Sophomore Campaign (21 page)

“Come on, Lester,” Murph pleaded. “I know it's been bad. I do. But please. Leaving? Come on, this is where you belong. You're really making believers out of some very influential baseball guys. You're gonna leave now, when you are right there? Besides, I need you.
We
need you.”

Lester's throat was thick with fear and confusion.

“It ain't so easy, Murph,” he explained. “I just ain't happy. It's too much. It is. And I ain't really doing you no favors either. Look at all the trouble I caused you too. It's best this way.

“Lester, are you kidding me?” Murph said. “Trouble? The trouble ain't your fault. You didn't cause anything. Well, except a whole bunch of victories for us. Did you forget all of that?”

“I know all that, Murph. I know. But I just can't no more. I'm sorry. I am. I just ain't comfortable no more. You don't know what
it's like. It's all I can think about. Can't eat. Can't sleep. Ain't no good to no one this way.”

Murph leaned forward, his face strained, and placed his hand on Lester's shoulder.

“Listen, it'll get better, Les. I promise. I will be talking to the sheriff, and I got some ideas about how we can help too. And, what's more important, you can't just let them win. These ignorant, bigoted bastards. If you quit now, you're giving in. That's just what they want.”

Lester grinned painfully and shook his head.

“I know you mean well and all,” he said. “But it's funny. White folks is always brave with a black man's hide. You've been great to me, really, Murph. But you don't get it. I ain't wanted here. Not enough anyway. And that's the way it is. I don't like it none either. I ain't white. And it's a white man's world. That's it. But I also ain't stupid. I know I best be going for a while—just till things die down a bit. Got a cousin who's got some room for me for a spell.”

Despite several more passionate protestations for Murph, Lester Sledge packed his bags and said his goodbyes, leaving the Brew Crew with a gaping hole in their lineup and the very palpable, very haunting feeling that their playoff chances left that day with their disillusioned catcher.

It was a devastating blow to the organization. The team suffered greatly in Lester's absence, losing a string of consecutive games, rendering them in the onerous position of having to chase their nemesis, the Rangers. They were upset, yes, and probably would have gone into the tank completely had it not been for the other distractions swirling around them.

They had bigger issues at hand. The entire Brewer family attended two very different services at St. Catherine's Roman Catholic Church within a month's time. The first was a somber occasion,
to honor the passing of their fallen comrade, Boxcar, who had lost his valiant battle with cancer just when it looked as though he was going to beat it.

Scores of Brewer faithful turned out that hazy July morning to pay tribute to one of their favorite personalities and to thank him for the many breathtaking moments he had provided for them over the years. It was a touching ceremony, with many of the worshippers, most dressed in Brewer regalia sporting Boxcar's number 15, lined up shoulder to shoulder along the sides of the church pews, while others who sought entrance to the tiny church but were thwarted by the timeliness of those before them crammed themselves into the vestibule, trying desperately to secure a spot from where they could listen as several of Boxcar's teammates eulogized their late captain. Murph spoke first, extolling Boxcar's inimitable presence on the field, and his unwavering commitment to the fight, no matter what the score.

“He was a true warrior,” Murph explained tearfully. “And the best captain a manger could ever ask for.”

Pee Wee took the podium next, followed by Danvers, Finster, and Gabby Hooper.

Each man recalled anecdotally the marvelous duality that Raymond “Boxcar” Miller possessed—“priest and parole officer” Hooper mused—and the indelible influence he had had on all of their lives, both on and off the diamond. Their heartfelt reminiscences stretched the emotional boundaries of those listening that day, bringing them to tears one minute and making them laugh out loud the very next.

The most poignant words, however, belonged to Mickey, who read with a slight nausea and the unsteady inflection of a wounded animal a simple tribute to his teammate.

“Boxcar were my friend,” he began, pausing to wipe his welling
eyes. “Mickey liked Boxcar. He taught me how to—how to—how to do things, like throw a curveball and how to put my stirrups on so they don't fall down during the game. Mickey liked Boxcar. And Boxcar liked me too.”

He paused before saying his final words.

“Boxcar is catching in heaven now.”

