Authors: Mark Harris
Bob Boyne hit for Fred Nance, a man of near 40 that I bought bubble gum as a kid with a card in every chunk and once had a card for Boyne, his picture and his history. He was a cool customer, like Tubs Blodgett, a switch-hitter, swinging righthanded now. He choked way up on his bat and stared at me and tried to face me down until it was like my eyes was glued to him, and I stepped out and broke the spell, and then I stepped in and
he
stepped out, and the mob howled and the wind whipped my back, and the back ached like blazes.
We stuck mostly to curves. Boyne choked up, hoping to punch 1 through and get a man on base and play for the breaks, a wild throw or an error or some sort of a general collapse in the field. He lashed at 2 curves and sliced them foul, for I throwed them with the full motion of my whole body and they broke sharp and fast, 2 pitches as good as any I ever delivered, and he fouled them along the line in left, George and Coker and Vincent all giving chase and never quite making it.
Boyne moved his hands an inch or more down towards the handle of the bat, and he shifted forward in the box, hoping to meet the curve before it broke full, or the screw if we throwed the screw. But we done neither. Instead we poured the fast 1 through, and he drilled it back and a little to my left. I got the tip of the middle finger of my left hand on it as it went by. It bloodied the nail. Gene come clear over and speared it backhand close to second, and the play at first was close, Canada stretching and splitting and Boyne not so young no longer or he might of had it beat. Toft called him out. I believe it was the right decision.
Boston thought otherwise. Boyne pulled up quick and turned and raced for Toft and spit in the old man’s face, and Keeler stormed out and stood wrangling with Toft until he throwed them out, Boyne later fined by the League besides. Toft has heard plenty over the years but I rather imagine that this was the equal of any, and he took out his watch and give them 30 seconds to be out of his sight, and 20 they spent in further discussion and the other 10 drifting back towards their dugout and through the door to the clubhouse.
The Boston bench was loud. Toft heard them, too, and after a minute it become too much and he went and cleared the bench, all but those that was still in the game plus 2 coaches, and they went back behind the dugout door and now and then flung out a remark and then closed the door quick before you could see who it was. Every oath was wilder then the 1 before. I got so interested in seeing what they could possibly come up with next that I forgot about my bloody nail and never thought about it until after the game was over. And then it didn’t matter.
The boys sung. I had not heard them in many weeks, and now they sung at last, and I could hear them clear from the outfield, their voice carried in on the wind—”1 more man, Henry baby, 1 more man”—and above them the voice of the crowd rolling like waves in an ocean. It would rise until I thought it could rise no more, and then it would rise even higher, and then as I pumped and pitched it died, and it was like every man and woman in the park was holding their breath, and then after the pitch there was the noise of all hell broke loose, beating against me like it was a solid thing, like waves in a genuine ocean, and when it hit I felt it in my back from knob to knob, from the back of my neck to the base of my spine.
I pitched 1 pitch to Black. I do not know if I could of throwed another. I pitched it in noise and pain that I will never forget, letter-high and hard, the full wind and the full pump and the full motion, and he swang, and the wood on the ball made a thin slim sound like a twig you might break across your knee, and the ball went upwards and upwards, almost straight up, halfway down the line between home and third, and Red called, not that you heard him but that you seen his mouth move, and the ball hung in the air and then fell, down through the lights, Red weaving, dancing first 1 way and then the next, his big mitt waiting, and then it hit, soundless, and he clapped his meat hand over the ball and turned and raced for his mask and picked it up and headed for the clubhouse, and I followed, and a dozen hands held me—George and Coker and Perry and Canada and Sid and I do not know who all—thumping me and lifting me clear of the ground, and then they set me down quick because the crowd busted loose from the stands and come swarming down on the field until in 5 seconds or less the green field was covered with people, and the boys turned me loose and we raced for the dugout and forced our way down and through the door to the clubhouse. Somebody amongst the crowd stole my hat for a souvenir.
I feel that that was the greatest game of my life. I had it all the way, the little old pill doing what I wanted it to from first to last. It was greater then the 1-hitter against Brooklyn, greater then the 16-inning duel with Rob McKenna, the tops. Above everything else it was the 1
that had to be won no matter what, and no 2 ways about it, and the cushion was 2 with 2 to go.
