Authors: Mark Harris
It opened with a man and a woman getting out of a new Moors. The man was Lester T. Moors, Jr., himself, and his daughter Patricia. The boys whistled. He give a little talk, saying we would now see the history of America right before our eyes.
Then we seen this old-fashion sailboat, and people climbing a rock and cooking a turkey and fighting off the Indians, and later George Washington riding a big white horse whilst behind him come Americans in tatters and rags. Off in the distance we seen the British in red coats, for it was all in technicolor. The British looked tough, and myself I would of run like a bastard, but not Washington. He romped right up to them, and then the firing begun and the British went down like flies clutching their breast. Then shots of the war at New Orleans and Andrew Jackson on a white horse that looked like the same horse Washington had rode, and I said so to Perry and he laughed.
Between the various wars there was pictures of the map. First we was practically no bigger than Hungry or some such minor country, and then we took in all the territory out west. Then along come Abe Lincoln on an old-fashion train, writing down the Gettysburg address and then fading into smoke curling upwards from factories and the wheels all a-spinning and things coming off the factory lines that Perry said was like the Ford plant where he used to work in his summer vacations.
Soon come another war, and off went the marines, and they whipped them, the Spaniards I think. Who knows? And then another factory and more trains whizzing by, and cars on the highway—all Moors cars and shiny new Moors factories of course—and airplanes and the war in France and cannons, bombs and music.
Then there was some shots of Russia, and a more bedraggled lot of people you never seen. There was 1 poor old woman with a handkerchief around her head, walking along the road and praying with her hands folded on her breast. Then up behind her come a soldier on a white horse, and it still looked like the
same damn white
horse
that Washington and Jackson had rode, and I said so to Perry, and he laughed again, and he come up behind this lady and whipped out his sword and walloped her over the head for no reason whatever.
When we come out it was raining. The newspaper in Aqua Clara claims that it never rains, and it hardly ever does. That was the only time but 1 that it rained to speak about in the 3 springs I was there. Every time it rains the City of Aqua Clara pays 1,000 dollars to the Mammoths.
The only other time it rained was 1 day after about 3 weeks, and that is a day I will never forget. There was less then 100 rookies still in camp.
More then 300 been sent home and most of the rest was assigned to farm clubs. The rest of us was put down in 2, 3 and 4 barrackses.
Mornings we worked out, and in the afternoon we broke up in teams and played amongst ourselves. I pitched 24 and 1/3 innings altogether and done better then any other pitcher in camp. Perry and Canada and Coker all showed up well, and we was riding high.
Then Mike Mulrooney called off about 20 names, and he took us over to the farthest diamond where the Mammoths always worked. When we got there it was raining a little bit, just a drizzly spray, and Mike told me to warm, and I done so with a kid name of Porkpie. Dutch Schnell come over behind me and watched me, and then Mike come and him and Dutch talked about the weather, wondering if it was too wet to play, and I turned around to Dutch and I said, “If you are not afraid of a little dampness you are in for an opportunity of getting a glimpse of your new 20-game winner.”
“Well,” said he, “that settles it, for I am willing to be swallowed in the sea if I will get a 20-game winner out of the deal.” Some of the Mammoths beefed about playing in the rain, but Dutch called “Play ball!” and I noticed that 1 word from him put the lid on all complaints.
Bub Castetter was throwing against us. Bub was cut loose just this past year to make room for me. Somebody is always getting the ax for my sake—the batting-practice kid at Perkinsville, then Slim Doran, then a fellow name of Duckworth at Queen City, and finally Bub in May of 52. I suppose that right now there is somewheres a kid in short pants that will someday crowd me out. Perry Simpson led off for us and drilled a single into center, and he no sooner got on base then he stole second. However, we could not push him around. Canada and Coker both connected but flied to Pasquale Carucci in right, and Squarehead Flynn struck out to end the inning.
I went out to the hill. I cannot tell you how nervous I was. I scuffed my shoes on the mound and built myself the right kind of a toehold. Joe Jaros was coaching over behind third, and he yelled at me, “Let us go there, punk, for we wish to pile up about 8 or 10 runs before it rains down hard,” and I did not give him so much as a look.
