Sophomore Campaign (7 page)

It was cold and dark inside. Dennison was seated, as usual,
behind his hand-carved mahogany desk, eyes narrow and wooden behind his glasses, his mouth busy expelling rings of smoke that hovered in the chilly air like white velvet ribbons.

“Come in, Murph,” he said through the frosty haze. “Interest you in a hand-wrapped Cuban?”

“No, no thanks, Warren. Not now. I really need to get out to the field as soon as we're finished here.”

Dennison nodded and rested his cigar on the glass ash tray to his right. Then, animated by what appeared to be a genuine interest in Murph's well being, he folded his hands and smiled behind the blurred line of smoke billowing from the idling stogie.

“How are you, Murph,” he said. “Things good for you?”

“Sure, Warren. Things are okay. You know. The usual.”

“The fellas all set to make another run at it?”

“Yeah, I think we're ready to go.”

He picked up a baseball that was sitting next to the ash tray and tossed it playfully in the air. He wanted to feel relaxed, loose, but at the same time completely contained. Like everything was in order. “We've got the usual questions marks we have every year, but that's par for the course.”

Dennison rose hesitatingly from his seat, pushing aside the pile of papers which lay between them. His eyes lingered on Murph's unusual countenance. The mercurial owner perceived, through Murph's transparent charade, that his manager was trying to get out of there before he was asked something which would undoubtedly throw a light on some of the uncertainty that was circulating.

“What's all this I hear about Raymond Miller—Boxcar?” Dennison asked. “Is that also part of the same course?”

Murph stood awkwardly and watched the smug Dennison, all the while repeating to himself that these words did not matter, and that he would be okay—stood there, with arms folded and lips tight,
all in an effort to calm his growing irritation. “What are you talking about, Warren? Boxcar's not feeling so well. I know that. Everyone knows that. I'm not hiding anything.”

“Well, now, I did not suggest you were. However, you have not discussed this with me. Or what you plan to do. You can't exactly win a championship without a catcher, now can you?”

“Won't have to,” Murph said curtly. “Boxcar will get a shot, as long as he feels good enough. He's my starting catcher. And if that doesn't pan out, I got my eye on some young stud who would fit in here, just fine.”

“Matheson's boy? That Baker kid?”

“No. He's not the answer. Never will be.”

“Well, who is this mystery player?” Murph paused, as if measuring some weighty contents on an imaginary triple balance beam.

“Sledge. Name's Lester Sledge. Works down at the lumber yard, few towns over. Strong as an ox and has all the tools to sit behind the dish.” With Murph's announcement came a thickening of his blood. There emerged a distinct tension in the chilly air. The old man seemed to be holding his breath, waiting for Murph's words to register. His eyes rolled at first, then shifted wildly from side to side. Then a look of revulsion and blinding incredulity hardened on his face.

“You mean the colored kid? You want to replace Boxcar—team captain and Milwaukee icon—with some work-worn blackie?” Dennison thundered. “Is that what you're thinking?”

“Listen, Warren. Nothing—”

“I swear to Christ, Murphy, you really have shit for brains sometimes. You know that? A colored kid. From some two-bit lumber mill. Hell, I'm surprised you just didn't take it all the way, and try to get Josh Gibson or Cool Papa Bell. Weren't
they
available? Heck, maybe Satchel Paige ain't doing nothing this year.” He closed his
eyes and ran both hands through his hair. “Christ almighty, Murph, I do not know where do you get these harebrain ideas from. Huh? Honest to God, what the hell are you thinking about?”

Murph looked away with impatience, myriad thoughts searing his forehead with lines.

“Jesus, Warren, we've been down this road before,” he said, hands on his hips.

“Remember what you said about Mickey when I first told you about
him
?”

“The kid's colored, for Christ sakes. Don't you get it, Arthur?”

“He's a ballplayer, Warren. A damned ballplayer. It's that simple. So he's colored. Big deal. Everyone called Mickey a retard. Including you. And Pee Wee, who happens to be the best shortstop in the league, was just a midget. Words, Warren. Just words. Does it make them any less effective on the field?”

