by Chris Fabry
I still dream about being onstage and forgetting my lines. They call it “looking up.” Or I dream everyone is dressed and I am naked and the audience laughs. The women laugh loudest. Sometimes my parents are in the audience, shaking their heads. Sometimes I see Dickie and his father. But when I see Jesse, she looks away.
This night, in this dream, I was transported. I saw bicycle tires in moonlight. I trembled at the sight of the house on the hill and the cemetery. A collage of images floated to the surface and I heard the flutter of massive wings and a man’s raspy cough and a hand grabbed my throat and I gasped for air. Suddenly awake, sitting up straight, I saw a billion stars and, across from me, her face illumined by the flickering firelight, Jesse Woods.
OCTOBER 1972
October 11 was cloudy, as if something evil was pressing down. I stood with an umbrella in the rain that morning and rode the bus knowing I had a piano lesson afterward. I had thrown hints at my mother and father, letting them know this was the most important day of my life. Game five of the National League play-offs. Gullet was pitching for the Reds and Steve Blass for the Pirates. The game would be played, ominously, at Riverfront Stadium in Cincinnati, after the conclusion of game five between Detroit and Oakland.
I knew the Pirates were going to their second consecutive World Series, and I told Jesse about it that morning. I had watched every play-off game to that point. I had to be part of it and couldn’t understand why my parents wouldn’t let me skip my lesson for once. But they dug in their heels.
I stared at the clock in English, calculating the time the American League game would start. It would be two or three hours later that the Reds and Pirates began. I begged God for a rain delay. I prayed there would be some shift in the time continuum that would allow me to finish school and my piano lesson and see the entire game before church services began. Such are the prayers of a play-off–struck boy.
As Mr. Lambert discussed the subtle nuances of Grover’s Corners, New Hampshire, and the play we were attempting, I heard the voices of Curt Gowdy and Tony Kubek in my mind. Everyone else seemed oblivious except for Gentry Blackwood and Earl Turley, who wore their Reds hats.
After school I walked a few blocks to Mrs. McCormick’s house as I did each Wednesday. I sat on her front porch listening for anyone with an open window who might be watching the game, cursing myself for forgetting my transistor radio. I’d had it by the door that morning but walked out without it.
Mrs. McCormick pulled into her driveway and parked her Dodge Dart, moving with glacial speed as she opened the door, stepped out, and closed it. Halfway up the walk she turned and retrieved her massive purse from the passenger side. Several years later she reached the porch.
“And how are we today, Mr. Plumley?” she said with a rattle in her throat. Her speech was singsong—she was always guided by some inner melody.
“Fine, thank you,” I said, champing at the bit to play the piece I hadn’t practiced. My mother would arrive in an hour and I could at least hear the game on the radio—to the Reds side, of course, but I would endure that. I wanted Al Michaels and Joe Nuxhall to weep.
She opened the front door and I blew past her like Evel Knievel searching for a canyon, staring at the clock over her Zenith television. One flick of the knob and I would be in heaven, watching the game, helping my team. So close and yet so very far away.
I turned on the metronome and pulled out my Hanon Virtuoso Pianist exercises, left and right hands running up and down the scales, my wrists rocking. For once the metronome held me back. Mrs. McCormick finally sat and found the piece I was supposed to have worked on, flattening out the book. She glanced at me, then flattened it again.
At that very moment Steve Blass could be pitching a no-hitter. Willie Stargell could be swinging his Hillerich & Bradsby and connecting with a Gullet fastball. Roberto Clemente could be making an over-the-shoulder catch or throwing out a runner at home, preferably Rose or Morgan. I could hear the Pittsburgh faithful cheering somewhere near the Allegheny as my fingers picked out the right progression of Beethoven’s Moonlight Sonata. I should have known from the menacing chord progression what the future held, but I gritted my teeth, tried to match the notes on the page with the keys under my fingers, and forged ahead.
Mrs. McCormick stopped the metronome. “Is something wrong, Matt? You seem preoccupied.”
