Hullo?
Is that you, Joe?
Yeah, yeah, this is Joe. Who’s calling me?
This is a friend of yours Joe. A good friend. How are you doing?
Who is this?
How are you doing Joe? I hear they got you pinned down Joe.
Yeah! Nobody got me pinned down. I got plenty ammo. Nobody’s gonna get me.
How do you know, Joe? You’re surrounded.
Yeah, that’s what you, say who is this? A copper?
No, no, Joe. I told you. I’m your friend.
Yeah, well I got no friend in town.
Sure you have, Joe. You have me. So you’re doing all right, haah Joe?
Who is this?
That’s the stuff Joe. Don’t you give up now. You just keep shooting, hear? Shoot a few for me, Joe.
Who is this, I said. I ain’t got no time for talking.
No, you haven’t got much time for talking, have you? You better go on over to the window and shoot some policemen Joe. Then you come back and talk to me. Will you do that Joe? Will you?
This ain’t no copper?
No, Joe. Nobody hates the law more than me. Will you talk to me after you shoot some cops Joe?
Yeah, maybe. Yeah! Hang on. I got to go blast some coppers. Yeah, you hang on, I’ll be back.
I won’t go away Joe. No, I won’t go away. Not me, Joe. I’ll just sit here and look out my window. I’ll just sit here and look across the street at you. Now I can see you Joe. You’re at the window. I can hear your gun firing. Bang, bang! There it goes Joe. I can see you Joe. I can see your white face, all twisted. You’re nuts Joe. Did you know that? Quiet and stolid and nutty as they come. Oh, look. You’re laughing Joe. My my. That’s the stuff. Laugh! Laugh like crazy Joe. It’s all funny as hell and I mean it. You in your furnished room pinned down by the cops. That’s funny. The cops firing their guns at you. You firing your gun at them. That’s funny. It’s all funny Joe. Especially death sitting on your shoulders Joe. That’s a scream. Again Joe! Fire again. That’s it. Empty your revolver. Make those bullets skip on the sidewalk and crunch holes in the cars and the buildings and the people. Ain’t we got fun Joe? Boy, what fun! Show them who you are Joe! How few of us can. There goes Joe Vermilio, thief and murderer. Out like a spent rocket. Bango! That’s the stuff Joe. Kill some more. Kill them all! I’d like that. That’s my boy Joe. I’m proud of you. Keep it up. Keep it . . .
Hullo?
Well, hello there. That was very good Joe.
Huh?
Why, I can see you Joe. I’m watching you.
Where are you? Are you across the street?
That’s right Joe. I’m across the street.
Can I see you? You can see me?
Sure, I can see you Joe. Of course I can. But you can’t see me. Nobody can.
Yeah. Did you see that cop, hey? Did you see him run for it?
Sure Joe. I saw that. That was terrific. You were terrific Joe. You were sensational.
Yeah! Yeah, that’s right. Say, who is this?
You show them Joe. You tell them who you are. You just keep killing them and killing them. Yell at them Joe! Tell them all what bastards they are.
Say who . . .
Tell them Joe!
Yeah! That’s right. I’ll tell them.
Go on Joe! Joe Vermilio. The winner!
They ain’t getting me.
Of course not Joe. They’ll never get you.
Hey, who is this?
I told you Joe. I’m your friend. I’m your best friend. I’m your only friend in the whole world Joe. I called you up to cheer you.
What’s your name?
Don’t stand there talking Joe. Go on and . . .
Uh!
What’s the matter Joe?
Bastards! Got me in the arm. I’ll get you for that, you bastards. I’ll kill you all!
In the arm, eh? How does it feel Joe?
Ooooh, my arm. . . .
How does the hot lead feel Joe? Is it cooled off yet? Bleeding? What does it look like Joe? Haah? Describe it.
Oooooh, God it hurts.
Well, you go right over to the window and shoot your gun at them Joe. Who do they think they are anyway, wounding you? I wouldn’t take that Joe. I just wouldn’t take it. I’d go over to the window and scream at them. Get even with them Joe. Kill them!
I’ll kill you, you bastards!
