Sophomore Campaign (16 page)

One noticeable difference, however, was observable in the Brewer clubhouse. Lester had begun to grow on his teammates, including some of those who were not particularly enamored with the star catcher when he first arrived. Sure, there were still the occasional pranks at the expense of the new guy. Flour in the cleats. Cap in the toilet. And of course the old standard lineament in the jock strap. But it was all harmless high jinks. All of them had really started to gel. It was only a matter of time, Murph said, delighting in the veracity of his earlier prediction.

“Baseball guys gotta love other baseball guys.”

Or, as Matheson put it in his own inimitable fashion, “these birds of a feather have finally flocked together.”

It was easy to see how both men were right. Lester made it
impossible for some of them not to like him. Like Pee Wee McGinty. It was late in a game against the Giants. The Brewers had just battled back from a five-run deficit to take a one-run lead, and needed just one more out to seal the deal. The Giants' third place hitter smashed a scorcher that just ate up Pee Wee, ricocheting off the inside half of his foot before scooting through his legs and into left field. McGinty hung his head as the cleanup hitter, who was already 4-4 with six RBI, strode to the plate, licking his chops. The tiny shortstop could barely breathe, stifled by the dreadful thought that he had just opened the door to a potential disaster.

Rube Winkler was pissed off as well. He had come in during the eighth inning to put out a fire and was on his way to a much needed win when McGinty's blunder derailed the victory train. He walked around the mound, mumbling to himself, before getting back on the rubber to face the Giants' most potent threat.

Winkler came set a number of times, but threw over to first in each instance, chasing the runner back to the bag. Then he stepped off the rubber a couple of times, trying to bait the tying run into tipping his hand. Both attempts were fruitless, yielding only a dirty uniform top over at first and a swell of anxiety in Pee Wee, who was dying under the uncompromising weight of anticipation.

When Winkler was satisfied that his stratagems and attempts at deception had altered the base runner's lead as much as they could, he delivered home. Pee Wee held his breath as the ball zipped toward the plate, then jumped off the eager bat of the hitter. It was a long, arching fly ball that had plenty of distance but landed in the stands some eight feet foul. Both Pee Wee and Winkler let loose audible sighs of relief.

Lester recognized the impetuous gesticulations of the batter as he awaited Winkler's next offering. With this is mind, the wily catcher put down two fingers, hoping to disrupt the timing and
balance of the Rangers' assassin. Winkler took the sign and nodded, came set at his waist, gave a quick look over at first, then broke off a curve ball that fell way short of its intended destination, bouncing in the dirt some three feet in front of home plate. The batter held his swing, but the runner, certain that the wild pitch was a free pass into scoring position, took off for second base.

Lester, however, had other ideas. With a deft, cat-like motion, he slid to his right and dropped to his knees, smothering the errant toss with his chest protector. Then he picked up the wayward ball and fired a bullet to Pee Wee, who applied the tag in plenty of time, squelching the rally and handing the Brewers a well earned victory.

Everyone rushed the mound, congratulating Winkler on his gutsy performance. Everyone except Pee Wee, who had raced in to home plate immediately following the tag to hand the ball to Lester.

“This belongs to you, friend,” he said, handing him the ball. “And a little bit of me does as well. Thanks, man.”

A few days later, Lester bailed out Arky Fries in a similar fashion and then won the heart of the flaky Jimmy Llamas when Lester stretched across home plate to corral his errant throw from shallow centerfield, then reached back across to tag out a runner trying to score. Despite the violent collision at home, one that was created by the botched toss, Lester held on and saved Llamas from a most embarrassing moment. Sure, the dopey Llamas trotted in cavalierly from the outfield, firing his imaginary six shooters and spitting through the gap in his two front teeth as if nothing unusual had happened, but the minute he got into the dugout, he placed his hand on Lester's shoulder and gave him a wink.

