Holm, Stef Ann (23 page)

Before
Captain had gotten hurt, Alex hadn't thought about female companionship beyond
a leisurely dalliance. An overnight stay, then a kiss good-bye. A new city. A
new woman. He had never regretted his lack of serious involvement. He'd done
what he'd felt like doing in the heat of the moment. He'd never been without a
woman if he'd wanted one. Never had to stay and worry about breaking her heart.
The women who followed the game hadn't wanted his heart anyway. They'd wanted a
part of him, much like the photograph. A memento. A token of Alex "the
Grizz" Cordova.

Now
that he saw that clearly, he didn't like himself much for how he used to
behave. After being away from the game for three years, he was free to explore
the fact that he wasn't getting any younger. That he would grow old and die
without knowing what it would be like to spend his days with a woman who loved
him and whom he loved equally in return. To pass their days walking, holding
hands, watching sunsets, making love outdoors, indoors, wherever they desired.
Waking up together. Going to bed together.

These
were all things he couldn't wish for because they weren't to be.

Because
no matter what, he owed Captain.

To
the
uninformed observer, the men in baseball uniforms throwing a ball around the
bases at Municipal Field while an Edison phonograph played Scott Joplin's
"Maple Leaf Rag" looked like buffoons. But there was a good reason
for the two-step even rhythm that had them flinging balls to one another. Or at
least that's what their manager had told them. There were those hold out
skeptics who'd scratched beneath their chins, but they'd eventually given into
her demand.

"Syncopation,
gentlemen," Camille called from home plate, where she stood next to a
table that held the phonograph. Out of the colorfully painted black horn came
the piano notes to the double-time rag tune.

With
a tap of her toe to the beat, she named the positions the ball was to pass
from. "Six. Four. Three."

Shortstop
to second baseman to first baseman equals the double play.

They
sloshed around in Spalding Featherweight shoes on a field that had been flooded
with sprinkler water once again. She was going to find out who kept turning it
on and forgetting to turn it off.

As
the music's tempo jaunted along, she directed, "Seven. Five. Two."

Left
fielder to third baseman to catcher equals an out at the plate.

They'd
been practicing like this for over a half an hour. In the three games they'd
played since returning to Harmony, they'd lost two and won one. Today was their
first game against the Baltimore Orioles. Yesterday's win against the Milwaukee
Brewers had been joyful.

She
called out the numbers
eight
and
nine,
then
three
and
one.
Her gaze fell on Alex, who stood on the mound. He was the number-one
position man. Since he'd arrived at practice, he'd been preoccupied. Only a
moment ago, she realized why.

The
Baltimore Orioles were his former team.

They'd
yet to show up at the field, but they'd arrived in Harmony late last night. She
wondered if any of Alex's old teammates were still playing for the Orioles.
She'd never met the manager, George Dunlap, but she'd heard he was a fair
man—if there could be fairness where she was concerned. She hadn't met a
manager yet who treated her as his equal.

She
discreetly stifled a yawn beneath her fingers. She'd stayed up into the wee
hours of the morning fixing her home for this evening's Garden Club meeting.
Everything had to be just right, down to the last flower in the centerpiece on
the table. If she could help the men win this afternoon's game, she'd take it
as an omen that tonight would go splendidly.

"All
right, gentlemen," she said, lifting the needle from the recording.
"That will do." She walked to the dugout and called them in.
"There are a few things we need to go over."

She
went to the canvas bag she'd brought from home. From inside, she produced a
shoe box and gave it to Bones.

"What's
this?" he asked while lifting the lid.

"Shoe
inserts. You run with flat feet. That ought to help your speed."

His
brow rose, as if he couldn't believe she'd noticed that about him. How could
she not? He ran with the uneven balance of a duck.

Deacon
spat tobacco. As did Yank and Charlie. Then the others. It seemed to be a
go-around. One player began, and the others followed on down the line. It was
nasty and disgusting and she had a solution for that, too. She brought out a
paper-wrapped package from her bag. But first, an empty soup can— gumbo soup,
to be exact.

"Gentlemen,
as of now, there will be no more spitting."

Grumbles
rose from the ranks.

"I
know you may find it hard to give up, but it's a vile habit and I think you'd
be better players if you didn't worry about spitting." She held the can
out to Cub to pass down. "Dispose of that tobacco you have in your
mouths."

Cub
peered into the tin can, then looked at his fellow players. "I don't want
to."

"A
fifty-dollar fine says you don't have to," she returned evenly.

Cub
spit his tobacco out.

As
the can was handed from player to player, she continued, "I know it will
be hard to give up your tobacco, so I've bought you all a replacement."
She opened the paper package, pulling the string and revealing the inside to
the players. "Chiclets."

"Gum?"
Specs squinted at the colorful packets. "You want us to chew gum instead
of tobacco?"

"It's
gum or nothing."

"Yeah,
but—" Cub began.

"Gum
or nothing," she repeated with resolve.

The
players took the Chiclets.

She
brought out another box, this one imprinted with the words Montgomery ward
optical goods department. "Specs, I've ordered and received nine pairs of
spectacles for you to choose from. Try each one until you can clearly see the
outfield lines. That will be the correct pair."

Specs
looked inside the box, then squinted at her. "Gee—you didn't have to go to
so much trouble."

"Believe
me, it was no trouble."

Minutes
later, Specs stared at them through quarter-inch-thick lenses. He had beautiful
hazel eyes that were now magnified three times over. "It would seem these
are the right ones. But can I keep the spares just in case these turn out to be
the wrong ones?"

"Please
do."