“I’m sorry.” I sat up straighter and looked at the clock and put my hands over the ivories.
I tried the piece again, willing myself to get through the hour. If I could just concentrate hard enough on the notes and push through this, I could see the rest of the game.
The phrase stuck in my craw. I didn’t want to see the rest of the game. I wanted to see all of the game. If I didn’t, we might lose.
I hit a clunker and stared at my hands as if they had betrayed me for a few pieces of silver. Mrs. McCormick closed the book and turned to face me, her eyes enlarged by the magnification of her glasses. Her breath smelled stale with a slight hint of what I would later discover was Jack Daniel’s.
“Young man, you will tell me what has you preoccupied or I’ll chop your fingers off with the fallboard.” Her words would have seemed biting and mean to most. To me, they were a welcome invitation to truth.
“I’m a Pirates fan,” I said, choking. “Today is the fifth game of the championship. Whoever wins goes to the World Series.”
She looked at me as if I were speaking Swahili.
“I listened to every game last year,” I said, spilling my story. “I can name every player. I can imitate their swings. And when I watch or listen, it always turns out good. Except for the games I went to this summer. I’m afraid the game is going to be over before my mom picks me up.”
She looked at me with disgust. Then she stood, hands on hips, and said, “Why didn’t you say so? What channel’s it on?”
My heart fluttered. “Three,” I said.
She marched to the TV and flipped the knob, and there was the crowd and Curt and Tony calling the NBC telecast. The green Astroturf, the Pirates in their road uniforms and the Reds in white. Her picture was even better than the TV at my grandmother’s house. It was hooked to an antenna on the building.
“You mean it?” I said, looking for the score. “We can turn the sound down and keep going.”
“Nonsense,” she said, pointing to the living room. “Sit in my chair. I’ll make popcorn.”
At that moment I wanted to become a piano teacher. I wanted to be this kind to someone else someday. I leaped into the chair, sitting forward to take in everything. The game had just begun and Curt and Tony were talking about Oakland’s 2–1 win over Detroit. Reggie Jackson had gotten hurt on a play at the plate. We would face Oakland in the World Series when—and not if—we won.
“We won the first game against Gullet,” I called to Mrs. McCormick. “Got to him early. I’m hoping we do the same today.”
“Mmm-hmm,” she said.
I couldn’t hide my smile as I watched Gullet warm up in the top of the second. There was no score, but the Pirates were about to change that dramatically. We went up 2–0 thanks to Richie Hebner and Dave Cash. Just me tuning in had set things in motion.
The corn popped in a metal pot in the kitchen, and Mrs. McCormick brought a full Tupperware container with drizzled butter and an ice-cold can of Sprite. I didn’t know what to say. I would have promised to name my firstborn after her or to master Mozart’s compositions, but she didn’t seem to need promises.
“What’s the score?” she said as she kicked off her shoes and fell onto the couch.
“We’re up by two. And that may be all Blass needs. He held them to one run in the first game.”
Pete Rose doubled in a run in the bottom of the third, but in the top of the fourth we got the run back with another hit by Dave Cash. I jumped and pumped my fist. That was it. That was all we needed. I could already see the starting pitchers in game one of the World Series. If Blass got two starts, we were sure to win.
The time for my lesson was up, but my mom hadn’t arrived. I was more than content to wait. In the bottom of the fifth, the most unlikely Reds player to hit a home run, César Gerónimo, did just that, cutting the score to 3–2.
The phone rang and Mrs. McCormick struggled to her feet and answered in the kitchen. She returned in the sixth and said my mother was going to be late. There were no other lessons after mine, so I could stay. I didn’t think much about the fact that my mother wasn’t there. I was so into the game I didn’t care.
The seventh and eighth innings came and went and in the ninth the Pirates failed to score. We were ahead by one. Three outs stood between us and the World Series.
Three outs were all we needed.
