The Legend of Mickey Tussler

by Nappi, Frank;

  His words pierced her like a blade. She was crying softly. Her head had drooped and he could see the spasmodic rising and falling of her shoulders. All at once he was seized by an overwhelming ambivalence. One minute he was pleased, even surprised, at his ability to reach her—in the next, he had the distinct sense of being an intruder.

  “So my baby was in a bar, drinking, when this all happened?” she asked through suffocating lungs. “Nobody was watching out for him?”

  She touched her mouth, perspiration breaking out all over her face and across the nape of her neck. She turned and stared at him, in a catatonic stupor, through eyes both distant and glazed.

  “He has a very good friend on the team—he was supposed to look after him, but something went wrong. Believe me, Molly, I never intended this to happen.”

  “Well, be that as it may, it really doesn’t help me much, now does it?”

  Her words tore at him and blurred to a raspy mumble.

  “And what’s being done, Arthur?” she said tearfully. “About the men who did this? I mean, is this it?”

  “The sheriff is doing an investigation, Molly. And we have a few ideas of our own. We’ll get ’em. And Doc says Mickey will be back with us, in full swing, in no time. So don’t worry. It will all be resolved.”

  By late morning, the room was filled with sunshine. They had talked all they were going to talk about Mickey. Her anxiety had softened, yielding to the sheer joy of Arthur’s presence and his delightful attentiveness.

  They sat together, this time side by side, feeling their way to each other. Murph was thinking that he was, once again, no longer an intruder, although he still struggled with a vague uneasiness. His soul was reaching out to her, in its own blind, clumsy way, only to find that she was mostly unavailable. He felt an emptiness and grew unsettled and restless, uncertain how he could bridge the invisible gap between them. Mindful of the clock, and this feeling of utter frustration, he spoke to her teasingly, selflessly, as if she were a child.

  “Seems to me, the last time I was here, I heard some very beautiful clarinet music,” he said sheepishly. “Now I don’t suppose I’m in line for another performance?”

  She laughed uncomfortably. Then, as if his comment had melted her glacial emotional reserve, she began talking about her music. There was, for her, the most intense pleasure in talking about playing the clarinet, particularly since she was forbidden by Clarence to do so. Murph listened as her eyes scintillated and her blood ran wildly, her creative energy bucking and dashing like a gelding that had just broken free from its fetters.

  “You know,” she said, removing the instrument from its tomb atop the fireplace, “when I was a little girl, I dreamed of playing in front of people.”

  Murph held up his hands in mock exasperation. “Well, you’re very good, Molly. There’s no reason why you still can’t.”

  She frowned, then a curious serenity seemed drawn from some secret source, and she brought the clarinet to her lips and played.

  When it was time for him to leave, they were both struck by this impending sense of gloom, a hopelessness that neither wanted to admit. Molly felt a dependence on him, which she hated because she could not control it. She hated these feelings for him because they had grown too strong and because there was no place for them. He was just as drawn to her; she was a haven in the blizzard of a cold, unpredictable world that had left him, at every turn, empty and disillusioned.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t have more news for you about Mickey,” he said, standing before her brokenly. “But know he’s fine. And I will call you the minute I hear anything.”

  “It’s okay, Arthur,” she said softly. “Thank you for the flowers. And for everything else.”

  They stood for a short while facing each other, struggling beneath the weight of unspoken desire, uncertain how they should conclude their visit. The movement of his right hand slowly, steadily forward suggested he was content with just taking her palm in his. But during each of his first two attempts, after drawing Molly’s hand away from her side, he hesitated and awkwardly, stupidly, pulled back. They both laughed nervously each time, until finally, after joining hands, he moved closer and kissed her forehead. She closed her eyes and smiled. His fingers lingered on her shoulder after the kiss, then rose to her face. Slowly, rhythmically, he caressed her cheek and traced the tiny bone in her nose. Her eyes fluttered, then closed once more, and he passed a finger gently over her lids and down her cheek again before coming to rest on her lips. They were soft, wet, and inviting. He leaned in closer; she could feel his approach, and though she wanted to dive into him, to lose herself in his strong, safe arms, an image of Clarence filled her head and polluted the moment, causing her to open her eyes with a frightful jump.

