Sophomore Campaign (13 page)

Murph cursed his rotten luck once more before considering calling for a pitch out. He was certain, as was Lester, that McNally believed Delaney being gunned down was a fluke and that he would push the envelope with the new catcher. He whispered the idea in Matheson's ear, but soon abandoned the plan when Matheson mentioned something about “old dogs and new tricks.” The old coot was probably right. Mickey was having enough trouble hitting his spots. Why make it any worse.

Instead, Murph opted for the more obvious, conventional approach. “Okay now, Lester,” he called emphatically from the dugout. “On your toes. If he goes, shoot ‘em down.”

Lester heard the call to arms but was already there. He had only met Chip McNally less than an hour ago but knew all about him.
Had seen his kind his whole life. His lack of respect was an transparent as the winking stars pressed against the now clear night sky.

The Rangers' third batter, Johnny Forester, gave a quick look at McNally before stepping in. Lester pounded his glove again and encouraged Mickey to relax. Then he placed one finger down between his legs and set himself up just off the outside edge of home plate. The runner at first got his sign, and danced off the bag. Finster, who was holding him on with great urgency, readied himself for a possible pickoff throw. “Watch him,” he yelled wildly. “He's gonna go.”

Mickey took his sign from Lester, came set and exhaled deeply. He spun the ball in his glove until his fingers settled neatly across the seams. Then he lifted his leg, reared back and fired. It was another fastball that missed upstairs, but this time Lester was thankful for the blunder, for he was up and out of his crouch almost instantly. The ball was in and out of his glove and speeding toward second in one deft motion. It was a perfect toss, splitting the air with the speed and faithful trajectory of an arrow destined for a bull's eye. In fact, the throw was so masterful, so perfect, that it arrived at the bag a good two seconds before the runner. The most difficult part of the play belonged to Pee Wee, who awaited the arrival of the would-be base stealer awkwardly, not knowing what to do with the inordinate amount of time he had been afforded to apply the tag, something he eventually did as the dejected runner pulled up, head hung and shoulders sagged, in silent abdication.

The crowd was still. Nobody said anything, but it was clear what was ruminating. In the excitement of the moment, with the moon's glow lighting Lester's silhouette like a Times Square billboard, the beleaguered catcher seemed to shed the skin of past subjugation and emerged, in the dazzling light, like a powerful pupa.

Murph applauded his catcher's efforts, then instructed him to
make a trip out to the mound to settle Mickey. Lester moved, not with any poignancy or higher purpose, but with a palpable, dynamic exhilaration that was now pushing him along through the cool night air.

“Say, Mick,” he said, flipping his mask to the top of his head. “What's going on kid? You sure didn't throw like this when
I
was facing you.” Mickey stood, untouched by Lester's overture.

“Mickey had a pig Lester. A swell pig. Name was Oscar.”

“Yeah, I know, Mick. I think you mentioned that once or twice.”

“Was the biggest one on my farm,” the boy continued. “Black and white. He were mine. My pig.” Lester tried to see through the layer of torment that had clouded the boy's eyes.

“What about the game, Mick?” he asked. “You know, throwing strikes and all. We got a game to play here.”

Mickey's gaze wandered perversely into the Ranger dugout. Lefty was in his head, bumping into other polluted images, like Clarence, The Bucket, the angry man in the stands behind home plate who kept yelling the word
coon
and the neatly colored rows of M & M's in his locker that had accidentally spilled into a random mess.

“Mickey can't think, Lester. It's all messy in my head. And loud. Too many things, crashing into each other. I can't make it stop.”

“Say, I got an idea. Murph said you like numbers, and shapes and things. Right?”

“Yup. Numbers and shapes are neat. Love ‘em. Nice and neat. And clean.”

“Well, looky here then,” Lester explained. “Think of my two knees as the bottom points of a big ole triangle. And my glove as the third one, right on top. See? Now all you's got to do is throw that ball into the triangle. That's all. Nothin' else. See? Forget Lefty, and the crowd, and everything else. Just you and the triangle. Okay? What do ya say?”

“Mickey likes circles and squares better, Lester,” he said blankly.

“What?”

