If I Never Get Back

by Darryl Brock

  Millar informed me that Brainard had broken in as an outfielder with the old Excelsiors and also had played second base for several New York and Washington clubs before coming to Cincinnati. As a change pitcher he hadn’t been particularly effective until the end of last season, when he’d learned to control the “chain lightnings” that made a formidable counterpoint to Harry’s “slow twisters.” Now Brainard was the team’s starter and recognized as one of the country’s best.

  The Alerts’ leadoff man topped a dribbler that Sweasy couldn’t charge fast enough to play. I watched Hurley enter a tally by his name in the “Slow Handling” column under errors in fielding. The sophistication of the score book amazed me. Symbols existed for everything—including K’s for strikeouts.

  After an out, the third hitter blooped a single over Waterman to left. Andy sprinted in with remarkable speed—Hurley was right, he could move—to contain the runners. But the next Alert squibbed a soft fly behind first, which the Stockings’ tall blond first baseman lumbered after and muffed badly. Both runners scored, the batter reaching second. Millar looked glum. Hurley muttered.

  Brainard’s next pitch seemed to have less velocity. The Alert striker poised and whipped his bat. There was a resounding tock!

  “Oh blazes!” Millar groaned. The ball soared and grew small in the darkening sky.

  Harry Wright had turned and was sprinting over the grass, back to the diamond. As he bore down on the waist-high rail fence bordering the outfield, spectators spilled from vehicles behind. I held my breath, fearing he’d hit it headlong. A step from the fence Harry took the ball over his shoulder and swiveled at the same instant; scissoring his legs high, he vaulted the fence as easily as a boy going over a hydrant. I could hardly believe what I’d seen. The crowd applauded him as he climbed back onto the field. He tipped his cap and threw the ball in, making it all look nonchalant.

  The score was 2-2 after one inning. The Rochester reporters seemed excited. So did the crowd. The favored Stockings were vulnerable after all. Across the way the pool sellers, having done extensive business at the three-to-two ratio, were now taking even money on the Alerts.

  With the sky overhead blackening, Andy stepped to the plate, jaw clenched and knuckles white on the bat.

  “Over the fence!” I yelled. “A homer, buddy!”

  “Over the fence here is but two bases,” Millar said snidely. “Didn’t you hear the captains?”

  “C’mon, Millar, don’t be a jerk.”

  “Just what does ‘be a jerk’ mean?” His glasses flashed at me. “You’re not exactly the cheese, Fowler.”

  “What?”

  Andy ended our brilliant repartee by slamming a low pitch between third and short. I cheered as he sprinted to first.

  Then the skies opened.

  “This way!” somebody yelled. We dashed across the square toward the residence of an Alert official.

  For the next hour, as rain drummed on the roof and players and reporters shouldered closer to the glowing stove, I listened to their gossip and made mental notes to check with Andy. Somebody was deemed “plucky withal and safe with the willow” and “led the scoring with five and two over.” Another needed “something stirring to be earnest—a pretty player but loose.” What did that mean? Another was “an uphill stem winder who never showed the white.” And so it went.

  There was also talk of the Stockings’ win over the Niagras, a team the Alerts would face. Somebody produced a Buffalo Courier and quoted a reference to the Cincinnatians as “rather a burly set of men,”

  Sweasy cracked, “They must’ve overlooked Andy.” It got a laugh. Andy’s smile, I thought, looked a trifle forced.

  When the downpour ended we trooped back to the diamond. Pockets of water shimmered everywhere on the infield. As numbers of spectators returned, I heard Champion urging Harry to get the field in playing shape or else they’d have to refund gate receipts.

  I swept water from the base paths with a short-handled broom and helped drain the batter’s and pitcher’s boxes. We spread sand and sawdust as fast as it could be carted to the diamond. The outfield remained a marsh.

  The game resumed with Andy on first. The Alerts soon fell prey to the slippery conditions. Solid hits by Brainard, Sweasy, and George were abetted by errors, resulting in five runs.