“You are talking out your ass, Arthur,” Dennison said. “Apples and oranges. This ain't the same thing, at all. I don't need to lose any more fannies from our seats. And I certainly do not need any visits from the damned Klan. Have you read the damned papers lately? You are playing with fire here. These white folks work hard for their money. And they look forward to coming here to watch their team—a team of their own—play ball for them. I won't screw with that. I can't. I owe them better than that.”

Murph wasn't listening anymore. He was so sick of Dennison's crap. Why did he think, even for a minute, that this arrogant, selfabsorbed scumbag would be amenable to anything so unconventional? This man, who viewed himself, unjustifiable as it was, in such high regard. You think he would have learned his lesson with Mickey. But he just could not see beyond himself and his myopic ideas. He had this secret sense of power and control. God, it was sickening. He went about his business with this ineffable,
inexpressible tyranny, something deep and twisted that suggested an unavailing need for control emanating from a truly insecure core.

“Well, I bet Walter O'Malley and a whole bunch of people wearing blue and white in Brooklyn are glad they didn't feel the same way. There's a colored boy over there who plays first base. I
think
his name is Jackie Robinson. You may have heard of him. Rookie of the year? Led the league in stolen bases? Helped get ‘dem bums' to the Series?”

“Don't get cute with me, Murphy. Okay. I know all about that. Poppycock. This ain't the big city. Besides, that won't last. You'll see. Black and white? It just don't work. Especially here. Haven't you been reading the papers? Our people? They're just different here. And our players. What about them? Have you thought about them?”

Murph folded his arms and sighed.

“Listen, this is all sort of premature. Relax. But I'm telling you. I've seen him. And people I trust say he's the real deal. Negro league or not. He hits the crap out of the ball and has a canon behind the plate. I think once everyone sees that, nobody—not even you—will care
what
damn color he is.”

Dennison continued to listen, unable to utter even a sound as his throat had thickened with abhorrence.

“Listen, forget about all this worrying for now,” Murph continued. “Let's just see what happens with Boxcar. Maybe he'll snap out of it and all this bantering will have been for naught. But if he doesn't, and we still need to look for a catcher, you leave the fellas on the team and everything else to me. I'll put my job on the line, again, just to get this thing rolling. That's how sure I am.”

Standing there, listening to Murph pitch his plan, Dennison thought about his manager and the last few years. All of the scheming and complaining. And all of the losing. The memory quickly
became a burden. He had been thinking for a while that his interest would be better served with someone a little younger, someone who did not have so much baseball baggage and such an irritating penchant for challenging his authority with these chimerical ideas. All of these thoughts, and so many more, found their way to his thin lips, which suddenly morphed into a sadistic smile. “Job on the line, heh?” he said, raising his eyebrows. “I just may accept that challenge.”

It was a dazzling, cloudless April afternoon, with a golden swim of light falling to the ground at Borchert Field in bolts of brilliant yellow that lit up the lush green grass as it danced happily in gentle wafts of wind. It was a classic spring day, and a beautiful day for baseball.

In front of a stadium filled to capacity with rabid fans who had awakened ravenous from their baseball hibernation, the Brewers and Rangers both busied themselves with their pre-game rituals. All across the field, players from both teams were fielding grounders, playing pepper, and shagging fly balls. While to the casual observer this appeared to be just another start to the season, most knew otherwise. Never before did one game possess so many subplots—issues that transcended the field into realms far more human and compelling. There was Arthur Murphy, pitted once again against his nemesis, Chip McNally, the man who crashed into him in the outfield years ago while chasing a ball that was clearly Murph's, destroying a career that was destined for Cooperstown. Murph never forgave him. And McNally still insisted it was his ball.

