I couldn’t speak.
“Mr. Thatcher figured you’d appreciate it, but he didn’t think you’d think it was necessary.”
How could I have doubted this sweet, generous man? Why should he have to suffer for Neal’s lifetime of Clovis Payoffs?
“It’s not necessary, Lucas,” I said, my voice thick. “But it’s so you.” I reached for his hand. “You said you would hold my hand only if you loved me. Would you like to know how I feel about you?”
He looked startled. “Yes!”
“Then you know what it feels like to wonder,” I said. “I would like you to tell me straight out.”
“I love you, Miriam, and I’ve loved you since long before I held your hand.”
“I love you too, Lucas.”
He held my gaze. “You’re the only person other than my mother who calls me Lucas.”
“You want me to call you somethin else?”
“No!”
“What does your daddy call you?”
Luke laughed. “Don’t ask!”
The emergency room doctor told Billy Ray and me there was no break, but “some subcutaneous hemorrhaging.”
“Bleeding under the skin,” Billy Ray translated. “You’re gonna be all right.”
“It’s going to hurt for a few days,” the doctor said. “Maybe a few weeks.”
“How about playing ball?” I said.
The doctor stepped back and looked me in the face. “It is you, isn’t it? The young baseball star, am I right?”
I nodded.
“Ah, my first Chicago celebrity. Rest the wrist three days. You can then play ball and move it as much as you want. Let pain be your guide.”
“You can’t make that two and a half days?”
“You have a game?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you can move it without undue pain, you may play.”
Luke and I were waiting in the lobby when Billy Ray and Elgin arrived at the transient hotel.
“I’ve been worried sick,” I said, embracing Elgin.
“You got my note then?”
I nodded and looked at his bandage. “What happened?”
“It’s not that bad, Momma,” he said. “I’ll tell you all about it, but wait till you hear Mr. Thatcher’s news.”
59
Too much was happening too soon. Where had I been when my son was injured? And what would a more serious injury have meant to all of us?
On top of all that, I was hopelessly, helplessly in love. I couldn’t help but compare rock-solid, self-sufficient Lucas to my late husband.
I unlocked the flat, but once inside I realized that Lucas had hung back and was waiting in the hall. I peered out at him. He had the envelope in his hand.
“I’m gonna head home,” he said.
“I’ll be right in,” I told Elgin and Billy Ray as I stepped out. “Lucas, what’s wrong?”
“I just don’t want to presume I have to be in on all this. You can tell me about it. It’ll give us a reason to see each other again.”
“I think we have reasons,” I said, searching his eyes. ‘Just know that you’re welcome.”
“I know.”
“Tonight was special for me,” I said.
He gently pulled me toward him and slipped his hand around my waist. He held me like a fragile doll, lowered his face to mine.
“May I?” he whispered.
“You may.”
His mustache tickled as he brushed his lips against mine. We kissed ony briefly, and I couldn’t help scratching my nose.
“I’m sorry, Lucas. I didn’t mean to spoil the moment.”
He grinned. “My fault. See you tomorrow?”
I embraced him, realized I was bending his envelope, and pulled back. “I’m really a klutz tonight,” I said.
“We’ll get it right,” he said, and he blushed.
When I went inside, Elgin piped up, “Did you kiss him, Momma?”
“Elgin! Let me see that wrist, and then you get to bed.”
The wrist had been bandaged tightly with a two-inch width of white tape over a spongy cushion.
“I don’t guess I can sweep Lucky’s floors, huh?”
“Bed,” I said.
Billy Ray Thatcher, gentleman that he was, didn’t sit until I did. I flopped onto the couch and sighed aloud.
“You know what you look like?” Billy Ray said.
“I can hardly wait.”
“Like a woman in love.”
“It shows?”
“I’m happy for you, Miriam. He seems like a great guy.”
Thatcher told me he had been on the phone most of the day. “I could fly in a team to start taking the calls,” he said, “but I finally did hear from the commissioner’s office. This is an unusual case, and until he decides what he’s going to do, I can’t really talk to any organization. Every team in the big leagues is aware of Elgin and wants to protect its interests. Apparently, there’s magic in how long he has been keeping this up. Going halfway through a regular season with a batting average two hundred points higher than anyone else convinced a lot of people. They tell me twenty games at peak performance is more than a fluke. Anybody can go on a six- or even eight-game tear, but not twenty. Combine that with Elgin’s age, and you’ve got the situation we find ourselves in.”
“Which is?”
“Well, Commissioner Williams assigned someone to privately check out Elgin for him. You’ll never guess who was secretly at Elgin’s last half dozen games. Ronny Dressel.”
“The great pitcher from when I was a kid?”
“Hall of Fame.”
“Wouldn’t he be recognized, at least by the scouts?”
“He’s lost his hair, his coloring has changed, and he’s picked up a lot of weight. He’s got a limp, wears glasses, and with a hat and the right jacket or sweater, he’s invisible.”
“So, what does he think?”
“If salty language is any indication, he believes Elgin is for real. He thinks he could play in any rookie league right now, and he wants Rafer to meet him. We even thought of asking Luke if the meeting could take place at his apartment.”
