by Troy Soos
Whalen lit up a cheroot which smelled worse than the fumes inside the building, and tilted back his pug nose to savor the smoke. “What is it you think you can do for me?”
I gave him the same tale about my manager friend in Des Moines needing a third baseman. Whalen looked young enough for the story to be plausible; he was pushing thirty, I estimated, though I couldn’t say for sure from which direction.
He look pleased that I’d thought of him, but responded, “Hell, I’m no third baseman. I’m a pitcher.”
Every ballplayer in the world thinks he can pitch. From Whalen’s relief appearance in the Cubs game, I’d seen little evidence that he could, however. “Guess it doesn’t matter, anyway,” I said. “I see you already got another job.”
Whalen leaned against a 1912 Maxwell that was missing both front fenders. “Ain’t a ‘job,’ ” he said. “I’m a partner in this place.” He looked proudly at the array of broken-down cars. “Finally got my own business. Mine and Clint’s, anyway.”
“So you quit Enoch’s dealership to start this one? I heard you were ...”
“Fired.” He puffed on the cigar. “I was. But I was intending to leave anyway. Enoch just hurried me along. He caught me writing down names and addresses of his customers, and claimed I was ‘stealing’ from him. Damned old miser. It’s not like I was taking money or cars. Anyway, I can build my own business now. We’re planning to expand, get some more used cars and maybe a line of new ones. I’m thinking Hudsons—you like Hudsons?”
“Sure. I hear good things about them.” I didn’t mention that I actually didn’t even know how to drive a car. “You know, I thought maybe Enoch let you go because you didn’t do so good in that ball game.”
Whalen paused to peel a shred of tobacco off his tongue. “I worked for him for five years; he wouldn’t have fired me for one game. Hell, if he fired everybody who ever had a bad game, there wouldn’t be nobody working there no more.”
“It did go pretty bad all the way around,” I said. “But it could have been worse—looked like it was gonna turn into a war for a while there. When Crawford brushed you back, and you went out after him, I thought both benches were gonna empty.”
“I didn’t think about what it might turn into. All I had in mind was bustin’ his skull with my bat.”
“What made you stop?” I almost said “back down,” but “stop” seemed a more diplomatic choice. “It looked like Crawford said something to you.”
Whalen tossed down the cigar. “He did. Sonofabitch said ‘Sorry, it got away from me.’ Took me by surprise, him apologizing like that, and I guess it kind of froze me.” He ground out the smoldering cheroot with his heel. “Couldn’t charge him again after that, so I went back to hit. Then he froze me again with that goddamn curveball of his, and ... he beat me.”
“He did have a helluva curve,” I said.
“Yeah, but by the end of the game I was starting to read it pretty good.” Whalen shook his head. “I was real sorry to hear about him getting strung up. I’d have liked to get another shot at him.”
It looked like I’d struck out with J. D. Whalen. I had thought that if he’d lost his job because of a poor performance in the ball game, he might have blamed Crawford and wanted to take revenge on him. Or that he might have wanted to kill the pitcher because Crawford had made him look bad after their encounter at the mound. But it sounded like Whalen had the same attitude Tater Greene and I had: You get your revenge on an opponent by beating him the next time.
“Well, good to see you again,” I said. “I’ll tell my friend in Des Moines you’re not available.”
Whalen slowly surveyed the seedy lot, looking from the battered cars to the ramshackle garage. “You know, Clint’s been doing all right without me so far. I’ll bet he could manage on his own for a while longer.” He turned to me, his eyes suddenly aglow. “Tell your friend I’m interested in playing ball for him. And tell him I got good experience—played against some top-notch teams when I was pitching for Aluminum Ore. Never got any higher than semipro, but I bet I can hold my own in the minors.”
I felt guilty about my ruse. Sometimes I forgot how much an amateur ballplayer will cling to even the slightest hope of making it to pro ball.
After promising Whalen that I’d recommend him to my fictitious friend, I left the car lot. I vowed to myself that I’d call him soon to report that the team had already signed someone else; and, I thought sadly, to snuff out the false hope I’d given him.
Frank Ellerbe’s throw from third to second bounced a foot in front of the bag. Marty McManus still should have been able to catch it easily, but the ball handcuffed him, skimming off the heel of his mitt and out to center field. It would have been an error, except that we were only taking pregame practice.
I trotted over to McManus. I thought part of his problem was that, at almost six feet, he was simply too damn tall to be an infielder. Of course I couldn’t suggest that he shorten himself, so I was going to offer what I hoped would be more useful advice.
Before I could get a word in, the kid grumbled, “I sure muffed that one.”
“It was a tough hop to handle,” I said, although it really had been fairly routine. “Here’s the thing to remember: A thrown ball is gonna bounce higher than a batted one, so you gotta adjust.” I held out my glove, trying to demonstrate the difference in height. “You’re gonna get a lot of hops like that, especially when the catcher throws down on a steal.”
“Why are they different?”
The answer that came to mind was “Because they are,” but I opted to give him a more detailed explanation. “When a batter hits a grounder, he topped it, so it’s spinning forward. A thrown ball spins backward. Different spin makes for a different bounce.”