“Circles are round. I like round. And squares are even. Triangles are—” McNally's carping over the inordinate length of Lester's visit drew the umpire out for a visit of his own.

“Let's go, fellas,” he said dutifully. “Break it up. Let's play ball.” “Sure thing,” Lester said. “We's done here anyhow.” Then he slid his mask back over his face and followed the umpire back home, but not before turning back to Mickey to offer one more attempt.

“Draw me a triangle with that ball, Mick. That's all. One point at a time.”

The Rangers' three man, usually a free swinger, was mindful that the first nine pitches had missed their mark. Consequently, he was taking all the way. With the bases clear once again, Mickey switched to the more familiar, comfortable windup. He peered in at Lester, who was still calling for good old number one. Mickey nodded his head, and despite the continued heckling from the Rangers' bench, managed to see the triangle. He smiled a half smile, rolled his arms, lifted his leg and fired.

“Steerike one!” was the call. Lester was pleased. He pumped his fist in the air before returning the ball.

“Atta boy, Mick,” he shouted. “Draw that triangle.” Mickey let go a long sigh of triumph. He stood calm now, transfixed on the imaginary points of his new target. His next delivery was equally true and effortless.

“That's two!” the umpire bellowed. The righting of the ship awakened some of the muted crowd, including Mickey's Minions and the Baby Bazooka Brigade, who, in unison, were chanting for the same result.

Strike him out! Strike him out! Strike him out!

Lester glanced up from his crouch at the batter, who was
shaking his head. He had passed on a fastball at Lester's left knee for strike one. The second was taken as well, a fastball at the catcher's right knee. Lester smiled as he realized what Mickey was doing. Okay now, he laughed to himself. Let's finish drawing this thing.

Lester knew that the Rangers' slugger would not pass again. And Mickey was coming right down the middle, wedded to the catcher's suggestion in the most literal sense. It was the perfect occasion for one of the big boy's classic benders.

The reborn hurler peered in again and saw Lester dangling two fingers. He nodded mechanically, rolled and rocked, and let fly what appeared to be a flat fastball headed right down Broadway. The batter's eyes swelled with anticipation. His front foot hitched and his hands strained against the impulse to attack immediately. This was it, he thought, wiggling his hips as he began his approach to the ball. A classic mistake, there for the taking.

As the tiny white sphere orbited into the hitting zone, the batter clenched his teeth and whipped his bat through violently, only to discover, a split second too late, that the ball had betrayed its original path, diving unexpectedly beneath the raging barrel, landing safely in the patient pocket of Lester's glove.

“Yer out!”

Lefty Rogers took the hill for the Rangers in the bottom half of the first frame, and had immediate success, fanning both Pee Wee and Arky Fries with little difficulty.

Rogers was always touted as a live arm with deadly accuracy. But on this night, he was particularly sharp. God, how he hated Murph for all that he had done to him. Never gave him a chance. Not really anyway. And then there was Mickey. The freaky fireballer who stole his job, then laid him up in the hospitable for weeks, almost ending his career for good. The recollection sharpened his antipathy. They were all, every last one of them, albatrosses. All of
the past turmoil and misfortune, coupled with the painful loss on opening day just a couple of weeks prior, burned in effigy before his eyes and stoked his competitive fires like never before. Lefty was particularly juiced to face Woody Danvers again, the one guy who had claimed from the beginning to dislike Mickey as much as he did, only to betray their unholy alliance in the end. In Lefty's mind, he was made out to be the fall guy. It was the same Woody Danvers who took him yard on opening day, dashing his hopes for a much needed victory—one he had hoped to stick up all their asses.

Danvers stepped to the plate with a strut and swagger indicative of one who was leading the league early in the season in all of the major offensive categories. He was locked in. Had hit safely in each of the team's first fifteen games, including eight homers and eighteen RBI. Facing Lefty again imbued him with the same fantastic anger and competitive pangs that stood just sixty feet, six inches away.

Their first meeting that night would prove most uneventful, as Danvers lined the first pitch he saw into the corner for any easy double. It burned the mercurial pitcher that he had lost the confrontation, but he was glad he had kept him in the yard. It was only one hit. Just one hit. He managed to shrug it off, his focus riveted to the larger prize.