I can hear you running over the rug Joe. Like the madman that you are. Like the stupid puerile ox that you are. You’re caught Joe. You don’t know it Joe but you’re trapped like a fish in a net. What a dope you are Joe. How stupid and hopeless you are. You’re pathetic Joe. Did you know that? Pathetic, that’s what you are. Ah, there you are. Your face is so white Joe. Why didn’t you ever go out in the sun? Oh well, there’ll be heat enough soon Joe. Soon. Oh look! There’s blood on your nice white shirt. How colorfully it stands out. Stunning, Joe. All shot up aren’t you Joe? My my. I’ll let you in on a secret Joe. The police are trying to kill you. Know that? But we won’t let them get you will we Joe? Not us. We’re big pals Joe. You’re a big stupid ox but that doesn’t matter. I can use you. Go on! Fire. Bang, bang, bang! One, two, three. Give it to them Joe. Kill them all!
I got one, I got one! You see it! I got one!
Why if it isn’t my old friend Joe Vermilio.
I got one haah?
Does your arm hurt Joe?
Naah. I got one haah? I showed them didn’t I?
You showed them Joe. You showed them all right.
They ain’t going to get me are they?
Why, certainly not Joe Vermilio, my old friend. How could we allow that, Joe Vermilio, my very old friend.
Hey, this Mike Tucci?
Mike Tucci, Joe? He’s dead. Didn’t you know that Joe?
Mike Tucci? Mike Tucci is dead?
Sure, Joe. He’s dead.
God, I didn’t know that.
Don’t call me that Joe. Yes, he’s dead Joe. Like to talk about Mike Tucci, Joe? Like to . . .
They ain’t getting me though, haah?
They won’t get you Joe. You’ll get away. Far away.
Hey, you got a car! You got a way haah?
A car Joe? No. I haven’t got a car Joe. But a way? Sure, Joe, I got a million ways.
What do you . . . aaaah!
Joe? Joe, what’s wrong, Joe? Can you hear me Joe? What’s the matter?
I . . . I . . . can’t . . . breathe. They . . . they shot . . . . teargas!
Oh, really? My goodness Joe. You should do something for that cough. I guess there’s nothing more you have to say Joseph Anthony Vermilio, thief and murderer. Joe? Joseph, can you hear me? Joe don’t stop shooting. Don’t stop just because you . . . There. That’s the stuff. Break the window. Get fresh air. Shoot them Joe. Oh, go back! They have machine guns. Look out!.....................Oh. Look at you Joe. Aren’t you a sight. Holes all over you. For crying out loud Joe, haven’t you any sense at all. Well that’s what I call a . . . well, would you look at that. There! That’s my boy Joe! Crawl Joe! That’s it. Hang on to the window sill with those bloody hands. Hang on Joe. Shoot them all Joe. That’s the stuff...................Oh Jo-oe. Are you there Joe? All I can hear is teargas hissing. Well they’re not firing anymore anyway Joe. Quiet isn’t it? Joe? Can you hear me Joe? Where’s your spirit Joe Vermilio? Come on now Joe. Don’t let a few dozen slugs slow you down. Aw, come on. Don’t quit on me Joe..................Oh, would you listen to that. They’re chopping down your door Joe. Now are you going to stand for that Joe? What’s the matter with you? Don’t let them get away with that Joe ...................Say, why don’t you join me on the roof Joe? There’s a gorgeous sunset. I can see it from here. Well, would you look at those pink clouds. Gorgeous, Joe. Just gorgeous. I . . . what?
Who’s this calling?
Oh, are you the police? Have you done away with Joe Vermilio?
Who is this?
Oh, you wouldn’t know me officer. Not at the moment. Say now, inc
identally, is Joe Vermilio dead?
Yeah, yeah, he’s dead. Look, uh, hang on will you. I’d like to talk this over for a while. I . . .
You want to trace the call? You’re having some poor idiot try to trace the call. You want to find out who I am. That’s pretty funny officer. Most people won’t have anything to do with me. Come along officer. Even if I told you who I was, you wouldn’t believe me. I’ll let you know. Later. Tell you what though. If you’re really anxious to know who I am, you ask Joe Vermilio. He knows who I am. Ha ha ha ha ha. Don’t you Joe? You ask him. Go ahead. Ask him who I am................ Goodbye now.
Maybe You Remember Him
Good evening, sports fans. It’s Wednesday night again and Columbia brings you another look into Yesterday’s World of Sports. Look back with us to last year, to the last decade, the last century. See the great fighters, the football stars, the tennis champions, the baseball wonders of yesteryear. All the immortals brought to life again in—Yesterday’s World of Sports.