The second gathering was just as serious but far more festive, a celebration of the long awaited union of Arthur Murphy and his new bride, the lovely Molly Tussler. A happier couple this world has yet to see. They descended the church steps arm in arm under a cloudless evening sky tinged here and there with a rosy hue, their smiles as wide and hopeful as the brilliant horizon, and proceeded to promenade, with hunched shoulders and lowered heads, through a makeshift canopy of Louisville Sluggers fashioned from the steady and dutiful arms of the entire Brewer team, thirteen on each side. It was a glorious day, and a welcome respite from the daily grind of baseball life. It was also wonderful seeing Lester again. Murph was so pleased, as were most of the guys, that his former catcher had accepted the invitation and was willing to, at least for the day, set everything else aside.

“Hey, now ain't you a sight for sore eyes?” Murph gushed, wrapping his arms around Lester the moment he saw him. “Christ, we have really missed you.”

Lester nodded and smiled.

“Yeah, I miss you guys too.”

“So how are you, Les?” Murph continued. “Things okay?”

“Yeah, things are okay I guess. You know how it is. How ‘bout you?”

Murph cringed. For a man just married, he was certainly out of sorts. His words had recently become more and more candid, free from the safety of the trash can dreams that had suddenly yielded to
the painful recognition that things were not as he had hoped they would be.

“Well, I'd like to say the same,” he lamented, “but I can't. It's been brutal. Absolutely brutal. What can I say? The newspapers don't lie.”

Murph took Lester aside and proceeded to chronicle the misery that had attenuated the last few games his beleaguered team had played. There was the anemic effort against the Sidewinders, where fifteen Brewers K'd, resulting in a shameful 12–0 drubbing. That lackluster effort was followed by a heartbreaking defeat at the hands of the Mudcats. Leading by one run in the bottom of the ninth, and with runners on second and third and just one more out to secure, Hooper fanned the last Mudcat on a wicked slider. The ball bounced in the dirt and careened off an inexperienced Hobey Baker's shin guards. The opportunistic batter took off for first just as the nervous catcher re-grouped, picking up the ball and cocking hid arm in the direction of the intended out. It all appeared harmless—just another routine 2–3 put out. But, despite having plenty of time to complete the play, Baker sailed the ball over Finster's head. The ball skipped off the outfield grass and rolled elusively into the right field corner, allowing both the tying and winning run to score. That contest was followed by a pitiful performance against the Spartans, in a game that saw the home town Brew Crew squander a 12–1 lead, punctuated by back-to-back-to-back homeruns in the visitors half of the eighth inning. The Brewers were certainly reeling, but they had yet to hit bottom. That came the very next night, against none other than McNally's Rangers. They had actually played a fairly crisp game, with the pitching and defense coming together to hold a potent Ranger attack to just three runs. The problem, though, was that the Brewers had left thirteen men on base and only managed to score three
runs themselves, something that came back to bite them in the last inning.

With one out in the Rangers' half of the ninth, and Blaine Richardson on second and Kiki Delaney on first, Bart Williams hit a tailor-made double play ball to Pee Wee, who scooped up the one hopper and shovel a perfect feed to Arky Fries at the bag. Fries handled the exchange cleanly, but the ball got stuck momentarily in the webbing of his glove, delaying the relay long enough to allow Delaney the chance to come in with spikes flying.

“So what happened?” Lester asked. “No double play?”

“It was much worse than that,” Murph replied. He continued to explain how Fries, with the ball still in his glove, pounced on Delaney, wrestling him to the ground with an explosion of fury and frustration that had never been seen before.

“No way,” Lester mused. “No way. Are you telling me that McGinty took it to Delaney?”

“Oh yeah,” Murph said. “He beat him good too. Only problem was that while McGinty was getting his rocks off, the winning run came around to score.”

Some days passed. Murph found himself utterly depressed about his team's performance. He was equally plagued by the growing difficulty with Mickey's unusual behavior and the situation with Lester. It was driving him mad. He had embraced the attitude of a fledgling boxer measuring his opponent in the early rounds, determined to strike the face of the problem but uncertain as to how to proceed.

