Sophomore Campaign (6 page)

“That's 329 feet away, guys,” Winkler gasped. “On a line.”

The others shook their heads. As the display continued to unfold, they all became increasingly preoccupied. There was talk about calculating velocity and power and all kinds of wild speculation about just how far his arm could reach. Someone even whispered the name Superman.

“Hell, I thought it was crazy last year,” Sanders said. “But this? I'll be damned if this don't beat all.”

Mickey continued firing baseballs, one after the other, and each followed the same path, seemingly wedded to the same destination. The befuddled pitchers just stood and watched, pale-faced and open-mouthed, with a wild stare that slid away only after Mickey had hurled the final ball. They tried to bring what had just transpired into some definite relation to themselves and ended up frustrated and noticeably envious but mostly just dumbstruck by the boy's raw ability. Hooper was the only one who could manage to break the silence.

“Unbelievable,” he mumbled. “Un-friggin'-believable.”

Murph, who had just stepped onto the field to hit fungos to some of the outfielders who had followed him out, was rattled by a discovery of his own—one that crept up on him eerily before fanning out across the entire ballpark like a storm cloud. It was Boxcar.

The team captain walked slowly, deliberately, a dwindling figure
moving languidly in Murph's direction, half extinguished by the rise in temperature, or worry, or perhaps something far more formidable.

“Holy Hannah, Boxcar,” Murph gasped once the catcher was close enough to receive the words. “What the hell happened to you? Where the hell is the rest of you?”

He was almost ghostlike in his appearance, his once burly frame reduced now shockingly to a skeletal form that swam awkwardly in his uniform. His face was wan and faded. In his eyes, which were sunk deep now in the dark folds of his lids, was a look of grim determination struggling against an unforeseen peril.

“Sorry I'm late, Murph,” he said, his eyes far away from what he was saying. “Let's play ball.”

Murph, along with several others who had trotted over once Boxcar had arrived, looked at him with alarm. Something was very wrong.

“Wait a minute here, Box,” Murph said. “Just slow down a minute. What the hell is going on with you? Look at yourself. You look awful.”

“Ah, I just got a bug or something, that's all. Ain't been feeling too good the last few weeks.”

“Did you go see a doctor?”

Boxcar scoffed and thumped his chest with his fist. “Doctor? What the hell for? What do they know? It'll pass, same way it came, and I'll be good as new. I'm fine. Really. So quit your gawking. All of you.”

A veil of sobriety fell over them as they listened to Boxcar plead his case, their hopes rising and falling like skittish birds balancing on a tree limb. It was all too much. This was their captain. The last bastion of vitality and unadulterated strength. The rudder of their ship. How could this be the same guy? Their thoughts were killing them. A big part of each of them just wanted to run, to dismiss what had now become so painfully evident. A small part of each of them was already in flight.

“I mean it. Enough with it,” he demanded, nostrils flared, his tongue passing recklessly over chapped lips. “Why do you keep looking at me like that? Let's get to work. I don't know what the hell is wrong with all of you. Standing around like a bunch of cackling old hens.
What's wrong, Boxcar? Why are you so skinny, Boxcar? Go to the doctor, Boxcar.
Blah, blah, blah. Holy Christ. Enough with it. Okay? I can't understand you guys. Behaving like a bunch of wash women. Jesus Christ. Did everyone forget why we're here? Don't we have a season to prepare for?”

The early morning sunlight spilled across the countryside and dripped gently over Murph's tiny house like golden honey over the side of a glass jar. Murph and Molly sat across from each other, sipping coffee and picking at the banana bread she had made the night before.

“Well, you've been awfully quiet lately,” Molly said, playing with the frayed ends of her napkin. “How's everything going?”

“Okay, I guess,” he replied. “Most of the rust is off. Guys are hitting and throwing pretty well.”

“So what's the long face about? It sounds pretty good to me.”

Murph held her off momentarily with a quizzical look that was neither hard nor inviting. He really did not intend to discuss team matters at home. ‘Don't crap where you eat' he heard Matheson telling him. He was pretty sure it applied. It was one of the few times the old coot made sense. He was quite certain the comment would just pass, and that he could successfully move the conversation in another direction. But when he felt, all at once, a certain current being turned on somewhere deep within, he could no longer be silent.