Ugly was lost. That was for sure. Doc Loftus was back from the hospital and said there was no question that Ugly was lost, his jaw hanging loose on his face, broke as neat and as clean as the best of your big-time doctors could of did, and I was glad for Ugly in a way I can not explain, envying him that the pressure was off, like maybe you would envy some poor soldier that in the midst of a fierce battle got a little nick and was carried back by the ambulance out of action. I figured that as far as Ugly went he already done what he could do.
Win or lose the blame was off his shoulder now, and there was nothing left for him any more but lay there in the clean white bed and follow the papers.
“They will re-set it, and in the spring he will be handsome,” said Doc, and the boys all laughed.
Gene said, “If there is 1 thing that eats on Ugly it is the fact of being ugly. I cannot imagine him different.”
“We will change his name from Ugly to something more fitting next year,” said Hams.
Then the whole thing begun to eat on Gene. Gene was Ugly’s roomie for many a year, and probably in the excitement of winning the ball game he forgot, but now he said he was about to pay a visit to a fellow name of Chickering, and he started out the door and down the alleyway that leads under the stands to the visiting clubhouse. Many a fight has took place in that alley in years gone by. Dutch and a Pittsburgh catcher name of Roy Pink many years ago had 1 of the bloodiest fights on record down there. In August of last summer Coker and Canada had a date to meet there and battle out a personal argument that to this day I do not know the reason for. But I got there first and busted it up. I think they was both just as pleased. I did not want Gene getting involved neither, and me and some of the boys blocked his way and closed the door and told him forget it and keep his mind on the business at hand, and right about then Clint and Egg come in by the alley and told us that Chickering was fined 500 and suspended by the Commissioner. That squared things a little as far as the boys was concerned, though Gene swore he would murder Chickering when next he seen him, and the boys all swore the same.
Yours truly swore right along with the rest, and this hands me a laugh because of the following:
I left the park alone after the crowds cleared off some, and on the way I stopped to pick up some cleaning at Gordon’s Quick-Way Cleaners, located down the block from the hotel. It is owned and run by a fellow name of Gordon that the boys all call “Flash” after Flash Gordon. I walked up to the counter and slid him my ticket, and about 1 second later in walked Chickering himself.
“You son of a bitch,” I said.
“Flash?” said he. “Did you hear what the boy just called you?” He slid his ticket across the counter after mine.
“No fighting, boys. No fighting,” said Flash.
“Who is fighting?” said Chickering. “We ain’t fighting.”
“You son of a bitch,” I said. I was really at a loss for words and couldn’t think of a damn thing else.
“I have just been fined 500 dollars and suspended by the Commissioner,” said Chickering, “so do not call me another name, for my nerves are on edge.”
“You son of a bitch,” I said.
“You must have a fairly small vocabulary,” said Chickering.
“No fighting in here boys, please,” said Flash. “Mr. Chickering, have you not done enough fighting for 1 day?”
“Yes,” said Chickering, “I have done enough fighting for 1 day. It is all over for me for the present time. The Commissioner says I must not even be at the park tomorrow. But I will buy my way in with dark glasses and sit like a gentleman. The Commissioner says my action is detrimental to the best interests of baseball.”
“You son of a bitch,” I said. That was the fourth time. But this time there was no sting to it, and Flash laughed, relieved, and Chickering stuck out his hand, and before I could even think what I was doing I stuck out my hand and was shaking the hand that busted the jaw of Ugly Jones.
“Easy, Wiggen,” he said, “for I believe I sprained a knuckle,” and I stood there shaking hands in a tailor shop with the fellow that an hour before I swore I would kill him if ever I seen him.
But it dawned on me that me and him was more or less in the same happy boat, and all of a sudden I was feeling good and would of shook hands with anybody. I would be sitting it out, like him, because it was all over for me, like it was for him, like it was for Ugly, and besides all that it never cost me nothing, neither a busted jaw nor 500 cash, and I felt good, and I stood there pumping his hand like he was an old friend that I had not saw in 8 years. He give me a queer look. “They tell me you are an odd sort of a kid,” he said. “I believe them.”
