If I Never Get Back

by Darryl Brock

  That night at the Alhambra Theater I felt something else, considerably more unpleasant. As the curtain rose I was suddenly sweaty and faint, my fingers shaking. The calcium stage lights seemed to pulsate, a strobe effect in my brain. I shut my eyes tightly. What the hell was going on? After long moments the sensations subsided. I thought the milkiness had been about to come on during the worst of it. I didn’t like that one bit.

  Around me, the Eagles and Stockings were resplendent in their colors. This era’s ball clubs regularly wore their uniforms on public occasions. Here it helped Hatton boost game attendance. And it wouldn’t hurt Elise either. With much pomp we had been seated in a dress-circle section set off by red bunting.

  Elise’s extravaganza was called Military Billy Taylor, or Life in the Cariboos. She played the title role of a Scotchman wooing the same woman as one General Jenks. Her antics got her into varying degrees of undress. The production numbers were filled with blondes in tights—particularly one called the “humbrageous humbrella tree,” a gilded prop that spread itself each time the temperature reached 180 degrees, a phenomenon produced by Elise’s dancing.

  As she took her final bows she was presented a bouquet of roses. She glanced at the card, then waved grandly at us in the dress circle.

  “I think she wants to meet you,” I said to Andy.

  He stared at me. “Oh, no, Sam, you didn’t. . . .”

  I took him backstage, where it didn’t take Elise long to figure out that the flowers, from “A. J. Leonard, Cincinnati,” were my doing. Since Andy was hopelessly tongue-tied, she did the talking, even to the point of asking about baseball. I could feel her assessing him, finding him attractive. He was lithe and muscular in his uniform, much more her size than I. His nervousness did not obscure his athlete’s physical-ity.

  “Would you buy a lady a glass of champagne?”

  She wasn’t looking at me.

  “Why . . . uh . . . surely,” said Andy.

  “Guess I’ll be leaving,” I said. Her blue eyes flicked at me in amusement. Andy, I suspected, was in for a hell of a time. With tomorrow Sunday, and no game to be played, Champion was unlikely to run a bed check. Some guys got every break.

  As I passed the Mercantile Library on my way back to the Cosmopolitan, my vision suddenly did its half-light trick again, and my pulse seemed to flutter. Something caused me to glance up at a passing carriage. I saw a moon countenance framed in its window, a dumpling face fringed with long girlish ringlets. I couldn’t tell if the eyes were pale, but I would have sworn I was looking at Clara Antonia. The carriage turned up Montgomery and disappeared. The whole sequence took no longer than a few seconds, but I couldn’t put it out of my mind.

  Hatton arrived with coaches at noon. It was eighty-five degrees downtown. The Stockings grumbled that in any single day here they’d see every gradation of Cincinnati’s weather from April to November.

  “Where’s Andy?” I asked Sweasy.

  “Not feelin’ tip-top.” He flashed me a look. “Said he’d rest up today.”

  We moved away from the others.

  “He didn’t come in last night,” Sweasy said worriedly. “Just sent a note saying to cover up for him. You think he got shanghaied?”

  “Not in the usual sense,” I said.

  The Cliff House was a long, low, pyramid-roofed building bearing a huge American flag and standing exactly on the site of the larger establishment I’d known. Hundreds of rigs and teams were hitched at the racks in front. On a deck built on the ocean side Sunday couples sipped sherry and peered through binoculars. We walked to the edge of the bluff and watched combers surge against the shore. Below on the guano-encrusted crags of Seal Rocks, a family of sea lions, glistening like gray slugs, loosed occasional coughing barks.

  “We’ve stood on both coasts,” Harry said. “By the time we’re home we’ll have gone ten thousand miles.”

  Captain Junius Foster, owner of the Cliff House, greeted us warmly. We sat down to a meal of breast of guinea, terrapin, and hangtown fries. I eyed the elegantly dressed clientele drinking cocktails. The Cliff House was doing great business for a place so far outside the city, no bus or horsecar lines remotely near.

  “The social set all patronize it,” Hatton told me. “And young blades who like to race their flyers along the road.” He nudged me. “Not to mention a certain fast breed of women who take pleasure in champagne lunching.”