I got the sign from Porkpie, and I throwed high and hard to George Gonzalez, and it cut across his letters, and it was a strike. He stepped back out of the box and looked down at the Mammoth bench like he was saying, “Where did this kid get this speed?” and then he stepped back in and I throwed him another, and he swang and fanned the air, late, and he stepped back out again to think matters over, and the rooks on the bench begun to whoop things up, and they shouted out at George, saying, “What is the matter, Cuban? Have you never seen that kind of speed down there below the border?” and a number of things along that line. Then I struck him out with the screw.
It was not the best screw I ever throwed. In fact it was not too good of a 1 a-tall, for the ball was a little wet, and I asked for another, and Dutch said go ahead and pitch with the 1 I had. “Do you think this club is made of baseballs?” he said.
Porkpie give in and throwed the damp ball back to me. I tossed it back at the ump. “If you do not mind if a few boys get their skull broke it is no matter to me,” I said, and the ump looked at Dutch, and Dutch said give me a new 1.
Lucky Judkins was batting second in the order for the Mammoths. As it happened, the new ball was a little bit wet and Porkpie did not have no more sense then to call for a curve, and the curve never broke, and Lucky spanked a single into right. Things was a little quieter down on our bench. Vincent Carucci come up. He bats left. There was some dimwitted kid in right for us, and he shifted over close to the line, and I waved him towards center about 10 feet, for I knowed that few hitters pulled any pitch of mine down the line. The kid in right did not do like I said. I got 2 strikes on Vincent with the fast ball, and then I wasted 1, and then he lined 1 into right that if the kid been playing where he should of he would of had it without hardly moving. He got 1 hand on the drive but could not hold it, and it went for a single and George moved to third and Sid Goldman come up.
Sid is from New York. He is a power hitter, though weak in the field, yet still and all the best first baseman in baseball except for Jim Klosky. We thought about walking him but then changed our mind, and he swang hard on the first 1 and missed. He cut a little upwards on the ball, and I noticed that and decided to throw high, and he swang again and missed again, and me and Porkpie talked it over.
“Now we must waste 1,” I said, “and maybe he will bite. Then we will fool him with the fast 1 again,” and Porkpie said that was a good idea.
I throwed just above the shoulders, very fast, and Sid give it the go-by.
Things was going according to plan.
I got set to pitch. I checked my runners, and they was close, and I reared all the way back, almost to the ground behind me, and I let fly, and it was burning fast, right where I wanted it, and Sid swang, and he connected, and the sound sent my heart tumbling 65 miles an hour down in my shoes. The ball sailed upwards and upwards and out of the park across the street and clear over some damn house that was sitting there.
Now, I do not consider it no honor to be the pitcher that somebody hits the longest ball in history off of. But I might as well tell it straight.
Besides, you probably read it in the papers since after the game the writers went down on the field and paced off the distance from home plate to where the ball fell in the back yard of the house across the street. There was big write-ups coast to coast, for that ball went 591 feet, breaking a record that stood for 31 years since Babe Ruth hit 1 in Tampa, Florida, off the Giants in 1919, good for 587 feet.
Well, these writers get in my hair. Did they consider that the wind was with it all the way? Did they consider that the pitch was so fast that it was no wonder Sid hit it so far? Did they consider that the ball was a good deal livelier then the 1 that was in play back in 1919? Did they mention in the papers that I almost struck him out on the previous pitch? Did they mention that I had fanned George Gonzalez? Did they mention that there was men on base and I never took a full wind-up? No, they never considered none of these things plus a few more I could mention. They consider what they
feel like
considering. They send only the juiciest angle back to their paper and leave out the rest.
But after it happened I was not thinking of this. All I was thinking was that this was it. I was through. Hail and farewell, punk, there is always a job for you pumping gas for Tom Swallow. Mike Mulrooney come down to the hill, and he said, “Well, Hank, maybe this is just not your day. Why do you not go back and get under a nice warm shower?”
Somebody tossed me my jacket and I slung it over my shoulder, and I walked back across to the barrackses, across all the diamonds, and it was 1,000 miles and I never looked back.
