Hanging Curve (10 page)

I
left Sportsman’s Park after Wednesday’s game and limped a couple of blocks to LoBrutto’s Florist, where I bought a dozen long-stemmed yellow roses. They were Margie’s favorite flowers, and her favorite color. I brought her that same arrangement before every road trip; it was one of the many small traditions that we’d shared in the last couple of years.

I thought about that once I’d boarded a Grand Boulevard trolley. I loved the way things had been between Margie and me, and maybe she felt the same way. It could be that she was simply worried marriage would change something that was already pretty terrific. I only wished she would tell me if that was indeed the case; so far, she hadn’t volunteered any explanation for declining my proposal.

As the trolley rolled south, Karl’s suggestion to ask her directly kept popping into my head. Every time I’d dismiss it as one of his dumber ideas, it would rear itself again. And each time it did, I began more and more to think it made sense. Tonight would be my last night with Margie before the Browns headed to Detroit, and I didn’t want to leave town without knowing exactly where things stood between us.

First I fortified myself with more flowers, stopping at a small shop on Delmar for another dozen roses and a bunch of white carnations. By the time I arrived home, I was feeling optimistic. Maybe it was due to the heady fragrance of the blossoms, but I’d become convinced that romance would prevail.

When I entered the apartment, Margie called from the kitchen, “How’s the knee?”

“Okay. Fohl kept me on the bench.” Since it was obvious that my bruised knee would keep me out of the lineup, Margie had stayed home from the game.

She came into the parlor, wearing a silk skirt the same color as the roses and an embroidered white blouse. Her hair was in the old-fashioned style that I preferred, like a Gibson girl’s, and she was wearing the cameo lavaliere that I’d given her on her last birthday.

Margie’s eyes lit up at the sight of the flowers. “Why so many?” There was no indication in her tone that she had any objection to the quantity.

“Well, you know, we’re going on the road tomorrow. And ...” I handed her the paper-wrapped bouquets. “Can we talk for a minute?”

She nodded, and went over to the sofa, cradling the flowers in her arms.

The notion of getting on one knee briefly crossed my mind, but instead I sat next to her. Once again, I hadn’t planned what to say. Should I ask her to marry me, or just ask what she thought of my earlier proposal? While I went over the possibilities, Margie bit her lip and waited patiently.

I finally asked, “When you said you wanted to keep things the way they are, did you mean no to getting married? I mean, I know I didn’t ask the right way—it wasn’t a proper proposal—but I did mean it about wanting to marry you.” Damn, I thought, never mind flowers, I should have brought her an engagement ring.

Margie said softly, “There was nothing wrong with the way you asked.” She ducked her head slightly. “And I do love you. But I can’t get married yet.”

“What do you mean you can’t?”

“I mean”—her voice caught—“I mean I hope you’ll ask me again someday, but I can’t say yes right now.”

“I don’t understand. Why not? What do you mean
can’t?”

She took a deep breath and looked up at me. “I would need to get a divorce first.”

If she’d slammed a baseball bat over my head, I couldn’t have been more stunned. “You mean you’re ...”

Margie nodded. Tears welled in her eyes. “It wasn’t anything serious—”

“You don’t think being married is
serious?”
I was rapidly getting angry.

“Yes, of course. But this wasn’t—”

I cut her off. “So you have a husband, and you’re living with me?”

“No, not a husband. I was—”

“Who is he?”

She put her hand on my arm. “Let me explain.”

I pulled my arm away. “Go ahead. Explain.”

“It happened when I was in Hollywood. A friend of mine, another actress, was going to Mexico to get married. I went along as maid of honor. Before the ceremony, she and her fiance suggested that the best man and I get married, too, and make it a double wedding. And we did, but it was just a lark.”

“So you and him never ...”

Margie took a moment to answer. “Like I said, it didn’t mean anything. Just one of those crazy things you do sometimes. But it is legal, so I’d have to get a divorce before I could marry you.”

“Why didn’t you ever mention this?”

“That was years ago. I hardly ever thought about it until the other night.”