“I just can't put my finger on it,” he complained to Matheson after entering the latest set of stats into his wire recorder. “I smell a rat here. Things just do not add up, but I'll be damned if I know what I can do about it.”

He folded his hands tightly and placed them on his desk. Matheson, who had been looking through some old team photos and prattling on about the good old days, stopped his maudlin jaunt and sat down in from of his beleaguered manager.

“You smell a rat you say?” the old man grumbled. “I know rats. Been 'round 'em my whole life. Rats is easy. With rats—and I know this from experience, Murph—there's only one thing you
can
do.”

The sententious geyser crossed his arms and leaned back in his chair.

“I always found that if you want to catch a rat, you need a rat trap—something foul, and mighty stinky.”

Murph jotted a note to himself, smiled oddly, then came back at Matheson once again. “Okay Farls, now what about Baker? Do we go with him again? He's killing us back there.”

The old man shrugged. “I reckon I don't know.”

“Well, I'm open to any ideas you may have. What do you think?”

“What choice do we have, Murph? I mean Jesus. It ain't like we have anybody else.”

Murph paused, as if he were about to reveal another approach, when from the open doorway came another voice, calm and unexpected, stealing the moment.

“Maybe I could help. I mean, it's been a little while, but I have done a little catching before.”

Murph's eyes widened. At first he couldn't believe it. It wasn't until he heard the voice a second time and saw the bag on the floor in front of him that he let himself go. He looked at him motionlessly, staring into the light pouring in through the office door behind the welcome figure. Those massive hands. That bulging chest and passionate eyes.

“Well if that don't beat all,” Murph finally said, grinning from
ear to ear. “Now how long have you been standing out there, Mr. Sledge?”

Lester smiled, a big toothy smile, pulled his cap from his trouser pocket and placed it on his head.

“Long enough,” he said. Murph shook his head, folded his arms and chuckled.

“So what brings you back, Les?” he asked. “Come to see the wedding photos?”

Lester just stood, much less animated now, as if he were being pulled back and forth across an invisible line in a tug of war.

“Naw, ain't much for that sort of thing now,” he said, looking around sheepishly. “But, I have been thinking about what you said the other day. Made old Lester feel a little guilty about leaving. So, if I still have a place here, I think that maybe I will give things another try.”

The next morning, with his thoughts swirling like flakes of snow in the first minutes of a blizzard, Murph phoned Sheriff Rosco and requested that he bring his car by the house three hours before the start of the game against the Senators. Lester was beside him when he hung up the phone, and followed him to the kitchen table where the two men sat uneasily for a while, sipping coffee and exchanging thoughts in hushed tones until they parted ways for the moment.

The day wore on in its usual fashion, with Murph embroiled in his pre-game ritual of line-up permeations, Lester reading his bible in the sitting room, and Mickey out back with Molly where together, they tended to the rabbit cages. Around 2:45 that afternoon, just as Murph and Lester sat down to discuss game plans, they heard the sound of tires on gravel just outside the kitchen window. Rosco was a little early.

“So what's this all about?” he asked, pushing his ten-gallon hat up off his brow with one finger. “Ain't nobody hurt I hope.”

He was looking down curiously at the floor, at the two dusty bags of catcher's equipment propped against Lester's leg.

“No, Rosco, no one's hurt,” Murph replied. “But I was thinking that you might be able to help us keep it that way.”

“I'm not sure I follow, Arthur.”

“Look, you know what's been going on with Lester, Rosco. It ain't no secret. Hell, I've called you at least a half dozen times myself over the last two months. But it's like you said. It's almost impossible to get to the bottom of it. Right? I mean, it's not like anyone is coming forward with any information.”

“I still don't know what you're getting at, Murph,” Rosco repeated, wrinkling his nose.

“Well, we think that maybe someone's going to try to hurt Lester again. Especially since he's back and all. Could be worse this time. I'm thinking it could happen today, on the way to the game. So, I—uh, we—were hoping that you would do us the service of driving Lester to the field. In your car. I'll follow behind, with Mickey. It's just a precaution. That's all.”