“And here to bring you tonight’s story and introduce tonight’s guest is the noted sports columnist and commentater—your host—Max Haney.”
“Good evening friends. I think we have a story tonight you’ll be thinking about for a long time. Because it’s a little out of the ordinary, a step away from the usual sports story. Oh yes, it’s a tale of the avid young sports fan who grew up to match and top the records of his former idols. But with a difference. And, sure, it’s the story of a young man who wanted to be a sports star more than anything else in the world. It’s that story—but with a twist. A twist you might not believe but one you won’t forget.
“Maybe you remember him. His name was Harry Campbell. A little before your time? Well, maybe. Harry’s pitching days ended thirty-five years ago. But ask the old timers and look at the records. Ask his old battery mate Jess Chandler—the way we’re going to ask him later in the program. They’ll tell you Harry was the greatest pitcher who ever lived and then some. Why?
“Let’s see why.”
“Here we go into the ninth inning with Harry Campbell still holding the Indian sign on the Cards. We’re about to see baseball history made, ladies and gentlemen. If old Harry can finish this inning without giving up a run, if he can get just three more outs, he’ll have his three hundredth win—without a loss. Just ten years ago Harry Campbell broke into baseball with the Brooklyn club and every year, like clockwork—thirty wins and no losses. Last week he won his twenty-ninth of this year and now he’s three outs from his thirtieth.
“The infield is tossing the ball around. Now Harry has it, he’s rubbing it up. The slightly built pitcher takes off his cap and wipes his brow. The crowd gives a cheer as Harry uncovers his bald head. It’s an old game they play with Harry, kidding him about his forty-seven years. Forty-seven. At a time when other players are coaching from the line or the bench old Harry is firing that ball in like a nineteen-year-old rookie. And about to reach a baseball pinnacle.
“First batter is Johnny Dugan, Card second sacker. Johnny’s dropped from .356 to .349 today with a trio of goose-eggs from Harry. Campbell pumps once, twice, here’s the pitch. Strike one, nicking the inside corner. Johnny taps the plate once. Harry doesn’t waste a minute, he goes right into the next motion.
“Strike two—nicking the inside corner again. Dugan tenses himself now. Harry shakes off one signal, another one. Now he nods, goes into the wind-up. Here it comes.
“Strike three!—and Johnny Dugan takes it looking. He drags his bat away without a squawk. That’s Campbell’s nineteenth strike-out of the game. They all look forlorn against old Harry. He handles the league leaders like he handles the bushers. There doesn’t seem to be anybody who can touch him. Thirty wins a year every single year for ten years. Man, that’s a record and Harry is only two outs away from it.
“Rip Hutson at the plate now, Rip standing in at a not too frightening .283 but with 94 runs batted in and 26 home runs. Rip bats from both sides of the plate. He’s trying it lefty again. Doesn’t seem to matter much to Harry which way they stand, he blows them over one way or the other. If we sound like we’re raving, folks, forgive us but you just can’t help raving about Harry. Here’s a player who started when other players are about ready to quit—and then proceeded to rack up the most sensational pitching record in the history of the game—299 wins against no losses, 3120 strikeouts and . . . here’s the pitch.
“Strike one, if that’s any surprise. Right down the groove. Harry seems to have every batter on mental file, knows just where their weaknesses are. There’s that familiar pumping motion, once, twice, the kick the three-quarter over-arm delivery, the wrist snap and there’s the pitch. Hutson takes a cut and tops the ball. It rolls straight at Campbell. Harry picks it up, tosses to Serena at first. Hutson out by five steps.
“One more out now and Mr. Harry Campbell of Bay Shore, Long Island hits top pedestal in the baseball hall of fame. He’s there already, of course, fifty times over. That’s how many perfect games he’s pitched. Fifty of them—count them—fifty no-hit, no-run games. And no-walk games. I think Harry’s walked about fifty men in his whole career. What was it Mark Fowler of the Pirates said about Harry Campbell last season?—The guy ain’t human.
“I’m almost inclined to agree with him.
