by Colby Cox
Sarge wished there was a way to hurt Scratch, but he knew from his past experiences that would only be a futile effort. If Sarge got the chance to put the bat in his hands he could hit Tanner Senior’s stuff, but he was two batters away from stepping to the plate. Whoever he put up there to take Gary South’s spot had to get on a bag. He went back to pinching his lip and staring at the bench.
Home plate paller Irvin Grodanski waited as long as he possibly could. He had watched the entire game from home plate and he secretly wanted to see the Whispers pull it off. He felt Sarge’s frustration, but he could not let him take all night to make a decision. He quietly ambled over to the home team dugout.
“Sarge, I need a batter up here.”
Sarge looked up at him and saw pity in his eyes. The coach twisted his neck towards the far end of his bench.
“Simon Says! Get in there!”
30. One More Chance
The fans on hand were utterly confused by the Whispers pinch-hitter selection. With two outs in the bottom of the ninth of the greatest Carnival Ball game ever played, the last sight anticipated was the one that popped out of the dugout and into the batter’s box.
Only the most loyal Whispers fans had ever witnessed Simon Says actually play baseball. He was most renowned as the team’s magic man. Even his tobacco trading card was stamped at the bottom with the words “Spirit Man.”
The Tanzanian witch doctor stepped in. Wearing a grass skirt and no shoes, Simon’s unexpected insertion into the game brought forth thousands of sighs, moans, and groans. Most figured Sarge had thrown in the towel and that a Wilmington loss was imminent.
Few on hand knew that Simon Says was a master at one task and he honed it each and every day. When Tanner threw the first pitch, Simon performed it flawlessly. The old adage, “practice makes perfect” was exemplified in the moment.
Simon was not positioned in any sort of batting stance at all. He stood as straight as a bean pole with the bat down near his waist. He almost seemed preoccupied with something beyond the field, but when Tanner Senior released the ball, SImon’s hands suddenly slid down the barrel of the bat and his feet took of for first base.
The drag bunt he laid down was text book perfect. It dribbled just inside the first base line and it caught both Tanner and Scratch off guard. The pitcher ended his release on the opposite side of the mound and Scratch never had time to charge. Stonewall Smith rushed from behind the plate to try and field it, but as he picked it up and looked to first, he saw there was no way he could make the play. Simon’s barefoot touched the bag.
As the crowd breathed relief, Sarge sent Crazy Legs McCoy over to first base to pinch run for SImon. Sarge walked over to the pile of lumber propped against the wall. He selected a bat and felt its weight in his hands. His time had come.
With no practice swings, he stepped out onto the field. The stadium chanted his name. He was determined to finish it. Everything fell squarely on his shoulders and he knew that he would succeed. He stared down Tanner Senior. They were no longer old friends. Sarge only saw an enemy, an obstacle to be brought down. He threw his head to the side and cracked his neck. He took a step towards home plate.
A hard slap on his shoulder halted him. He filled with rage and turned to face the man that dared hold him up from his destiny. It was the last person he expected.
Mr. Godfrey hung over the railing next to the dugout. He wore a look of concern.
“Sarge! You can’t go up there to hit! I’ve seen the probabilities. They keep playing in my head. You’ll strike out!”
Sarge waved the old man off. He figured that Scratch had gotten to Godfrey as well. He walked away while Godfrey pleaded with him.
“You gotta trust me, Sarge! That’s why I’m here. Your brother told me to come! He’s the one who gave me the tickets!”
Godfrey’s words knifed Sarge in the back.
“What did you say?”
He stormed over to Godfrey and was now in the man’s face. Godfrey’s muscle, Ronny and Daniel, rose out of their chairs and hung close to their boss.
“Sarge, please. Your brother came to me. He asked me to run the numbers. Use my talent. As soon as you grabbed that bat, I saw it clear as day. If you go up to that plate, you’ll strike out. Please, Sarge. I got ten large ones riding on the Whispers. Trust me.”
Sarge was paralyzed. What did it all mean? He looked across the field at Scratch. Sarge could tell that the Devil’s Right Hand grew tired of the ball game and was ready to deliver the final blow. He turned back to Godfrey. He had to know for certain.
