Authors: Honey
After
her father had gone, Camille sat down on the rose arbor bench, the hoe laid
before her on the grass. She stared at the plot of dirt that was to be her
crowning glory this year. But its rows were complicated by players and
baseballs and rules and a pitcher who hadn't been able to pitch.
If
only making the Keystones flourish could be as easy as coaxing a bloom from a
begonia.
* * * * *
Somebody
had gummed up the Keystones' bats.
A
liberal amount of pine tar had been rubbed into all the bats. The sticky dark
substance used to create a better grip worked well when applied correctly. Too
much, and the batter's hands stuck to the wood; he lost control and couldn't
release after a swing.
The
probable culprit snored at the Brooks House hotel, sleeping off a night of
whooping it up in the Blue Flame saloon. Camille had no way to prove Boomer
Hurley had done it. However, as far as following the codes of honor, the
Somersets hadn't last night. Drinking went against the ethics of the American
League, and of all the possible people to be the ringleader of last night's
fiasco, it had been the Boston manager.
The
smell of thinner lingered in the air of the clubhouse as she left with her
notebook in the crook of her arm. The Keystones had lost practice time
unsticking the bats. She hoped Mr. Hurley would be suffering today. Maybe he'd
have such a sick headache, he wouldn't be able to create a lineup. Maybe his
players, with their minds hazy from the aftereffects of liquor, wouldn't be
able to bit a tin can with a two-by-four.
"All
right, gentlemen." She addressed the players on the bench but purposefully
eyed Alex. The speech she'd rehearsed in her head was to the point and
indisputable. "We're going to spend the next half hour on
calisthenics."
"Cali-what?"
Bone mumbled.
"Calisthenics,"
Alex supplied, flexing a lean leg. "Exercise. Sit-ups, trunk twists, toe
touching."
"Crapola.
If you don't mind my saying so, Miss Kennison." Cub LaRoque propped his
feet on the foot railing. "Red Vanderguest, the manager three managers
ago, had us lifting weights at Bruiser's Gymnasium over on Birch Avenue and we
still lost nearly every game that season. Frankly, we stink. We don't ever seem
to have a chance. I'm tired of hoping we do. We don't. Plain and simple."
"From
now on, any man with that kind of attitude will be fired from the
Keystones." The words were out before she'd thought them through. Could
she really fire somebody?
Regardless,
her threat worked, because Cub cooled on the issue. "I'm not saying I'd
quit, Miss Kennison. I'm just saying we smell like an outhouse and nothing's
changed that fact so far."
"Things
will
change. Starting today. From now on, you have to believe that
winning is the most important thing."
"The
most important thing on my mind right now is getting that brick fence up over
at the Elks Club on schedule," Jimmy stated. "That's how I get in my
calisthenics. I break my back hauling bricks, then break it some more trying to
hit baseballs."
She
regarded him, then the others who were in the same predicament, working outside
jobs and then being expected to play baseball as well. "Some of you have
been playing for my father for nearly ten years. In that time, you've had some
fun. I know that when the team was called Kennison's Keystones, you would take
the field and laugh and joke around. I watched from the stands and I enjoyed
myself. Nobody thought about pennants and big money and the prestige of winning
a trophy."
"Your
father really wants the pennant, Miss Kennison," Doc said. An older member
of the team, he was one of the original Keystones.
"Do
any of you want the pennant?" she asked, hoping that a majority would
reply yes. "If being in the American League is taking the fun out of the
game, then there's no point in playing it anymore."
Specs
spoke up. "Everyone knows there's only a few of us who're any good. The
rest of us are here because the money can't be beat."
Charlie
said, "You got that right."
Camille
kept her hands clasped together at her waist. "If you could get something
from playing baseball, what is it that you'd want? Aside from the salary."
"To
impress women."
"The
only women
you
impress are ones with buck teeth."
"But
do we have to do calisthenics?"
"You
couldn't touch your toes if there was a beer sitting on them."
"The
pennant would be quite a thing."
"Pennants
are for professionals."
"We're
professional now. American League."
"American
League is where the great fellows play."
The
answers were as diverse as the players and Camille let them voice all opinions
before adding, "The Keystones can be a great team. Everyone out on the
field. And I want to see you in rows and touch your toes thirty times. Bend at
the waist and don't buckle your knees. Keep them stiff."
The
bench emptied, but the procession out to the grass was a slow one.
The
idea of calisthenics hadn't been hers. It had been Meg Gage's.
Camille
had been late for the Garden Club meeting last night because of her duties with
the team. She knew there would be talk from the ladies. She'd prepared herself
for some backlash. But when it came, she'd still felt bruised. At least Edwina
Wolcott and Meg Gage had taken her side, saying what she was doing was
wonderful.
Meg
had mentioned
Whitley's
fitness magazine. The men on the pages were in
fine physical form after exercise and hearty diets. All thirteen of the
Keystones were bachelors, and most ate at Nannie's Home-Style Restaurant.
Camille was going to ask that they order steak and eggs, bacon and fried
potatoes—real man food.
Standing
at the sidelines, she observed the players as they bent down. Specs and Deacon
ribbed each other. Charlie couldn't make a forward fold over his stomach. It
was too wide. Cupid bent his knees to reach his toes. Yank went through his
exercise far too quickly, missing his toes by a good four inches. What a sorry
sight.
Sorry
except for one man who moved with the strength of bendable hot iron. His body
looked sculpted, lean and well worked in spite of years away from the game. He
must never sit idle. Never slouch. His uniform fit him like a glove. He was
tight, taut, hard, and sinewy. Taller than the rest, he stood nearly a head
above them while moving his limbs in a way that said he didn't put thought into
it. He just told his muscles what to do and they did, bulging and straining.