  “I’m sorry, Arthur. I can’t.”

  “It’s okay, Molly, I—”

  “Please. Please don’t say anything else.”

  He nodded. Then, deciding to leave well enough alone, he grabbed his hat and walked away.

  DOG DAYS

  The Brewers only played .500 ball over the next two weeks. By the close of August, their once healthy lead had evaporated and they found themselves clinging to a one-game advantage over the surging Rangers. Murph had suggested to all of them that they come out to the ballpark earlier than usual, to shag fly balls, take grounders, and get in some extra batting practice. He was a staunch believer in working out the kinks.

  “Muscle memory, boys!” he liked to say. “You will play the way you practice.”

  He also tried borrowing some inspiration from one of the parent club’s aces, who was in town visiting family.

  “Fellas, there’s someone here who I’d like you to meet.”

  From the shadows of the clubhouse corner emerged a handsome gentleman, six feet tall and 175 pounds, wearing a stone look of determination and a gray Boston Braves T-shirt. There was a long silence as the visitor approached the group.

  “A sore arm or a bum leg or even a slump is like a headache or a toothache, gentlemen,” he began. “It can make you feel bad. Real bad. But if you just forget about it and do what you have to do, it will go away.”

  They stood there listening like little boys, their faces furiously impatient, as the gentleman spoke passionately about the value of grit, hard work, and determination. Once or twice an exhausted sigh escaped from the group, followed by some yawns and eye rolling. Then slowly, as one player after another recognized the surprise stranger, a bristling energy shook the entire room.

  “Holy shit, Woody,” Lefty whispered. “Do you know who that is?”

  “I know who it is, for Christ sakes. Don’t be such an asshole, Rogers. Who do you think I am—numb nuts over there in the corner?”

  “This is unreal,” Lefty continued. “The Invincible One. Good old number twenty-one. I can’t believe this.”

  Woody shook his head. “Yeah, it’s pretty cool. But what the hell is Warren Spahn doing here? With us?”

  The Braves ace continued to fire up the troops with stories about miraculous comebacks and glory seasons past and explained how Murph had told him how the team was struggling. “I’m here as a show of support. To let you all know it’s normal. What you’re going through.”

  But the main reason he was there—a reason only he and Murph knew—was to see Mickey. He just had to see for himself what all the fuss was about. All the hype surrounding the young prodigy was irresistible, even for one of the major leagues’ top pitchers.

  “Well, Murph,” Spahn said after finishing his address to the team. “Where is this whiz kid anyway?”

  Murph laughed. “He’s the one in the corner, over by his locker. Arranging the baseballs from that bucket in rows.”

  Spahn shot Murph an odd look, then walked with him over to the boy. This couldn’t be the phenom, he thought. Not possible. The guy he’d heard about was a killer. A chiseled mass of destruction and hellfire. “You’re kidding me, Murph, right? That’s him?”

  “Hold your horses, Spahn
ey.”

  Murph placed his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. The boy continued to set the last few baseballs in place, oblivious of the two men. Then, as if the placement of the final ball had turned on a flashlight of sorts, Mickey turned suddenly to face his greeter.

  “Twenty baseballs, Murph. Twenty. There are really twenty-one.” Mickey produced an extra from his pocket. “This one don’t fit.”

  “That’s great, Mick,” Murph said, taking the ball from him. “Not a problem.” He plunged the ball into his own pocket. “I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Mick. His name is Warren Spahn.”

  Spahn held out his hand.

  Mickey reached for it and shook it vigorously. “Michael James Tussler. Folks just call me Mickey.”

  “Good to meet you, Mickey. You can call me Warren.”

  With shifty eyes, Lefty watched the scene unfold. There was his idol, the best southpaw the league had ever seen, fawning over some dim-witted hayseed who didn’t know the first thing about him.

  “Do you play ball too, Warren?” Mickey asked.

  Spahn smiled. “Do I play ball?” He could hear the others, who were straining to listen in on the exchange, laughing in the background. “Yeah, I play a little.”

  “Mickey is a pitcher. But my hand is hurt now.”

  “I know. I heard all about you. Pitching’s great. What better challenge can there be than the one between the pitcher and the hitter?” Spahn stood for a moment, looking at the boy in disbelief, trying to envision this awkward stray dominating on the hill. “It sure is a shame you can’t toss that ball around. Would have loved to have seen it.”

