Sophomore Campaign (2 page)

Murph and Molly were able to laugh now at the dissolution of Clarence's tyranny, as he just stood there like a little boy, surrounded by Boxcar and the others, scarred, frustrated and helpless, while Molly proceeded to empty the house of her belongings, closing the chapter on the most regrettable period of her life. Both of them—Molly and Murph—had come a long way in a very short time. Their lives, separate from one another, were riddled with unspoken longings and frustration; together, they had assumed a far more
definitive shape, one that appeared safe and promising. She was happier. And he was okay, for the first time, outside the white lines. There was even some premature talk of nuptials, somewhere down the road. Yes, life was good for both of them. All that remained now was the question of Murph's job for next year—would Warren Dennison renew his contract as manager of the Boston Braves minor league affiliate Milwaukee Brewers, or was his tumultuous career to end so abruptly and unceremoniously? The meeting with Dennison was brief, and came sooner than he thought. Murph had agreed reluctantly, after the final loss to the Rangers on the last day of the previous season, to discuss his fate with the Brewer's capricious owner sometime before Thanksgiving. But here it was, just two days before Halloween, and he was on his way to Dennison's office for yet another one of these now infamous sit downs.

The sun was darting in and out of a line of white, downy clouds stretched across a wide canvas of deep blue, creating unannounced spikes in the temperature that afternoon. One minute Murph was chilled, the crisp autumn jolts of air nipping at his face, and the next he could feel the sweat rising to the surface of the skin on his neck and lower back. He could not decide if he was hot or cold. The vacillation was irritating. He was also having some trouble reconciling in his head the myriad rumors afloat regarding his future with the club. Some said he was finished, washed up for good. Others thought he was being reassigned, as a scout or head of player development. He couldn't be sure. He even heard some conjecture that he would be replacing old man Thompson, the grounds crew icon who had been working the diamond at Borchert Field since its inception. He said he didn't care—that what was to be was to be—but everyone knew he was lying. “Mr. Murphy,” Dennison said upon Murph's arrival. Dennison sat recumbently in his chair, feet on his desk, a mere phantom
shrouded in shadows, holding a freshly lit cigar in one hand and a sheet of white parchment paper in the other. “Come on in, sit down. I've been waiting for you.”

The unregenerate old man just sat there, smiling oddly. He did not speak, but merely placed the sheet of paper down on the desk and with his wrinkled hand motioned toward a stack of invoices and ledgers sitting innocuously on the middle shelf of a three-tier mahogany book case. Murph's eyes narrowed. He could not make out what was going on inside the man's head.

“It's the paper on top,” Dennison said. “That's your copy.”

Murph dragged his feet across the floor, and pulled the top sheet off the pile. “I don't understand,” he said with a clear note of liberation in his voice. “Everyone said—”

“I know what everyone's been saying, Murph,” Dennison remarked, placing his cigar in his mouth and his feet firmly on the floor. “And don't think for a second that each and every scenario wasn't, at some point, a distinct possibility.”

Murph's eyes scanned the paper incredulously.

“Well, this is great then,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Really. I don't know what to say, Warren. Thank you. I'm stunned. Really. I certainly appreciate you giving me another shot.”

Dennison puffed vigorously on his cigar, then pulled the tiny brass chain dangling from his desk lamp. “Hold your horses there a minute, Murph,” he said soberly. “You might want to read the fine print there—the part about Mickey—before you start falling all over yourself.”

A blinding brightness fell on Murph's face, gilding the premature tears still resting on his cheek. He read the paper again, this time with a far more meticulous eye. “You mean I will only be asked back if I can get Mickey to come back too?” he asked dejectedly. “Is that what this means?”

He sat down across from Dennison and slouched over in his chair, as if being suspended by an invisible chord stretched somehow from a point in the ceiling to the center of his back. Mickey? Playing baseball again? After all that transpired last year? Hell, that was never going to happen. Murph could still recall vividly the glare of the sheriff's car lights and the exanimate body of Lefty, a crumpled heap of flesh laying quietly at the feet of Mickey, who was just rocking, his mouth opening and closing in catatonic recitation. It had all happened so fast. Murph's fortuitous discovery of the boy on a scouting trip; Mickey's precipitous rise to prominence on the baseball diamond; Lefty's betrayal and ill-fated plan to stop Mickey from pitching that last game in order to ensure the Rangers' victory.

