Sophomore Campaign (12 page)

The group filed out in a tempestuous wind of petulance and swearing. Murph cringed. All of his life had been made up, it seemed, of moments like these. Opportunities that glimmered with hope, only to detonate in a blaze of failure. Would this be yet another conflagration? His mind struggled with the dismal labyrinth of doubt.

“I thought you said you was
all
on my side, Mr. Murphy?” Lester asked before following the others out. “Sure don't sound that way to me.”

Murph scowled, half maddened by the dissension that was just beginning to brew. “They will be, Lester,” he said. “Don't you worry, son. Trust me, they will be.”

It did not take long for the turbid waters of unrest to bubble to the surface. Nobody said anything to Murph or Matheson or anyone else after that afternoon when Murph dropped the bomb on all of them, but their actions told the story. Lester had expected a little razing and the usual high jinks germane to being the “new guy.” Hell, it happened in the Negro Leagues as well. He could recall his first day with the Bears, when his baseball pants, jersey, and all of his work clothes mysteriously disappeared while he was showering after practice. He returned to his locker, mindful that he was expected at a team meeting, only to find that all of his stuff was gone. All he had in his tiny stall was an old T-shirt, two sizes too small, and a torn pair of pink women's shorts. He was mortified, but couldn't help but chuckle when he recalled sometime later the ribbing he took when he entered the room.

“Damn, Lester, you's sure one fine looking dandy. Purtry as a picture.” All the guys hooted and hollered and pushed him around a bit, but it was all harmless fun. They all laughed about it. There was nothing funny, however, about what was happening now.

How could there be? How do you laugh about a locker full of manure, with a note attached that read
stinky shit for a stinky piece
of shit
. Or a burlap dummy, fashioned in your likeness, hanging from a backstop by a hangman's knot. No, there was nothing funny about any of it. But here he was. He had given Murph his promise, and anchored it with expressions of unwavering gratitude. But promises and anchors weigh heavy some times, and Lester Sledge found himself in the unenviable position of showing appreciation for something that was, for the most part, offensive and painful. All of the enmity began to chip away at the young catcher's resolve. Only Mickey, whose constant questioning of the others at every turn as to why Lester's arrival had created such a stir, invoking impassioned admonitions and clear directives for the boy to shut both his eyes and mouth, offered any real support.

“Don't be sad, Lester,” he told him. “Mickey thinks you're a swell player.” The boy was drawn to Lester by some ineffable kinship. He was remembering the time last season when Danvers and some of the others nailed his cleats to the floor, causing him to freak out so badly that he almost ran out of the room and never came back. He wanted to explain it to Lester, to tell him that somehow it would be alright, but his lips just could not form the words germinating in his mind. “We'll play baseball tomorrow, Lester. Yeah. Tomorrow. You'll play baseball tomorrow and show ‘em you're a swell baseball player.”

Lester's eyes sank. He wanted to smile, but couldn't.

The following evening was one peculiar to Borchert Field. Despite all of the buzz about Lester's arrival, everything was mute and calm. The sky, although streaked with a pink hue that was inching its way across the horizon, seemed fixed, a painting whose slick canvas had dried and set prematurely. Perhaps the headline that morning had altered the face of things irreparably.

N
EGRO
L
EAGUE
C
ATCHER
T
O
R
EPLACE
B
REW
C
REW'S
B
OXCAR
T
ONIGHT

The turnstiles still clicked, but not with the vigor and frequency of previous nights. Sure, there were those whose devotion to Mickey and the Brew Crew could not be swayed, no matter what the town scuttlebutt was. Others came as well, for different reasons. Some bought a ticket to the spectacle out of a perverse curiosity, driven by a galling need to know what was going to transpire, while another group showed up with the intention of using the tiny ballpark as a platform from which they could espouse their bigotry and hatred. But despite those factions in attendance that night, many seats remained noticeably unoccupied, something that drew the ire of Dennison, particularly since the match-up featured the hometown Brewers once again against the arch rival Rangers of Spokane.

