Sophomore Campaign (14 page)

The explosion was thunderous, and the flight of the white wafer against the dark sky nothing short of majestic. It seemed to climb higher and higher, a real moon shot, its ascension finally halted when it appeared to clip an errant star that had inadvertently crossed its path. Then, and only then, did the ball, amidst a coterie of glowing splinters, land somewhere unknown, far beyond the left field fence.

“Great Caesar's ghost,” Matheson mumbled to Murph. “Did you see that?”

“I sure did, Farley. I sure did.” He folded his arms and smiled. “I sure did. And something tells me it's only the beginning.”

A deafening hush slipped across the crowd. Everyone was speechless. By all estimations, it was the furthest ball ever hit out of Borchert Field. The only audible sounds came by way of a few whispers here and there, all conjecturing about just how far the ball had really traveled.

Lefty regrouped and recovered easily enough, shaking off the sting of the monstrous blow to retire Jimmy Llamas, Buck Faber, and Amos Ruffings with barely a whimper. Mickey matched the southpaw's dominance, striking out the side in each of the next two frames, sending the dubious crowd, who was still reeling over Lester's improbable debut, into a dizzying fit of unbridled emotion.

With the moon glowing now directly overhead in a dozing sky, and the score still just 1–0 courtesy of Lester's Herculean blast, the young man whose name was on every person's lips that night led off again in the home half of the fifth. The announcement of his spot in the order was greeted once again with some more of the same rancor, only this time, the volume was decidedly less. Lefty pounded the ball in his pocket as Lester dug in. Besides Danver's scorching double and the mistake to the Brewer catcher in his first at bat, Lefty had been perfect all night. He was painting the black with his hard stuff and had his hook diving out of the strike zone. But he knew, as he took his sign from the catcher, that there was no margin for error. Down one run already, and with Mickey throwing aspirin tablets past virtually every Ranger hitter, he had to hold the Brewer offense at bay if he had any chance of procuring a victory.

The crafty southpaw got ahead early in the count with a sweeping curveball that nicked the outside corner. The second offering, a two-seam fastball, was equally crafty and well executed, placing Lester in an 0–2 hole. Lefty was pleased with his work. Though stoic in his demeanor as he prepared to finish the job, his aloof silence belied the fabulous thoughts unfurling in his head.

Despite the pitcher's count, Lester was fairly calm as well. The success he had enjoyed earlier that evening provided a modicum of self assurance, enough so that when Lefty hung the next curveball around the letters, Lester did not jump at it. Rather, most of his weight remained on his back foot, and his hands lingered by his ear long enough, allowing him to crush the mistake over the centerfield wall. The ball jumped out of the ballpark in the blink of an eye. Lefty never even turned around. Just hung his head. Lester did not admire his handiwork either. He put his head down as well, and began circling the bases, oblivious to the wake of wondering stares and ignited imaginations streaming out behind him.

Mickey made the two runs stand up. His combination of blazing fastballs and physics-defying breaking stuff completely stymied the Ranger offense. By the time it was all over, he had wracked up thirteen strikeouts while surrendering just three hits.

The team was all smiles after the game. It was always good to beat the Rangers. Twice in less than a month was pure ecstasy. Mickey was subjected to his usual post-game hoopla courtesy of the local sportswriters, but all he could talk about was Lester.

“What do ya think about the game tonight, Mick?”

“I liked it,” he answered. “Lester Sledge is a good player.”

“What about all those strikeouts, Mickey? Did the first two walks get you angry?”

“Mickey isn't angry, sir. I'm happy. My friend Lester is fun to watch. He hits the ball really far. Really far.” There was a collective frustration that passed between all of those awaiting something suitable to print.

“Don't you have anything to say about your pitching? I mean, you were great tonight.”

“It was fun.”

“That's it, Mickey? Fun? Can you give us something else?” Mickey paused only long enough to scratch an itch behind his right ear.

“We're going to eat now. Me and Lester, Murph. At Rosie's. Then we're gonna feed my rabbits. I like Rosie's. I think Mickey is going to have—” The crew began packing up and was all but gone before Mickey could even finish his thought.