  Murph glanced at the legend, and Spahn caught his gaze before checking his watch. Murph knew Spahn had to be going shortly.

  “You know, Mick, Warren here pitches a little bit too. For the Braves. Maybe we’ll go to his place one day and see him play.”

  Mickey smiled. “Okay, Murph.” The boy paused. “Does Warren have a farm? With pigs?”

  Murph’s effort to shake the team from its doldrums began to produce some results. They were still missing the swagger, that intangible buoyancy that they had had when Mickey was in the lineup, but the hits started coming and the fielding improved considerably; Murph wasn’t thrilled, but realized it could have been a lot worse. They had weathered what Murph hoped was the worst of the storm and, despite Mickey’s absence, still had a shot down the stretch.

  Much of the recent success was due to Boxcar, who had essentially put all of them on his back and carried them for almost twenty straight days. Murph was in his office the day before the tide had turned, computing batting averages and ERAs in a marble notebook after one of their particularly difficult losses, when Boxcar came in. He had not yet showered. He was a mess. One eye was partially swollen shut, and blood and dirt covered his face. He touched the side of his head awkwardly, searching for the source of the red trail. His fingers worked the hair at his temple, revealing a tiny hole that had only just begun to close.

  “You look like shit,” Murph said.

  “Right,” Boxcar answered glibly.

  “You gonna get that checked out?”

  Boxcar scowled. He was already thinking of something else. “I’m done, Murph,” he said with a clear note of finality.

  “Come again?” Murph asked, his face now several shades whiter than before.

  “Done. With this bullshit. With losing. With getting my ass kicked every goddamned time we step foot on that field. It’s enough. No more. I will not just lie down like some lily-livered chickenshit and lick my wounds. I’m telling ya. Tomorrow will be different, or I’m packing my bags.”

  Boxcar’s announcement was prophetic; the beleaguered backstop was either flirting with clairvoyance or had suddenly discovered the power to will his desires into being. The next day, with the score knotted at six apiece, Finster lead off the Brewers’ half of the ninth with a clean single to left. Jimmy Llamas followed with a single of his own, breaking a personal 0-for-23 drought. He stood at first base spitting tobacco juice through his two front teeth and firing his invisible six-shooters in celebration.

  With Danvers due up next, Murph swallowed the bunt sign and green-lighted the power-hitting third baseman. Murph was going for it. He knew that all the percentages called for the sacrifice. But he had a hunch.

  Danvers was overanxious. He had been pressing all day, leaving five men in scoring position during his first three at bats. He was shocked that Murph was allowing him to hit away and wanted desperately to reward the manager for showing such confidence in him. He was also struggling with the weight of his latest discovery, and what it would mean to the team if he exposed Lefty. How could they possibly win with their two best pitchers out of the lineup? How would that help any of them, including Mickey? He decided he would swallow what he knew, but it remained stuck in his throat.

  The Spartans’ pitcher began with a breaking ball in the dirt. Danvers swung wildly and missed. He swung and missed again at the next offering, a fastball letter high. Down 0-2, Danvers knew he had to protect the plate. He needed to look fastball and adjust to anything off-speed.

  The Spartan pitcher peered in and got his sign. He nodded once, brought his hands high over his head, placed them together, then brought them to rest slowly at his waist. He gave Finster a quick look at second, glanced furtively over at first, then turned again to face Danvers, who was whirling his bat feverishly with wild anticipation. After refocusing on the catcher’s target, and licking his lips, the pitcher let the ball spin out of his hands.

  It was a poorly executed delivery. His elbow sagged, and he shortstepped his follow-through, causing the curveball to hang invitingly over the center of the plate. It was a classic mistake. An 0-2 cookie. Danvers recognized the blunder almost immediately. His eyes lit up, and he strained mightily to hold himself back.

  With visions of a game-winning three-run homer filtering through his head, Danvers swung with reckless fury, pulling his head, stepping in the bucket, and leaving his shoes. There was a great wind, then a loud thump that echoed throughout the entire park. The bat missed the ball by a good two feet.