“Godfrey. You said the man that gave you the tickets was my brother. Prove it.”
Godfrey removed his sunglasses and locked eyes with Sarge. He made a fist with his right hand and with his left, he ran a finger across the knuckles. He reversed hands and did it again. Godfrey said one word.
“HATE.”
Sarge reeled. It was as if vertigo had struck his heart. Godfrey had described his brother’s tattooed hands.
Sarge let the bat fall from his hands and walked back inside the dugout. He stood in front of Simon Says, who was back tending to Tanner Junior. Mink came to his side.
“Sarge, you all right?”
“Yeah, I’m good. I’m going to put in a pinch hitter.”
Mink couldn’t believe what he had just heard.
“Who the hell is going to hit for you?”
The coach began to laugh. What he said even sounded crazy to him.
“Chew-on Man - that’s who.”
31. Chew
The Official Chew-on Man baseball card that came tucked inside a sixteen ounce foil package of Injun Joe Chewing Tobacco declared that Chew-On Man stood 24 inches tall, but that was an embellishment. It popped out of Its container and jumped down onto the dugout floor at a little over nineteen and a half. Chew-on Man’s arms stretched above its head and it began a small series of calisthenics; deep knee-bends, running-in-place and jumping-jacks. Most of the WIlmington team had come to accept the bizarre sight of a living tobacco doll amongst their ranks, and some were secretly fans, but the one thing about Chew-on Man that no one would ever get used to was it’s odor. It stunk. It resonated the smell of wet dog, curdled milk, and potent liquor, with a hint of old cigar ash - a cruel combination.
Sarge watched the thing pick out a Louisville slugger from the pile of baseball bats. He noticed a human tooth hung around Chew-on Man’s neck from a piece of bailing twine. Long past asking Simon of such matters, Sarge only shook his head and hoped his witch doctor had the common courtesy to swipe it after it had been freed from a ballplayer’s head instead of pulling it out himself.
Chew-on hoisted his bat high over its head and stepped onto the lit baseball field to an utter explosion of elation from the crowd. Over the years, Chew-on had become more difficult to manage and Its appearances became very rare. Last seen at the WIlmington Saint Patrick’s Day Parade five months ago, fans who actually got the opportunity to see it play Carnival Baseball were a privileged few.
Although everything hung in the balance at that moment, Sarge could not help but steal a glance at Simon Says. Simon always pestered him to send Chew-on into games, so on those occasions when the coach relented, the with doctor’s face would light up like a five year old on Christmas morning. Sarge was surprised, however, to find the complete opposite. The Tanzanian was not even watching his creation, but silently rocked back and forth next to the sleeping Tanner Junior. His eyes were tightly closed.
The soulless Charles Tanner Senior slouched on the pitching rubber. Every piece of him ached. Of all of the torture and pain that he endured, the last few hours were to be the most excruciating. Tanner Senior fought Scratch’s power over him tooth and nail all night long. There would be repercussions awaiting him later, but he no longer cared. All he wanted was release. He wished to step into the gentle caress of nothingness.
As Crazy Legs McCoy stood on first and kept a wary watch on him, Scratch pounded his mitt and smiled. He felt vind
icated. After all of the years, Sarge Safran, one of the only men that showed no fear in his presence, finally displayed to all the true coward he was. The trash from Ascension Parish had sent out a magical tobacco mud toy to fail in his place. Pathetic.
Simon Says stopped rocking and opened his eyes. The hands from the claddagh ring around Tanner Junior’s neck began to glow. Simon grabbed a towel from the pile next to him and dunked one deep into the water bucket. He lifted the necklace off of Tanner Junior’s chest and placed the drenched towel between the ring and the sleeping man’s skin. Simon hoped it would be enough to keep his patient from being burned.
As soon as Chew-on Man stepped into the batter’s box, Tanner Senior felt it. He had grown used to severe pain over the years under Scratch’s thumb, but this feeling was different. It was something new and independent of his master. Whatever it was, Tanner Senior felt it burning into his foot. It was like a bee sting and it soon began to spread over his entire body.