  The rain held off. The game moved quickly, with few of the lazy rituals or stalling tactics I automatically linked with baseball; the teams changed positions promptly and went about the business of hitting or fielding. Millar said that most contests—even those with scores resembling football totals to me—ended in less than three hours.

  By the end of the sixth the Stockings led, 14-4. A laugher. And yet excitement mounted on the sidelines. The pool sellers seemed to be writing slips faster than ever. I was about to ask Millar the reason when my attention was caught by a pale, blade-thin, black-whiskered man leaning close, to McDermott, behind the third-base line. He was tense and grim-faced, unresponsive to McDermott’s frequent guffaws. There seemed an aura of menace about him. I pointed him out to Millar.

  He lifted his spectacles, squinted, replaced them. “I hope I’m wrong,” he said. “I think it’s Le Caron.”

  “Who’s Le Caron?”

  “Fowler, if you truly work for a newspaper—”

  “Just tell me, okay?”

  He sighed. “Henri Le Caron’s likely the most brutal rough ever to emerge from Five Points. Rumor has him working for Morrissey and McDermott now, but I think he’s not been seen publicly with either before.”

  Wondering at the powerful visceral reaction I felt to the man, I said, “How do you know it’s him?”

  “He was pictured in Leslie’s and others earlier this year. It made a ripe scandal when he left prison only months into a long sentence.”

  “What had he done?”

  “Stabbed three men to death in a gambling hell.”

  My stomach tightened. “Oh.”

  “Not uncommon, of course, but because the mayor and police officials happened to be sporting there at the time, things got a bit dodgy for him. Till Tweed and that rotten Tammany bunch pulled strings.”

  “Boss Tweed?” I stared in fascination at the thin, dark man. “What was his connection?”

  “Le Caron came out of the Dead Rabbits.” Millar glanced at me significantly. “That give you the picture?”

  It didn’t, of course, and I had to pull it from him. What I learned was that political bosses like Tweed intimidated foes and controlled expanding immigrant neighborhoods partly through gangs of street hoodlums. A member of the most-feared gang, Le Caron had fought his way upward in Manhattan’s infamous Five Points slum—as had John Morrissey, former bare-knuckles boxing champ and current representative in Congress—in bloody struggles for dominance. But where Morrissey had gravitated to mainstream channels of power, Le Caron had remained what he was. I studied him as Millar talked. I’d never knowingly gazed at a murderer. For a moment, when Le Caron’s dark eyes seemed to flash directly into mine, I felt a faint chill.

  On the field the Stockings’ impressive defense was stifling the Alerts. Waterman smothered drives at the hot corner with his arms or body, snatching the ball and rifling what Hurley jokingly called “finger breakers” to the blond first baseman, who took them casually, possessing, I decided, no pain threshold whatever.

  The Stocking catcher also seemed indifferent to pain. Reacting with a cat’s quickness, he snagged everything, even tipped balls, with sure-handed ease. Unlike the Alerts’ receiver, he stood upright, not crouching. Since I’d played mostly catcher myself, I found the technique intriguing—and suicidal. The guy’s body must be a mess.

  But the Cincinnati star was unmistakably George Wright. I’d never seen a better shortstop, with or without a glove. He ranged over the field spearing balls most players couldn’t have reached with butterfly nets. He leaped high to knock down liners, drifted gracefully beneath pop-ups, glided deep in the hole to launch white streaks that nipped runners a
t first. Andy was right. They were fortunate to have him. At any price.

  In the bottom of the ninth the Alerts went to bat trailing 18—7. The Stockings’ lead began to look less comfortable when Brainard, tiring, allowed a succession of hits, some of which found outfield gaps for extra bases. By the time two were away, a pair of runs had scored and the bases were loaded.

  Millar squirmed and drummed his fingers on the table. Three more Alert runs would bring the score to 18-12, a 3—2 ratio. We would still win the game in all probability—but McDermott would cash in on a far larger scale. Sensing momentum shifting their way, the Alerts were keyed up. So was the crowd. I checked out the gambling booths and saw McDermott whooping it up. Le Caron was no longer in sight.

