Sophomore Campaign (27 page)

Rosco said nothing. McNally watched him while the sheriff stood, arms folded, eyes flat and expressionless. There was something indistinguishable yet definitive in his face. It was neither hope nor despair, or even anger.

“Look, have a little patience,” he said, placing his hand on McNally's shoulder and guiding him back toward his car. “I know what I'm doing here. Trust me. You worry too much. Remember, I have my hands in more pockets than you know.”

Here and there, a throng of bristling figures bathed in the dim twilight and fluorescent glow spilling from the towering light stanchions at Borchert Field rushed to their seats, eager to watch the impending contest against the Giants. The excitement in the
stands floated and eddied from person to person, an ineffable energy that lit the inner fires of those Brewer faithful who had been rewarded for standing by their boys of summer even through what many predicated would be a season ending slump. The Brew Crew was streaking, winning four straight since the whole Butch Sanders debacle had been put to rest. Sure, there was still the occasional racial epithet tossed Lester's way, and not every fan was ready to embrace the idea of baseball integration, but for the most part, people had grown tired of all the contention and finger pointing and just wanted to enjoy some good old-fashioned hard ball.

Of all the Brewers, Mickey was the one who had flourished the most noticeably. He was on fire. In his previous start against the Sidewinders, he was never better. His fastball was exploding with such velocity that each offering appeared to the mesmerized crowd to be an aspirin tablet, a tiny blip of white that sliced the air each time with remarkable precision and accuracy. His curveball was equally impressive. Although he was still trying to master the new pitch, and could not always throw it for a strike, when he did find the zone, the ball broke with such power and deliberateness that it was virtually unhittable.

It didn't take the Giants very long to feel the young phenom's resurrected prowess. Through the deepening twilight, Mickey disposed of the first three Giants batters handily, fanning each on just three pitches.

“The best thing since little apples, eh Murph?” Matheson gushed, folding his arms while grinning from ear to ear. “Man oh man, we're back in business.”

The crowd felt the swell of good fortune too. All around Borchert Field, talk of a stretch run punctuated just about every conversation. The Brewer faithful had been down this road before, as recently as
last year, but somehow they knew, just knew, that this season's outcome would be different.

“It's our year, boys!” many of the most ardent fans screamed as their hometown heroes prepared for their first at bat. “Yes, sir, this is our year!”

Pee Wee wasted no time getting things started, dropping a beautiful bunt down the third base line. The ball hugged the narrow lane between the edge of the grass and the foul line, rolling along like a tiny white tumbleweed before coming to rest quietly in front of the helpless hands of the Giants' keeper of the hot corner. The crowd stamped its feet in approval, and roared even louder when Arky Fries punched a 2–2 fastball through the right side of the in-field, setting up first and third for the dangerous Woody Danvers. The Brewer third baseman strode to the plate, the wisps of his dark brown hair dancing about in the late summer breeze. His movements were deliberate yet easy. With his heart thumping insubordinately, and his mind tied to visions of something truly spectacular, he dug in at home, staring straight out at the pitcher with an almost mocking flicker in his eye.

The first pitch to the dangerous Danvers missed low and away. He stepped out briefly, banged his cleats, and smiled inside. Once back in the box, he steadied himself for the next offering. Up and in. The moon was now high and bright in the middle of the sky, and it bathed Danvers in a brilliant silver pool.

“Let's go now, Wood Man!” Murph shouted from the bench. “Hitter's count now. Get yours.”

Danvers stood at the plate, wind-milling his bat with a determination and desire that stretched beyond all imaginable limits of both body and mind. He lived for these situations. The pitcher, now crippled by the count and the mounting trouble on the base paths, had no choice but to groove a fat fastball down the middle.
Danvers didn't miss it. The bat caught the ball square, sending the little white sphere soaring toward the diamond-dotted sky like a missile threatening to disrupt the beauty of nature's sparkling symmetry before disappearing into the night.

With the upstart Brew Crew leading 3–0, Mickey took the field for inning number two. He was just as sharp in the second frame, fanning all three hitters with little protest.

