Sophomore Campaign (4 page)

His heart beat like a heavy church bell. A strange light thrown from the street lamps painted both their faces a peculiar green. Murph's lips, chalked now with the residue of fear and finality, kept any other words from escaping his mouth. Maybe this was a mistake. Maybe Molly was the one he should be talking to. Was he really ready to just acquiesce—to wave the white flag? And what about Woody? Even if he managed to get the words out, would Woody even care? He sighed heavily, then plunged his hands in his pockets and tried to appear unaffected by the galling indecision.

“I'm—I'm awfully sorry,” he said, his eyes grey under the shadow of his furrowed brow. “But I'm afraid I will not be coming back next year, Woody.”

Woody's jaw dropped. “Not coming back?” he repeated. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“Just what I said,” Murph explained. “Seems that Dennison only sees my value to this team in terms of what—uh, who—I can bring along with me.” He raised his eyebrows and looked past Woody's twisted visage and over his shoulder in the direction of Mickey, who stood impatiently behind a line of others all waiting to try their luck at the Milk Bottle Toss.

“Are you kiddin' me, Murph?” Woody complained. “Is that what he told you?”

Murph shrugged his shoulders and frowned.

“What a dirty son of a bitch. That stupid mother—”

“Hey, don't go getting yourself all crazy now, Woody,” Murph warned. “That's not why I told you. It is what it is. Mickey's not playing. I tried. Nothing more I can do. I'm not happy about it, but that's it. It was a good run, but that's it.” He tilted his head to the side, his lips retracting just enough to reveal a row of teeth that formed a bitter parody of a smile. “It's fine, Woody. Really. I just needed to tell someone, that's all.”

Woody prattled on about a team meeting with Dennison and how all of them should force the cantankerous owner to do the right thing, but Murph only half listened. None of it mattered. From where he stood, it was simple. No Mickey, no Murph.

Under that same black sky, now big and bright with the sudden awakening of winking stars, Mickey stepped to the front of the blue and white canopied booth, picked up one of the hard rubber balls and rolled it in his hand. It felt good, like a jaunty drive through a familiar neighborhood. He smiled. His eyes darted wildly from side
to side, his entire body tingling, jolted to life by currents of memory. He placed the hand with the ball firmly in the other, rolled his arms, wound and fired, scattering the display of bottles as if they had been struck by a missile. The tiny crowd of onlookers erupted in applause. Mickey smiled again, as if he knew how extraordinary the blow appeared to the crowd, then picked up another ball and proceeded to dismantle the next pyramid of bottles, sending the burgeoning throng that had formed around the boy into bristling vibrations of animation and awe.

“Do it again, son,” one of the men in the crowd pleaded. “Please.” The captivated stranger placed a quarter on the counter and rubbed his hands together furiously. Mickey looked at him with quizzical silence, then noticed the dirt under the man's fingernails. He shot up both eye brows and wrinkled his nose.

“You a farmer?” Mickey asked.

“How's that?” the man replied.

“Mickey grew up on a farm. Back in Indiana. Had me a big ole pig named Oscar. He were mine.”

Immediately, there came from the man a look of impatient bewilderment. “I ain't no farmer son,” he said. “I build houses. You know, with wood, nails. All that stuff. But pay me no mind now. I just want to see you knock them bottles over again. What do ya say?”

Mickey's eyes tightened and became fixed and intent in their gaze, a penetrating stare that narrowed in once again on the man's fingernails.

“Mickey will do it,” he said smiling. “Then I will show you Oscar. I got a picture of him. In my pocket.”

