Sophomore Campaign (23 page)

“Oh no, you're kidding,” Molly said, her hands flush to her cheeks. “He must have been dying. Then what happened?”

Murph, now fully immersed in the reminiscence, could barely get the words out he was laughing so hard.

“Whitey, he sees me go down, and he lets out a shriek that could have woke the dead. Then he jumps out of the water and starts running, buck naked, out to the road, waving his arms and screaming for help. Must have been there a good five minutes before me and Buck come up behind him and finally let him off.”

“That
is
funny,” she said laughing. “But there's one thing I don't understand. Didn't Eva know it wasn't her father? Why didn't she tell Whitey?”

“That's the beauty of the story,” Murph explained. “She knew all the time. Not only was she beautiful and spirited, she also had a great sense of humor.”

Molly's cheerful laughter dimmed and gave way to more meaningful discourse.

“I'm learning an awful lot about you lately, Arthur Murphy,” she said.

“Is that right? You think you know me now, do ya?” “No, not totally. But I have learned some other things about your past, Arthur,” she said smiling.

“Yeah? And how's that?”

“Farley told me. He sure knows a lot about you.”

“Aw, you can't believe everything that old geezer says,” Murph said. “He ain't all there.” She understood that Murph was private
about a lot of his past, but she felt as though she wanted to know him better—to see him for what he used to be as well as what he was now.

“Well, he told me that they used to call you the next Ty Cobb,” she said. “That's certainly very exciting.” She batted her lashes and nuzzled his neck.

“Is that all he said?” he asked.

“Well, that, and that Chip McNally was the one who caused your injury.”

Murph wiggled uncomfortably. Molly lifted her head off his shoulder.

“Come on, Arthur. Don't get all crazy now. It's okay. Don't be angry or anything. I'm glad he told me. I thought McNally was just a jerk. And that's why you hate him. Now all this bad blood with the Rangers makes sense to me.”

Murph ran his finger methodically across the side of his sweating glass, drawing tiny circles in the condensation.

“I don't talk about that anymore,” Murph said. “At least I haven't. It's a part of my life that I have been trying to forget. That's why losing the pennant to that bastard on the very last day of the season last year—especially without Mickey—was such a tough nut to swallow.”

“What about this year? I mean, does it still matter as much?”

“Sure it matters. It always matters, Molly. And we're only five games behind. I know, in my heart, that we can right the ship if we can just settle this whole thing with Lester.” Molly's eyes flickered in the bright afternoon light.

“And are you going to tell me what is happening with that Arthur?” she asked frowning. “I
would
like to know what is going on here.”

“You know what I told you, Molly. I'd rather keep you out of it
as long as possible. For your own safety. All you need to know right now is that Sheriff Rosco will be helping us put this thing to rest the day after tomorrow. Once it's all over, I'll tell you everything.”

It was not the answer she wanted, but she let the issue go, taking his hand in hers while directing the conversation elsewhere, to a place that had them laughing and smiling once again.

The evenings they spent together were even better. When nightfall would deepen and extend its grip across the landscape, they would stroll through the valley of shadows, hand in hand, swinging their arms rhythmically without saying a word. They walked as if one, guided by the sheen of the glinting stars swimming atop the distant conifers, a dreamy jaunt through the grassy enclaves where patches of pink and blue wildflowers glowed ceremoniously beneath an electric moon. Molly was a long way from the austere routine of Clarence and Tussler farm. There were many times she felt breathless, like her happiness was all just a dream, a fleeting ecstasy waiting to be spoiled by the light of waking. It made her hold on to him even tighter. And Murph—he finally knew what it felt like to really love a woman. To tingle with this strange but rapturous energy that had enveloped him, filled his heart until this molten desire spilled over into all his thoughts, even the unconscious ones, leaving him breathless as well. This communion was bigger than either of them.

Everything was right. Mickey was feeling better too. Just the mention by Murph that the whole ordeal with Lester would be over the next day had him back on the mound and in the zone. He disposed of the first three Cub batters with just nine pitches, fanning each one on blistering fastballs that popped Lester's glove like it had before.