Chew-on Man tapped the barrel of the bat hard against home plate three times. It turned its small brown head to the side and mimicked a spitting action (that always gave Mink the heebie-jeebies, the thought of a doll primarily made of tobacco pretending to spit tobacco). Chew-on raised the bat over its head and then suddenly, without warning, it stepped away from the plate.
Irvin Grodanski hurriedly halted play and crossed his arms angrily while he waited for Chew-on to step back in. He was as amazed as everyone else when Chew-on traipsed into the infield grass and lowered its bat so the barrel pointed towards centerfield.
It was calling its home run shot.
The noise from the crowd was so intense that Tanner Senior could only focus on one thing: the burning sensation in his foot. It began only as a trickle, but it soon pulsed through him like a giant tidal wave. He found it exhilarating. It was the first time since Scratch claimed his soul that something else lived inside of him. It was a short circuit - a beautiful mix up. For some unknown and wonderful reason the voice of the Devil’s Right Hand was not commanding his every move. Scratch no longer had control of his soul. Something else told Tanner Senior what to do and the man nearly cried out with joy.
It was his own voice. He was free from bondage. The chains were broken. Tanner Senior’s inner self called to him and he yelled as loudly as he could to lob a cream puff across the plate.
The golden hands on his son’s neck burned white hot. Steam rose from the towel that protected his chest. Simon Says grabbed a pail and began to ladle water directly on the ring. It sizzled and hissed.
Aldous Scratch felt something snap away from him. His eyes shot towards Tanner Senior. Scratch dropped his mitt and took off in a sprint towards the mound. He was too late.
Tanner released what would go down in the history of the Carnival League as the “Goldilock’s Pitch.” It earned that name due to three reasons:
It was not too fast.
It was no too slow.
It was just right.
As it left his fingers, an image of a golden crown flashed brightly through his mind. He laughed.
The strength of the thirty best baseball players contained in the hunk of living tobacco collided with the pitch directly over home plate. Those closest to the action still swear they saw sparks fly from Chew-on Man’s bat as contact was made. The ball ascended into the darkened heavens as if carried by the wings of angels. It disappeared over the center field lights. It was never recovered.
Kid McCoy took off from first and raced around the bases as fast as his body would allow. He touched home with both feet and was swallowed whole by the blur of joy that was his team, the Wilmington Whispers. They could not be contained.
Chew-on pranced around the bags and blew nicotine kisses to the masses that surrounded it. As it rounded third, Simon Says watched its steps from the sleeping Tanner Junior’s side. Tears of sadness rolled down his face, for he knew that this would be Chew-on Man’s final outing.
Ralph Sankey was the first to notice that something was wrong. When Chew-on Man began the home stretch, its chest glowed in the shape of a heart with a fierce intensity. The closer it got, the brighter and hotter it burned. Finally, when Chew-on was a mere four or five feet away from its goal, it ignited into flames.
Its team members stepped back and watched in shocked silence as the hero of the day fell prone on home plate. Chew-on was nothing more than fire and smoke. Silence fell upon the stadium.
The Wilmington Whispers were victorious.
32. Paybacks
Mr. Scratch stood alone in the field surrounded by piles of empty uniforms with his head hung low. A bottomless evil churned deep within him. He fumed. Scratch gritted his teeth. He raged. Scratch clenched his fists. He turned to the the gaggle of Wilmington players and he made up his mind.
To hell with the gentleman’s bet.
Scratch could not take Sarge Safran’s soul, but he vowed at that moment to take the man’s life. He was going to kill Sarge and he was going to enjoy it.
Sarge saw Scratch coming towards him. He figured it would do him no good, but he picked up the bat that Chew-on Man had left behind and shoved his teammates away to a safe distance. He refused to go without a fight.
Scratch’s fury was so focused on Sarge that he failed to see the six men walking across the left field grass. Mycroft threw popcorn kernels into his mouth and led five figures clad in trench coats.
They caught Sarge’s attention and when he glanced over at them, Scratch instinctively followed his gaze. Mycroft mumbled orders to his companions between chews.
“All right, fellas. It’s showtime.”