So I’d been living with a married woman. Whatever the circumstances, I didn’t like that fact. “You should have told me.”

“I didn’t think it—”

“I don’t care. You should have told me.”

Margie continued to explain and apologize. But I was no longer listening. The only thing that diminished my anger at her was annoyance at myself for taking Karl Landfors’s stupid advice.

T
he last time I’d played in Navin Field, two seasons ago, I’d worn the home uniform of the Detroit Tigers. Now, I sat in the opposing dugout, staring out at my former teammates. In the batting cage was the ferocious Ty Cobb, who last year had assumed the managerial reins while still holding down the center-field job. With him at the helm, some newspapers now referred to the Detroit team as the “Tygers.” Behind Cobb were his fellow outfielders Harry Heilmann and Bobby Veach, two of the players who’d been friendliest to me when I was with the club. Warming up along the foul line was Howard Ehmke, slated to pitch against our young left-hander Hub Pruett.

I wouldn’t get to do more than look at the Tigers today. Lee Fohl had told me that I would again be idle. He even told me to skip batting and fielding practice until my knee was better. It was just as well, because I wouldn’t have been able to concentrate on the game anyway.

My gaze kept drifting from the diamond to a box seat behind the Tigers’ dugout. It was the spot where Margie used to sit. Detroit was the city where we’d first started sharing a home.

Marty McManus abruptly blocked the view. “Hey, Mickey, anything tricky about playin’ in this park?”

“How the hell should I know?” I snapped.

He blinked. “I thought ... I mean you used to play here, so I thought you might have some tips.”

I shook my head, and he quickly found a spot at the far end of the bench from me.

When the game started, Ty Cobb promptly launched into a sustained verbal assault on Hub Pruett. A week ago, the Tigers had been humiliated when White Sox rookie Charlie Robertson hurled a perfect game against them. Pruett was making his second big-league appearance, and Cobb wanted to make sure the youngster was so off-stride that he wouldn’t come close to repeating Robertson’s feat.

It worked. Pruett was clearly rattled and gave up two runs in the first inning, while we went hitless.

Before Marty McManus went to the on-deck circle in our half of the second, I walked over to him. “They soak the ground in front of home plate,” I said. “It’s called Cobb’s Lake and it’s to help him lay down bunts. Early in the game, a ball will really die in the mud. You might want to try laying one down yourself.” It was as close to an apology as I could give him for my earlier behavior.

When McManus followed my advice, and plopped a bunt single, I knew the apology was accepted. The world would make a whole lot more sense, I thought, if women could communicate as well as men did.

I spent the rest of the game thinking about Margie. In two days, I’d found no way to feel better about her deceiving me. No matter how often she repeated that her marriage was merely a weekend lark, I still believed that not telling me about it was the same as lying to me.

It was true that we had never asked each other much about whatever romances might have been in our pasts. But for her to have a
husband,
however nominal, was something important enough that she should have told me.

Maybe I’d see about getting some female companionship after the game, I thought. Why not? It’s Friday night, I’m away from home ... and I’m single.

 

I didn’t find a girl—not that I looked very hard—but I did find a speakeasy on Beaubien Street, near the waterfront. It was no great feat to find a drinking establishment in Detroit; the city almost flowed with illegal booze, ferried across the river from Canada by a small navy of bootleggers. This was better than most, though—clean, well-appointed, with a superb ragtime piano player and an extensive selection of fine liquors.

Usually, I drank nothing stronger than beer, but this night I was in the mood for the hard stuff. I downed shots of Canadian whiskey until almost midnight. That was the team’s curfew, and I knew I’d be in trouble if Lee Fohl spotted me coming in late. But I convinced myself that it would be worse to show up drunk than late, and decided to remain in the speakeasy a while longer to give myself time to sober up. Since I continued to sip whiskey while waiting for the earlier drinks to wear off, it turned out to be a losing strategy.

