Sophomore Campaign

ADDITIONAL PRAISE FOR SOPHOMORE CAMPAIGN

“Remarkable. The very best in today's baseball fiction just got a little better.”

—Don Williams, retired sports columnist,
Newark Star Ledger

“A moving story about an exceptional boy with uncommon athletic ability. This novel harkens back to the days when baseball was King.”

—Chris Platt, award-winning YA author of
Storm Chaser
and
Star Gazer

“Frank Nappi knocks another one out of the ballpark! If there were a Hall of Fame for Baseball Books, this heart-warming Mickey Tussler series would be in it.”

—Betty Dravis, author,
The Toonies Invade Silicon Valley

Also by Frank Nappi

The Legend of Mickey Tussler

Echoes from the Infantry

 

Copyright © 2012 by Frank Nappi

All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or
[email protected]
.

Sky Pony
^®
is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.
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, a Delaware corporation.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed within are either the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

Visit our website at
www.skyponypress.com
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10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

ISBN: 978-1-61608-663-3

Printed in the United States of America

For Julia, Nick, and Anthony

And for my father, Francis Nappi, whose
undaunted spirit and love of the game
continue to inspire me

 

Baseball gives every American boy a chance to excel, not just to be as good as someone else but to be better than someone else. This is the nature of man and the name of the game.

—
TED WILLIAMS

MILWAUKEE—1949

HARVEST FAIR

SPRING TRAINING—1949

APRIL

OPENING DAY

APRIL 19, 1949

THE DEBUT

MAY

MIDSEASON

JUNE SWOON

JULY

THE BEST LAID PLANS

AUGUST 4, 1949

BAKER'S WOODS

SEPTEMBER

STRETCH RUN

PENNANT FEVER

JUDGMENT DAY

POSTGAME

It was one of those classic autumn days, replete with crisp jets of air and a wide, bright sky. The trees were golden brown, glistening ever so softly with remnants of an early morning frost, and the crops were heavy, saddled with a restless weight that matched the heaviness under which Arthur “Murph” Murphy's mind labored. It had only been a few of weeks since the loss—a bitter defeat at the hands of his nemesis, Chip McNally, and his Rangers. Murph was still reeling from the callous machinations that Fate had rendered his way. He had lost games before. He was used to that. It was all part of the toiling in the minor leagues. He had lost plenty. A promising career to a freak injury; a promotion to the big show as punishment for his managerial efforts with the hapless Brewers; and now quite possibly that job as well. But it was the way he had lost that last game that bothered him most—a loss that occurred without his young star pitcher Mickey, who had spent the afternoon of that championship game languishing in a damp prison cell for an insidious crime that had forced its way into his life. That was something that really stuck in his craw.

There were many things, however, for which he was thankful. Molly was certainly one. She had remained with him, and so had
Mickey, for the duration of that summer. It certainly was not the plan. She had only intended to teach her insufferable husband Clarence a lesson. But she never felt more alive than the moments when she was with Arthur. She never expected, when she went there to live for a while last summer, that every thing that passed through her eyes and into her imagination would ignite in her brain this conflagration of possibility for a life—a real life, one filled with laughter, discovery and fulfillment. She was singing again, and playing the clarinet. She found herself to be lighter somehow, walking through each day unencumbered by the silent fear of vituperation and brutality that had always trailed her back on the farm. True, there were moments when she felt this morbid guilt rise up in her throat. It was so bad some days that she considered just abandoning this new vision of hers and returning home. But after the horrible incident between Mickey and Lefty Rogers, something inside her snapped, came undone, and she was sure that she would leave Clarence for good, a bold step for such a meek woman.

Murph recalled the great trepidation that Molly had when the time had finally come for her to go back to the farm, one last time, to collect her belongings and say goodbye to Clarence, once and for all.

“I don't know if I can go back there, Arthur,” she said with roiling tremors of panic and indecision. “You don't know how he gets when he's angry.”

“I'll be right there with you,” he assured her. “And if it makes you feel any better, we'll bring some of the fellas along too.”

They both laughed now, weeks later, at the overwrought absurdity attenuating the scene on the farm that day.

It was late afternoon and the air was crisp, clear and blank. Clarence had been laying on a cot inside, with two or three empty beer bottles balanced precariously on his heaving chest. He got up and
staggered to the window when he heard the car door slam outside. Through the square panels of dusty glass, the petulant farmer could see the orange sun sinking slowly behind the line of trees. His eyes also found Molly, who was with Murph, making her way slowly from the road up to the walk. He gazed at them for a while, his mouth half open, as though they were just part of another one of his fitful dreams. He froze, unable to conceptualize the one thing he had known, since the day she left, would eventually happen.