Mickey's elation rose precipitously as the sudden attention and adulation stirred in him feelings of joyful days now gone. He sighed nervously. He thought he heard the fain't echo of stamping feet and his name being screamed by the masses in rhythmic time.
Standing now behind a mask of momentary aplomb, the boy seemed to flourish beneath the starlight. He licked his lips and looked forward, like a hunter eyeing his prey. Then he rolled his arms and began firing the rubber balls, one after another. He was perfect every time. Each ball that whizzed through the air, obliterating another pyramid of bottles, was like the song of Hera's sirens—made the passers-by not only stop talking but slow down, pause, and ultimately join in the spectacle unfolding before them. With a swarm of onlookers now fully mesmerized, Mickey continued to do the impossible. Each one of his tosses found its mark, punctuating the crisp night air with the inimitable sound of clinking bottles, followed by a chorus of raucous cheers and wild applause. Waves of excitement eddied through the crowd, bathing each spectator in the warm exhilaration of improbable vision. They “ooohed” and “aaahed” riotously as Mickey, in the light of his skillful display, slowly ascended the ladder of commentary to heights of folk hero status. “Unbelievable,” they just kept repeating. “Truly amazing. Who is this kid, anyway?” And then it happened. Out of the bristling throng of flickering eyes came a voice, small but certain. It came quickly, and with excitement and impatience, its owner's eyes fixed upon the scene in front of him.

“Hey, I know him, Daddy,” the little boy declared. “I know him. I do. I do. That's Mickey. Mickey. You know, the Baby Bazooka, from the Brew Crew!”

In the dimly lit darkness, the boy's words filtered through the crowd, gaining momentum with each pair of lips that repeated the startling revelation until all at once the entire group was ensconced in a frenetic buzzing that vibrated underneath the diamond-dotted sky for several minutes before finally erupting into a rowdy incantation.

“Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!”

Murph and Woody, still engaged in their heartfelt exchange,
heard the commotion and, together with Molly, ran to the scene with dire concern. By this time, the bodies lined up to see the spectacle had formed an impenetrable wall against which the three were powerless.

“Do something, Arthur,” Molly pleaded. “Do something. I don't want him there by himself.”

Murph went one way, Woody the other. Each jockeyed from side to side, trying to negotiate the obstreperous mob. Once or twice Murph thought he had found a fissure in the mass, an entry point through which he could squeeze, only to be thwarted by another also seeking a closer look. Frustrated and out of patience, he tapped on one of the shoulders in front of him.

“What's going on?” he asked impatietly. The man held his hand to his ear and shrugged with noticeable irritation.

“I said, what's going on?” Murph repeated louder.

“Some kid's putting on a real show,” the man replied loudly over the deafening mantra. He craned his neck to get a better view. “It's really something.”

“Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!”

As the rhythmic chanting rose to a crescendo, Mickey's face assumed an expression of blissful retrospection which would have exploded into a full-scale smile instantly had it not been frozen momentarily by utter amazement. The young star of the fair sparkled with this new sense of energy and activity that had seized his complacent heart, reveling in the landslide of handshakes and affectionate pats on the back spilling from the crowd.

“Good to see you, Mick,” one of the admirers said, gushing with heartfelt affection and enthusiasm. “Can't wait to see you and the rest of the Brew Crew out there again this spring.” Mickey smiled and exhaled deeply, liberated by a feeling of fulfillment that surprised as much as buoyed him.

“Baseball in the spring,” Mickey said. “Yeah, baseball.”

Murph arrived at the front of the crowd just in time to witness the exchange. All the life in his body was now in his eyes—two glinting stars that lit up his face, incinerating the melancholy mask he had worn for so many days. Sure, nothing had changed really. Molly had yet to withdraw her definitive proclamation about her son's immediate future. But the hope that Murph now felt became indissoluble. He knew the look on Mickey's face. Recognized it right away. It was baseball fever. Once the germ got in your blood, there was no antidote—no way to arrest the rushing tide of electricity spawn by the feel of cowhide and lathed white ash or the smell of grass or the sound of legions of worshippers bellowing your name in tribal recitation. Yes, Murph knew the look, and the doubtless ruminations behind it. Baseball fever. It was a wonderful affliction. That night, under a winking moon many miles away, Mickey turned and fired his final ball to the delight of the crowd while Murph smiled, took a deep breath of crisp air, and nodded confidently in Woody's direction.