Shortly after two in the morning, I teetered into the expansive lobby of the Statler Hotel, my brain clouded by an alcohol-induced fog. After successfully negotiating my way to the front desk for my room key, I embarked on the long journey across the lobby to the elevator. I’d made it only a few steps before I noticed the Browns’ manager in an overstuffed chair, an open newspaper on his lap. I quickly looked to see if there was another route to the elevator. There wasn’t; I would have to pass by Fohl. Since he appeared to be dozing, I thought I might have a chance.

Walking as steadily as I could, I worked my way forward, watching where my feet were stepping, and occasionally glancing at Fohl to see if he’d spotted me.

I’d made it halfway across the lobby when I saw that the manager was on to me. He made a show of checking his pocket watch, then folded the paper and stood up.

In a flash of inspiration, I remembered my bad knee and figured I could use it to disguise any peculiarities in my gait. I promptly tried to affect an exaggerated limp—and almost collapsed on the first step.

Fohl frowned so hard that his eyebrows almost looked like a mustache. I had no idea what he would do to me. The brawny former catcher had such a reputation as a disciplinarian, that I’d never heard of anyone challenging his rules, so I’d never seen what kind of punishment he could mete out.

He waited patiently until I’d reached him, then he blocked my path. “You have trouble telling time, son?”

I opened my mouth to give him an explanation, and saw him wince after I’d only gotten two words out. Damn. I should have taken a mint or something for my breath.

He held up his hand to cut me off. “Don’t talk, son. Just listen.”

Listening would be the easy part; remaining vertical was the challenging task. I kept shifting to match the way Fohl wobbled in front of me.

The manager’s fleshy face relaxed somewhat, but his dark eyes remained stern. “You got a good reputation, kid,” he began. “Never been any trouble that I know of, and you’re a team player.”

“Thanks, Lee. I—”

He held up his hand again. “I’m gonna tell you three things. You better listen, and you better remember.”

I nodded, my lips firmly sealed.

“First,” he said, “I can smell that you been putting rubbing alcohol on that bum knee.”

“It’s not—” I cut myself off this time, realizing that he knew full well it wasn’t rubbing alcohol he smelled.

“My point is, that ain’t gonna help it heal any faster, so I don’t ever want to smell it on you again.”

I nodded that I understood.

He went on, “Two: When you got a bad leg, don’t walk so far from the hotel that you can’t get in by curfew. I don’t want to see you coming in this late again. If I do, I’m gonna fine you.”

I nodded again.

“Three: Whatever that bug is that crawled up your ass, you better get rid of it. You been ornery for days now, and it’s gonna end. Get your head back on baseball. Got it?”

I was starting to feel too dizzy to risk nodding again. “Yes,” I said meekly.

“Good. Now hit the sack.” With that, Fohl spun about and headed for the elevator.

I was grateful that he was giving me a second chance. But I wished he hadn’t turned around so fast, because I almost lost my balance from watching him move.

 

I didn’t have another drink for the rest of the time we were in Detroit. In fact, the headache I woke with Saturday morning caused me to swear off anything stronger than ginger ale for the rest of my life—a vow which I fully intended to keep at least until my head cleared up.

I made sure that I arrived early at the ballpark every day and early to the hotel every evening. The only outings I made were to the movie theaters, and only to pictures that didn’t involve love stories—I didn’t want to be reminded of Margie.

My company for the weekend was limited to my roommate Marty McManus. The lessons I was supposed to give him weren’t limited to the playing field. As the veteran, I was also supposed to give him tips on life on the road and warn him of the temptations that were better avoided—like the one I’d succumbed to Friday night. Lately, it seemed that some of the best lessons I was giving McManus were in what not to do.

We dropped two out of three to the Tigers and were packing for the return trip, when I finally called Margie to let her know when my train would be getting into St. Louis. I hadn’t phoned her once during the road trip and hadn’t returned the several calls she’d made to the hotel.

I apologized for not calling earlier, claiming that McManus kept getting in trouble and I had to keep getting him out of it. She had the graciousness to accept the fib and the apology, and said she was looking forward to my return.

So was I. Because although I’d straightened out my behavior in Detroit, what was bothering me couldn’t be remedied until I got back to St. Louis.