If I Never Get Back

by Darryl Brock

  Now Troy was a booming steel-manufacturing center, not yet superseded by Pittsburgh. The city’s flood of wartime manufactures had included the metal plates that girded the Monitor.

  The smokestacks were quiet this morning, but as we drew close I saw them looming everywhere, thrusting above the factories like black fingers.

  We checked into the Mansion House, a small inn near the river that boasted a fine table and comfortable beds. I lay down on mine, took out my Mrs. Sloan’s, and had a healthy pull.

  “What are you doin’?” Andy demanded.

  “Hair of the dog.”

  “I don’t want you drinkin’.”

  I was silent.

  He stood over me. “I mean it.”

  “For Chrissakes, Andy—”

  “It was runnin’ your life, wasn’t it, Sam?”

  “I don’t believe that’s any of your—”

  “It is my concern.” His green eyes glittered, “Drink killed my father. I’m not temperance, Sam, but it’s time to put things on the square. You fall into the bottle, you say good-bye to me.”

  I stared at him, Mrs. Sloan already starting to muddle my brain. “Killed your father?”

  “Drink did it. You understand what I’m sayin’?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I understand.”

  In the afternoon I awoke to a babble of noise. Andy rose from a writing table.

  “What’s the commotion?”

  “They discovered we’re here.”

  “Who?”

  “Townfolk, already in a sweat.”

  I looked through the window. A throng of people worked at stretching a banner across the street: unions over Cincinnati! The Haymakers, Andy said, were officially the Unions of Lansingburgh, a suburb north of Troy City. Cheers erupted as a dummy with red feet was elevated on pitchforks and suspended from the hotel’s eaves, where it dangled at the end of a noose.

  “They’re pretty intense,” I said.

  “Wait’ll the sporting crowd shows up. This is our biggest match before we get to Brooklyn. Last year the Stockings came here and drubbed the Haymakers twenty-seven to eight. They been freezin’ for revenge ever since. Built a crack team—same as we’ve done.”

  “Who’s favored?”

  “Oh, the pool sellers’ll always puff the East club. ’Specially since the Haymakers think they’re going to take the whip pennant this year.”

  “What’s that, the championship?”

  “Yes, the flag. The top club keeps it till they lose twice in a match of three. Then it goes to whoever beats ’em. The Haymakers think it’s as good as flyin’ over their grounds already.” He laughed. “We’ll have somethin’ to say about that.”

  Again I felt excitement at the prospect of a tough clash. “You nervous about tomorrow?”

  He shrugged. “Are you?”

  “A little.”

  “I’ll likely fret some.” The green eyes regarded me calmly. “It’s natural. But there’s a prime thing to keep in mind.”

  “What’s that?”

  “We didn’t come all the way out here to get warmed.”

  I smiled at his single-mindedness. “I’ll try to remember that.”

  We spent the day quietly. Andy and the other Catholic players went to Mass, while Harry, Champion, and a few others took in an Episcopal service. Brainard, Sweasy, and Waterman disappeared to explore more secular pursuits.

  I occupied an overstuffed divan in the Mansion House lobby and tried to make sense of the news. The Troy Times carried a piece on the Stockings’ victories in the young season, lifted almost verbatim from Millar’s stat-laden press release. Why were sportswriters always nuts about numbers?

  The front pages were devoted to a national peace jubilee scheduled in Boston the following week. Grant and his cabinet would be there. Choirs fifteen thousand strong would sing in the week-long event. Overseas, England’s Parliament was hotly debating disestablishing the Irish Church, while in Cuba the guerillas continued their struggle against Spanish rule. From the Far West—grouped with items from Calcutta and Madagascar—General Custar [sic] had telegraphed to scotch rumors of his demise at the hands of the Pawnee.

  I wrestled with the problem of foreknowledge, remembering that the blond cavalry commander met his fabled end in June 1876, almost exactly seven years ahead. Should I try to warn Custer? Use any argument that might spare all those lives? Would he listen? Did I have the right to interfere with events? Minding my business suited my temperament and seemed more sensible, but even doing nothing I risked altering history. My presence here was doubtless an alteration in itself.

  Had I asked for any of this?