Mickey's Minions were out in full force again, energized by their hero's return to form. They had come to the park prepared to
witness something special, and celebrated their portentous vision with the hanging of three stuffed bears from a railing just below their seats. Pee Wee laughed as he stepped to the plate to leadoff the home half of the first, pausing long enough for the last bear to be hung in place.

“Your fans really know how to celebrate, McGinty,” the umpire muttered from behind his mask. “Ain't never seen anything like it.”

Pee Wee tapped his cleats with his bat and winked.

“Yeah. They're something alright. I just hope they brought enough of those things.”

The Brewers, in typical fashion, fed off the energy created by Mickey's domination. Pee Wee roped a single up the middle on the first pitch he saw. Then, with the count 2–1, Arky Fries shortened up and executed a perfect hit and run, slapping the ball through the vacated area on the right side of the infield, sending Pee Wee all the way around to third. The Cubs pitcher squatted on the mound and hung his head. He hadn't even broken a sweat and the Brewers were already threatening.

Danvers was next. He had cooled off considerably after his torrid start, going just 9 for his last 44, but he had a few good at bats of late and was showing signs of breaking out of his prolonged slump. He stepped to the plate brimming with optimism, savoring the unenviable predicament the Cubs hurler had created for himself.
He is going to come right after me
, Danvers thought to himself. Probably try to induce a ground ball with breaking stuff and get out of the inning with minimal damage. It was this part of the game he loved most. The cat and mouse. Every situation was fraught with so many different scenarios. Only the very best hitters stayed one step ahead. With that thought in mind, the wily Danvers inched forward in the batter's box, hoping to catch the hook before it had time to break away from him.

As the ball approached the hitting zone, Danver's eyes lit up like a child's on Christmas morning. There it was, just as he thought. Curveball. A flat delivery that sort of spun harmlessly as it came closer and closer. Helicopters they called them. Cripple pitches. They were made to order. The only danger was being too eager. Lunging at the inviting offering before it was time. Then you get
yourself
out, and curse your impetuousness all the way back to the dugout. Danvers knew all that. Knew just how to keep his hands back long enough, even when his front foot was restless and his weight shifted prematurely, so that he could still drive the ball with authority somewhere.

So Danvers, as if following some preordained script, did just that. His foot came down hard as his body strained toward the ball, but his hands remained locked and loaded, firing through the hitting zone just as the spinning sphere danced across the plate. Danvers hit it on the screws, and sent a frozen rope into the left center-field gap, scoring both runners. By the time the ball was corralled and thrown back into the infield, Danvers was all smiles, celebrating on the third base bag with a stand-up triple.

The hits kept coming. Lester followed Danvers' triple with a long homerun to left, Clem Finster, Jimmy Llamas, Buck Faber and Dutch McBride all singled consecutively, and Amos Ruffings, who had not hit a round tripper in more than a month, highlighted the barrage with a long, arching big fly that cleared the centerfield fence with plenty of room to spare. The Brew Crew had batted around en route to the most prolific inning in their history; by the time all was said and done, they had hammered out 18 hits and plated 17 runs.

Mickey returned to the mound some forty-five minutes later as sharp as he was when he left. He set down the Cubs one, two, three again, notching three more strikeouts and sending an already intoxicated crowd into a dizzying state of delirium.

“When was the last time you saw this place like this?” Matheson said, flashing a toothless smile. “I told ya. Grab the bull by the onions, and everything else falls in place.”

“Yup, sure is nice,” Murph replied. “Smells a little like pennant fever.”

The Brewers' bats cooled off as the game went on, tallying just five more hits over the next seven innings. With a 17-run lead, and Mickey mowing down the opposition, there was no urgency in the Brewer dugout. Even the crowd was eager for their hometown heroes to make quick work of their at bats, for they were now fully enraptured with Mickey's assault on the Cub hitters. He had never looked so dominating.

By the top of the seventh, Mickey had already matched the team record for strikeouts in a game—16, previously held by Wyatt Thorton. The Brewer die hards were well aware of the history in the making and were loving every second of it. They were on their feet, chanting and cheering and of course, hanging stuffed bears, one after the other, fully immersed in the rapture of the moment until they discovered, to their horror and disappointment, that they were fresh out.