“But why?”
What am I, a scientist? “Because it does.”
On my way back to the dugout, Lee Fohl cut me off. The former catcher was the strong silent type of manager, who rarely spoke a word to his players. So it came as a surprise when he addressed me. “Helping out McManus there?”
“Doesn’t need much help,” I said. “The kid’s a damn good ballplayer.”
“Well, you been making him a better one. Don’t think I ain’t noticed. And you deserve some playing time of your own. You’ll be starting at third for a couple days.”
“Thanks. I—” But Fohl was already walking away. This had been about as lengthy a conversation as he ever had.
And it was the best news I’d had all season. I only wished I’d known yesterday so I could have invited Margie to come and watch me play.
The silver-haired waiter placed a steaming dish of chicken fricassee in front of Margie, and served me a plate of roast duck and rice. Pierce House, an intimate restaurant on Euclid Avenue, was noted for excellent food, romantic atmosphere, and courteous service. This waiter was one of the best I’d ever seen; he fawned just enough, without being intrusive. After checking that we had everything we needed, he silently vanished, leaving us to our conversation.
I launched into another report on my three-for-four performance in our win against the Indians. Margie listened as attentively as she had the first couple of times. “Are you sure you can come tomorrow?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t miss it,” she answered with a smile. “I only hope I don’t jinx you. What if you go hitless—will you blame me?”
“Of course not. I’ll put the blame where it belongs: on the bat.”
Margie laughed and brushed away a lock of hair that had almost fallen into the chicken. “I had a good day, too,” she ventured somewhat tentatively.
“What did you do?”
“I went to Washington University; they have a program with City Hospital for training nurses. I know it might sound a little crazy ... but I’m thinking of enrolling.”
It sounded like a splendid idea to me. “What’s crazy about it?”
I rarely saw Margie uncertain about anything, but she was now. “I barely finished high school,” she said. “And
I’ve never had a serious job. I’ve always just playacted. In the movies and on the stage, all I did was play. Nursing school is going to be a challenge.” Her voice dropped. “And I’m not sure I can do it.”
“Are you sure you want to?”
Her answer was unequivocal. “Yes.”
“Why?”
Margie put down her fork and knife. “Maybe because of all the playing that I’ve done. It’s time for me to do something useful, something that helps people.”
“I have no doubt you’ll be a terrific nurse,” I said. “And I know you’ll do just fine in school.” I was happy for her that she’d found something she wanted to pursue. I was also encouraged that she intended to stay in St. Louis, and thought it boded well for my plan to settle down together.
As we continued the meal, Margie talked excitedly about the school and the hospital. This year was starting to look awfully promising, I thought, both at home and at the ballpark. With Ken Williams belting home runs almost every day, the Browns were heading into the end of April locked in a tie with the Yankees for first place. And if I kept hitting like I had today, I might be playing third base for quite a while.
The only lingering cause for disquiet was the death of Slip Crawford, and I wondered if I should simply drop that matter. I couldn’t be like Karl Landfors, fighting one injustice after another, with always another battle on the horizon. I hadn’t wronged anyone, so why should I feel obligated to correct the wrongs of others?
I looked at Margie, and thought that all I wanted to do was play baseball and build a life with her.
When we’d finished the main course, the waiter cleared away the dishes and returned to tell us his suggestions for dessert.
While he waited for us to make our decisions, Margie asked me, “What do you think?”
I promptly answered, “I think we should get married.” It took a moment before I realized that I’d said it aloud, and I felt my face start to burn.
Margie smiled, but didn’t reply.
The waiter cleared his throat. “I’ll give you a few minutes.” Like a ghost, he was gone.
I started to stammer an apology for not asking the right way.
Margie put her hand over mine. “It’s the sweetest thing you could have said to me.”
I waited for her to utter the word “yes.”
A touch of sadness came into her eyes. “And I think it would be wonderful ... someday.”
Someday? What about yes? “Is that a—You mean—Is that a no?”
“It means can we just keep things the way they are for a while longer?”
The waiter returned with several pieces of cake and pie and placed them before us. “Compliments of the chef,” he said, “with his best wishes for your happiness.” Then he looked at me, and the expression on my face caused him quietly to disappear again.
When I found my voice, I answered Margie’s question. “Sure.”
I poked at a piece of cheesecake. It had never occurred to me that Margie wouldn’t want to marry me. And “someday” sure felt like “no.”
I tried to prod her for an explanation, but all she would say was that things were fine the way they were.
We then talked about the dessert, although neither of us did much more than go through the motions of eating.
By the time the waiter came by with the bill, we weren’t saying anything at all.
CHAPTER 9
At the plate for Cleveland was Smokey Joe Wood, once my teammate on the 1912 Boston Red Sox. He’d been a pitcher then, with a blazing fastball that earned him thirty-four wins in one of the most spectacular seasons in baseball history. Wood’s arm burned out soon after, however, and he converted to a right fielder. Although his pitching arm was long dead, he remained a threat with his bat.
Dixie Davis threw an inside fastball to the former hurler, and Wood ripped it, pulling a hard chopper up the third-base line.