The five men behind him removed their coats and hats to reveal the distinctive lightning logo stitched into their Lynchburg uniforms. As Oscar Clayton, Nap Hill, Clint Jones, Art Teasley, and Ted Siddle, raised their arms together high over their heads, Mr. Aldous Scratch was able to let loose one final thought from his lips.
“Mycroft Safran, you double-crossing son of a bitch.”
The group threw their hands towards the ground and a lightning bolt of pure power and tenacity as thick as the trunk of an old oak fell upon the Devil’s Right Hand. The force from it blew everyone off of their feet and left them with a weird form of sunburn for days after. The only thing left of Mr. Aldous Scratch, the taker of souls, was a small pile of bone splinters and ash.
Mink opened his eyes after the blast and noticed that the lightning strike had blown the stadium lights out. He stood and pulled off his sunglasses. Since he normally saw perfectly in darkness, Mink grew concerned when he saw two Sarge Safrans in front of him. He knew his eyes were getting worse, but this would be the first time he had experienced double vision.
Mycroft and Sarge stood about five feet apart, face to face. It had been over fifteen years since they were last together. Before Godfrey told him only moments ago that his brother was in town, Sarge thought him dead. It was almost pitch black down on the field. They could only make out each other’s outlines. Sarge finally spoke.
“Thanks for the save.”
“Yeah, well, you’re welcome and all, but I would be lying if I told you saving your hide was the only reason I did it.”
Sarge chuckled.
“You always did play every angle.”
“As long as it benefitted me.”
Sarge thought about his brother’s words. He had to ask Mycroft, but he felt he already knew the answer.
“And this? How did all of this benefit you?”
Sarge heard that old Bayou laughter through the dark space between them. It filled him with a sense of home - and dread.
“Tristan, Tristan, Tristan. You are talking to the new, and I dare say, improved, Devil’s Right Hand.”
It was what he feared. Mycroft would never stop his wicked conniving until he was the number one, head dog of the pack. It was simply his evil nature.
Mycroft sensed his brother’s thoughts.
“Now don’t fret, Tristan. I promise I’ll lay low. As a matter of fact, I w
ill release Charles Tanner Senior from his debt. He will now rest in peace.”
“Thanks, Mycroft. I appreciate that.”
The Safran brothers took one final moment to size each other up. Mycroft reached over and grabbed his brother by the shoulder. He squeezed it hard and paid Sarge the best compliment the man had ever received.
“Dad would have been real proud of you, Tristan.”
Mycroft released his grip, turned, and walked into the blackness. He threw a parting jibe.
“See you in the funny pages, baby brother.”
Sarge refused to leave it like that.
“We’re twins, jack ass.”
The stadium lights hummed back to life.
“I came out first.”
Mycroft was gone.
33. In Conclusion
On Wednesday, August 2nd, 1933, Wilmington’s Mayor, Frank C. Sparks, declared a city-wide, twenty-four hour hiatus from Federal Prohibition Laws in honor of the Whispers victory. The celebration that ensued was like no other. All parts of the town teemed with revelers and well-wishers. Baynard Boulevard, Kentmere Parkway , Rockford Park, Tilton Park , the Eastside, Quaker Hill, Delaware Avenue, Trinity Vicinity, and Market Street all threw together impromptu parades. Exhausted Whispers who just wanted shuteye found their doors beaten down by drunken mobs whom then carried them from block to block to be adored by the throngs.
One player was suspiciously absent from the festivities. People searched high and wide for him so they would later be able to boast about his presence at their soirees, but none had any luck.
Of course, no one in the city other than a select few would have known to check behind an inconspicuous-looking cottage amidst the tranquility of a horse farm’s rolling pastures. They would have found him there, on the back porch swing, in the company of the woman he loved more than anyone else.
One notable side story to rise from the game was the success of a book about the Fury on the First written by Baltimore ’s most beloved son, Hooligan Pete. Simply titled, I Was There: Fury on the First, Hooligan wrote a play-by-play analysis of the game and heaped praise on Sarge Safran for his master strokes in coaching. The book threatened Pearl S. Buck’s The Good Earth as the year’s most read.