Then there was Mickey's violent outburst after Lefty assaulted the boy's pig, followed by the arrival of Sheriff Rosco and the subsequent incarceration of Mickey for attempted murder. It was all just a kaleidoscope of misfortune, all of which the boy was ill-equipped to understand. Months later, even Murph had trouble sometimes accepting what had happened. If it had not been for the governor—who orchestrated a pardon for Mickey for all that he had done, not only for the town, but for his sickly grandson—the story would have ended right then and there.

“Are you kiddin' me, Warren?” Murph asked desperately. “You can't be serious. You remember what I told you. The kid is traumatized. Wrecked. He told me he was finished. All that stuff last year with Lefty and the sheriff? Even a kid in his right mind would be rattled. Besides, his mother would never go for it. There ain't no way he's coming back to play. No way. Hell, after what happened last year, I'm lucky they still want to live with me.”

Dennison scratched his chin and stood up, detaching himself from the transitory hold of Murph's emotional plea, and with a
scathing eloquence, proceeded to explain his position to Murph, who just looked at him with a sick stare.

“Listen, Murph. Let's be real here. You, and the entire team for that matter, are nothing without this kid. Nothing. Now you get your chestnuts out of that little lady's purse and be a man. I don't care how dim-witted he is.
He
puts fannies in the seats.
He's
the one all the papers write about.
He's
the one who somehow, some-way, does something superhuman just about every damned time he takes that mound. He's the ‘Baby Bazooka,' the darling of this city.”

Dennison raised his eyebrows expressively and smiled at Murph, rendering him more and more diminutive in his chair. He slumped gravely, his chin disappearing partially behind his shirt collar, until he all but vanished completely beneath the suffocating wave of Dennison's steely eyes and tobacco stained teeth.

“So you see, Mr. Murphy, the way I figure it, without him, the season's a bust anyhow. So I have nothing to lose by changing managers here.”

Realizing the futility of his predicament, Murph just sat, almost completely crumpled now, floundering in a squall of visible relinquishment. What the hell was he going to do now? Dennison continued pontificating, something about giving the people what they want and opening new doors, but Murph said nothing, his mind drifting in and out of hearing.
All these years
, he thought.
So many innings. So many games, each now seemingly dreamlike and purposeless. What had he become
?

When Dennison paused his diatribe just long enough to relight his cigar, Murph got up, nodded in the old man's direction, and swallowed hard. Then he turned his head and left the room, with self pity and loathing leaking from his eyes.

It rained heavily that evening, big violent drops that puddled Diamond Drive in a matter of minutes. It made Murph's trip home
all the more trying. His tires protested loudly against the wet surface, and at every bend in the road, the line of weeping willows that framed the picturesque landscape with restless hands seemed to lunge forward, driven by the intermittent gusts, closing in on him ominously through the gathering darkness.

The car came to rest quietly at the edge of the road. Out his window, clouded now by the remnants of his heavy breath, loomed his modest home. He sat for a while, listening to the rain beat against the rooftop. What on earth was he going to tell Molly?

His paralysis lasted only a short time. In the sheen of some passing headlights, he emerged from the vehicle, worn and defeated. His gait was unsteady though deliberate. As he drew closer to the door, he thought about all the times he had returned home, the house empty and dark as a grave—the only thing waiting for him an amber bottle of Irish whiskey and an empty chair. Now the tiny house was lit by the warmth of Molly. Her touch was everywhere, from the carefully sculpted flower beds in front to the white lace doilies and country curtains in every room. Even his baseball room fell victim to this most wonderful metamorphosis, with the collection of photographs, trophies and other game paraphernalia, once just a messy amalgam of keepsakes and mementos, now assembled in artful fashion. Through the damp autumn air he could see her through a window whose shade had not been lowered. God, she was beautiful. Standing there, with the rain now sideways at his face, the bitter irony gnawed at him, mocking the landscape of his past. He always had baseball, and all the energy and fulfillment that went along with playing the sport professionally. It was in his blood. But he never had a woman. There were plenty of dalliances with young girls who longed for the attention of a budding star. But there was never anything of substance—never anyone real to share it with. Now that Molly stepped into
his world, and had shown him how glorious life outside the lines could be, baseball had betrayed him, playing the part of the fickle harlot, threatening to leave him for the next diamond idol waiting in the wings.