As the yawning horizon swallowed the sinking sun, the Brewers took the field to a curious amalgam of cheers and jeers. The intimate ballpark, which just minutes before had appeared muted by some diaphanous cover that sealed the happenings as if they were transpiring in some tiny fishbowl, had suddenly erupted into a frenetic frenzy.

Naturally, Mickey's disciples were well represented, lead by the wild animation of the Baby Bazooka Brigade, who were chanting Mickey's name and had come to worship with their signature army helmets and battle fatigues. Mickey's Minions were also there, waving a bed sheet turned banner featuring a giant red number eight fashioned from the artful placement of two hearts on top of each other and the loving words
Go Mickey Go!
painted underneath. They too made their voices heard. But the raucous exuberance was soon drowned out by another chant, one that slithered up from the shadows in the seats behind home plate and stole insidiously across the entire field of play: “
Go home black boy! Go home black boy! Go home black boy!”

Lester, who had only just squatted down to receive Mickey's
warm up tosses, heard the venomous cry and felt more than anything, even more than fear and sadness, a feral hatred that had all at once risen from some unknown depth tied to his years of suffering. His face was stolid, even stony, behind his mask. He pounded his glove and thought about his mama. How her poise and equanimity always seemed to bridge the abyss which constantly lay before her.

“It's not enough to be as good as them, Lester,” she always preached every time he questioned what he perceived to be her spiritless acquiescence. “We has got to be better.”

He never understood that part of her, or how playing the role of the obsequious dog could ever result in anything good. It frustrated him more than anything. But it was this moral resiliency that he clung to that day—the same moral resiliency that squelched his demoniac notion to race into the stands behind him and start swinging.

Murph watched the detached, impassive affectations of his new catcher and prayed he wouldn't crumble. Things had never seemed so desperate. McNally was watching too, but his prayers were darker.

“Would you listen to all that yelling?” he gloated devilishly. “Murph has really done it this time. He's done for. They'll run him, and his two-bit circus, right out of town.”

The crowd eventually settled in as Mickey delivered his first pitch, a blazing fastball that missed high and outside. Kiki Delaney, the Rangers' leadoff man and premier table setter in the league, banged his spikes with the barrel of his bat and inched closer to the plate, exaggerating his crouch deliberately in an attempt to shrink the strike zone even further. The transparent stratagem worked, as the second offering missed upstairs again for ball two. The crowd voiced its displeasure, certain that Delaney had duped the umpire by ducking under the pitch.

“Come on, ump!” they screamed in frustration. “Get in the game! That ball's right there!”

Mickey got the ball back and sighed heavily. Then he peered in at Lester, who again pounded his glove before setting up on the inner half of the plate. Mickey rolled his arms, rocked back, lifted his leg and fired once more, a four-seam bullet that sped toward the plate and exploded into Lester's glove.

“Ball three,” the umpire called.

Murph's spirit sagged. It was not the start he had hoped for. “Okay now, Mick,” he called out from the top step of the dugout. “Nice and easy now. No worries. Just find the zone.”

Mickey shrugged his shoulders. He appeared to be somewhat unnerved. His eyes glazed a bit, then wandered into the stands behind the plate, filtering through a nefarious patchwork of angry faces all yelling at both him and Lester. It was a lot for him to manage at one time. He found himself drawn back into the old habits of his mind, and had just begun to recite the first line from the now all too familiar poem, when Murph motioned to Pee Wee at short to come in and talk to the rattled hurler.

“Hey, Mick,” Pee Wee said, patting him on the shoulder. “What's up?” The agitated pitcher shook his head and frowned. It all seemed to him absolutely strange and awful.

“Mickey does not understand, Pee Wee.”

“What Mick? What don't you understand?”

“Those people,” he answered, pointing his glove in the direction of the intrusion. “They are angry. They are angry at Lester. Why? Why are they angry? Lester did not do nothin' to them. Lester is just catching the ball.”

Pee Wee heard Mickey's protest with his own senses ablaze and struggled to find anything to say that would assuage the ugliness. “I, uh, don't know Mick,” he explained. “But hey, don't sweat it.
They're probably not angry at Lester. And even if they were, if you start throwing strikes, everyone will start smiling again.” He trotted back to his position, happy to be relieved finally of the burden of putting into words something both loathsome and inexplicable.