Clem Finster was next. He had never before batted cleanup, but Boxcar's absence had necessitated some line-up shuffling. Murph had toyed with the idea of penciling Lester in that spot, but decided that the pressure of playing his first game before an agitated home crowd was more than enough for him to handle.

Lefty smiled when Finster stepped in, reveling in the mismatch. Finster was a decent hitter, but by no means a four man. Ordinarily, a runner in scoring position and the cleanup hitter at the plate would require a little chicanery. Nibble a corner here. Bounce a
curveball in the dirt. Something like that. That was the beauty of having an open base. But Finster's anemic run production, coupled with the nervous look pasted to his face, made it all moot. Lefty went right after him, sending him back to the bench and ending the inning with just three pitches. Good morning. Good afternoon. Good night.

Mickey bounded out of the home dugout for the top of the second and made quick work of the middle of the Rangers' order, ringing up all three batters on just eleven pitches. The doubt and fear that had clouded his eyes previously were erased by the ease with which he was mowing down the opposition. Whatever was plaguing the enigmatic phenom at the start of the game had disappeared as mysteriously as it had arrived.

With the game knotted in what was shaping up to be a good old-fashioned pitcher's duel, Lester led things off in the home half of the second. The announcement of his name by the public address system engendered quite a mélange of reactions from the crowd. Lester had said he was ready for this. He had assured Murph it was no big deal. But truth be told, he never could have anticipated such a fervor, such unrest, all because he was black.

Standing there, banging his spikes with the end of his bat as he prepared to step into the box, he felt he was just like everyone else. Practiced the same way. Dressed the same way. Even had some of the same superstitions as the rest of them. In some ways he was more like them than they were. But as his eyes scanned the kaleidoscope of cutting faces watching his every move, he knew he was anything but the same.

Some of it made sense. Like the chant of WE WANT BOXCAR that rose up the instant he stepped out of the dugout. He knew what Boxcar meant to these people. And how upset they were that he had been taken from them. He was a big boy. He could take it.
But some of the other antics troubled him, deep to his core. There were the signs, each fashioned with bigotry and vitriol. Go Home Black Boy one read. Another was not as polite in its request. No Blacks Allowed. They were troubling indeed, but he could look the other way. The mordant words raining down all around him, however, just seemed to hang in the air indefinitely, like mist on his face.
Yard ape
,
coon,
and
porch monkey
were sentiments not easily wiped away. Still, Lester dug in, firm of purpose. His face was tight, and his whole body bristled with a fierce, surging pressure that had begun deep within his gut and spread to his legs, arms and hands. With his bat roiling in silent defiance, the newest addition to the Brewers' lineup narrowed his gaze on Lefty as the southpaw rocked back and fired.

Lester followed the ball as it sliced through the air and cut across the inner part of the plate, handcuffing him before he was able to extend his arms and get the bat head out in front. His whole body seemed to sag a little.

“Strike one! On the corner.”

Lefty smirked behind his glove and the legion of malcontents who had set up camp all around Borchert Field continued to fire invectives, this time louder and with greater ferocity. Lester stepped out and breathed heavily, his heart slamming against the walls of his chest. He tried like hell to calm himself.
Easy now, Lester. Nice and easy
. He maintained this constant stream of inner commentary, cajoling his burgeoning fear into believing that everything would be okay. That the next pitch would be his.

Lefty had other thoughts. He saw Lester's crumbling mien and smelled that fear. There ran through his head a profound, dark, wordless conviction that beckoned for immediate satisfaction.
Do him now,
it seemed to suggest.
Right now
.

Lester stepped back in the box, this time seemingly impervious
to the wrathful cries and epithets peppering the field. His bat was still and his mind in a much better place as Lefty released the next pitch, a heater that seared right through the middle of the hitting zone and toward the inner half of the dish. It was exactly where Lefty wanted it. Knee high, middle in. Enticing enough to offer at, but bereft of any real value for the hitter. Yes, it would have been the perfect pitch had Lester not dropped the bat head just as the ball danced across the plate, golfing it high and deep into the blackening night.