His head, a block of chiseled stone, remained still, pointed in the direction of the intruders. He stood still, soundless on his bare feet. Then, like a statue suddenly come to life, he rubbed his eyes, grabbed his shotgun off the floor, and blasted through the shroud of the foggy daydream full speed, whipping the front door open and emerging, wrathful and unsteady, on the front porch.

“That's jest far enough, little Miss Molly,” he warned, cocking the rifle and taking aim. “Ya got some nerve, showing yer trampy face round here. You, and that no good washed up jockstrap boyfriend of yours there. Both of you. I'll shoot both of ya, just as sure as I'm standing here. Now turn yer sorry selves round and shove off! Go! You got no business here no more.”

Molly shut her eyes and cowered next to Murph. He stroked her face and whispered something soft in her ear, all the while glaring at the unbalanced miscreant spewing his venom. Murph imagined his voice penetrating the viscous layers of the simpleton's dark, inaccessible psyche, arresting his bilious advances, even though he knew, somewhere deep within his own mind, that it would never happen. A man like Clarence could never listen.

Murph tried anyway. He took one step forward, leaving Molly shaking in his shadow. His eyes did not shift and his muscles tensed in preparation for what was to be an ugly exchange. Then he fired his opening salvo.

“Step aside, Tussler,” Murph yelled back. “It doesn't have to be like this. She just wants to get what's hers. That's all. Then we'll be gone.”

Clarence's face grew infinitely sad. His eye caught the whirl and dash of two ground hogs foraging in the lengthening afternoon shadows. He looked as though he would drop to his knees and surrender to the heartache ripping him apart, until he broke out in a violent sweat that revealed the true urgency of his present situation.

“I'll blow yer damned head off, baseball boy,” he replied. “You just try me now. Come on. I'll take both of ya out with one shot.”

Murph was unmoved by the perilous warning. He just stood there, feet set firmly between the divots in the gravel walkway, like an actor awaiting his cue.

“Well, come on ya lily-livered piece of crap,” Clarence said. “You want some of me?” Murph stepped back to Molly and steadied her with a firm hand to the small of her back. Then he looked directly at Clarence, who was squinting through one eye with the shotgun pressed firmly against his cheek, placed two fingers in his mouth, and let fly a whistle that pierced the cool air like an alarm. In a fury of abhorrence, two pickup trucks appeared from nowhere, their tires coming to a violent skid in front of the property. Out of each stepped three men, each one wearing a baseball cap and brandishing a wooden bat. Included in the group was Raymond Miller, the fiery catcher and Brewer captain—the heart and soul of the team, the man the other guys all called Boxcar because of his solid build. Last season had taken a lot out of him. They all noticed it. He looked smaller somehow, and not even the brightest of afternoons could light the darkness looming behind his eyes. Still, he remained their undisputed leader.

With Boxcar were Woody Danvers, the barrel-chested hard hitting third baseman, Clem Finster, keeper of the opposite infield
corner, right fielder Buck Faber, second baseman Arky Fries and Jimmy Llamas, the eccentric centerfielder who was always up for a challenge. They walked steadily, purposefully, and joined Murph and Molly at their side. The scene turned perfectly motionless. Murph folded his arms and smiled at the fuming farmer. The confidence in Clarence's visage was invisible now—only the bushy overhang of his tangled brow which seemed to slump downward toward his feet in silent submission was discernable.

“Mr. Tussler, I'd like you to meet some of my best hitters,” Murph announced ominously. He glanced proudly at the lineup he had assembled. “Yup, each one of them hit well over. 300 last season. They don't miss very often.”

Clarence stood uneasily, trying to appear impenetrable. “A wood bat ain't no match fer a bullet, city boy,” he shouted back. “You should know that.”

Murph's brain split suddenly into two parts. The half nourished by the blood and adrenaline rushing through his body wanted to just overrun the smug bastard, take from him the remaining shreds of self respect he was struggling to preserve. The other half, however, had the effect of cold rain on a camp fire, dulling the raging flames with a more conservative, methodical approach. “True. Yes, that's true. But unless that shotgun of yours can fire more than one shot at a time, Tussler, I reckon you got yourself a little problem.”