  Mickey, seated next to Pee Wee, watched from the bench as Danvers fired his helmet against the dugout wall and slammed his bat back into the rack. The struggling man swore and kicked at the loose baseballs Mickey had lined up neatly on the floor. “A goddamned hanger, for Christ sakes! A hanger. How the hell did I miss a goddamned hanger?”

  Mickey felt an odd lift of his heart, as if maybe he could help. The thought was uncertain, but far preferable to the uselessness he had been struggling with.

  “It’s okay, Woody,” Mickey offered. “It was a nice try.”

  “What did you say? Are you talking to me?”

  “Mickey said you made a nice try. Nice try.” Then Mickey started for the scattered balls.

  Danvers, with pale, cold, humorless eyes, lurched at the boy, who seemed to sink beneath the slugger’s bluster. “Listen, farm boy,” Danvers carped before storming off. “I don’t need no dumb-ass, good-for-nothing shitkicker with a bum hand telling me nothing about hitting. See? You just sit there, doing whatever it is you do now, and shut your goddamned hole!”

  Pee Wee could hear Mickey’s heart thumping. The boy sat dumbfounded, his eyes wet, nose running.

  “It’s okay, Mick,” Pee Wee said. “Really. It’s not you. He’s just an asshole when he’s not hitting.”

  Mickey was somber, impenetrable, lost in the sudden imbroglio with Danvers. He was drowning in this sea of mockery. “They ripped the buttons off Mickey’s jersey,” he said, recalling a recent incident. “They cut the bottoms of my socks, hid my glove, and today they pissed in my cap.” He paused and sat motionless, perfectly flat. “Mickey makes everyone mad.”

  “Are you kidding me?” Pee Wee replied. “Come on now, Mick. Jesus, the guys are just razzing you. That’s all. You’re still an important part of this team. Injury or not. It shouldn’t be too much longer before the hand is all better and yo
u’re back in action. You’ll feel like yourself again. Just hang in there.”

  The two of them focused their attention back on the game. Boxcar was up next. He’d already had a great day—three for three with a walk, three RBIs, and two runs scored. He was feeling it—that competitive fire that would just not submit, under any circumstances. He got just what he was looking for immediately—a first-ball fastball—and laced it back through the middle. The ball exploded off his bat, narrowly missing both the pitcher and Finster as he took his lead from second. The ball was through the infield and in the hands of the center fielder in seconds, preventing Finster, who had had to hit the dirt to avoid being decapitated by the sizzling liner, from advancing beyond third.

  Murph was faced with another managerial decision. With one out, and the bases filled with Brewers, the specter of an inningending, rally-killing double play loomed large. Buck Faber, who was hitting the ball with authority of late, was due up. Murph pondered deeply, then grabbed Faber before he left the on-deck circle. “How do you feel about a squeeze?”

  Faber frowned. “I’m not too good with the bunting, Murph. Besides, I can hit this guy.”

  Murph nodded. He let himself drift somewhere below the surface of his usual thoughts. So what? he considered. What was the worst that could happen? It was not as if they hadn’t faced adversity before. Let it ride, he told himself. Just go for it.

  “Okay, Bucky,” he said, tapping him on the fanny. “Hit away.”

  Faber took the first pitch for ball one. The second offering missed as well. He was in the driver’s seat. Bases juiced, winning run on third, and no place to put him. “Hitter’s hard-on” they liked to call it. Sheer ecstasy. No one in that ballpark had any doubt—he was going to get a cripple pitch.

  It came made to order. Four-seam fastball, straight as an arrow, right down Broadway. Faber jumped on it, struck it well, but only the top half. The ball appeared destined for the hole between the hot corner and short, but the third baseman stabbed it and began what looked like a tailor-made 5-4-3, around-the-horn double play. But none of the Spartans realized that Boxcar was tired of losing. He got a terrific jump off first and was in full flight just as the third baseman released the ball. The trajectory was true, a perfect throw, headed right for the bag. The second baseman straddled the base, hands ready to make the quick exchange. But the ball and the runner arrived at the same time. The ball barely had enough time to make an impression in the glove before Boxcar came in the way his name suggested, like a freight train, and separated the ball from the middle infielder and his shoulder from its socket. In the skirmish, and the frantic dash for the ball by the shortstop, Finster scampered home with the game-winning run.