  No sooner had he said it than heads began to turn. A lavish hansom, its brass and lacquered surfaces gleaming in the sunlight, pulled in beside ours. A uniformed groom hitched the horses. We watched in astonishment as Andy emerged. He offered his hand, and Elise Holt took it and stepped gracefully down. Arms linked, they walked toward us.

  “Oh my,” breathed Brainard, next to me. “Oh my!”

  A low hum came from the others, then somebody clapped. Then we were all on our feet, applauding and cheering. Elise smiled winningly. Andy’s face was strawberry red.

  “Thank you,” Elise purred. “I wanted to thank all you gentlemen for your patronage last night. And for your kindness in allowing Mr. Leonard to escort me here.”

  “Mr. Leonard,” Brainard echoed in wonderment.

  Elise marched up to Champion. “I wish you to know, sir, that Mr. Leonard speaks with utmost praise of your presidency of the Cincinnati club.”

  “I . . . thank you,” Champion managed, twisting his napkin.

  She complimented Harry in similar terms. He bowed in response. Beneath the straight face and courtly manners, I suspected that Harry was amused. Then Elise moved along the line of players, flirting with George, admiring Gould’s and Mac’s muscles, asking Brainard how he hurled the ball so fast.

  “Thank you especially, Sam,” she said when she reached me, and winked, prompting another mutter from Brainard.

  Taking Andy’s arm, she allowed herself to be escorted to the carriage.

  “Jesus Q. Christ,” said Brainard.

  “Looks like the boy’s gone and gotten himself involved,” I said.

  “Seems like she knows you pretty good, too,” he said suspiciously. “You’re some at stirring things up.”

  “From you, that’s high praise.”

  Harry stood up as Andy returned. “My boy . . .” he began.

  “I fancy her,” Andy said. “And that’s all I’m saying.”

  Harry regarded him intently. Brainard and I exchanged sidelong glances. At length Harry said, “Welcome to dinner, lad.”

  At that point Gould stepped close to Millar, pushed his chin up with one thick, gnarled finger, and said, “If this shows up in the papers, I’ll break your bones.”

  “Me too,” said Sweasy.

  “Me too,” said Waterman.

  Millar reached up and carefully moved Gould’s finger aside. “I saw nothing of note here,” he said.

  Even Champion smiled.

  We spent the balmy hours climbing rocks and walking the beaches. Being on the western edge of the continent was exciting for the others. For me it was bittersweet, laden with memories that seemed as evanescent as the ocean spray rising in the afternoon sun. I watched two little girls playing with a puppy in the distance, dancing in and out of the waves. If only my girls were with me. I’d take them back to Cincinnati to make a life with Cait, or bring her and Timmy here. I wished that I could find a pathway from one family to another, one time to another.

  Andy stayed close to me, talking excitedly of Elise. He would see her in the off-season, save money so he could travel to wherever she was playing. She was grand, wasn’t she? Did I think she cared for him the same way he cared for her? Wasn’t love the most awful and beautiful condition, all at once?

  Finally he broke off and looked at me. “Sam, what’s wrong? You got the blue devils?”

  My fingers were shaking again. “Sort of.”

  “Seems like you’re workin’ awful hard at something,” he said. “Is it something you can fix?”

  I watched a squadron of pelicans skim the crests of r
olling waves. “I’m not sure.”

  In the distance a snowy sail bobbed up regularly and was eclipsed by the combers; it moved toward the Golden Gate, gradually rounding the headland. Something seemed to speak to me from the ocean, some note in the rhythmic surf, a muted song in the wind that blew with increasing strength and chill in the waning afternoon. If it held any particular message, I didn’t know what it might be.

  Chapter 29

  There was a good deal of betting in the Cosmopolitan lobby next morning. I finally went for a walk to get away from it. But there was no escape. Everywhere, I saw reminders of institutionalized greed. On Montgomery and California, following the Gold Room’s lead, the brokerage houses were closed. The papers reported the suicide of an eastern banker. Here in the Golden City, even ferries carried such names as Gold and Capital. When banker William Ralston had opened his California Theater earlier this year, the first play had been titled, appropriately, Money.

  The Gilded Age indeed, with everybody on the make.