The crowd stood up and saluted their hero. Mickey, who a year later was still thinking about how odd it was for people to fuss so feverishly over something that came to him so naturally, trotted off the field in a maze-like incomprehension.

From that point forward, the game moved along at a rigorous clip. Both teams traded zeroes for the next several innings. Mickey remained sharp, but the Brewers' offense sputtered. After posting three runs in the first inning, the home team managed only two base runners over the next six frames, neither of which made it past first base. It was frustrating to watch, and would have been cause for real alarm had Mickey not been so indomitable.

The top of the ninth arrived quickly and without event. Mickey plunged zealously into all the hollering and fanfare that attenuated what looked like a sure victory, disposing of the Giants' leadoff hitter in routine fashion. Through the deepening darkness, punctuated now by intermittent flashbulbs, the Baby Bazooka reared back and attacked the next batter. The pitch was exactly like so many others that night, hard and true, and his delivery equally adroit. His accuracy, however, betrayed him momentarily—a blip in the typically flawless choreography. The offering missed its mark by a healthy margin, speeding off the plate and plunking the hitter square between the shoulder blades. The thud was deafening. The stunned batter fell to his knees in a heartbeat, as if he had just taken a bullet. The crowd fell silent, yielding now to its captured curiosity, as the
fallen player remained on all fours for several minutes, wincing and gasping for air before finally staggering to his feet with the help of his manager and the umpire. Then slowly, and with discernible difficulty, he made his way down the first base line, his deliberate gait prolonging the tension attached to the moment.

“Hey, what kind of horse crap is that?” one the Giants screamed from the dugout. “Friggin' hayseed. Could've killed him. Just wait till we get a crack at your ass, freak show.”

Mickey heard the invectives and was all at once uncomfortable under his uniform. He stood on the mound, inert and broken, while Murph and the others returned the verbal fire from their side of the field.

“The ball just got away, you idiots,” Murph screamed. “Please. He's gonna throw at
him?
On purpose? When you guys can't even touch him?” He huffed loudly and shook his head. “Assholes.”

Previews of retaliation filtered through the mind of the Giants' manager, setting the frustrated skipper ablaze with roiling anger.

“Just wait,” he yelled to Murph, pointing his finger in the direction of the Brewers' bench. “Just you wait. There's still plenty of baseball to play this season. And I got a pretty good memory.”

Mickey looked on with great concern. The vision of the moment adjusted itself, and he struggled with the residue of conflict. Despite support from his teammates and legions of adoring fans exhorting their hero to finish off the enemy, he could not reclaim his composure. Fearful and spellbound, he walked the next three batters, forcing in a run while moving the tying tally to second base. The game was slipping away.

“Time,” Murph barked before making his way onto the field.

His steps were heavy and purposeful, and it seemed to those watching to take an eternity for him to join the meeting on the pitcher's mound.

“What's going on, Mick?” he asked, folding his arms tightly against his chest. “You okay?”

Mickey nodded inanimately. His eyes squinted hard against the glare from the distant lights visible just above Murph's shoulder.

“Don't go getting rabbit ears on me now, boy, ya hear? Ignore what those guys are saying. They're just trying to get under your skin. All part of the game. Hit batsman? Also part of the game. Okay? Can't be afraid to throw the ball now. Trust yourself, Mick. Come on. Give it your best here.”

Mickey looked like he could shatter with a blink of his eye. He stood inertly, listening to Murph's gentle admonition while struggling with the shifting tide of tension.

“Murph's right, Mick,” Lester said, patting the fretful pitcher on his back. “Relax, man. Nice and easy. Just hit the glove.”

The stars seemed to move across the deep sky in desultory fashion, a bizarre display under which the young hurler labored. He watched, almost hypnotically, as the meeting dissolved, with each participant returning to his previous position. Mickey's lips, engaged now in the tragic monologue to which they had all grown accustomed, moved ever so slightly, and continued to do so for several seconds before the call of “play ball” shattered the stupor, leaving him to face the situation at hand.