Then I took the pants that Flash give me, and I went out the door and up the street towards the hotel, whistling like a madman.
Chapter 36
Well, if I had knowed what was still in the cards for me I wouldn’t of been whistling so damn hard, for I no sooner hit the hotel then I seen in an evening paper where the guess was that if we lost tomorrow I was slated to work Sunday. I read the same thing in 2 more papers, and then I heard it on the radio twice, and every time I seen it or heard it it was like somebody stuck a knife in my back. My back hurt worse that night then any night before or since and I hardly slept a wink except maybe a few hours towards daylight.
Saturday I did not drill. First off I took about an hour getting dressed, and then when I got dressed I had no hat, for some fan swiped it the day before. Mick went rummaging on a shelf and come down with a stinking old hat that was too tight to begin with, and then finally I told Mick forget it and give me a rub instead, and I stripped halfway down again and stretched out on Mick’s table on my stomach. “Actually,” he said, “it is no use. Do you know what I think you are? I think you are 1 of them people that thinks they are sick but never is.”
“You are paid to rub,” I said.
“I have saw many like you in my time,” said Mick. “It is all in your head.”
“Then rub my head,” I said.
The boys floated in and out, Mick stopping now and then to do whatever somebody asked, saying there was boys with
real
aches and
real
pains and
real
complaints that a man could put his
hands
on and massage them out.
Dutch’s lecture was not so much yesterday’s mistakes and today’s strategy as it was a plain old-fashion pep talk, sweetness all the way, not spreading it on too thick and yet at the same time leaving no doubt in your mind that this was Christmas and he was jolly old St.Nick. He said if ever a club was ready to step out and cop a flag this was it. He said that even with Ugly and Lucky both out of action there was no doubt in his mind and had never been no doubt that man for man we stood head and shoulders over Boston. He said that this particular moment would live in his memory in the years to come, for it was now, this moment, that he felt that he was addressing the finest collection of ballplayers ever brung together under a single roof.
“I rate this club with the Mammoths of 35,” he said. That was high praise, coming from Dutch. He said many a time, in and out of the newspapers, that he considered the Mammoths of 35 the best club ever put together. “I told you in Aqua Clara in the spring that I expected to win the flag this year. I have expected it every minute since, and I expect it this moment. I swear to God and call upon him to strike me dead on this spot if in the deepest corner of my heart I speak anything else but the truth.
“We have had bad breaks. We hit a slump. We lost Judkins. We lost Jones. We have had rotten weather and doubleheaders. But have there been good breaks to match the bad? Have we had 1
good
break all summer? Name me 1! No, I guess not. Even so, we are
still
at the top of the heap, and there will be a flag tucked in our pocket a couple hours from now.”
Sam and Red come in from warming. Dutch asked was there any questions, like he always does. There was none. There hardly ever is, and then, after a long time of waiting, I spoke up. “Dutch,” said I, “I might as well say it. Naturally I doubt that we could possibly lose today. But if by some miracle we do I doubt that I could pitch tomorrow if my life depended on it.”
He looked down at me a long time from where he was standing. He was throwed off his guard a bit, I guess, for that was the first time anybody ever brung up such a question. I could see his wheels turning. I do not know what they was hammering out, but they was turning awful fast, and he started to say 1 thing and then he said another. “Who says you are going to pitch?” he said.
“The papers and the radio,” said I.
“The papers and the radio are not managing this ball club,” said he.
“Well, I am glad to hear it ain’t true,” said I. “It would be the wrong move.”
“Who said it ain’t true?” said he.
“I doubt if it could possibly be true,” said I. “It would be the wrong move.”
It was really terrible how quiet it was. I did not know what he would say next, but I was sure it would be something for the memory book. I was ready to settle for a fine and a suspension or get traded to Chicago or anything. He got red, and then he got white, and you could hear the boys breathing. I thought maybe somebody would say something. Yet nobody did. Whenever the boys got anything on their mind they say it amongst themselves, never to Dutch. All you could hear was a drop of water from a leaky shower in the shower room,