  The Haymakers sent neither delegates nor carriages on Monday. We ate shortly after noon. The atmosphere was tense. Sweasy tried, “Say, ‘d you hear the one about the Yankee peddler and the farmer’s fat daughter?” In unison, Waterman and Allison told him to shut up.

  Up in our room I spread out the accessories Harry had given me: a jock strap of stiff webbing with attached tie strings, a thick leather belt, red stockings, and elastic bands.

  By wearing the belt—it was so wide and rigid it felt like a girdle—low on my hips I managed to make Gould’s pants stretch below my knees. The flannel jersey felt heavy as a blanket. My wrists extended from the sleeves like a scarecrow’s and the shoulder seams cramped my armpits. With spiked shoes in hand—mine half a size small—we walked on stockinged feet, a silent procession moving down the boardwalk to the horsecars. Bands of ragged boys and older tobacco-spitting youths swarmed around.

  “Youse jakes’ll get whipped!” they yelled. “The Haymakers’ll lay over you milk-and-water bastids!” They hurled dirt clods with insults and darted close to spit at the windows. A street scene out of Dickens. When Champion wasn’t looking, Sweasy gave them the finger.

  We moved along River Street through North Troy, an industrial scape with steel mills, carriage works, and steam-powered knitting factories. Many of them were letting workers out early to see the game; they lined our route, faces pallid, some already lurching drunk-enly. The streets resonated with animals and vehicles, pedestrians, shouts and curses and cracking whips. Sweating cops on horseback tried to free intersections.

  We crawled past a cemetery, past the huge Ludlow Valve Works, into Lansingburgh. Tree-shaded lanes ascended from the Hudson. Lining them were Dutch Renaissance mansions with steep roofs and narrow windows, and bristling with gables, towers, and ironwork.

  We reached open land. The Haymakers’ grounds lay in a natural amphitheater formed by sloping hillsides. Fences hadn’t been erected, but the crowd formed a dense barrier around the playing area. Millar estimated ten thousand on hand, and more were flooding in. Already the noise level was formidable.

  George Wright grinned at me, excitement flashing in his eyes, and said, “How’s this for high?”

  It was a high. Imagine the most exciting day of early summer when you were young and everything was vibrant and the world teemed with possibilities. That was the afternoon we had, clear and sparkling, breezes heightening the air’s crispness. Perfect for baseball. I felt like I was thirteen again. We pushed through the crowd. Before us lay the field, a green mat surrounded by swirling color and sound.

  Harry stopped and grouped us. His eyes met mine, moved briefly to those of the others. “We know what these fellows are,” he said, his words barely audible. “Let’s show them our ginger today.” Head high, he turned toward the field. We marched in single rank, eleven abreast, in rough step. Andy was on my left, Hurley my right. Our crimson stockings flashed across the grass. From the crowd came an anticipatory roar.

  Into the grinder, I thought.

  And I had a sudden and very clear realization that there was nowhere else I’d rather be.

  The Haymakers were not in evidence. We spread over the diamond to warm up. George and the others began their flashy routine, but here it brought jeers. George pirouetted and tipped his cap. His cockiness buoyed me. The hotter things were, the happie
r he looked. He was a truly joyous competitor—or just plain crazy.

  Andy tossed blades of grass to assess the wind. He asked me to throw balls over his head for him to take going away. His accurate return throws bounced in gently, away from my sore hand. Nearby, in the shade of a large wooden grandstand, a cluster of canvas-topped booths lent a carnival touch. Near some I recognized pool sellers from their pads of wager slips and unceasing cries of odds—which currently favored the Haymakers at better than two to one. I asked Andy who operated the others.

  “Thimbleriggers,” he said scornfully. “Punchboard operators, three-card monte sharps.” With visions of quick wealth they systematically separated factory workers and farmhands from their meager coins and bills.

  The gambling element sported gaudy outfits, twinkled with diamond stickpins, twirled ivory-handled canes and umbrellas, and showed off an array of ultrafashionable headwear from stovepipe “plugs” and fedoras to derbies and boaters. Among them prowled bejeweled women in satins, silks, and velvets. Their faces were white with powder, their lips blood red, their eyes predatory.

  A momentary hush descended on the booths. People fell back as a cream-colored barouche drawn by matched white mares approached. A man stepped out looming powerful and dark, his jaw shadowed blue though smooth shaven, his eyes deep and probing beneath thick brows. His tan suit was elegant and he carried a gold-knobbed walking stick.

