Sophomore Campaign (28 page)

His mind, however, was cluttered, and his stomach was sick. The words would never come.
Pitch the ball instead
, he told himself.
Pitch the ball
. So he did. But much to Mickey's dismay, the delivery broke off the plate for a ball. He missed with his next offering as well, and appeared now to be floundering once again. He stood on the rubber, rocking back and forth in the cool night air, as a feeling of profound defeat tore through his body. He felt sick and thought for a moment that he'd much prefer to be sitting. His tongue was burning and his knees wobbled against each other. He probably would have just flopped to the ground and curled up right there had it not been for Lester's keen eye and timely words.

“Come on now, Mick,” he called. “Hey, look at me. Remember what we always say. Let 'em hit it. Split the plate—right down the middle. That's all, baby. Right down the middle.”

Mickey stood now, perfectly still, his mouth slightly contorted as he measured the words of his batterymate. He looked at Lester softly, and recognized the freedom that lay behind the catcher's gesture as he pounded his glove, imploring Mickey to throw the ball right over the plate. Mickey smiled a little, absorbed in the feeling that Lester had somehow made everything okay, then rocked back, kicked his leg in the air and fired.

The ball's trajectory was just as planned. It's flight was straight and true, a white blur that rocketed toward the batter who, in recognizing the desperation of the situation, was sitting dead red all the way.

The crack of the bat was significant, a thunderous blow that resonated throughout the entire park. All eyes watched dutifully as the little white sphere arched skyward and toward the centerfield wall, sending Jimmy Llamas into a full sprint. The quirky centerfielder ran with grave determination, his eyes dancing between the flight of the ball and the grim reality of the six-foot barricade that lay waiting for him should his jaunt take him one step too far.

Llamas, despite one or two ill-advised turns, kept his direction by the ball, like a night traveler following a Northern Star. His movements were for the most part awkward and spastic, and he almost fell once or twice in his fevered pursuit. But somehow, despite the improbability of such a feat, he snagged the prodigious blast with a remarkable over-the-shoulder catch.

The crowd, which had written the game off as yet another devastating loss once the ball had left the bat, roared its approval. Suddenly, they were back in business—snatched from the jaws of defeat by a sparkling defensive gem. What could have been a bases clearing extra base hit had been rehabilitated into a relatively harmless sacrifice fly, yielding just one run scored instead of the potential three. With the score now 3–2 in favor of the Brew Crew, Mickey readied himself for the final out. The sinister trumpets of fear were much quieter now, quelled by Llama's catch and the comforting fact that he was just one out away from escaping the jam.

“Right over the plate, Mick,” Lester repeated.

Mickey, free now completely from the tremulous self pity, nodded dutifully. Standing there on the hill, with 14,000 people on
their feet calling his name, Mickey could, in this moment, forget the previous agony and make it right.

The Giants sent to the plate a pinch hitter—Nate Buckley—a left-handed line drive hitter who had been sidelined for a week with a bruised right thumb. Buckley had been itching to grab a piece of the action all game, certain that despite his ailing hand, he could make a difference. The Giants skipper did not want to use him, but with his bench already depleted, he had no choice but to send the eager Buckley to the dish with a final chance to put the visitors ahead.

Mickey wasted no time with Buckley, burning a fastball right down the pipe for a called strike one. The second pitch, a slow curveball that grazed the outer half of the plate, was called a strike as well. Buckley shook his head in disgust and stepped out of the box. He banged his cleats hard with his bat and mumbled under his breath something about glasses and distinguishing asses from elbows.

Mickey received the ball back from Lester and got right back on the rubber.

With just one strike needed to secure a most uplifting victory, the crowd, in its frenzied anticipation, rose to its feet and roared. Mickey was ready. One pitch. One pitch and it was all over.

With the pandemonium building toward fevered crescendo, Mickey rolled his arms, kicked his leg, reared back and fired. The ball came out of his hand like a torpedo. It swam deftly through the tense air and sped inexorably toward the intended target. It was the perfect pitch. Buckley, who had been prematurely anesthetized by the crowd's frenzy, suddenly felt something inside of him stir, something like a current being turned on somewhere beneath his skin. The energy was hot and prickly, and flowed to his brain where it lit his imagination with rapturous thoughts before traveling to his
arms and legs and fingers and toes, setting his entire body ablaze with unbridled determination.