Since I was playing him to pull, I had only to glide over a couple of steps to field the ball. It took a clean bounce, knee-high, easy to catch. Except that I somehow failed to get my glove in the path of the ball.
I still managed to stop it. With a resounding crack, the baseball smacked into my kneecap and bounced toward the coach’s box. I felt no pain, only panic and embarrassment at my miscue. I scrambled after the ball, far too late to make a throw to first base. But that didn’t stop me from trying. There’s some law of nature that if you botch a play with your glove, you have to try to compensate by making a strong throw—even if the runner is already standing on the base. And there’s a second law that virtually guarantees every such throw will end up in the stands. Mine did, passing several feet over George Sisler’s extended glove. Joe Wood was awarded second base, and I was credited with two errors on one play.
I’d provided Marty McManus—and three thousand spectators—with a perfect demonstration of what not to do in fielding a ground ball. My head hanging, I tugged and poked at my mitt, trying to find the spot where the hole had opened up to let the ball through.
Lee Fohl shuffled out of the dugout. “Leg okay?”
“Yeah, just let me walk it off.” I limped to the outfield grass and back. Pain had started to erupt in my knee, and the joint wasn’t bending as easily as it should.
“You want to come out?” the manager asked.
“No.” It would have looked like I was being removed for muffing the play. I at least wanted some sympathy from the crowd for playing hurt.
With a 7—1 lead, Fohl decided it was safe to leave me in for the moment, and went back to the dugout. The fans gave me a smattering of pity applause.
I was sure that one of those clapping was Margie, but I avoided looking in the direction of her seat. She was, after all, the reason I blew the play. More so than any flaw in the construction of my glove, at least.
This was the third game I’d been in the starting lineup, and Margie had come to the last two. I’d have preferred that she hadn’t. It was difficult enough for me to play baseball with a void in my chest, but with the woman who’d ripped out my heart sitting there watching me, I was barely functional and playing poorly. Which made me angry at myself; I should have been professional enough to forget about personal problems and focus on the ball games.
Those were the thoughts that kept ricocheting around in my head as the game went on.
We continued to run up the score, ending with a 13—2 win that gave us a sweep of the series. Marty McManus contributed a home run. I helped keep the ball game from going too long by grounding into a double play and striking out twice.
Spirits were high in the clubhouse. Word had come that the Yankees had lost to the Philadelphia Athletics, so the Browns were starting the month of May in sole possession of first place.
The team was playing stronger as the season progressed. Pitcher Elam Vangilder, a native of Cape Girardeau, Missouri, who’d had only a 10—12 record last year, was off to a 4—0 start. Ken Williams, already one of the best sluggers in the game, had ended April with an unprecedented nine home runs, earning him a new phonograph in a pregame tribute “because he was making new records.” Urban Shocker was pitching as well as expected, and the bats of George Sisler and Baby Doll Jacobson were also helping to power the club.
All of the players took part in the locker-room revelry. Except me. I remained apart from them; not only hadn’t I contributed to the success, my thoughts were occupied with other matters. As I lingered in a hot shower, Margie was still on my mind. She’d been extra attentive the past few days, trying to pretend that things hadn’t changed between us. They had, though. Although we didn’t discuss the subject, the fact that she’d rejected my proposal changed everything—for me, anyway. I had been certain she would say yes—as certain as I was that the Dodgers played in Brooklyn.
I was uncomfortable being with her now. The fact that she was trying to remain close—to “keep things the way they are,” as she’d put it—only made me more uneasy. As far as I was concerned, the Browns’ upcoming road
trip to Detroit couldn’t come soon enough.
I finally dressed and met Margie outside. She greeted me with a kiss and a worried expression.
“Sorry it took so long,” I said. “Had to ice down the knee.”
“It’s not broken, is it?” She put her hand in the crook of my arm, and we started toward the trolley.
“Don’t think so.” It had swollen considerably, and lost much of its flexibility, but didn’t seem permanently damaged. “If it’s still bad in a couple of days, I’ll see a doctor.”
“Sure you will.” Margie shook her head, knowing full well that I would never go to a doctor as long as I could walk at all. “Well, you should stay off your feet at least. Let’s get you home, and I’ll put an ice pack on it.”
I couldn’t bring myself to say so, but I didn’t want her to nurse me.
It was almost a relief when I saw Tater Greene approaching. He wore the same rumpled Norfolk jacket that he had when he met me in this same location a little more than three weeks ago.
Greene tipped his tweed cap to Margie, and I made the introductions.
He bobbed up and down on the balls of his feet a few times before asking me, “Can I talk to you a minute? Just us?”
“Yeah, I guess.” I excused myself from Margie, who said she didn’t mind waiting.
Greene again tipped his cap to her before ushering me a few steps away. His head low and voice hushed, he said, “We got trouble.”
“Who does? What kind of trouble?”
“Enoch’s cars got trashed last night. Almost every one had its tires slashed, and windows and headlights busted. Most were dented up pretty bad, too—with baseball bats, we figure.”
“Sorry to hear it,” I said, although I really didn’t care about Roy Enoch’s automobile business. “But why are you telling me?”
“It was coloreds that did it. And it was because of Crawford getting killed.”