Dreadful
thoughts had filled her mind while she was walking to the ballpark—what if Alex
didn't show up? But he'd been there with the others, waiting for her.
For
a blushing moment, her thoughts went back to earlier in the clubhouse, and she
felt a tiny flicker of curiosity to see Alex boldly standing half dressed
again. The scene that had greeted her this morning had been different than
yesterday. None of the players had been undressed. They'd been suited up and
ready to go. She should have been relieved. But her gaze had lingered over Alex
longer than it should have.
After
the players went through a series of exercises, she had Cub and Yank throw
balls. Each player took a turn at bat, making a rotation on the field so that
the outfielders and basemen could practice fielding. When Alex stepped up to
the plate, Cub just about knocked him out of the box with a screwball. It was a
clear case of animosity—Alex was on the team in Cub's position. After the third
pitch, Alex struck out. Her heart sank. For all his powerful muscles and lean
body, he didn't put any of that strength into his swing. They couldn't win on
bad swings or throws.
By
game time, she'd assembled the team on the bench. Fans had come out in droves.
The weather certainly helped, not to mention it was Saturday. But they came
partially, she supposed, because they were curiosity seekers.
The
men scooted and maneuvered to fit between the items that already occupied the
narrow length of wood.
She
asked them as a whole, "Is all of that necessary?"
"Certainly
is." Charlie held up a fist of black licorice. "Gotta have something
in my mouth."
"Durham
is better than that godawful candy," Duke remarked, raising a Bull Durham
pouch. He took a pinch of tobacco and added to the lump already stuffed in his
left cheek.
"Adhesive
tape," Deacon said. "I busted two fingers once on a ground ball and
was sorry the rest of the day I didn't have something to wrap my fingers
with."
Specs
worried a horseshoe in his grasp. "Horseshoes. I've got five more in the
box beside me. From horses I've known and loved."
"Four
of which are dead," Charlie responded, "so how much luck is that,
Specs?"
"Luck
enough." He twisted the rusty piece of metal in his fingers as if to get
as much good luck out of it as he could.
"Four-leaf
clovers." Doc showed her a jar of them. "I found most of 'em out at
Fish Lake by the bank where the fly-fishing contest takes place. I got one just
last week, so I should be able to hit the ball better."
Cupid
laughed, his half-bald head shining like an apple. "You can't even hit a
tree when you piss."
Specs
blushed a deep crimson and stared at Camille.
Cupid
mumbled, "Sorry."
Mox
frantically rubbed an oil lamp, much akin to the kind Aladdin must have found.
"Oil lamp. Only thing around here that will bring good luck."
"Mox,
you've been rubbing that thing for years and the only fog to come out of it was
your fart when you had it between your legs." Cub didn't apologize for his
language. He looked at her and she looked right back.
She
wouldn't make a fuss. They were crude. They were men who scratched themselves
in places that ought not to be scratched in public, much less in private. She
had expected as much.
Although
she did appreciate Spec's blush.
"Rabbit's
feet." Bones had a dozen of them on a chain. Gray, white, black, and tan.
He pulled out his shirt collar and dropped the feet inside his uniform. His stomach
now appeared lumpy. "I keep them close to me at all times."
"I
don't go in for all that good-luck business. A man's got to feel like he's
fit," Jimmy said, opening the cap on a bottle of Ayer's Cherry Pectoral.
"And that breakfast I ate didn't do much for my innards, so I've got to
take pectoral to aid in my digestion. I hit and run better after I have a
teaspoon or so."
Duke
noted, "Booze is in that. Read the label, Miss Kennison, and take that
snake oil away from him."
"Is
not!"
Cupid
held up a dark amber bottle. Carter's Liver Pills. "I have a constant ache
in my gut when I come to the ballpark. This helps."
Noodles
came up with Bull's Cough Syrup. "For medicinal purposes only,
ma'am." He took a pull on the mouth of the bottle, swallowing with a
shiver of— as far as she could tell—revulsion.
Yank
showed his Bromo Seltzer, took a swig, and followed up with a long burp.
"Clears the lungs."
Cub
nursed his elbow with a hot water bottle. "Bad joint."
Alex
was the only one empty-handed. All eyes landed on him. With a quirked lift to
the right corner of his mouth, he said, "I drank a fifth of Danish
schnapps before I came to the park."
"On
ice or off?" asked Mox.
"Off."
That
got a rise out of Cub, who jabbed Cordova in the ribs, the friction between
them momentarily set aside. "Yeah, right."
Camille
didn't get the joke. Unless schnapps was something that put hair on a man's
chest when he drank it at room temperature. But the meaning of the riddle was
moot. If Alex had drunk a fifth of liquor, he'd be flat on his face.
Or
half dead.
"While
these items might be of some value to you, gentlemen, they clutter the bench.
Perhaps we could put it all in one big crate. You know, mix it up so everyone
would receive the benefits." She thought her suggestion quite practical.
But it was received with twelve angry scowls. "All right. Hold onto it if
you must. Just don't sit on anything and hurt your behinds."
Their
laughter caught her by surprise. She gave them a hesitant smile—unfortunately,
one they didn't hesitantly return. They reverted back to scowling at her.
Of
course she dared not hope the begonia had just formed a tiny bud.
* * * * *
She'd
said to meet him at the livery.
Alex
could think of a better place to meet a woman. Camille had made an appointment
to have his photograph taken in Waverly. Fan cards. There had been a time when
posing for them would have been a real yahoo. The only good side he could see
to having them now was that Camille was coming along for the ride.
But
if she started to talk baseball, he'd have to balk at the subject. He had done
what she'd wanted yesterday. He'd gone to the mound and thrown. Put himself in
a frame of mind that overrode the fears of that first game. By going back out
there, he'd allowed the fans to say Alex Cordova had done his job. Even if he
reeked.