For all those watching, everything at that moment seemed to creep all at once to a series of slow motion frames. The ball, which appeared to be spinning in slow motion, was true—a knee-high seed destined for Lester's yawning glove, which sat patiently behind Buckley on the inner half of the plate. It was the perfect pitch. Everyone knew it was the perfect pitch. A thin man with a mustache and eye glasses threw up his hands in premature exultation. A young blonde woman in a pretty blue dress laughed giddily and a row of impish children jumped up and down, screaming wildly about the power of their hometown hero.

The entire ballpark was rocking, was in full celebration mode when Buckley, despite the artful placement of the pitch, opened his hips and lashed the bat head through the hitting zone. The crack of the bat was mystifying, and fell across the bristling legions like a hollow darkness. Gone was the spark of buoyancy and the promise of merriment.

Just like that. Gone. It was surreal. It was dreadful.

The ball, upon being struck, leaped off the bat and sped past Mickey's glove with such force that the stunned hurler never had a chance to touch it. He could only turn helplessly and watch over his shoulder as the tiny white missile sped toward the middle of the diamond.

With the runners now in motion, and a desperate Jimmy Llamas charging in from centerfield, the unforeseen opportunity for the Giants to pull ahead overwhelmed the crowd, made them breathless. There were no more shouts of glory, no more visions of victory and all that followed. No. All of that was gone, replaced by an ominous momentary silence, an uncomfortable waiting for the proverbial axe to fall. They had all but hung their heads in abject
disappointment, and some had already begun their familiar lamentations, when the ball, still in flight, struck the second base bag, diverting the intended course right to a stunned Arky Fries, who picked up the fortuitous carom and fired it to Finster. Game over. The tiny ballpark, awakened suddenly from its tomb, erupted in thunderous shouts and applause, creating a milieu of unbridled energy that did not subside for a good ten minutes after the final out was recorded.

The post-game euphoria in the locker room was equally enthralling. There were high fives, slaps on the backs and clinking of beer bottles. Players hugged and laughed and marveled out loud over the good fortune that had befallen them. Even the management was left scratching their heads.

“Holy crap, Farley,” Murph said, unable to suppress his boy-like smile as he sat and talked about the game with his assistant. “That was huge! Unreal. Simply unreal. Have you ever seen anything like that before?”

Matheson laughed loudly. He shook his head, as though he were having some sort of seizure, then and stood up with profound vigor and purpose.

“Nope, can't say that I have, Murph. But it's good. Damn good. I seen this
sort
of thing before. You know, baseball miracles? And it's always the same. I'm telling ya, it's good. When the baseball Gods are smiling on you, ain't no mistakin' it.”

Despite a pitching rotation that was one starter short, and some residual fall out linked to the Sanders scandal, the Brewers made Matheson's prognostication stand up, going on a two-week tear that saw the resurgent Brew Crew peel off nine straight wins, catching the first place Rangers for a share of the penthouse while igniting a frenzied interest throughout the entire town.

This excitement fed off itself, morphing into a sort of willful paradise, a passionate, breathless longing for the impossible dream, an uncompromising fervor that captivated even the most dispassionate Milwaukee resident. The local butcher, bathed in this vicarious hue of the team's success, hung a large sign in his window extolling the recent exploits of the hometown heroes; many farmers, despite the daily rigors germane to tending fruitful cornfields, stripped their scarecrows of the usual flannel and denim in favor of full Brewers regalia; on every street corner, lampposts were tattooed with colorful fliers advertising the next five home dates at Borchert Field, and many of the municipal buildings closer to town decorated their doorways with Brewers flags and adorned their windows with an assortment of red and blue crepe paper streamers.

The fever was rampant.

Interest really peaked during four weeks of stellar baseball; now, after a rigorous schedule that began months ago, entrance to the playoffs came down to just one game. A one-game tie breaker—winner take all. Once again, Murph's Brew Crew would have to face McNally's Rangers on the final day of the regular season to determine their post-season fate.