With the bases full of Giants, and no margin for error, Petey Stewart, one of the Giants' best RBI guys, strode to the plate. Stewart was tall and lean, but had tremendous pop in his bat. He had finished in the American Association's top ten in extra base hits in each of the last three seasons. He could hit for average as well, hovering consistently around the .320 in each campaign. Mickey had bested him thus far, fanning him on a 2–2 curveball the first time up and retiring him the next two times on weak ground balls to Arky Fries at second. Now, with a chance to do some real damage,
Stewart looked stone-like. His face was still, a battle mask chiseled so artfully that he appeared almost sinister in the artificial shadows. Mickey winced a bit as his eyes caught the deep lines framing Stewart's jaw. It was awful. It was familiar. Standing there, he couldn't help but think of the ghastly scarecrow that Clarence would set up each season in the corn field just to the right of the barn. That face. That awful, menacing face. A stained burlap countenance featuring searing red eyes, bulging cheeks, and a twisted mouth stenciled so craftily that it appeared the makeshift sentinel was always just about to speak. Clarence knew how much it bothered Mickey, and on more than one occasion, the twisted farmer used the straw-stuffed demon as punishment when Mickey transgressed against his wishes.

“Come on now, boy,” he would say with a perverse note of joy in his voice. “Time to pay a visit to old Mr. Bojangels. You may not listen to me, but he'll learn you proper.”

As Stewart wind-milled his bat unmercifully, setting himself for Mickey's first delivery, the boy closed his eyes, trying desperately to clear the lens of his memory. Encouraged by Lester's continued prodding from behind the plate, Mickey managed to quiet, if only for the moment, the demons he had been fighting in torturous silence. His first pitch to the Giants' slugger was a seed that shaved the outer half of the plate for a called strike one. The next pitch was equally adroit, another fastball that tickled the inner half of the dish, tying a frustrated Stewart in knots.

“Atta boy, Mick,” Lester yelled jubilantly from underneath his mask. “That's the old pepper. Keep chucking boy!”

Mickey peered in to Lester. The boy looked as though he was okay, like he was back in the zone. But Mr. Bojangels was still on his mind. So was Clarence.

The thoughts polluted his head. And when the Giants started
talking crap again from the dugout, lambasting the young hurler for plunking their leadoff man, he lost his grip entirely. Mickey felt, as he watched Lester place two fingers down in between his legs, that it was all wrong. That these men had falsely accused him of something for which he was truly sorry. The paradox haunted him.
How can I be sorry for something I did not do?
he wondered silently. He shuddered. It reminded him of the time Clarence exploded after discovering that the gate to the pig pen had been left open, resulting in the loss of one of farmer's prized porkers.

“What kind of numb skull are you anyway?” he thundered. “Why in tarnation didn't you close the damned gate, boy?”

Mickey fought the accusation feverishly in the mid morning heat.

“Mickey did close the gate. I did.”

Clarence sighed loudly and shook his head. The two just stood for a moment, defined to each other now more than ever, by the searing sun and the burgeoning discomfort of the moment.

“Don't you hand me none of yer shit, boy!” the irascible farmer ranted. “You tell the truth now or so help me God you'll feel me.”

Mickey cowered a bit and listened in horror as his Clarence kicked the dirt while continuing his harangue about the lost pig.

“I'm sorry, Pa. Mickey is sorry. Really. I miss Jasper too. But I, I didn't—”

“Damn right yer sorry. A sorry excuse for a boy is what you are. Don't know why I even bother with ya.”

A soft starlight now fell like a gentle mist on the dozing face of the field. Red and white streamers festooned in the crisp air, and the smell of hot pretzels and nervous waiting permeated the tiny ballpark like a flurry of tiny flies. The crowd was growing restless, as was Stewart, who had been waiting on Mickey's next pitch for what seemed like an eternity.

“Come on, Mick,” Lester called, pounding his glove, mindful of the boy's escalating paralysis. “0–2 now. Way ahead. Just like before. Nice and easy now. Just hit the glove.”

Mickey steadied himself on the rubber, but the apparent calm belied the tumult of his mind. He thought about just stopping what he was doing and apologizing. Just hopping off the mound and explaining to all of them that the pitch just got away. Maybe that would make things right again. Surely they had to know that he would never hurt anyone intentionally. The word “sorry” always disarmed Clarence. Perhaps it would work with the Giants as well.