“It's Boxcar. Something just ain't right. You should see him.
Looks like a damned corpse. All skin and bones. And he's been dragging himself around the field like every step may be his last. It's a real problem. I can't seem to stop thinking about it.”

Molly took his hand and held it to her cheek. Then she smiled.

“I'm sorry, honey. That's awful. But I think maybe I can help you take your mind of that.” She darted out of the room, and returned shortly after, with a fairly sizeable box wrapped neatly in brown paper. Her eyes glowed with excitement.

“Seeing it's your birthday and all next week, I suppose you can have this now.” She handed him the package. He tugged at the wrapping methodically, then slit the sides of the box with his pocket knife. The longer he spent, the more intrigued he became, until finally, after all the wrapping was gone and the box top removed, he began rifling through the packaging materials inside until he saw it. “Molly, you gotta be kidding me. How did you—”

“Do you like it? I know how you are always losing your notes after the game. And let's face it. Your handwriting isn't getting any better. Now you can just speak your ideas into the machine and it will all be recorded for you. Right there.”

Murph shook his head. She had touched him in a place few had ever found. “This is really swell, Molly. Really. But you shouldn't have done this. God. Imagine me. Arthur Murphy. Country boy from the sticks of Wisconsin. The proud owner of a portable wire recorder. Amazing, but I still don't get it. These things are expensive. How on earth did you afford it?”

Her eyebrows danced playfully atop her forehead and she giggled. “Compliments of Clarence Tussler. I received the first part of my settlement a couple of weeks ago. And I wanted to say thank you. For all you've done.”

He walked over to her and kissed her lips softly. “You're the best, Molly. Really.” He sighed as the euphoria of the moment yielded
once again to the grim reality of the situation with Boxcar. “Now, can you fix my catcher situation?”

She laughed at first, until more sober thoughts replaced the frivolity. “Well, does Boxcar have a doctor? What does
he
say?”

“That's the trouble. He don't want to hear nothing about any doctors. Insists he fine. His body may be different but that rock-hard head of his is as thick as ever.”

Molly sat stiff and pensive in her chair. “What are you going to do?” she asked.

“Don't really know exactly. I mean, Matheson brought in Hobey Baker. He's okay, but he's all glove and no stick. I also got my eye on another guy—young man who works a couple towns over, at the lumber mill.”

Molly scrunched up her nose and shook her head gently. “Arthur, I'm sure you know what you're doing and all. Really. And I am certainly no expert. But if this guy's so good, why isn't he playing for someone else?”

Murph raised his eyebrows and smirked oddly. “He is. Sort of.” He got up from the table, cup in hand, and walked to the sink. All of his muscles suddenly felt weighted, by some ineffable force.

“Well?” she asked. “Why all the mystery? Who is this secret star?” “He's colored, Molly,” Murph said softly. “Plays for one of those negro teams.”

Molly's face lost all its usual shape. “
What
? Where did you find him? Have you seen him play?”

“No, just heard about him. But I did see him swing an axe. Like nothing I've ever seen before. Wrists like lightening. Raw power. Not the big, burly type of power, like Boxcar. This kid's got long, lean muscle. I tell ya. He's the real deal.”

Molly blinked her eyes as she stood thinking. “Look, Arthur, I don't want to sound like an old stick in the mud, but do you really
think that is such a good idea? I mean, this whole black and white thing has finally calmed down. People are starting to feel normal again. You know this will just open up the ugliness all over again.”

“I don't see it that way,” he replied. “Not at all.”

“Well, what about Dennison? Are you sure he is ready for this? And what about the others?”

“Look, Molly, I'm just following the trend. Times are changing. They are. You've read the newspapers. It's not like it used to be. If Jackie Robinson can play for Walter O'Malley, why can't Lester Sledge play for us?”

“Hey, you don't have to sell
me
on the idea, Arthur,” she said. “But you should remember that this isn't Brooklyn. And the people here are not as—let's say, cosmopolitan—as you and me.”