And, it was Mickey who was the reason.

The minute he hit the door, she called to him from the kitchen. There was a fire going in the den; the heat felt good against his damp skin. He could smell the chicken and dumplings, and the apple pies cooling on the window sill.

“How'd your meeting go, Arthur?” she asked. Mickey was in the kitchen as well, slicing carrots and placing them in neat rows on a porcelain serving plate.

“Okay, I guess,” he shouted back. “I really won't know anything for a while.”

With the sound of Arthur's voice, Mickey bounded out of the kitchen. He was young, and so uncertain and fearful. When Murph looked upon the boy's simple face and saw again his unmanageable mood, and recalled the disappointment of last season, it seemed to him that he was looking not at the boy but rather a demanding, threatening creature of which he was now the victim. He fought hard against the insidious emotion.

“Hey, Murph,” the boy said, holding a plate of carrots sticks neatly aligned. “Mickey's gonna go out back and feed Duncan and Daphney. Wanna come?” For a minute, Murph resembled a statue. Mickey appeared concerned. “It's okay, Murph,” the boy continued. “There's plenty for both of us.”

“No, no, Mick,” he said, ashamed suddenly of the embittered feelings festering deep within his gut. “Not right now, thanks.”

It was half-past seven, much later than he had thought. He muttered something about his aching back as he sat down across from Molly. He wanted to tell her how nice it was to see her, and to thank
her for keeping his dinner warm, but under the weight of Dennison's ultimatum, he felt fettered and tongue-tied.

“Getting those silly rabbits to replace Oscar was a great idea,” Molly said. “It's all he talks about.”

“Yeah,” Murph replied. “He seems happy.”

“Well, they sure aren't as colorful as that damn pig, but they're a hell of a lot easier.” She paused long enough to take a sip of her tea. “What about you?” she asked, dabbing her lips with a napkin. “You look so down. Is everything okay?”

He sighed. His eyes remained fixed on a catcher's glove resting on the table just below the window. “Yeah, I'm okay. Just tired, that's all.” Molly fixed his plate and placed it before him.

“Well, you'll feel better after you eat something,” she said. “Can't understand why that man would keep you so long if he wasn't going to tell you anything.”

Murph considered her comment attentively. “I'm sure everything will be fine,” he said. “A new season has a way of healing old wounds.” He paused reflectively and looked slightly the other way. Would it be totally shameless to dupe the kid into another season? To make a promise to Molly that the boy would be okay, even though he knew he could not guarantee such a thing? He hated to take the risk, and almost swallowed the impulse, but realized that he loathed the idea of hanging up his spikes forever even more. “I think that even Mickey would find that the same is true for him. You know, a little hair of the dog, so to speak.”

Molly's eyes narrowed; it was evident that her guarded imagination had stumbled on this final aside. “Mickey's not playing this year.”

“I know. But if he were to play, I just mean that—”

“Look, Arthur, we've been through this already,” she said. “He said he does not want to play again.”

He sighed. “I know, Molly, but there's nothing to worry about anymore,” Murph explained. “All that crap is behind us. And Mickey has an entire town behind him. He really has a special gift. He hasn't even scratched the surface yet. There's so much more waiting for him out there. It would be the best medicine for him.”

Murph was on one knee now, his arms outstretched in convincing fashion. He wrinkled his nose playfully, and his eyes shone with the optimism of a crafty politician. He was charming as hell. How could she possibly say no?