“Not to worry,” the leader of the fanatical group proclaimed, holding up a few brown paper bags and a piece of charcoal he requisitioned from the barbeque pit.

“We will just have to draw our own.”

As the sun crossed the sky over Borchert Field in usual fashion, Mickey kept rolling. Despite an infield dribbler that died just before it reached the bare hand of Woody Danvers, breaking up the no-hit bid, the boy remained undaunted. He fanned five more Cubbies to finish with an incomprehensible 21 strikeouts, obliterating the old mark while giving the hometown crowd the thrill of a lifetime and visions of a late season run at the pennant. With just five games to make up in six weeks, things were certainly looking up.

Chip McNally was not as enthused. He saw the steady approach of Murph and the surging Brewers as though he were viewing it from the rear view mirror of his car. His eyes were fixed on the road which lay before him, but every so often he would sneak furtive glances at a newspaper or linger briefly around a radio while the sports report was being given, only to turn his attention once again to that which lay immediately in front of him. Today, that was a meeting with Sheriff John Rosco.

“One hand washes the other, remember, John?” he asked.

The sheriff tapped his foot impatiently.

“Enough with the games, Chip. What's the problem?”

“The problem is that black boy and the rest of Arthur Murphy's crew. I'm getting some heat from upstairs. I was hoping that you could help me with that. You did say you were going to help me, right?”

Rosco stood uneasily outside McNally's house, staring at the broken wood fence that circled the property and the pile of pickets propped up here and there against the tangle of weeds just below.

“I'm sorry, Chip, but I done my best. Situation is what it is. It ain't as easy as we thought. My hands are tied.”

“Your hands are tied? Since when? You run everything 'round here. How can your hands be tied?”

“Look, Chip, I've been thinking. Who am I to stop this kid from playing? Maybe we all over-reacted about this. Besides, I'm feeling mighty bad about taking favors from you in exchange for all this nonsense. Ain't right. And I aim to fix it.”

McNally could almost see the dark shadow fall across Rosco's face. Blood flared up inside the desperate manager. He stood now, in a fit of bubbling rage, showing his teeth.

“John Rosco? A sudden attack of morality? Please. Who the hell are you kidding anyway? You, of all people! You feel bad about
something? Please. You are one of the dirtiest bastards around here. Don't hand me your crap. I know you, John Rosco. Don't you forget that. I know a lot about you.”

Rosco's eyes continued to roam, traveling now to the tiny dirt road that led from the unhinged gate in front of the property through the row of Sycamores, to the barn and silo out back.

“So you know me, Chip,” he said, his gaze still off in the distance. “Okay. You know me. What's that supposed to mean?”

“That means you need to help me. Now. Now John. You promised me. We had a deal”

“Just leave it be for now, Chip. Leave it alone. Let it lie. I got you covered. I'm gonna need time. That's all I can say.”

Meanwhile, the Brewers' juggernaut continued to roll. They won another game the following night. It was another convincing victory that had everyone thinking about the post-season. After the impressive display, Dennison summoned Murph to his office.

“Well, that was quite a performance tonight, Mr. Murphy,” Dennison said, his face shrouded behind a viscous cloud of cigar smoke. “Quite a performance indeed.”

“Thank you, sir,” Murph said uncomfortably. “I think we are finally on our way.”

Warren Dennison was pale, more so than usual. When the smoke cleared, Murph noticed a row of tiny beads of perspiration that had settled just above his tightened lip. Despite the amiable salutation just moments before, Dennison seemed disturbed, his mind pregnant with an unavailing agitation.

“Well now, one victory surely does not a season make,” he went on, tapping the colorless ashes on the end of his cigar into a glass tray. “And I am still very unhappy, Arthur, with all of this black/white crap. You said it would go away. You said that everyone would—how did you put it—‘get used to the idea of a black man
playing for us.' Isn't that what you said? Huh? Well, it's damn near the end of the season, and it ain't no better now, is it?” The surly owner shook his head and made a clicking noise with his tongue. “I don't think I can have this anymore, Mr. Murphy. I am out of patience.”