  There was a lull as Harry trotted in from center to huddle with Brainard. “Harry’ll pitch now,” Millar mused. “And yet I can’t imagine he wants Asa in the field, wet as it is. Brainard’s slow afoot.”

  “Can’t Hurley go in?” I asked.

  “After the third inning, the rules allow replacements only for injuries.

  “Third inning? Why is that?”

  “So clubs can’t influence betting odds by holding out ace ballists for critical moments. Players on the field may exchange positions any time, however.”

  “I get it,” I said. “That’s why ‘change pitcher,’ ‘change catcher.’”

  He nodded distractedly. “Asa’s staying.”

  Brainard stood rubbing the filthy ball—it had been in use the whole game—and eyeing the Alerts’ cleanup man, a stocky outfielder named Glenn who’d hit him hard all afternoon. The crowd was standing and cheering. The gambling element formed a bellowing fist-waving mass that pushed hard at the third-base restraining rope. Waterman eyed them warily. A few broke through and were pushed back roughly by blue-uniformed cops. One man slipped and toppled backward into the mud. McDermott, standing nearby, laughed uproariously at the sprawled figure.

  “They’re drunk,” Millar said contemptuously. “Whiskey sellers been over there all afternoon. Shouldn’t be allowed—we don’t at home. It brings out the worst side of the worst element.”

  I’d seen the vendors with their large baskets on leather straps; most of them sold hard candy, peanuts, and lemonade. But the biggest business that cool afternoon had gone to those hawking “Spirits!”

  After the police restored order, Brainard twisted into his windup, arm flashing, feet dancing. The ball sped in at knee level. Glenn swung hard and sent a low skittering drive up the middle. In the crowd’s instantaneous reaction I heard Sweasy yell, “Shit!” He’d shaded toward first and had no chance. Neither did George Wright at short. But he sprinted after the ball anyway, reflexively pursuing some unseen possibility. The runners, off with the pitch, tore around the bases. Glenn pumped toward first.

  Nobody could believe what happened next.

  The ball struck the second-base bag, bounded into short center—and did not bound again. It landed squarely in a puddle. And that was where George caught up with it. Running full tilt, bending low, he plunged his left hand down as if snatching at a fish. Simultaneously he pivoted toward first; the effort cost him his footing, his lunging body toppling forward. Twisting in midair, he flung the ball in a spray of mud and water, threw it with his wrong hand, his left hand, under his body—and splashed face first into another puddle. How he got anything on the throw was hard to imagine. But he did. The ball rocketed to the first baseman, who stretched and took it a split second before Glenn’s straining foot kicked the bag.

  “Out!” yelled the umpire, raising the classic thumb.

  The game was over.

  For a moment silence enveloped the diamond. Then the Stockings broke from their positions, jumping and whooping, running to George, who climbed slowly from the quagmire, a tar-baby figure, his white teeth gleaming through a layer of mud.

  Millar and Hurley leaped from the table and dashed on the field.

  Champion strode after them. I started out too, then hung back, made shy by the awareness that I was not one of them. I’d almost forgotten it in the excitement.

  The crowd applauded George graciously. The Alerts formed a huddle and boomed three cheers for the visitors. I tried to imagine Steinbrenner’s Yankees hip-hurrahing the Red Sox after dropping a close one. The Stockings returned the cheers, lifted George from the mud, and placed him on their shoulders.

  “We are a band of ball players

  From Cincinnati City.

  We go to toss the ball around

  And sing to you our ditty.

  Hurrah, hurrah,

  For the noble game hurrah. . . . “

  I looked on silently, envying them their joy, their accomplishment, their belonging. My glance wandered to where McDermott had been standing. He was gone. His absence caused a strange disquiet in me and I scanned the area behind. The long table was empty now except for the score book and the metal box holding the Stockings’ share of the gate receipts.

  The cash box.

  Moved by an uneasy premonition, I stepped toward the table. And that’s when I saw Le Caron edging through the crowd, angling toward it. He seemed to be keeping a wary watch on the diamond. Probably just paranoia on my part, I told myself, but nonetheless I circled the opposite way through the crowd, on a diagonal to him.