Mickey toed the rubber and prepared for his next delivery, his eyes fixed on the surly crowd. He paused oddly just before winding up, overwhelmed by the pressing necessity of choosing one direction over the other. He floundered, as always, with the space that these decisions afforded. He felt as he often did in these situations—victimized, a prisoner to all that blew in his face and at his back. He tried to center his thoughts, and almost managed to push the specter of ugliness aside and focus on the game. But no matter how hard he tried, he just could not remove his gaze from the sordidness.

“Ball four,” the umpire shouted. “Take your base.” The crowd groaned as Delaney scampered down the first base line clapping his hands.

Some were more vocal about their feelings. “How do you expect him to pitch to a yard ape!” one man shouted. “Murphy, you bum! You're a bum! Washed up has-been! Get him out of there!”

Murph and Matheson watched helplessly from the bench as the Rangers' second place hitter stepped to the plate. A small cloud passed before the pale moon. Mickey tugged nervously at the bill of his cap and got into the stretch position, digging his foot feverishly into the hole just in front of the rubber.

“Hold ‘em close, Mick,” Murph yelled excitedly, aware of Delaney's penchant for stealing on the first pitch. “He's gonna test you guys.”

Delaney heard the warning and laughed before inching his way off the bag. He had led the league in swiped bases each of the last
two seasons. Made even the most prolific backstops look inept with his impeccable timing and blinding speed. Did Murph really think this ragtag duo had a prayer? He continued to inch toward his goal, so that by the time the batter had finished cocking his bat and setting his feet in the box, the brazen Delaney had jumped out to a huge lead. He was clapping his hands and jawing at both Mickey and Lester. Mickey peered in at Lester's signs. He heard the bluster but was too mired in the routine of his pitch preparation to offer any real resistance.

Lester, however, read the storm in Delaney's eyes like a seasoned sailor and rose slightly from his crouch while working the fingers on his throwing hand involuntarily as if fingering the trigger of a loaded revolver. He knew exactly what Delaney was thinking. It was the same thing all the Rangers were thinking. Run on the new guy.

The Rangers' sparkplug broke for second just as Mickey lifted his leg and released the ball home. It was a good pitch, strong and true, one that just missed the outside corner. But nobody was very interested in that. All eyes were on Delaney, who was already halfway to his intended destination

The crowd held its breath and the tiny cloud released the moon, bathing the players in a dazzling light, just as Lester's bare hand reached into his glove and pulled the ball back by his ear. Then he released a dart that traveled swiftly, no more than three feet off the ground, right to the inside corner of the bag. Delaney never saw it coming. Just heard the pop of Pee Wee's glove then and lay there, after sliding into the waiting tag, mired in incredulous defeat.

“Yer out!” A smattering of applause rose tentatively from the bi-partisan crowd. Most felt it easier to deny themselves the natural impulse to cheer for the home team rather than incurring any wrath or reproach from those in attendance who felt something unnatural was transpiring right before their eyes.

“Aw heck, he just got lucky, Kiki,” McNally chirped as his speedster malingered off the field and into the dugout. “That ain't nothing. We'll get him next time.”

With the count 1–0 to the second place hitter, Mickey steadied himself and adjusted his feet on the rubber, trying to remedy his wildness. His mind wandered for a moment, with small splashes of last year's first meeting against the Rangers washing up against the fragile walls of his mind. Even though he came all this way, and had proven time and again that he belonged, it sort of felt the same to him. Maybe it was all of the hysteria surrounding Lester. The air was so heavy with discord, and Mickey found it hard to breathe. Of course it could have been the venomous, penetrating stare of Lefty Rogers, Mickey's ex-teammate turned nemesis, that had the boy flustered. Or it might have been Mickey, just being Mickey. Whatever it was, it had crept out to the mound, seized him, and would not let go. The boy threw three more pitches, and missed the strike zone each time, giving the Rangers their second consecutive base on balls.