Chapter 11
Nobody can possibly imagine my misery that afternoon. All the people of my life swum before my eyes. I could see Pop, and he was sad, and I could see Holly and Aaron, and I laid on my bed and did not take my uniform off nor take a shower, but I covered up my head with my jacket, and I laid there a long time.
Soon the boys come trooping in. Lindon Burke had went in to relieve me, and he pitched the rest of the game. It only went six innings because the rain come down, and the Mammoths beat the rooks by 5-2. Lindon went up with the club that summer and is still with them as you know. Sad Sam pitched the last inning for the Mammoths. It was his first time out that spring and he set the side down 1-2-3.
My head was hid under the jacket, and I could hear them talking.
Perry had got 2 hits and Coker 1, and the 2 runs we got Canada drove in with a triple, so it was a good day for them though misery for me, and they was talking and laughing. Then Perry seen me on the bed with my head hid, and he said, “Boys, leave us be a little quiet for Wiggen is asleep,” and they tiptoed around, and they talked about me, and they said it was too bad I had not showed up better. It was like I was in a coffin and the people was walking around and whispering and saying, “It is too bad he has passed to the great beyond so young.”
Then the loud speaker said dinner. There was a big rush of feet, and they all left, and I uncovered my head, and Perry was standing there looking down at me, and he said, “Dinner, Hank.”
“I do not want none,” said I.
“What is that?” said he. “Say it again, for I must not of heard right,” and he picked up a towel and scrounged in his ear like he was cleaning it out. “Henry Wiggen does not want dinner,” said he. “Then I guess they are giving away money free and the seas has dried up and they have elected me to the White House.” Then he sat beside me and put his hand on my shoulder, saying things that you would say to a man when he is just about dead, and you tell him he will be up on his feet by tomorrow when already you have bought him a coffin and hired a preacher to speak at his grave.
“Get out of here,” said I, and I pushed his hand from off my shoulder, and he went off to dinner and I laid there on the bed.
Soon in come a kid about 8 years old. He had a baseball in 1 hand and a note in the other. The note said: Dear Mr. Wiggen,
This is the baseball that Mr. Goldman hit 591 feet off you this afternoon. Will you please put your signature on it if you know how to write, or your mark if you do not.
FAITHFUL FAN
“Who give you this?” said I to the boy.
“A man at the hotel,” he said.
I took the ball and made an X on it and give it back to the boy. I do not know to this day who wrote it, probably Sam Yale or Swanee Wilks or 1 of their stooges—Knuckles Johnson or Goose Williams.
Knuckles is a righthanded knuckleball pitcher. The knuckles of his hand stick far out. It looks awful when you look at it much. Goose is the second-string catcher. If you ever goose him he will howl blue murder. The boys have tried for years to get an umpire to goose him when he goes down in his crouch behind the plate, but they never will.
I stuck the note in my gear, and I have it yet. Soon the boys come trooping back from supper, and just about then my name come over the loud speaker ordering me down for a conference at the Mammoths office in the Hotel Silver Palms.
“What is the hurry?” said I. “They are going to do no more then tell me to clear out.” I begun to undress and shower. Perry brung me a pie and a quart of milk and come down to the shower and give me hunks while I was under, and now and then a swig of milk.
“Leave us sing,” he said, but I did not feel like singing. Besides, it never really sounds good except when you are all in the shower. I did not have the spirits to sing, and I dried and dressed, and every few minutes the speaker would speak, saying “Henry Wiggen. Where is Henry Wiggen?” and I shouted back at it, saying, “What in the hell is all the rush to fire me?”
“The fewer the better,” said Coker, “for if you eat a meal or sleep in a bed it is costing old man Moors plenty because he is now down to his last 25,000,000 in the bank.” This give us all a laugh, for it was about this time that Moors was setting up about 1 new factory a week in case of a new war. Old man Moors was hardly even finding much time to give to the club, most of the business handled by Patricia now, though he was down in Aqua Clara 2 weeks this past spring. Dutch says he would as soon he stood in Detroit.
“They ain’t going to fire you,” said Canada. I guess I knowed it too but got some kind of a kick out of feeling sorry for myself.