  The table stood several yards inside the restraining rope. The box lay in reach of anyone who dared to duck inside, take two long strides, then turn and vanish into the crowd. Le Caron edged to the rope and took a quick glance at the field. I knew then that he would make the attempt.

  If I’d had time to think, I might have hesitated. Tension knotted my stomach and bunched my shoulders. I stepped to the rope as Le Caron darted inside. He seized the cash box. I came up under the barrier as he turned, and clamped my hand over the wrist bearing the box.

  “Wha—!” He struggled to wrench his arm back. I yanked his skinny wrist hard. The box tumbled free and burst open on the ground. Le Caron was wiry, snake quick in his movements, but not strong enough to pull free. He stumbled toward me and I spun him like a dancing partner, twisting his arm behind him and jamming it toward his neck. He gasped in pain and tried to twist away. I pulled him back by ramming my left forearm against his windpipe.

  “I’ll cut you,” he wheezed, reaching across his body with his free hand. I shoved his arm higher and he froze.

  “Shut up or I’ll snap it!” I said. I had no idea what to do next.

  “What’s this ruckus?” a loud voice called. “What’re you doing to him?”

  McDermott pushed past hushed onlookers and ducked under the rope. He wasn’t guffawing now. In fact, he looked as grim as the sap he gripped.

  “Ask him,” I said, wheeling so that Le Caron became a shield. He raised his foot to stomp mine, but changed his mind when again I thrust his arm to the breaking point.

  McDermott crouched and started for me, then stopped and stared over my shoulder.

  “Is there a problem?” A calm British-inflected voice spoke behind me. I took a quick look. Harry Wright stood with a bat resting on his shoulder. He looked relaxed, but his eyes were locked with McDermott’s.

  “He went for the cash box,” I said.

  “Liar!” spat Le Caron. “The bastard jumped me!”

  “I’m thinking there’s a mistake,” McDermott said, sounding more affable. “I happened to see it all. Your man misjudged this lad’s intent. Sure, an’ he acted in haste. We need to set this square.”

  “Let him go.” Harry stepped up beside me, bat still cradled.

  I released Le Caron and stepped back quickly. He straightened, rubbing his arm. I watched him closely. The menace I had sensed at a distance was magnified now. Partly it was physical—the sallow face pitted with pox scars above the black beard, the teeth greenish and rotten-looking—but it was more: the man radiated some sort of evil, strong as a force field. I’d never felt anything like it. His glittering black eyes fixed on mine.

  “It was no mistake,” I said. “He
was stealing—”

  “Are there other witnesses?” Harry asked.

  We looked around. People were already edging away; those remaining claimed to have seen nothing.

  McDermott smiled, his eyes cold. “Your lads showed well today. Be a shame to ruin it now.” He took Le Caron’s good arm. “We’ll see you in Troy. It’s my thought your paid ballists will get their due against the Haymaker lads.”

  “You’d be well advised,” Harry said, “to keep a proper distance from our table, to avoid—”

  “—misunderstandings,” McDermott finished. “Your meaning’s taken. I’ve a word of advice, too—instruct your big boyo there to consider before assaulting others. Trouble lies in that for him.” He shook his head dolefully and turned away. Le Caron’s mouth twisted in a thin smile, his eyes still fastened on mine; then he followed McDermott into the crowd.

  “If Red Jim’s companion is who I suspect, you’ve made quite a pair of friends,” Harry said, stooping over the box. “Fowler, did you realize that all of our money, over five hundred, is here?”

  Champion strode up, frowning. “Who were those men?”

  Harry explained what had happened. “Our guest showed rare courage,” he concluded. “Or exceptional foolhardiness. In any event he saved the day.”

  Champion rubbed his jaw, no doubt considering how close they’d come to packing for home. He extended his hand. “Fowler, you’ve done us a most valiant service.”

  I’d had the thought earlier that maybe the best thing for me would be to try to hook on with a New York daily newspaper. Now as we shook I waited for what I hoped would come.

  “Is there a service we can perform in return?”

  Ah, good man. “How about letting me travel with you—I’ll repay the costs—until we get to Manhattan?”