  Temperatures were in the eighties at the Recreation Grounds. A fair-sized crowd, smaller than the first, showed up. One interesting feature—a ten-minute intermission—came at the end of the sixth inning. Millar sniffingly said it was a dodge to sell more liquor and concessions. A ballpark bar was conspicuously open during games here.

  The Eagles played less nervously than before, but it didn’t matter. At the plate we were deadly, pounding out fifty-five hits and six homers and rounding the bases with dulling regularity. Brainard allowed only a handful of Eagle base runners. In the ninth we relented a bit—Allison went so far as to bat lefty—and they got a few gift runs.

  The final was 58—4.

  I should have bet.

  In following days my periods of shakiness grew in intensity. At times it was a struggle to stay tuned in to anything around me. I had trouble composing my dispatches. I knew I appeared distracted, but I couldn’t seem to do much about it.

  On Tuesday the additions of Champion, and Oak Taylor transformed the Stockings into a cricket eleven. Behind the bowling of Harry and George, they shocked a group of California all-star cricketers, decisively winning a seven-hour match. Champion moved surprisingly well for a man of his bulk. Harry had conducted a crash cricket seminar beforehand, and that, given the Stockings’ fielding ability and George’s formidable batting, proved to be enough.

  The next day, winds near gale force whipped clouds of sand across the diamond, nearly blinding hitters and fielders alike. Opposing us were the Pacifics, who had narrowly lost the city championship to the Eagles. Diehard bettors expected them to outperform their rivals against us.

  At the outset it looked like they might. In the first, a Pacific hitter spanked a ball off Gould’s frigid hands and broke for second on the next pitch. Allison had him easily, but the ball soared on a howling gust over Sweasy into center. The runner scored when Brainard uncorked a gloriously wild pitch into the wind. The crowd hooted. The Stockings looked resigned. Throughout the long afternoon they staggered beneath windblown flies like a band of drunks—but managed to catch most.

  The Pacifics got only two safe hits the entire game. Meanwhile, we went to work with a vengeance. Gould slammed two homers, George, Harry, and Andy had one apiece—Andy’s a wind-aided grand slam—and the contest ended after six innings with darkness approaching and the score 66-4. I felt sorry for the Pacifics.

  I talked afterward with the Shepard brothers, Pacific infielders who had played with Harry on old Knickerbocker clubs. Dedicated athletes, they were training for a ten-mile footrace at the Recreation Grounds the coming Sunday. Velocipede events were also scheduled. I decided I’d get Johnny to come out and watch them with me.

  “The Base-Ball season has fairly commenced,” reported the Morning Call, “and with an energy unknown before.” Each day new clubs were formed: the Green Stockings, Silver Stockings, Gray Socks—a profusion of colors blossoming throughout the city. Others called themselves the Arctics, Young Bay Citys, Vigilants, and Young Pacifics, and were made up of clerks—often games started at six a.m., before work—businessmen, judges, bankers, draymen, and firemen; there was even a Fat Men squad whose players each topped 250 pounds.

  Papers bristled with suggestions for improving hometown performance against us. Most involved imitating our play, but a few remained hostile. The Golden Era pointed out with some acerbity that, “The Red Stockings are professionals who do nothing else and are paid for doing that.”

  Savvy entrepreneurs worked us into their newspaper puffs. One dry-goods establishment announced the sale of “Red Stockings and all kinds of underwear, shirts, ties, etc.” The Cliff House crowed, “Those lionized Red Stockings went out to see Captain Foster’s educated sea lions!”

  Meanwhile, invitations to play poured in from clubs in Portland, Carson City, Cheyenne, Laramie, Denver, Virginia City, and Omaha; we were offered a gold medal to play at the State Fair in Stockton. Had it been up to Champion, we probably would have accepted all of them.

  But the players were tired of being away from home, especially tired of San Francisco.

  “We went through everything in three days,” Gould complained. “Nothin’s here but sand hills and Mongolians.”

  “Chinee’re taking over everything,” Sweasy said.

  “Cincinnati is smoke-clogged, but I’d choose it over this damn cold wind,” Waterman said. “No offense, Sam.”