Dave Giusti came in to pitch the bottom of the ninth. He would face the most powerful back-to-back hitters for the Reds, Bench and Pérez. I found myself kneeling in front of the TV, clapping my hands and rubbing my palms on my pants, willing my team’s defensive stand.
Bench hit a long drive to left field and my heart sank. But it was just a long strike, hitting to the left of the foul pole. I laughed. All those Reds fans jumping and waving thought it was a home run. How sad it would be on their drive home.
The count was 1–2 when Giusti wound up and threw an outside changeup that could have been strike three, had Bench not connected and gone to the opposite field. “Clemente,” I said out loud. “Catch it, Roberto! Catch it!”
Curt Gowdy’s voice tried to overwhelm the crowd. The camera switched to Clemente. I had seen him take home runs from players, jumping over fences to pick off the ball like a piece of low-hanging fruit. The numbers read 375 on the green wall. Clemente turned his back and I saw his familiar 21 and knew Bench had tied it. The crowd went wild. My shoulders slumped. Air went out of the room. I stared at Bench loping around the bases.
“What happened?” Mrs. McCormick said, walking in from the kitchen.
“Bench tied it.”
“Oh, that’s too bad.”
“Looks like extra innings,” I said. “When is my mom coming?”
“You can still watch.”
Tony Pérez singled. A double play and a strikeout were all we needed now. George Foster came in to pinch run and Denis Menke singled and moved him to second. Then Bob Moose, the starter in game two, came in to shut the door. He got a fly ball to right that advanced Foster to third, then a pop out. I gave a sigh of relief. One more out and we were into extra innings and the Pirates would throttle the Reds. I could feel it.
A car pulled up outside and my mother came to the door. Mrs. McCormick greeted her and they talked. I would listen in the car to the top of the tenth and watch the rest of the game at home.
Then I remembered it was Wednesday. Church.
Hal McRae stepped in. Moose fired a pitch in the dirt that Manny Sanguillen tried to backhand.
“No,” I whispered.
The ball skipped to the backstop.
“No.”
George Foster touched home plate and was mobbed, the Reds jumping like kids on a playground.
I sat on the floor staring at the TV. The empty feeling was indescribable. I was as hollow as a chocolate Easter bunny.
My mother walked inside. “Matt, it’s time to go.”
Like a robot, I stood and followed. Mrs. McCormick put a hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry it didn’t turn out the way you wanted, Matt.”
All I could muster was “Thanks for the popcorn.”
She smiled and I got in the car, the weight of what I had witnessed overwhelming me. It was like having a rug pulled out from under you while standing at the edge of the Grand Canyon, and the fall afterward was only half the pain. After 155 games in the regular season, all they needed were three outs. I imagined their locker room. How do you lose on a wild pitch? It was the stuff of Little League games.
Then came the most painful realization—I didn’t have control or bearing on the outcome of the game. Pray, root, cheer, beg, and plead with God all I wanted and it didn’t change the fact that the Reds were dancing and the Pirates were trudging to their lockers.
“You’re probably wondering why I was late,” my mother said, oblivious to the game. She drove the car with the front seat pulled as close to the steering wheel as possible and I angled my legs away from the glove compartment.
When I didn’t answer, she said, “Matt, did you know that Jesse’s mother died?”
I looked at her, horrified. “What?”
“Jesse’s mother died some time ago. I thought it was strange she was taking care of her sister. The school called because she had given them our number. I went over to see if everything was all right.”
“How do you know her mom’s dead?”
“Jesse and Daisy weren’t home. Your father and I talked with Basil Blackwood, and he said he hasn’t seen Jesse’s mother in weeks.”
“No,” I said. It was the same intensity that I’d felt regarding the Moose wild pitch.
“The sheriff came.”
“No.”
“He found Jesse and it took a while, but she showed him her mother’s grave. Did you know anything about this?”
“You can’t do this,” I said. The Pirates’ loss already had me on the edge, but this was too much. “They’ll take Daisy Grace. They’ll give her to her cousins and they’re mean.”
“So you did know,” she said, pulling to the side of the road.