Lester was not without conversation himself. Murph hugged the slugger immediately following the game and thanked him for his heroic efforts, and after all of the press had grown tired of the disordered volleying with Mickey, a few of them made their way over to his locker to tap what had potential to be a noteworthy story.
Lester even got what he believed to be one or two gratuitous nods of approval as the players filed into the locker room. But it was the exchange with Danvers that stayed with him. “You know, it ain't so easy boy?” the third baseman said. “Ain't always gonna be like this.”

“I know,” Lester replied. “Never said it was. Just glad I could help.”

“Ain't always gonna have reporters buzzing round you. Look at me. Two more knocks tonight. Leading the league in hitting. And I barely got a second look.” Lester's head hurt a little and his mouth was horribly dry. “I wouldn't get all crazy now, celebrating and all,” Danvers continued. “This ain't the Negro leagues. It's a little harder here than it is in black ball.”

Lester drew a long breath and released it slowly. “I know that.” “And Boxcar? You know, Boxcar will be back soon. So all this hullabaloo ain't worth nothin' more than a wooden nickel.”

Lester's brow lowered and his gaze moved across the empty eyes of his suddenly voluble teammate. “You played a good game too, Mr. Danvers. And I'm glad the team won. But if that's all, I am going to grab some grub with Mickey and Murph over at Rosie's. I hear she ain't so particular about that whole Jim Crow thing. Then I reckon we'll go back to Murph's place and hit the hay. Start getting ready for tomorrow night's game.”

Woody's tongue was seized by the candor. After an awkward silence that ended in neither a handshake nor a spoken goodnight, the two men parted ways. Although Murph did not suggest Rosie's as some sort of celebratory repast, he could not help but gush about his vision coming to fruition in such startling fashion.

“I knew it, kid,” he beamed. “Just knew it. You were great, Lester. Both you guys. Man, with the way you and Danvers are hitting, and with Mickey's arm, we can't miss.”

Lester felt the warmth of the words like a hand on his back while Mickey busied himself with a tiny dispenser of tooth picks.

“Ain't no big deal, Murph,” the emotional catcher finally said. “It's me who owes you the thank you.”

The three of them talked some more about the night, ate and drank, then talked some more. Murph and Lester recounted his two long balls and shared a laugh while trying to explain to Mickey why so many people at the ballpark were “yelling at Lester.” It was all good. Everything vague and desultory had seemed to order itself, almost magically. And in some small way, as the minutes and words passed between them, each was just a little more reluctant to part with the substance of their imaginings. The quixotic banter continued on the ride home. Talk of the pennant? In early May? It was foolish, sure, but Murph could not help himself. Everything in his professional being cried out against such a capricious prophecy. He had been burned so many times before. But what had just transpired hours before at Borchert Field was that special.

Even the stars that still remained in the vaulted sky shone brighter as they drove the familiar stretch of Diamond Drive that lead to Murph's house.

“Now, I know I shouldn't say this,” Murph began as they neared the final bend in the road, “because you never mess with success. But how do you feel, Mr. Sledge, about moving into the cleanup spot tomorrow night?”

Lester was touched. Truly. The last twenty-four hours had proven to be quite a whirlwind. He was thinking about what his mama would say, and struggling to collect his thoughts. His lips had all but formed the words when all three of them were seized by the unholy vision. It was awful. Mickey cried out in terror, a shrill, plaintive wail. Murph and Lester were simply speechless, their eyes suspended not in the flashing lights atop Sheriff Rosco's car, but in the storm of fiery embers leaping off the burning cross wedged in the center of Arthur Murphy's front yard.

Crosses continued to burn, and Boxcar's disease moved along the usual course, tantalizing him with transitory stretches of optimism and vitality now and again, only to shatter the improbable hope for recovery with relapses that enervated both his physical strength and emotional resolve. He was ornery and obstinate, and continued to refuse treatment. But when things seemed to turn a dark corner, he finally acquiesced to the idea of a doctor, even though it was to be of little consequence, for there was nothing to be done.

“We can always set you up in a good hospital, Box,” Murph suggested during his last visit. The once animated catcher, whose body had always looked like it had been chiseled from stone, just sat there, exanimate, a shadow of his former self, mired in sorrow and self loathing.