The eager sun stretched and yawned before giving itself over completely to the beckoning earth, dropping yellow ribbons of warmth that fell from the sky like heavenly breaths, rousing everything in their wake. The grass at Borchert Field, tiny soft shoots that had slipped quietly out of the awakening ground, winked now with knowing approval and danced gaily in the temperate breeze. All around, the distant song of yawning birds and the sweet redolence of lilac and wisteria thrilled the air and settled gently across the pristine diamond, bathing the ballpark in warming splashes of familiar brilliance.

The players felt it too. It had been a long, cold, lonely winter. They arrived that morning with swollen bags and impatient hearts, like orphan sons, returned at last to their mother. This was home. The ballpark. The one place in the world that mattered. The one place in the world that did not morph in the tumult of the universe. It was safe, predictable. Each smiled as he stepped onto the field and filled his lungs with the seasonal sweetness, stirring in each of them the latent mysticism that flagged all of their hearts and ushering them back to life.

Yes, life was beginning, all over again; it was baseball season.

“He's only playing as long as
he
wants to, Arthur,” Molly said, trailing behind both Murph and Mickey as they made their way to the locker room. “We have an agreement, understand? I still do not like this. Not one bit. And I swear to God, if he is unhappy, and you do not tell me about it, I'll—”

Murph could barely hear her over the galloping of his heart. “Yeah, Molly. Sure. Absolutely. I told you. Whatever he wants. For sure.”

Life for Murph was starting all over again as well. And not just his existence as baseball manager, which had all but been extinguished with the belief that Mickey was going to hang up his spikes for good. It was Molly too. They had only talked briefly about making their union formal once she was free legally from Clarence. Of starting over again, fresh. They both agreed they'd have to wait. That they would just take it slow—one day at a time. But the night they consummated their relationship, everything changed.

He had taken her in his arms, under a moon that was slowly sinking into insignificance, and felt the warmth beneath her clothes. She was still a married woman, and had no real right even being there, with him, but she needed him as badly, as he did her. They both knew it.

The kiss was awkward at first, the two of them fumbling blindly with a passion both mastering and uncharted. “Let's go inside,” she said, drawing a gasping breath. Murph could only stare at her, paralyzed by the startling emotion behind her words.

Afterward, they lay there together, their legs intertwined, heads resting up against each other. Although Murph's stomach growled, he felt full, as if all that he would ever need had already been provided. With his eyes closed, he listened to Molly's breathing and delighted in the warmth of her soft skin. Once or twice the harmony was disrupted by Molly fidgeting in the sheets.

“Is everything okay?” he asked her.

She drew in a deep breath of air and propped herself up on one elbow, sliding the pillow underneath for support. “You ever think about the future, Arthur?” she asked.

He locked his hands behind his head and cleared his throat. “Are you kidding? That's
all
I do. That's all any baseball man ever does. But it's a tough nut to crack because there are no guarantees in this business.”

“Is that it?” she replied.

He turned on his side and looked in her eyes, soft and fading. “What do you mean?” he asked. “Is what it?”

She ran her hand along the sheets until it found his. Gently, she slid her fingers, one by one, in the spaces in between his, and squeezed tightly.

“Well, what about us? Do you ever think about us? You know, what we're doing? Where you think this whole thing is heading?”

Murph licked his lips as if about to speak but said nothing.

“Because I have to tell you, Arthur,” she continued. “I do love you. But I cannot—will not—ever again be held prisoner by another man.”

He looked at her quizzically. “Where is all of this coming from?” he said. “I mean, didn't we talk about all this? About getting married once all this mess with Clarence is finished?”

“Yeah, well—”

“Well, isn't that enough? I love you, Molly. That's all. I don't want to control you, like he did. That's crazy. That's not who I am at all. Why would you say that?”

She frowned, having failed miserably at what she was trying to say. She loved and admired and truly respected him, unconditionally. She felt as though, from the very first moment she met him,
that she saw inside his soul and discovered that it was pure, filled with truth and decency.

“It's not that, Arthur. I know that's not what you are about. It's just—well, take this whole thing with Mickey. I told you I did not want him playing again. His world is a lot different from yours. He might be able to throw a baseball through a wall, but all the rest of it is beyond him.”