His spirit sagged. Molly, aware of the damaging residue of her words, joined him at the sink, placing her hand softly on his face.

“Look, I'm sorry, Arthur. I should not have said what I said. I believe you know best. I do. Obviously you're very good at seeing things nobody else can.” She smiled, then spoke again. “Speaking of which—how's
my
boy doing?”

“Great. Mickey is great. Truly. He hasn't skipped a beat. In fact, he seems more relaxed than ever. And you should see him throw that baseball. It still amazes me.”

She folded her arms tightly against her chest and sighed, toiling with reminiscences both frightening and painful.

“Well that's good to hear. It is. But it's not the baseball that concerns me.”

“I know what you're driving at,” he assured her. “Trust me. Everything is fine. Everyone takes extra care to watch out for him. Come on now. Last year is last year. That will never happen again. He's right where he belongs.” As if the mention of his name were like a bell summoning his presence, Mickey bounded in the
kitchen holding a thin stack of yellow paper stapled together and a red pencil.

“Hey, Mick,” Molly said. “Watcha doing, sweetheart?”

He set his teeth and for a moment his eyes went wide with concern. “Counting carrots. For Duncan and Daphney.”

Molly and Murph both smiled. They sat back down for a moment. Mickey joined them, and began flipping through his log.

“Mickey noticed that some days Duncan and Daphney eat lots of carrots and some days not so many. I have to make sure it's always the same. Every day.” He proceeded to flip through the pages, each containing a neatly drawn black line at the top on which the days of the week rested. Each day was divided by a vertical line, also black, that stretched down the page, forming a column in which a number was displayed in red pencil. “Mondays, Duncan eats three carrots and Daphney eats four. Mondays is always seven. On Tuesdays, I give them one extra. Tuesday is eight. Five for Duncan and three for Daphney. Wednesdays, Thursdays, and Fridays are the most. Wednesday is nine, Thursday is ten and on Friday, they share twelve. Twelve carrots. Six each.”

Murph fidgeted in his seat, and thought about excusing himself, but knew better than to interrupt the boy when he was in the middle of something.

“On Saturday, they don't eat as many, on account of the lettuce they get that day. I have a book for that too. Saturday they get eight, just like Tuesday, but they each eat four, instead of five and three. And today, Sunday, I usually give them seven, but there were two left over from yesterday, so I didn't know if I should just give them five and leave the two in there or take them out put seven new ones in and change the number on Saturday from eight to six.”

“Well, what did you decide, Mickey?” Molly asked.

“I gave them new ones,” he said definitely. “You can't eat Saturday's carrots on Sunday.”

Murph and Molly shook their heads. Neither of them, for a minute or two, could look the other square in the eye. There were so many moments like this one—moments that revealed the boy for who he was, and for what he was not.

“Uh, you know we have practice, right, big guy?” Murph asked, diverting the discomfort.

“Yes sir, Mr. Murphy,” he answered. “Practice is at 9:00. It's only 7:56. We are leaving a half hour before, or maybe twenty-five minutes before, which is what we did the last time. That means I have at least 34 more minutes to get ready.”

Once they arrived at the ballpark, Murph turned Mickey and the other players over to Matheson, while he made the onerous trip up to Dennison's office. It was sunny, and beginning to warm, but there was a high, cold wind blowing. He walked clumsily and struggled and strained with the specter of what he knew would be yet another frustrating exchange, pausing only for a moment for a mangy cat, haggard and tailless, who was busy examining the contents of its stomach which now lay in a steaming pile on the cement walkway.

As his feet pounded the familiar course, Murph scrunched up his face in protest to the biting air and the foul smell that had found his nose. He felt so terribly put upon. And useless. Like he had no definitive place in the grand scheme of things. Why was it that every time there was a little controversy, or something was a little amiss, he had to jump through these interrogative hoops, like a little kid, trying to defend his worth to this scornful curmudgeon. He was so sick of it. Sick, with a great angst—a sharp, galling angst that burned deep in his heart—as he entered the owner's lair.