“Last batter, Mickey Atwell. The fans are leaning forward in their seats now. There’s hardly a sound in the ball park. Atwell swinging two clubs. He tosses one away. You can hear the sound of it hitting the ground. Old Harry waiting grimly, hasn’t cracked a smile all day. He’s been that way all season too. Used to be when he first started, Harry was all smiles and . . .
“Here’s the motion, kick, delivery—Strike one. Chandler fires the ball back. Campbell takes off his glove and rubs the ball. Now he steps back on the mound. Shakes his head . . . nods. Sets himself. Here’s the pitch.
“Ball one—high outside. You can almost hear the people catch their breath. Everyone is riding on those pitches now. They want to see old Harry in the Hall of Fame.
“Another pitch. Atwell swings—he gets a hold of it! The ball is rising fast heading down the left field line. There’s no doubt where it’s going but is it or isn’t it . . .
“Foul! Just by a whisker. The stands rumble with excitement. Old Harry just standing out there steady as a rock. What nerves. He gets a new ball, he’s rubbing it up. That was strike two, count of one and two now against Atwell.
“Now Harry is ready. He’s standing there and looking at the plate. He doesn’t move a muscle. Now he steps on the mound. He almost steps back but then he catches himself! A close one, he almost balked. Now he looks for the signal. He nods. He stands there with his arms hanging at his sides. No motion yet, he just stands there looking straight ahead. I wonder if anything’s wrong.
“Nothing apparently. Now he winds-up once, twice, sets himself and . . .
“Harry Campbell sits with the baseball gods!”
“That was a recording you just heard—made the day Harry Campbell won his three hundredth game without a loss and his seventy-fifth shutout and . . . maybe you see why they call him the greatest pitcher who ever lived. Three hundred wins and no losses. Fifty perfect no-hit, no run, no-walk games. Seventy five shut-outs. Three thousand, one hundred and twenty two strike-outs. And a total earned run average of 1.32 for ten years. No wonder Mark Fowler said what he did that day so long ago. I’m inclined to agree with him too.
“And therein lies our real story. Unbelievable, yes, but Jess Chandler swears it’s true and who can deny what happened that first day of the 1976 World Series. It’s in the books.
“Our guest—one of baseball’s great receivers—Jess Chandler. How are you Jess?”
“Pretty well, thank you, Mr. Haney.”
“I’d like you to tell our listeners your story, Jess.”
“I’d be glad to, Mr. Haney.”
“Ladies and gentlemen—the story behind that ill-fated afternoon, the story of what happened to Harry Campbell.”
/>
I kept watching Harry that afternoon when they carried him off the field. He had a smile but it was frozen on, like he felt he owed it to the people. And I remembered something he said once to me. He said even a man on the scaffold can smile.
I moved down the long tunnel while they carried Harry to the showers. The boys weren’t only yelling for Harry. We had a World Series coming up too, our first in five years. Even a thirty-game winner can’t pitch you into the Series all by himself.
And, somehow, no offense meant, Harry never seemed to really do us any good. That’s not as crazy as it sounds. Sure he won thirty games every year of his ten years with us—but they were always his first thirty. What I mean is he always won his first thirty starts—no matter who he pitched against. And then, right after his thirtieth—he was through for the season.
We never knew why. He didn’t quit or anything but he might as well have. He seemed to be pitching in a vacuum all by himself. After his thirtieth win something always came up. One year he’d pull an arm muscle and have to sit it out the rest of the season. Another year his mother got sick and Harry had to take care of her. Then, maybe another year, he’d pitch—and get knocked out of the box in the first or second inning. It was crazy. He never got tagged with a loss but still he got knocked out. It got so we all kidded about it around the fourth year Harry was with us. Every time he’d win his thirtieth game we’d all say—well . . . that’s that.
Another thing. Harry was never a team man. It didn’t really seem to matter to him if he was pitching in an important series or against the cellar team. It didn’t seem to matter to him that he had a team behind him. He was out for his thirty wins and he got them and that was all for the year. Now, honestly, I’m not knocking Harry. What I’ve just said has been written about a thousand times in articles and books. Harry was a nice, quiet guy but . . .
As I said though, this tenth year our manager decided to play it cagey. Why he never thought of it before I don’t know but he didn’t. I mean pitching Harry every fifth game or so, so that Harry didn’t get his thirtieth until September and he was still in good shape. We were banking on him coming through in the Series and giving us our first championship.
Offbeat: Uncollected Stories Page 6