Some of the fans at Borchert Field had been bitten by the love bug as well. While there was still the fair share of dissenters who refused to accept Lester's presence, attendance increased once again,
including one or two groups of mixed race who had embraced the nickname “Hammer” coined by the press and made it the focal point of their adulation, attending each home game in overalls and tool belts, from which they pulled toy hammers that they pounded the rails with each time Lester did something memorable. Borchert Field was alive like never before, rocking to the colorful antics of the fanatical groups inspired by its two heroes.

It wasn't all champagne and roses though. Despite all the good will, the ignorance and ugliness just would not go away. It was still present at the ballpark, in the ulcerous screams from disgruntled fans and those bigots who attended games only to spread their malice. It had surfaced in the many threatening letters Dennison and the organization received every day. And it found its way to Murph's doorstep on more than one occasion, taking the form of packages left clandestinely on his front porch. One contained a dead skunk. Another was filled with a dozen roses, each painted black, with a note attached that simply read
Black for Black—Watch Your Back.
Murph did well to hide these harbingers of hate from Molly, and from Lester as well. But he couldn't shield them from everything.

He was working at the kitchen table one evening, with a stack of lineup cards, stat sheets and his wire recorder, when he heard the knock at the door and then the squealing of tires. He leaped to his feet and raced out the front door, only to find that Lester had beaten him there.

“Let me have that, Lester,” he said, motioning for the small box he held in his hands. “You don't need to see that.” Lester edged over restlessly in Murph's direction, with the box, and the two locked eyes.

“I ain't gonna just bury my head, Murph,” he said. “Ain't my way now.”

The two of them sat uneasily on the porch, neither one of them saying a word. Both of their faces were appropriately solemn.

“You know, Lester, you don't have to open that,” Murph finally said. He was suddenly very aware of Lester's emotional fragility. “We could always just throw it away.”

They sat there a little longer, like distant planets from different galaxies. There was a world of difference between the two of them, more than just black and white. It was their approach to this ungodly mess, and the vision each clung to of life afterward, if and when the dust finally settled, that linked them. For all the differences, they seemed to find some sort of kinship amidst the sea of abomination that had swelled and threatened to drown them both.

“I means to open it,” Lester said, pursuing the thought with painful application. “Ain't running from this, Murph. No way.”

Murph watched quietly as Lester undid the twine stretched across the brown paper wrapping. The box felt damp, and there was a peculiar odor emanating from inside. With trembling fingers, he worked open the top panels of the cardboard parcel and peered into the tiny abyss. He did not move once he saw what was inside. He just sat there, with the mystery package on his lap, struggling with the crumbling difference between right and wrong. His eyes welled up and his mouth formed words that never made it passed his lips.

“What is it, Lester?” Murph asked. “What's wrong?”

Lester could not speak. A rush of stifling air had filled his lungs and was squeezing his chest unmercifully. He staggered to his feet, box still in hand, and shook his head. He stood now, leaning against the wood rail, trying to steady his trembling knees.

“Lester, is everything okay?”

There was no reply. Whatever had seized him would not let go. He passed the box to Murph, who was also swallowed by what he saw. He cringed and turned away.

Minutes later, Murph notified Sheriff Rosco, who, as he had done each of the previous times Murph had called, dismissed the
incident as mischief before reminding him how easy it would be for him to put an end to all the aggravation.

“Mischief?” Murph fired back. “Mischief? You call that box that Lester got mischief?”

“Calm down, Murph,” Rosco said.

“Like hell I will,” Murph replied. “You've got a real problem here, Sheriff. And I want something done about it.”

They talked some more about Lester and about recent klan activity and some of the other concerns Murph had for Mickey and Molly as well. Rosco listened, and told Murph about the different leads he and his office were following. He was calm, and appeared to have heard what Murph was saying. But in the end, Murph still saw him as nothing more than just a flippant jackass.

“I will look into it, Murph,” he said. “But I told before. And I know you don't like it. But once the boy goes, all your troubles will follow.”