I laughed. “Well, no one would ever suspect. Oh, my! Lucas would never forget something like that!”
“Remember we heard that Sports Illustrated was planning a major piece? Dressel heard they got frustrated trying to get to Elgin and decided to do the story anyway. It’s coming out Monday.”
“Oh, no.”
“I can’t see how it could be negative, unless they say he’s being protected too carefully or that his mercenary mother has already acquired an agent.”
“Does the magazine know about the commissioner or about Mr. Dressel?”
“No one does except the three of us. We’ll have to let Luke know soon, if we want to use his place. I assume he can keep a confidence.”
“He will. How does Elgin’s injury figure in?”
“We’ll want to stall a meeting until he’s at his peak again. Too bad he’s got games Monday and Tuesday, because if that story hits, we’re talking national media attention. You’d hate to see him have a bad game after that and make everyone think he’ll fold under the spotlight.”
“Elgin loves the spotlight.”
A bigger than average crowd attended Monday night’s game and seemed restless when I took neither batting nor infield practice. I was placed eighth in the batting order and took my position at second in the top of the first, but was passed over by the first baseman on warm-up grounders, and I was also skipped when the fielders threw the ball around after an out. I had not had one chance in the field when I stepped in right-handed to face a righty pitcher.
What stunned opposing Park Ridge, however, was that I took the first two strikes, both over the outside corner.
I hoped the pitcher, Charles Morley, would waste a pitch, but I also knew that he might reach back for his best pitch ever, wanting to strike out the phenom. If he tried to bust one in on my fists, I was ready.
“C’mon, Chuckie,” the catcher bellowed. “Right past im, Chuckie baby!”
The pitch was tight and hard. I let it go. But a pitch later, on an offering identical to the first two, I squared around and bunted the ball up the first-base line. I exploded from the box, the catcher right behind me. I carefully angled for the runner’s box to the right of the baseline. It would be close. With every stride my wrist was pierced with pain.
I caught up to the ball halfway up the line and saw Morley was in position to field it. The first baseman realized he would never get to it, so he retreated to cover the bag.
As Morley reached for the ball, with the catcher also charging up the line, I shouted with as low a voice as I could muster, “My play, Chuckie! Mine! I’ve got it!”
I was past the ball and couldn’t tell if my ruse worked. My eyes were on the first baseman’s eyes, and I could tell a throw was coming from behind me. The first baseman was frantically backing up the line toward the bag, so he would have to tag me for the out.
I dove headfirst into foul territory, reaching for the bag with my left hand. I heard the catch and knew the first baseman was sweeping at me, but all he got was air. The crowd went crazy.
When we were in the field, our shortstop took all the throws to second, and once he even handled a double play himself, but I knew it was unlikely I would go a whole game without a grounder at second.
Two came in the top of the sixth. The first was near first base, and I was able to underhand the ball. The second was up the middle, and I shoveled the ball to the short stop, who threw the runner out. I only hoped I was protecting my wrist enough. It hurt bad. I finished the game with two bunt singles, a strikeout, and a walk. My average dropped a point. Worse, we lost to a team we hadn’t lost to for three years.
The next night we faced our toughest opponent in the league, Mount Plaines, the only team we had lost to more than once that season. They played at a newly lighted field with a thousand seats in Waycinden Park.
Usually a hundred or so fans showed up. But with the release of my feature in Sports Illustrated that Monday, the ballpark was jammed Tuesday night.
60
Tuesday the stands filled twenty minutes before game time, and people kept pouring in through the fourth inning. Fans lined up six-deep behind the backstop and down both foul lines, often having to be shooed out of play by the umpires.
No home run fences had been installed in the new park, so when even more people showed up they watched from beyond the light poles in the outfield. Anything that rolled into the left field corn, however, was a ground-rule double. Anywhere but into the cornfield in left was still in play, and you could take all the bases you could get.
I thought about hitting one-handed to protect my wrist but decided against it. I would rely on my bunting and my eye again.
That worked fine—two walks and a sacrifice bunt, for no official times at bat and no impact on my average—until I came to the plate in the top of the last inning when we were down by two with two out and the bases loaded. I painfully clenched and released my fist a dozen times.
A right-handed reliever was on the mound with good speed but no movement. I knew it was crazy, but I wanted to clear the bases. Somewhere in the count, I was going to have to forget about my wrist and swing away. That was going to hurt like the devil.
The pitcher missed close on the first two pitches, then threw two strikes, but not where I wanted. When the count went to three-and-two, I stepped out and the base coaches reminded the runners to run with the pitch. I dug in again, hoping this guy would try to shoot another one past me.
But I was fooled. The pitch was a change-up that seemed to die halfway to the plate, and as my bat started through the strike zone, the pitch was still hanging out there, dropping.
I had planned to try to hit it to right. I was able to adjust enough to get the bat on the ball but was so far in front that the ball shot past the heads of the third baseman and the runner at third, bounced fair at about two hundred feet out, and skipped hard toward the cornfield. I yelled as I headed toward first, partly from the pain in my wrist, and partly because a ground-rule double would drive in only the two tying runs.