The bad blood had only escalated through the years, reaching an all-time high with last year's battle for first place that wound
up going McNally's way after much controversy. Then there was the highly anticipated showdown between George “Lefty” Rogers, the ex- Brewer and fireballing ace of the Rangers, the man Mickey nearly killed after Lefty showed up at Murph's house and attacked the boy—and Mickey, the beloved, albeit slow-witted phenom who still did not understand everything that had transpired. After the incident, Lefty spent weeks in the hospital recovering from the injuries he sustained, followed by some time spent in the town jail for aggravated assault. Mickey was incarcerated as well, long enough to miss that last game against the Rangers, until a pardon from the governor released the boy once again. Now the two of them would face off, once and for all.

“Look at him over there,” McNally said, pressed up against Lefty's ear.

They were watching Mickey loosening up on the foul line with Boxcar and Murph. “That retard messed you up last year. Bad. Now look at him. Everyone yelling his name, painting some picture like he's the next Warren Spahn. Pathetic. Are you gonna let that freak show get the best of you? Huh?”

Lefty's ductility was easily exposed. Somehow he had forgotten all about McNally and Quinton's role in what had happened. How the two of them used him, and set him up for the disaster that eventually befell him. Now all he saw was a monster on the other side of the field, one against whom all his anger could be directed. “I'll get ‘em, Chip,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I'll get all of ‘em.”

And then there was the less publicized, understated drama surrounding Boxcar. Were all the rumors true? The press had leaked the story just days before, and everyone was captured by the startling news. Would the heart and soul of this team, the captain both on and off the field, be able to play despite the illness that had seized him so unmercifully? Just the sight of him,
noticeably thinner and much less demonstrative, was enough to fuel that fire.

Murph recognized all the commotion swirling on the periphery and was mindful to address it before the game. “Listen fellas, we waited all winter for this. A chance for redemption. But we need to focus here. Focus on the task at hand. Forget everything else. Clear your heads. Twenty-seven outs, boys. Twenty-seven outs and we're back on top. We can't get back last year, but we can sure as hell make everyone forget about it.”

They were all huddled together, like a platoon preparing for an offensive, each man looking to the other for strength and support. All except Mickey, who was off in the corner of the dugout, rocking back and forth, eyes closed, lips forming the familiar words they had all come to recognize as his song of flight.

“What the hell is wrong with Mickey?” Murph asked. “Did something happen out there?”

“I think it was Lefty,” Danvers said. “That jackass was jawing at him from the dugout, and making all kinds of gestures. I put a stop to it but I think it may have rattled him.”

Murph saw the boy struggling, and was quick to intercede. “Hey, Mick, what's going on pal?” he said. “Everything okay?”

The boy did not move. Just stood there, catatonically, his fragile soul naked in his glassy eyes. He was remembering the last time he saw Lefty. And he could still hear the assailant's voice, cold and vituperative, and the pathetic cries of Oscar, his favorite pig, after Lefty plunged his boot into the porker's side, killing it instantly. Then there were the hours that followed, with Sheriff Rosco, and all the questions. So many questions. The recollection was overwhelming. Frightening. He just wanted it to all go away.

“‘Slowly, silently, now the moon, walks the night in her silver shoon…'”

“Mickey, come on now. We're not doing that now. There's no need. You're home here. We've got a game to play here. Hear that crowd? Listen to them. They all came for you.”

The boy's affectations were unchanged. He continued to stare vacantly, rocking back and forth, trying desperately to drive the hateful memories out of himself.

“This way and that, she peers and sees, silver fruit upon silver trees.”

Murph put his hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed gently. “Hey, Mick, you're okay. Save that poem for home. Come on now. Just you and Boxcar. Like always. Focus on that glove. Nothing else. Toss that apple right to the glove. Just like you used to do for Oscar. Right to the target. Can you do that for me?”

Maybe it was his manager's touch, and the way Murph's urgency flowed through his fingers and into Mickey's body like some electrical charge. Or maybe it was the mere mention of the name Oscar, said out loud, that made the difference. Maybe it was both.

Whatever it was, the boy began to free himself slowly from the demon that had seized him. He blinked several times, as if cleaning the lens to his mind's eye, and stopped his recitation of the poem.

“Oscar didn't like Lefty, Murph,” he said. “No sir. Mickey don't like him much either.” Murph grinned and shook his head.