“Where are they?” I said.
“Jesse and Daisy are fine. They’re at our house waiting.”
“Waiting for what?”
“Until the authorities decide what to do.”
“The authorities? Mom, you can’t let them do this. That was the deal. That’s why she’s been hiding the truth.”
There was pain in her voice when she spoke. “Matt, why didn’t you tell us? We could have helped.”
I thought of my father and the photo. After that day in his office, I’d vowed I would never trust him again.
“I told her that. I said we would help but she wouldn’t listen. She was scared they would give Daisy to the Branches. She had to keep it a secret.”
My mother stared ahead. “Her mom died before your birthday.”
I nodded. “That’s why she had Daisy with her all the time.”
I wanted to tell more, to say Jesse made me promise, but I put my head in the crook of my arm and swung at my emotion as if it were a hanging changeup on the outside corner. If only Guisti had thrown Bench a fastball inside. It was a 1–2 count, for crying out loud. He could have wasted a pitch high. Bench never hit the high-and-tight fastballs. If only my mother hadn’t become suspicious. If only we hadn’t moved to Dogwood.
My grandmother was in a lawn chair fanning herself with the newspaper when we arrived. Daisy Grace played underneath the hickory nut tree. Jesse was nowhere in sight.
“Daisy doesn’t know,” I said. “Jesse told her that her mom went away.”
My mother shook her head. “That’s just cruel.”
“No, she didn’t mean it to be cruel. She did it to protect Daisy.”
“Matt, they can’t live there alone. You know that, right?”
“What’s going to happen?”
“They’ll get help. It’ll be all right. But it won’t be the way Jesse wants.”
“The Branches will get Daisy and they’ll treat her the same way they did Jesse!”
My mother stared at me like I wasn’t her son. Then she softened and drew me in with an arm and we sat there for a minute in the dusk of a day I would never forget.
“I promise you, Matt. This will help. It’s going to get better for them. You’ll see.”
I got out of the car and walked toward the house.
“Matty!” Daisy Grace yelled. She skipped over to me and stopped, her face in a pout. “Mama’s dead. Policeman said Mama’s not coming back.”
“I know, Daisy,” I said, patting her head. Her hair had begun to grow back, but she still looked like a boy. “I’m sorry about your
mom.”
I noticed movement near the house as Jesse peeked around the corner. I walked toward her but she ran to the backyard like a scared cat. My father came outside. One look at him and I knew he didn’t have the words I needed for either the Pirates or Jesse.
“I need to get to church,” he said.
My mother glanced at the driveway as a sheriff’s cruiser pulled up and parked beside our car, the window open and radio squawking.
“I think I should stay here, Calvin,” she said.
He nodded. “You and Matt help Jesse and Daisy. We’ll be praying.”
“This is a real mess,” my grandmother said, shaking her head. Who could disagree?
My father drove away and another car, a rusted Buick station wagon, pulled into the driveway and inched toward the house. Daisy instinctively stopped skipping and hid behind the tree. The Buick came to rest over a patch of peonies my mother had planted by the rock wall in the driveway. A man with hairy forearms and bibbed overalls opened the door and rocked himself several times to gain the momentum to stand. A large woman with a bulbous nose in a flowery dress wobbled toward the walk and my mother met them and spoke in hushed tones.
“We’re awful sorry about this,” the man said. “Hate to trouble you and your family.”
“It’s no trouble,” my mother said.
The large woman smiled at Daisy and flung her arms wide. The girl shrank and dipped her head.
“Daisy, you get on over here and give me a hug,” the woman said with a deep twang.
“Give your auntie a hug,” Hairy Arms said, a command more than an invitation.
“Leave her alone!” Jesse shouted, running around the corner. “We ain’t going with you.”
The sheriff got out of his car.
“You’ll do what we say, Jesse,” Hairy Arms said.
Jesse looked straight at me. “I told you.”
I wanted to tell her I hadn’t revealed the secret. I wanted to say anything to comfort her or make things all right, but I had no words.