  “None taken,” I said, suspecting that he and Brainard found late-night outlets for their frustrations. The others, though tempted, were probably deterred by the risk. Except for Andy, who seemed to have tacit dispensation from Harry to float on love clouds to Elise’s show each night.

  The last day of September, a Thursday, dawned brilliantly clear. I had slept well and felt no signs of shakiness. Setting out from the hotel for the Blue Anchor, I saw that trees were beginning to lose their leaves. The air held a briskness I hadn’t noticed before. It put me in mind of neighborhood football games I’d played as a kid. And watching the World Series on TV with Grandpa—who’d let me cut school when a game was really important. I didn’t relish spending this vibrant day at the Recreation Grounds, watching the poor Pacifics get steamrollered again.

  Not finding Johnny in his room, I stopped at the California Coffee Saloon for the twenty-five-cent three-egg breakfast special and set off through North Beach, past Meigg’s Wharf. The streets were a perfect grid, not yet slashed diagonally by Columbus. At Larkin, boundary of the Western Addition, I looked at the unbroken sand dunes stretching beyond.

  Missing Cait badly, I opened my watch and gazed at the piece of yellow fabric for a long time. What was working on me so strongly in this city? I wondered. Something powerful enough to pull me from her? Again I sensed that whatever lay in store for me—maybe even the answer to why I’d come back in time—was waiting here, close by.

  What I had to do was find it.

  Fisherman’s Wharf wasn’t where I had known it, between Mason and Hyde, but instead stretched along piers at the foot of Union, Green, and Vallejo. There I saw Italian immigrants working on what looked like a large float. I stopped and asked them about it. Big celebration in two weeks, they said. The city’s first Discovery Day.

  “Discovery of gold?”

  That brought a laugh. “Da whole country!” a woman said, “Cristo-foro Colombo!”

  The first Columbus Day! Well, all right.

  “You come sing an’ dance wit’ us?”

  “I’ll be there,” I promised.

  As the words left my mouth I realized I’d made my decision: unless whatever was coming happened first, I wouldn’t be going back with the team.

  The clock in the Bank Exchange Saloon read one o’clock. Soon the Stockings would be heading for the ball field. I ordered a stein of beer and picked up a paper. To my amazement the feature story dealt with my alma mater, the University of California. It had begun its first classes. Ever!

  I snacked on the Bank Exchange’s cheeses and sourdough bread wh
ile I scanned the other columns. A gang of toughs had tied the braids of two Chinese together and beaten them savagely near Portsmouth Square; butter was scarce and dear at seventy-five cents a pound—why couldn’t the Pacific Slope, prime cattle territory, produce enough of the stuff? And why weren’t the gas company’s lamplighters doing their jobs? With days growing short, lights weren’t on in many streets until well after dark. Each item carried the same aggrieved tone.

  I got up and went out from the thick walls and iron shutters of the Montgomery Block. My mind was made up: as a kid I’d cut school to go to games; today I’d cut the game to go to school. I walked to the ferry station at Pacific and Davis, where I took an open-air seat on the top deck. Crossing the bay, the boat’s churning wheel and hissing boilers made an incessant racket. As the oak-studded east bay slopes gradually neared, I could see occasional stands of redwoods on the hilltops. I looked in vain for Berkeley. Where the town and university should be were only scattered fields and foothills laced with green creek lines.

  “What’s that near the shore?” I asked another passenger, pointing to a cluster of wooden buildings about where San Pablo Avenue should be.

  “Ocean View,” he answered.

  Ocean View? I saw a wharf, several sawmills, and—perhaps the biggest surprise I’d found on the West Coast—a gorgeous mile-long crescent of white sand framed by marshes and two slow-flowing creeks. A beach in Berkeley. Lovely, lovely.

  The university was in Oakland, a tranquil town of ten thousand. Broad dirt streets were lined with oaks and whitewashed fences and houses. I took a streetcar up Seventh from the ferry slip. At Broadway workmen were finishing the Central Pacific’s impressive new depot; soon the overland journey would end here, not in Sacramento.

  Near Lake Merritt—actually not a lake but an estuary named for the current mayor—stood a new girls’ school run by the Convent of the Sacred Heart. Beyond it, projecting from a grove of oaks to the northeast, rose the cupola of a university building.