But as I rounded first, the Mount Plaines left fielder made a colossal mistake. Rather than letting the ball go into the cornfield for a double, he dived and snared it, rising to try to hit the cutoff man.
As the go-ahead runner came around third, I was waved on. I slid and the relay hit me in the helmet and bounded past everyone. As the catcher raced back to get it and the pitcher hurried to cover the plate, I rounded second and stopped halfway to third.
Koenig waved and screamed at me to come, but I stood still, like a deer caught in headlights. The pitcher yelled, “Three!” and the third baseman straddled the bag. I hesitated, started, and hesitated again. Then I dove toward third. The catcher’s throw was high and got away, so I scored.
As soon as I had crossed the plate I ran back out to Coach Koenig, who was furious.
“I knew I had third no matter what, Coach. I figured if I could draw the throw we might catch a break.”
“But you also ignored me,” Koenig said, “and you showed me up. Tell Doyle he’s playing second in the bottom half.”
I ran red-faced to the dugout, wishing the crowd wouldn’t cheer me after I’d gotten in trouble. I was not unhappy about being taken out with a two-run lead in the ninth. My wrist needed the rest.
Doyle ran eagerly to second for the bottom of the inning. Though he was normally an outfielder, he looked comfortable. Mount Plaines scratched out an early run and had a man at third with two outs, but a pop-up to Doyle ended the game.
I had been excited about getting to meet the commissioner of baseball soon. Now I dreaded having to face my own coach.
61
As my teammates celebrated, I sat on the bench waiting for the team lecture. When Coach Koenig quieted everyone, I raised my hand. “Coach, I want to apologize for that play.”
“What’re you talkin about?” someone said. ‘That was great!”
Koenig stopped the chatter.
“I appreciate that, Woodell. It was brave and it gave us the win, but you shouldn’t have done it on your own. I wish I’d thought of it.”
I spent the next three days mostly in the basement. I let the machine pitch me infield grounders and liners, and though I caught most everything, I threw nothing. For hours I crouched at the plate and caught pitch after pitch from different distances. I hoped that would keep my eye and timing sharp.
The word came from Mr. Thatcher that Rafer Williams was flying to Chicago late Sunday night. He would stay with Ronny Dressel at the Glen Ellyn Holiday Inn without registering under his own name, and Ronny would drive him into the city the next morning. Then he would send for me from Lucky’s apartment.
“You’ll be with me, right, Mr. Thatcher?”
“Of course he will, honey,” Momma said, but Billy Ray cut her off.
“I’m afraid not. We’re not exactly in the driver’s seat. The commissioner has set a few conditions. He wants time with Elgin alone first.”
“I don’t like that,” Momma said. “I don’t want Elgin having to wonder what’s being said.”
“Oh, Rafer has already assured me through Ronny that I’m next on his agenda. He’ll let me know how many hoops we have to jump through. After that, it’s our decision. Then the conditions, terms, limitations, and dollar levels are ours to set. The club that wins this prize will earn it.”
I found it easier and easier to flex my right hand. I felt the tendon strengthening and become more elastic. By Friday morning, I was swinging a bat carefully, and it was not nearly as painful as it had been.
I had a night game Friday and a home doubleheader Saturday. I wanted to go into that once-in-a-lifetime meeting with Rafer Williams still hitting over seven hundred, more than twenty-five games into the regular season.
I was fifty-three for seventy-five for the season, hitting .7067. I cou
ld go seven for my next ten at bats and see my average drop almost a point. One more at bat than that without a hit and my average would drop to .698.
My goal with Mr. Williams was to be honest. If he wanted to know what I wanted, it was to become not just the youngest professional baseball player ever, but the youngest big leaguer ever.
By Sunday night three more victories were in the bag and the Chicago American Legion team was almost assured of a state berth. Friday night I had gone three-for-three including a home run, my batting average a tick under .718. In the Saturday doubleheader it plummeted to .682. Though I went only one-for-three in the first game and one-for-four in the second, I hit the ball as well as I had all year. I also walked twice and hit a sacrifice fly so deep to center that two runners tagged up and scored.
“I feel like DiMaggio when his hitting streak ended,” I said. “He hit harder shots in the fifty-seventh game than he had in the five games before that, but none of them fell in.”
“Yeah,” Doyle said, smiling. “I’d sure hate to be hitting in the high six-hundreds. You must really be down.”
“Shut up, Doyle.”
Mr. Thatcher’s parting words to me that night: “Talk baseball with Rafer Williams. He knows the game as well as anyone.”
“I know,” I said. “I remember in a play-off game when—”
Mr. Thatcher held up a hand. “Excuse me, Elgin, but I have to go. Tell him that story. He’ll love it. Honest.”
I wanted to tell the story, and Luke and my mother were the only available ears. “Bottom of the ninth, Reds leading by one, Mets with runners at first and second with one out. Williams catching for the Reds. Mets try a double steal. Williams sees he can’t get the lead runner but that the tailing runner is dogging it. He guns down the guy at second; they hold the lead runner at third. They go on to win. Gutsy, man. Gutsy play.”
The Youngest Hero Page 30