In the wake of all the hoopla surrounding the Brewers incredible rise to prominence, Arthur Murphy became a wanted man—that is, a steady stream of people began showing up at his office and his home each day, all seeking an audience with the most popular guy in town. Some just wanted to be around the man, to share in the excitement that was by most estimations attributable to him. Others came by just to wish him luck, and to tell him how much his team's success meant to them personally, and of course there were a few visits from the token opportunists who happened by, seeking tickets or an autograph. Everyone wanted a piece of Murph. He must have accepted more than two dozen visits over a five-day period, most of a harmless nature, but none as strange as the one he received from Sheriff John Rosco.

“I hear you're a pretty popular fella these days, Arthur,” Rosco began, his mouth thin and tight. “Sure is a great story. I'm happy for you. You have handled this whole Lester thing with a lot of poise. I have to say—I am very impressed.”

Murph was silent for a moment.

“Well, thanks, John. That's mighty nice of you. Really. But somehow, I don't think you came all the way out here just to tell me how wonderful I am.”

“Now, what kind of comment is that? Come on, Murph. Ain't we friends?”

Murph cringed over the insipid insincerity.

“Friends? No, John, we're not friends. My friends don't threaten the people I love.”

Rosco grew moodily silent for a moment before finally answering.

“Are you still upset over that whole misunderstanding in the car with Lester?” Rosco asked. “Now I thought we were past that?”

Murph's eyes were distant. He seemed to be beyond the unscrupulous lawman.

“Okay, Murph, okay,” he continued. “You win. I'm gonna level with you. I appreciate you not showing them G men the tape. I do. That could have really been a heap of trouble for me. And I'm still not quite sure
why
you didn't. Hell if I know too much of anything these days. Anyhow, I wanted to say thanks. And, I wanted to ask you for it—the tape. I mean, if you're not gonna use it, ain't no sense in you hanging onto to it, right?”

“I'm keeping the tape, John.”

“Well, that don't make much sense now. Why would you—”

“Look, John,” Murph said, shaking his head. “I'm a busy guy these days. You may have heard. I have a big game to prepare for. So if it's all the same to you, I think—”

“Funny you should mention that,” Rosco said, laughing intently. “I just may be able to help you with that—or at least sweeten the pot a bit.”

Murph struggled with an unpleasant feeling. A nagging tapping at the base of his skull that seemed to suggest that there was even more to Rosco than he had previously imagined.

“Well,” the sheriff continued. “I hear that you've been poking around a little, inquiring about Chip McNally's alleged role in all of the monkey doings related to Lester. Makes sense. I'd be doing the same thing. But McNally's a pretty slippery fella, Murph. You know that. Ain't easy to catch a guy like that. Unless, of course,
you've got a friend who may know something—someone, let's say, who's willing to help out a bit?”

“What is it that you want, John?” Murph asked, exasperated by the sheriff's circumlocution.

“Now, there you go again, hurting my feelings, Murph,” he said. “I just want to help out. That's all. I can give you McNally—lock, stock, and barrel. He'll never be a thorn in your side again.”

“Yes… and?”

“Here's what I'm thinking. A friendly wager. You beat McNally in the big game, you can keep the tape. And, as a bonus, I'll give you the scumbag. Fair and square. I'll testify and everything. You will never have to see his sorry ass again. Wouldn't that be grand?” Murph breathed deeply and folded his arms.

“And if I lose?”

“If you lose, you give me the tape, and we never talk about this again. We close the book on this nasty little chapter forever.”

A puzzled came across Murph's face.

“Why not just make the exchange right now, John? You know, the tape for McNally? Why all the rabba dabba?”

Rosco pulled out a cigar, bit off the end, lit it and released a cloud of smoke over Murph's head.

“I'm a sportsman, Murph. Love the challenge, and the gamble. Keeps the blood flowing. Nothing like it. Besides, think about it. Should McNally win, ain't nobody gonna want to go after the guy. It'll look like sour grapes. Can't have that. Only a winner gets the sympathy of the people. That's just the way it goes.”