released the metal heart and crown which fell in two separate parts upon Tanner’s chest. Simon hurriedly pinched them between his fingers and placed them in the palm of his hand. He performed another quick chant and the two hands returned to their original position. They locked back in place around the necklace.
Pretending to pick his nose, Simon flipped open a hidden compartment at the end of the bone that pierced his septum. He carefully tucked the golden crown inside. A mischievous grin then crawled onto his dark face.
Very slowly, so no one in the Whispers dugout would notice, SImon undid the fastens on the suitcase that housed Chew-on Man. Simon squished the golden heart from the ring into the tobacco doll’s chest. He lovingly patted the tiny figure’s head and sealed the case.