Molly never found out what had happened, but all the guys on the team knew. Murph did not want to make a scene, and would have preferred to keep things quiet. But when he heard the rumblings, and all the conjecture spawn from misinformation and halftruths, he knew he had to address the team formally.

“Look, fellas,” he said, agonizing through his thoughts. “We are certainly no strangers to adversity. God knows. And I'm sure this too shall pass. But there are a few things we need to get straight.”

He spoke passionately first about Boxcar, whose health had taken a recent turn for the worse. “He will always be a Brewer guys, always be our captain, but he will not be returning.”

Then he turned his focus to the other pressing issue at hand. With a stiff wind rattling the windows of the tiny locker room, Murph paced nervously. He was a man on a mission, a pensive wanderer in search of a remedy for his soul and for some sort of
panacea for his impressionable club. “And it appears that some people still have a problem with our new catcher, boys,” he said. “I'm here today to tell you that that's okay, because that's
their
problem, not ours. I know that all of you here recognize the value of Mr. Sledge's contributions the last few months, and that none of you would not even think of perpetuating any of this bull any more than need be. We are a baseball team, fellas. No, scratch that. We are a baseball family. One unit. One goal. We may not always love each other, and we certainly don't always understand each other, but we better goddamn support each other, and oppose with fury those who would try to keep us from our goal. That is how I feel. Right here, right now. And that is what I expect from all of you.”

Murph had hoped his speech would have ignited a little more camaraderie, and that some of the others would have embraced Lester by now and opened up a little more, just to ease some of the anxiety the poor boy was feeling. But it seemed as though it was still too soon. Murph did, however, find solace in all of the time Lester was spending with Mickey. It was good for both of them. They had become inseparable, their relationship burgeoning well beyond the normal affinity between pitcher and catcher. Murph was not surprised; in many respects, they were one in the same. Two baseball prodigies, each imbued with anomalous talents almost incomprehensible, crashing against the rigid walls of societal convention. They had each been, their entire lives, on the outside looking in at a world that seemed to move on in spite of them. Each, in his own way, had dreamed, conjured a picture of the world the way he wished it could be. A world unfettered. It was beautiful, an exciting landscape of hope and possibility. But alas, like every dream, there comes an awakening. The ruthless reality that floods the chimerical chambers with the light of truth, expunging the vision forever, leaving in its wake only disappointment and shame. Now, for the first
time, the distance between that dream and reality did not seem as far. They had both elicited attention and had been noticed. Appreciated. Even celebrated. It felt good now and again. It did. But the sudden spotlight, coupled with the residue of lingering resistance from those not yet ready for anything unconventional, only made the previous shame more acute.

The two of them had gotten into the habit of eating together after the games. Usually it was at Rosie's. But they had run into some trouble there the last few times there so they decided, one night after a victory over the Spartans, to alter their plans a bit. “Hey, you guys heading over to Rosie's, Mick?” Pee Wee asked as they undressed.

“No, Pee Wee,” Mickey answered. “Me and Lester are going someplace else.”

“What? No Rosie's?”

The boy was not sure how to answer.

“We figured we best be eating somewhere else for a while,” Lester added. “We've caught some crap from some good old boys who have come to expect us there. Seems that somehow, they know our every move. So we gonna try the Road House over past Willets Bridge, down the Chestnut Ridge Road.”

“Ain't that a little out of the way?” Pee Wee asked.

“I reckon that's what we need right now,” Lester said, laughing. “Just wanna be left alone.” He finished tying his shoes and grabbed his hat.

“Maybe I'll join ya's,” Pee Wee said. “I ain't doing nothin' special myself.”

A little while later, the three men walked into the out-of-the-way eatery. It wasn't much to speak of inside. The walls were bleached and threadbare, four wooden slabs that supported for the moment a water-stained ceiling that buckled from the weight of the damp
rectangular panels. Their feet struggled across a tacky floor littered here and there with bread crusts and peanut shells, until they finally came to rest in the far corner, at a broken booth whose back had broken free from the wall, revealing two bolts that now stood, rusted and exposed, beneath a cloudy window.