“That won't be necessary, Murph,” he said. “I'll get by.”

Boxcar was true to his word; he did get by, but his struggle was eating away at Murph. He loved the fiery catcher like a son. They all did, especially Mickey, who Murph had shielded as best he could from what was beginning to look like certain tragedy. He shared his vision with Molly, and the news all but devastated her. She wanted to tell Mickey, but Murph had convinced her it was
not the right time. She agreed, but the thought of Mickey's friend in such trouble weighed heavily upon her.

“I was in town today,” Molly said a few days later, as all three of them sat down for dinner. “Ran into Dorothy Chambers. Seems her brother Thomas is real ill. Has two little ones at home. Sort of made me sad and all, especially with all of us doing so well here. Don't seem fair, that some should suffer more than others.” She was talking more than usual, and her words were choppy and feverish, each running into the next.

“It's okay, Ma,” Mickey said, folding his napkin neatly. “Don't be sad.”

She sighed and took a quick forkful of creamed spinach. The severity of her expression worsened as she chewed. Her eyes became glassy and she looked as though she were going to explode until her thoughts once again came spilling out.

“I know we said that we were going to try and eat less beef, Arthur, on account of the price and all, but I have been wanting to try this brisquet recipe for weeks. The meat is so tender. Melts in your mouth. We have fresh apple pie for dessert after. The crust got a little burnt, but it's still good. Is it okay? Arthur, is it okay?” She was looking at him with such peculiar urgency. Tears began to emerge from her quivering lids.

“Yes, Molly, of course it is,” he said.

“It sure is,” Mickey blurted out. “Mickey loves beef. I do. All the fellas love it.” He paused a moment and smiled, as a recent reminiscence flooded his consciousness. “Last week, after practice, we had a hamburger eating contest—at Pee Wee's place. Jimmy Llamas ate three, Finster had four, and Mickey had eight. First I had three, then I had a drink. Then I ate three more, but my stomach started to hurt, until I burped. I think it was all the soda I drank. Then I ate one more, and wanted to stop, but ate just one more after that, on
account of seven being uneven and all. That didn't bother Pee Wee none. He only had one himself.”

“That's great, Mick,” Arthur said, chewing deliberately. “So you won, huh?”

“Yeah, Mickey won,” the boy said with a strange note of resignation. “But that's only because Boxcar didn't have any. He always wins.” Mickey watched as Molly brought her napkin to her mouth, dabbing her lips gently. Then she sighed again, this time louder, and brought the damp cloth to her eyes.

“Molly, please don't,” Murph said. She would not look at him, but nodded. Then she began crying harder, as if somehow Murph's request had punctured her emotional reservoir.

“I'm sorry, Arthur,” she said, getting up from the table. “I can't. I just can't. You'll have to finish without me.”

Mickey was alarmed. His eyes began to well up too. “What did Mickey do?” he asked. “I'm sorry. Next time I wont eat so many hamburgers. I promise.” There was an uncomfortable silence that settled between them, one that lasted a good while until Murph finally spoke.

“It's not you, Mick,” Murph said. He looked away for a moment, as if trying to enlist strength and guidance from some imaginary source of inspiration. “It's Boxcar. Your mom's crying about Boxcar. He's not doing too well, Mick. I'm afraid I have something to tell you.”

The other illness that had touched the entire town was yielding its own effects.

Despite Sheriff Rosco's investigation into the hate crime perpetrated that night at Murph's house, there seemed to be no answers.

“What do ya want me to say, Murph?” Rosco said days later. “Ain't nothin' that can be done.”

The law man's flippancy drew Murph's ire. “So that's it? Huh? Some racist sons of bitches light up my house, right here in town, and nothing can be done? Is that what you're telling me, Rosco?”

“Ain't like last time. With Mickey. No one here really wants to help no black boy. I'm sorry to say it, but that's how it is.”

The sheriff saw the violent contortions of Murph's face but paid them no mind. He just folded his arms and rolled the butt end of his cigar between his yellowing teeth. “Why don't you wise up, Arthur, eh? What's the sense? You's playing with fire here. Just go back to the way things was. You go back to the way things was, and I'm willing to bet all this ugliness will go away.”