Hunting a Detroit Tiger (9 page)

“That sweet old cat? No, he couldn’t hurt a fly.” She patted her right hip. “Fell off a camel two years ago making a desert movie. Studio put me on morphine till the picture was finished. Then I had an operation to put my hip back together. It feels fine now, but I walk a little funny. That’s why I’m doing vaudeville. The studio fired me—told me people don’t go to the movies to watch cripples.” She tried to laugh it off, but her voice cracked. “Nobody in Hollywood would take me.”

“I’m sorry. I think you look wonderful.”

“You too. As handsome as I remembered.” She patted my arm. “I read about you in the papers. About shooting that man in Detroit.” With concern in her voice, she asked, “Are you in trouble?”

“No, just a misunderstanding.” I didn’t want to go into it with her. Being with Margie again had me thinking of the happy times before the war. I yearned to go back to those days of innocence, for things to be the way they used to.

We talked little the rest of the way, and mostly of what we were both doing now. No questions about the past six years; no inquiries about other sweethearts.

In far too little time, we reached her hotel. I coaxed her into circling the block once, and then once again, before I said, “I’ll be here two more nights. Would you like to go out tomorrow?”

“I’m sorry.” She shook her head. “Tonight was our last show at the Grand. We’re leaving for Toledo in the morning.”

I was too disappointed to say anything.

“It was nice seeing you again though.” She planted a kiss on my cheek. “Good night.”

I didn’t return the good-bye until she’d passed through the hotel door.

I trudged back to the Tigers hotel. I’d been on my own for most of my life, and never really minded being alone. But after parting from Margie Turner, I found myself feeling more lonesome than I ever had before.

Back at the Cleveland, I saw Hughie Jennings asleep in his lobby chair. When I stopped at the front desk for my room key, the clerk handed me a note along with it.

I unfolded the torn scrap of paper and read:
You’ll never be part of this team. Leave before it’s to late.
The spelling of “to” made me think it was genuinely written by one of my teammates.

If the message was supposed to scare me, it didn’t succeed. Nothing they might do could be worse than losing Margie Turner again.

C
obb’s Lake reflected afternoon sunlight directly into my eyes, causing me to squint as I stepped into the batter’s box for practice. The body of water, more of a puddle than a lake, was Navin Field’s most notorious feature. Conceived by Ty Cobb and created by the Detroit groundskeeper, it was designed to help the Georgia Peach successfully lay down bunts. Before each game, the area in front of home plate was flooded so that bunted balls would die in the mud and fielders attempting to grab them would slip. After a few innings, most of the water usually soaked into the ground. For now, fresh from the hose and with the earth too hard to absorb it, Cobb’s Lake sat a motionless pool, its surface barely rippled by the westerly breeze.

I’d had to fight for a turn at the plate, the same as a rookie just up from the bush leagues. If Bobby Veach hadn’t let me in ahead of him, I likely would have come to blows for a chance to hit—and was fully prepared to resort to that if necessary. Once in the box, I assumed a left-handed batting stance to go easy on my right wrist. I didn’t expect to hit well; I merely wanted to swing a bat in a setting more realistic than my parlor and get used to facing a live pitcher again.

That pitcher was my road roomie, Lou Vedder. After my too-brief encounter with Margie Turner, I’d spent most of the remaining Cleveland visit in the hotel, doing little more than mope, pine, and sulk. I’d talked just enough with Vedder to learn that he was from Oakville, a small town southwest of Detroit, and that a contingent of his family and friends would be coming to our home opener. Hughie Jennings was doing Vedder a kindness by letting him throw batting practice so that his fan club could see him pitch in a big-league ballpark—until game time, when Dutch Leonard would take over.

The odd thing was that there was also a batting practice
catcher:
Chick Fogarty. By having a catcher behind the plate, Frank Navin didn’t need to stock up on as many baseballs, and saved himself a few dollars.

I swung awkwardly at the fat tosses Vedder lobbed up, poking a few loopers over the infield and mostly hitting routine grounders toward third. My wrist held up fine, and after getting around on one of his pitches enough to pull a decent line drive between first and second, I declared a victory of sorts and called it quits.

Dutch Leonard yelled from where he was warming up, “Wanna see if you can hit
my
stuff, busher?”

I looked around and saw the other players watching me. No way was I going to back out of his challenge. “Don’t see why I couldn’t! Everybody else can!”

Leonard walked out to the mound and Vedder stepped aside. I took my place in the box, expecting that I’d have to use my ducking reflexes more than my bat.

Chick Fogarty cackled, “Watch yer head, kid. Dutch might be a little wild today.”