  He offered his arm and a woman stepped out, skirts bunched, boots gliding down the coach’s steps. I stopped breathing as I tried to memorize her. Ringlets of ash-blond hair peeked from a scarlet cap, glinting pale gold in the sunlight and framing her oval face. A gray satin dress with scarlet trim set off alabaster skin and large blue-violet eyes. Her mouth was wide and sensual, her lips full. She smiled. The afternoon took on even more radiance.

  “Who are they?” I asked Andy.

  “Congressman Morrissey,” he said. “I’ve never laid eyes on even the half of her before.”

  I resolved on the spot to find out about Morrissey and his companion. Especially the companion. As they promenaded to the grandstand she looked toward the diamond. For an electric instant my gaze touched hers. I stared, transfixed. She glanced away, then to my surprise tilted her chin and turned back to meet my eyes. Some spark of intense blue-violet energy flashed. I wanted her desperately—and was sure she knew. She tossed her head and laughed—a glimpse of white teeth and pink tongue—but I couldn’t tell whether at me or in response to Morrissey.

  “My lord,” Andy whispered. “Ain’t she some dry goods? Did you see her lookin’ at me?”

  “At you?”

  “Sure as sin she was sparkin’ Mrs. Leonard’s boy. Ain’t she some belle? Ain’t she . . . darling?”

  It sounded almost sacred. I glanced at him. He looked goofy. No matter that she was light-years out of his league. No matter that she was on the arm of one of the state’s most powerful men. No matter that she’d actually been looking at me. Poor deluded Andy.

  “Here, what’s this!” Harry yelled.

  We threw with guilty haste. Then a loud voice sounded nearby. “So he’s a damned revolver!” Red Jim McDermott stood pointing at me with grim satisfaction. “For a fact we’ll be investigatin’ this, have no fear!”

  Harry moved over quickly. “Investigate what?”

  “Faith, an’ you needn’t play-act, Mr. Holier-Than-Thou Wright. Fleshin’ out your nine with a revolver, is it? You’ll get what you deserve!” He strode after Morrissey.

  Harry frowned at me. “You came from another club?”

  “Are you kidding? Do I look like I’ve been playing?”

  “Yale,” Andy reminded me.

  “You’re wearing our colors now,” Harry said. “Yale is no concern to me, but if you were affiliated with any but a college club during the past sixty days, the Haymakers can claim this match by forfeit.”

  “No problem,” I said. “McDermott could scour the globe for fifty years and find no trace of me playing ball.” Or anything else about me, I thought.

  “Given Red Jim’s temperament,” Harry said, “that’s a good thing. Very well, I believe you.”

  A roar burst forth as the Haymakers careened on the field in carriages decked with bunting and streamers. In the grandstand a brass band began to play. Girls in farm dresses held pitchforks to form an archway through which the Haymakers ran to home plate. They wore long brown corduroy pants, black spiked boots, and white jerseys. I didn’t like their looks: a burly, hard-eyed lot, bigger than us.

  A man with a megaphone stepped forward to announce them one by one. Hurley accompanied the introductions with sketches of those likely to cause us trouble.

  “STEVE BELLAN, CENTER FIELD.” An olive-skinned, black-haired athlete who smiled calmly as he sized us up.

  “Esteban Enrique Bellan,” reported Hurley. “Comes from a rich Havana family. Played at Fordham when I was with Columbia. He’s a safe hitter, not heavy. Quick on the base paths. He’ll rip you if you don’t watch his spikes.” Hurley spat a stream of tobacco. “Course all the Haymakers’ll do that.”

  “They will?”

  He nodded judiciously. “Especially if they’re playing to win—like today.”

  Great, I thought.

  “WILLIAM ‘CHEROKEE’ FISHER, PITCHER.” A dour bullet-headed individual with gimlet eyes, close-cropped blond hair, and droopy mustache.

  “They say he can split a board with his tosses. He pitched for the Buckeyes in Cincinnati last year and hates the Stockings, but has yet to beat us. If you ever strike against him, be set to low-bridge. Fisher can be dead wild when it suits him.”

  “Wonderful,” I said.