Three
hurdles overcome. Camille held out hope that everything else would fall into
place just as smoothly.

The
Orioles had arrived and she caught a glimpse of George Dunlap. A tall man with
wide, proud shoulders, he looked like he could guzzle Tabasco pepper sauce
without getting indigestion. Just about the time she noticed Mr. Dunlap, he
noticed Alex. He paused, as if uncertain, then walked to the Keystones' dugout
and extended his hand.

Alex
barely moved. Then finally, he gripped the elder man's hand firmly.
"George. Been a while."

"Three
years."

"Yeah."

George
took off his cap, wiped his brow with the back of his hand, and gestured to the
Orioles' dugout. "Jerry's here, but Harry Howell's pitching for me today.
Steve Brodie, John McGraw, and Wilbert Robinson—they're the only four left who
played on the '98 team with you. They'd probably like to buy you a beer after
the game. Hell, I know I would."

Indecision
briefly fell over his face. Then Alex nodded. "That'd be good,
George."

Camille
remained on the bench, wondering once again about Alex Cordova's past. What had
happened to make him quit? Why he was called "the Grizz"? There were
a variety of other things that she didn't know about him. She hoped the old
newspapers would give her some answers when they came.

But
right now, she wondered if he'd even try to beat his former team.

His
first pitch was a curve that broke too high up the batter's knees. The ball
came at the hitter like an apple rolling off a crooked table. Then it sank
right outside the strike zone. By the bottom of the second, the Orioles had
scored two runs.

In
the top of the fifth, the Keystones came back with three runs of their own.
Camille sat on the bench, notebook in her lap, feeling as if there might be a
chance if she could keep the players focused.

Alex
stood on the mound, the ball in his grasp behind his back. As he coiled his arm
and made ready to follow through, he glanced at Captain, who sat in the stands.
Captain looked at him with such despair, Camille could feel it in her heart.
And because of that look, Alex fell short of delivering the ball where he
should have.

Innings
later, she still observed him as he sat on the bench, restless, slouching, one
foot on his knee. She watched how he would turn to see if Captain was still there.
Then he'd face forward and stare off into the field. At his former teammates.

She
wanted to know his thoughts. Wanted to understand the chaos that seemed to run
through his mind.

Doc
struck out, and Cupid, who couldn't hit water with a paddle, took his place in
the batter's box. The horse liniment on his head hadn't done a darn thing for
him in this game. He struck out as well.

In
the top of the eighth inning, Mox Snyder went to field a ground ball on the
grass, slipped, and fell on his thumb. His wail carried through the air as he
rolled onto his back and grimaced in agony. "Sweet jumping
Christopher!"

Running
out to him, Camille knelt down beside him. "What happened?"

He
woefully gazed up at her from beneath the brim of his cap. "I just broke
my thumb."

Right
then, for the first time in her life, she said "dammit."

* * * * *

Inside
the Blue Flame Saloon, Alex was welcomed by the team he'd once called the
greatest bunch of players in the entire National League.

"Cordova!"
they shouted, and the old camaraderie was back in place like the fit of a worn
uniform. They ribbed one another, joked, and stood up at the bar.

George
drew up to him and ordered two beers. "Alex, I want to put in an offer for
you. Get you in with the Orioles on a trade. Take you out of Montana and bring
you back to Baltimore where you belong."

Alex's
heart stilled. He didn't belong anywhere in the world of baseball.

But
in that fragment of time, he thought about all George had done for him in the
years he'd played for the Orioles outfit. He'd taught him how to play hitters.
Judge line drives. How to shift on different hitters and even the same hitter.
How to run out after a fly instead of backing up. George Dunlap had been able
to offer Alex the most he'd ever been contracted for. He'd signed on at a
staggering $1,750.00 a season. At the time, that kind of money for playing ball
had been unheard of.

"George,
that's a hell of a thing you're offering."

"I
want you to take it, Alex. You should be wearing an Oriole uniform."

George
had a heart as big as a watermelon and made out of pure gold. He was a great
manager because he knew how to handle men. Some players he rode, and others he
didn't. He brought out the best in each man that way. It wasn't so much about
his knowing the game. It went beyond the fundamentals. What made the difference
was George knew each player and how to get the most out of him.

"It's
generous of you, George," Alex said, tipping back his beer. "But I
can't take you up on it, even if the Orioles organization went for the trade.
I've got some commitments here that I can't turn my back on."

"I
wish you felt differently about it. You know that if you put on the Orioles
uniform, it'll be your choice if you take it off."

"I
know that."

George
hadn't traded him, even when he'd pitched his worst season in 1895. It had been
George's idea for Alex to take the winter off in Montana. He'd known of a lodge
in the mountains and told Alex to do some hunting and fishing. Get his head
straight.

Alex
had been twenty-two and, up until then, had had the world at his feet. Yet he
hadn't been able to decide what he'd wanted from baseball. He knew one thing,
thought—that he wanted to kick Joe McGill's ass. He'd hated the New York Giant
more than he could put into words. That hatred might have been what had kept
him alive after what had happened on that cold fall morning in the woods when
Alex had nearly died from a grizzly bear attack.

He'd
returned to Baltimore, following some of the other great players in their quest
for notoriety by coming up with a nickname of his own. There was Rube, Lefty,
Spitter—to name a few. And then came "the Grizz."

He'd
played the best season of his career that year. Pitched forty-seven complete
games, won twenty-eight of them, and had the most strikeouts. Batters got the least
hits off him and he'd pitched the most innings of any pitcher. He'd also hit
ten home runs.