His control turned out to be fine. He put his fastballs exactly where he wanted: at my nose, behind my neck, and a couple at my ear. I evaded each throw without giving him the satisfaction of hitting the dirt.

Then he aimed one at my knee and I skipped back just in time. “Nice dance,” said Fogarty as he cocked his arm to return the ball. On impulse, I snatched it from his grip, reared back, and hurled the ball at Leonard as hard as I could. See how he likes it, I thought. Taken by surprise, Leonard flung his hands up and ducked instead of catching the ball in his glove, which earned him some hoots from the players.

I left the box, and turned my back on the fuming Leonard. As I walked to the bench, our baby-faced bat boy came running up to me. “Mr. Navin wants to see you,” the twelve-year-old said breathlessly, pointing to a box seat on the third-base side of the field.

Handing the boy my bat, I veered over to the owner’s box. Prior to this moment, I’d only seen Frank Navin in photographs. Round, bald, and bespectacled, the team’s former bookkeeper still looked more like an accountant than a magnate. Navin was a smaller, nearsighted version of the man seated to his right: Hub Donner, professional union buster.

When I reached the railing, I said, “Hello, Mr. Navin. You wanted to see me?” I avoided looking at Donner.

“Think you’re Ty Cobb, batting left-handed?” Navin said. I had the impression it was supposed to be good-natured kidding, but I couldn’t be sure from his expression. Navin wasn’t known as “old poker face” for nothing.

“Wish I was.” I smiled my best aw-shucks smile. “I’m trying to learn to switch hit.” I didn’t mention wanting to save stress on my wrist. If Navin thought I was damaged goods, I might be dropped from his payroll.

Donner patted the arm that I’d draped along the railing. “Well, you got a ways to go from the looks of it!”

“Yeah. Guess so.” I kept my eyes on Navin and took my arm off the railing.

After a moment’s silence, the Tigers owner said, “Mr. Donner tells me you’re reluctant to do what he asks.” His tone was decidedly not good-natured.

I abandoned my smile and tried to adopt an expression as innocent as the bat boy’s. “Well, yeah, I am. See, I don’t know anything about politics or unions, and I want to keep it that way. I don’t want to get involved on either side.” I looked Navin straight in the eyes, and said with total honesty, “All I wanna do is play ball.”

Navin’s fleshy face tightened. “That’s understandable, I suppose.”

Grinning for no apparent reason, Hub Donner broke in, “What is
not
understandable is why you went to Fraternity Hall again.” Donner’s severe tone was at odds with his jovial expression. “Going once to confront Emmett Siever, that’s fine—commendable even. But last Saturday you went again. That can start to look like you’re in sympathy with the Wobblies, and that’s bad. Don’t you think, Mr. Navin?”

“Very bad,” Navin agreed.

Leo Hyman had been right: Donner—or an associate of his—did have Fraternity Hall under surveillance. Or somebody was following me.

“I wouldn’t recommend going there again,” said Donner. “Would you, Mr. Navin?”

“No, I wouldn’t.”

“Okay,” I said. “I get the message.”

Donner’s body convulsed with an inexplicable belly laugh. “One more thing,” he said. “You seem to be chummy with a Karl Landfors—a known Red. Staying at your place, isn’t he?”

“Yup.”

“Well, I recommend you find some new friends.” He emitted a genuine chuckle. “Dutch Leonard ain’t gonna be one of them from the looks of it, but there’s gotta be other guys you can pal around with. Landfors is only going to bring you trouble.” He merely glanced at Navin this time, and the Tigers’ boss silently nodded agreement.

I faced Donner directly. “Karl Landfors has been a friend of mine for years. Saved my life once, among other things. To me, that counts for a lot. I don’t care what his politics are, and he don’t care that I haven’t any at all. So if it’s all the same to you—and even if it isn’t—Karl Landfors will be welcome in my home for as long as he wants to stay.”

“Loyalty is admirable,” said Donner. “Just be careful where you place it. You might come to regret your choice of ‘comrades.’ Consider yourself forewarned.”

Shifting my gaze to the Tigers’ owner, I said, “Anything else, Mr. Navin?”

“No, son.” He didn’t look angry, or pleased. Navin’s lips were taut and horizontal, not giving me a clue to his frame of mind. Barely perceptibly, they finally twitched up at the corners. “Let’s see if we can win this one today,” he said.

As I turned away, I realized that Donner had done it again. The smiling and laughing, patting my arm—it must have looked to anyone watching that we’d been having a friendly chat. Half a dozen Detroit Tigers stood around the batting cage, with malice in their faces and their bats held high. And these were the players who’d already taken batting practice.