  “MART KING, THIRD BASE . . . STEVE KING, LEFT FIELD.” Hulking, moon-faced brothers with massive shoulders and biceps bulging from their rolled sleeves.

  “Mart’s the younger and meaner, already big as a firehouse. They live for home runs and fancy catches. Generally spoiling to fight, too; give one of ’em a queer look and both of ’em ’ll lay into you quicker’n powder.”

  “CLIPPER FLYNN, RIGHT FIELD.” In his late teens, body whippet lean, features chiseled a bit too fine, loving the figure he cut as he mugged and winked at the stands, drawing young girls’ giggles and their escorts’ glares.

  “He’s easy bought, it’s said. Got caught using a false name with the Putnams in ’sixty-seven. He’s plucky enough, though not the ace he thinks. He’s heavy at bat and runs hell-to-split.” Hurley spat again. “I’d give a half eagle to watch Andy humble him in a footrace. Then I’d render him an Irish hoist—my boot to his ass.”

  The Haymaker captain was announced last. The crowd rumbled in anticipation. “WILLIAM CRAVER, CATCHER.” He thrust a massive fist upward, an animal-like man with a thick torso set on squat, powerful legs. A black mustache curled up the sides of his oblong jaw. The smile on his meaty lips was not reflected in cold, wide-set eyes that scanned us above a mashed-in nose.

  “Will Craver’s every brand of trouble you can imagine. During the Secesh war, when most of us were home playing ball as lads, he signed on as a drummer boy. Saw four years of hell and came out twisted. Temper’s short as piecrust now, and he’s said to take pleasure from seeing pain—’specially when he’s the cause of it.”

  I reflected on that for a long moment. “Sounds like he needs a padded cell, not a ball field.”

  “‘Padded cell’?” Hurley looked amused. “Don’t mistake me, Craver’s a first-rate ballist. Strikes with the heaviest. Throws down runners like operating a gatling gun. He’s steady and fearless.”

  Sure, I thought, psychos often are.

  “Crooked, though,” Hurley added. “Owned by Morrissey and McDermott—but hell, the whole club is. And he’d never blink at hippodroming.”

  “At what?”

  “Playing to the odds, maybe even losing, to cash in.”

  “You mean he’d throw this game?”

  “No, they’re backed by the big sporting money today; he’ll play square. They’
re freezing to humble us, too.”

  I gazed at the burly figure. “He’s built like a bull.”

  “He’s called ‘Bull’ Craver by some. But I wouldn’t care to say it to his face.” Hurley looked at me expectantly. “‘Cheated of feature by dissembling nature . . . I that am not shaped for sportive tricks.’”

  “Richard the Third?”

  “Not half bad!” He seemed startled. “You show rare promise, Fowler.”

  While Harry and Craver met, the band blared marches. The music was ill-suited to baseball, suggesting to me more the supercharged atmosphere of college football.

  “Will they play the anthem?” I asked.

  “The which?”

  “‘The Star-Spangled Banner.’”

  “Oh, the national ballad. What for? This is a ball match, not the Senate.”

  At least one bit of jingoistic idiocy hadn’t yet lodged in the national psyche, I thought.

  The captains’ negotiations dragged on. By the rules, home teams proposed umpires; visitors approved. Harry flatly rejected Craver’s first choice. The rules also stipulated that a visiting club provide the game ball subject to a host’s concurrence. Craver refused our dead ball, insisting on a Ryan Bounding Rock, the liveliest ball in existence, certain to maximize the Haymakers’ slugging over our fielding edge.

  The captains finally parted. Harry returned and said, “P and S.” Which turned out to mean we’d be using a Peck & Snyder New Professional Dead Ball, livelier than ours, less elastic than the Ryan. Harry bent over the score book to enter the name of the compromise umpire, one J. Feltch, from nearby Cohoes.

  From its outset the game was a war. Harry won the toss and sent the Haymakers to bat. As Brainard ambled to the box, toothpick in place, the jockeying began.

  “There’s Brain-hard, the gut-bellied tit!”

  “His pitching motion comes from planing privy seats!”

  “He could use it to jerk off his whole nine!”

  They guffawed and poked each other. Brainard paid no attention. Bellan, their leadoff man, stepped in and watched a rising belt-high fastball split the plate.