After a few Opening Day speeches and ceremonies, wheelchair-bound Charlie Bennett was rolled out to a spot behind home plate. An enormously popular catcher with the Detroit Wolverines in the 1880s, Bennett’s career had ended when he fell beneath a train and lost both legs. When a new baseball field was erected on the corner of Michigan and Trumbull in 1896, it was christened Bennett Park in his honor. That lasted until Frank Navin bought the Tigers and rebuilt the park in steel and concrete. When it reopened in April 1912, on the same day as Boston’s Fenway Park, the Detroit home grounds had a new name: Navin Field. All that was left for Charlie Bennett was an annual appearance to catch the ceremonial first pitch. To me, that illustrated one of the differences between players and magnates: ballplayers earn their honors; owners buy them.

The game got under way, and the fans settled back for what promised to be a fine pitching matchup: Dutch Leonard against Chicago’s Eddie Cicotte.

With Leonard on the mound and Chick Fogarty unable to think for himself, I was left in peace on the bench. Through the first few innings, I studied the players on the field, mentally cataloging their tendencies for future reference: did they play deep or shallow, were they pull hitters or did they hit to the opposite field, how far could they hit, how fast did they run.

When I looked at the White Sox, though, I couldn’t stay focused on their mechanics. I remembered what Hub Donner had said about the Sox throwing last year’s World Series. He wasn’t the only one to say it; there’d been stories in the press and rampant rumors. Who on the Chicago team could have been involved, I wondered. Certainly not Joe Jackson, Eddie Collins, Ray Shalk, or Buck Weaver—they were all too upstanding. Cicotte and Lefty Williams, who’d pitched like a couple of sandlotters in the series, were the most likely candidates, I thought.

I shifted from wondering who to imagining why. Why would a major-league ballplayer conspire to lose baseball’s most important event? I wouldn’t know
how
to play to lose, and couldn’t fathom any player doing so, no matter how much money gamblers might offer him. Once you’re on the diamond, in the throes of a ball game, there’s only one way to play: all out, to win.

Some of the present game action did filter through to me. Cicotte was pitching strong, holding the Tigers scoreless through the first three innings. Dutch Leonard wasn’t faring as well; he gave up three runs in the first, two in the second, and one in the third. Despite the improving trend, Hughie Jennings sent him to the showers and began a parade of the younger pitchers, giving them one inning each. Jennings and pitching coach Jack Coombs bickered constantly, the manager refusing to take any of Coombs’s suggestions.

Going into the top of the eighth, with Chicago ahead 8–1, Jennings sent Lou Vedder to the mound. I was happy for the kid that he was getting to make his major-league debut in a no-pressure situation.

When Vedder started off by giving up a double to Buck Weaver, I cringed. When he walked the next batter on four pitches, I shook my head. Don’t blow it, kid. Jennings cussed, and Coombs gloated.

C’mon, I silently cheered Vedder on, put it over the plate. He went into his stretch, then staggered backward, clasping a hand to his eye.

“Balk!” cried the plate umpire. The White Sox runners each advanced a base.

Jeers and catcalls and more than a few laughs came from the stands. At this point, Jennings should have sent Jack Coombs to talk with Vedder and settle him down. Instead, the manager pointedly looked away from Coombs and turned to me. “Rawlings! You’re his roomie. Go see what the hell that kid’s problem is.”

I bolted from the bench and ran to the mound, with as little idea of what to say to a pitcher as how to coach first base. Vedder’s face was lowered and his shoulders sagged. This had to be damned embarrassing for him, with his friends and family watching.

Plunging my hands in my back pockets the way a manager would, I said, “What happened, kid?”

“Couldn’t help it, Mick. A bug flew in my eye.”

Not knowing what to say to that, I kicked my spikes at the ground in the belief that it was a very manageresque thing to do. The crowd murmured with impatience. I lifted my head to the grandstand; twenty thousand pairs of eyes looked back at me, and I realized how scared Lou Vedder must feel as the center of attention. “A bug flew in your eye,” I repeated. “Look, kid, if you’re gonna pitch in the big leagues, you gotta learn to catch ’em in your mouth.”

He bobbed his lowered head. “Okay. I’ll try.”

“Just throw the ball over the plate,” I said.

Back in the dugout, I reported to Jennings, “No problem. He’ll be fine.” I kept my eye on Vedder, who was staring after me. Then his whole body appeared to relax and he smiled, perhaps having finally realized what I’d said. He wiped his mitt over his forehead and proceeded to retire the next three batters in a row, two of them on strikeouts.

Jennings left him in there for the ninth inning, and again Vedder shut down the White Sox hitters. The final score of the Tigers’ sixth consecutive loss was 8–2, and the fans were merciless in their booing. It was no consolation that their jeers weren’t directed at me. I wanted to be playing for a winner. Even if I wasn’t actually playing.