Sophomore Campaign

by Nappi, Frank;

  “Look at him over there,” McNally said, pressed up against Lefty’s ear.

  They were watching Mickey loosening up on the foul line with Boxcar and Murph. “That retard messed you up last year. Bad. Now look at him. Everyone yelling his name, painting some picture like he’s the next Warren Spahn. Pathetic. Are you gonna let that freak show get the best of you? Huh?”

  Lefty’s ductility was easily exposed. Somehow he had forgotten all about McNally and Quinton’s role in what had happened. How the two of them used him, and set him up for the disaster that eventually befell him. Now all he saw was a monster on the other side of the field, one against whom all his anger could be directed. “I’ll get ‘em, Chip,” he said, gritting his teeth. “I’ll get all of ‘em.”

  And then there was the less publicized, understated drama surrounding Boxcar. Were all the rumors true? The press had leaked the story just days before, and everyone was captured by the startling news. Would the heart and soul of this team, the captain both on and off the field, be able to play despite the illness that had seized him so unmercifully? Just the sight of him, noticeably thinner and much less demonstrative, was enough to fuel that fire.

  Murph recognized all the commotion swirling on the periphery and was mindful to address it before the game. “Listen fellas, we waited all winter for this. A chance for redemption. But we need to focus here. Focus on the task at hand. Forget everything else. Clear your heads. Twenty-seven outs, boys. Twenty-seven outs and we’re back on top. We can’t get back last year, but we can sure as hell make everyone forget about it.”

  They were all huddled together, like a platoon preparing for an offensive, each man looking to the other for strength and support. All except Mickey, who was off in the corner of the dugout, rocking back and forth, eyes closed, lips forming the familiar words they had all come to recognize as his song of flight.

  “What the hell is wrong with Mickey?” Murph asked. “Did something happen out there?”

  “I think it was Lefty,” Danvers said. “That jackass was jawing at him from the dugout, and making all kinds of gestures. I put a stop to it but I think it may have rattled him.”

  Murph saw the boy struggling, and was quick to intercede. “Hey, Mick, what’s going on pal?” he said. “Everything okay?”

  The boy did not move. Just stood there, catatonically, his fragile soul naked in his glassy eyes. He was remembering the last time he saw Lefty. And he could still hear the assailant’s voice, cold and vituperative, and the pathetic cries of Oscar, his favorite pig, after Lefty plunged his boot into the porker’s side, killing it instantly. Then there were the hours that followed, with Sheriff Rosco, and all the questions. So many questions. The recollection was overwhelming. Frightening. He just wanted it to all go away.

  “‘Slowly, silently, now the moon, walks the night in her silver shoon…’”

  “Mickey, come on now. We’re not doing that now. There’s no need. You’re home here. We’ve got a game to play here. Hear that crowd? Listen to them. They all came for you.”

  The boy’s affectations were unchanged. He continued to stare vacantly, rocking back and forth, trying desperately to drive the hateful memories out of himself.

  “This way and that, she peers and sees, silver fruit upon silver trees.”

  Murph put his hand on the boy’s shoulder and squeezed gently. “Hey, Mick, you’re okay. Save that poem for home. Come on now. Just you and Boxcar. Like always. Focus on that glove. Nothing else. Toss that apple right to the glove. Just like you used to do for Oscar. Right to the target. Can you do that for me?”

  Maybe it was his manager’s touch, and the way Murph’s urgency flowed through his fingers and into Mickey’s body like some electrical charge. Or maybe it was the mere mention of the name Oscar, said out loud, that made the difference. Maybe it was both.

  Whatever it was, the boy began to free himself slowly from the demon that had seized him. He blinked several times, as if cleaning the lens to his mind’s eye, and stopped his recitation of the poem.

  “Oscar didn’t like Lefty, Murph,” he said. “No sir. Mickey don’t like him much either.” Murph grinned and shook his head.

  “Don’t sweat it, kid. Nobody here does.”

  The Brewers took the field moments later, led by their ace and fan favorite, Mickey Tussler. The crowd was bristling with an untamed enthusiasm, waving placards professing their unconditional love for the “Baby Bazooka” and chanting his name. In the wake of his superhuman exploits on the field, and all of the misfortune and injustice that had befallen him elsewhere, Mickey had become a cult hero of sorts.

  Entire sections of stands at Borchert Field were commandeered by the most ardent of Mickey’s followers. One area was claimed by the “Baby Bazooka Brigade,” five rows behind the Brewer’s dugout filled with dutiful, fanatical disciples donned in battle fatigues and army field helmets. Every time Mickey either took or left the field, the entire group would rise in unison and salute their hero until he had reached his destination.

  Across the way, stationed behind the opposing team’s dugout, was a group known affectionately as “Mickey’s Minions,” scores of men and women alike sporting cream-colored T-shirts espousing their slogan on the front and a big heart with the number 8 inside on the back. They had in their arsenal signs and noise makers and on occasion, bags filled with confetti, all designed to express their unconditional love for their favorite Brewer.

  Mickey had captured the hearts and imaginations of the rest of the Brewers faithful as well; many of these less organized, less equipped worshippers were there that day too, roaring and clapping and rolling their arms in reverential pantomime, many dressed in Brewers shirts sporting Mickey’s name and number on their backs.

  Kiki Delaney led off the game for the Rangers. Delaney was their sparkplug, the catalyst behind a pretty potent offensive machine. He led the league the last two years in stolen bases and runs scored and had been a real thorn in the Brewers’ side. Both Murph and Boxcar reminded Mickey how crucial it was to keep Delaney off the bases.

  “Don’t play with him, big boy,” Boxcar said after Mickey had completed his warm up tosses. “Just go after him.”

  Delaney stepped in, inched real close to the plate, and got into his crouch. He loved the ball low and away. There were very few who were as adept at fighting off anything that got into his kitchen until he got something over the outer half that he could drive the other way. Mickey stood tall on the mound, peering in at Boxcar’s glove. The wily catcher was set up on the outside half of the plate, pounding his glove loud enough so that Delaney would know where he sat.

  “Come on, Mick,” he strained from behind his mask. “Hit that glove, kid.”

  Mickey nodded his head and, in typical fashion, placed his hand with the ball firmly in his glove and began the wild undulation of his arms, much to the delight of the eager crowd. Then he rocked back, brought his knee to his chest, and fired a dart just as Boxcar shifted over to the inner half of the plate. The ball whizzed through the frenetic air right for the glove, as if being pulled by some invisible string.

  “Steerike one!” was the call.

  The crowd roared. Delaney nodded his head curiously, as if to acknowledge that he had underestimated the velocity of the offering, and that he would not be fooled again. Mickey’s second delivery, however, was equally elusive, a white streak of burning light that froze the hitter while shaving the outside corner for a called strike two.

  “Come on, Kiki,” McNally screamed from the bench. “That’s all he’s got. It ain’t nothin’. Sit on the heater, for Christ sakes. You know it’s coming again. There ain’t nothin’ else.”

  At those last words, something gloriously liberating and intoxicatingly delicious darted into Murph’s mind. Now was the time. A special something was his and Boxcar’s and Mickey’s alone; a wonderful secret, something only theirs. He could still recall the days spent teaching the boy his latest skill.

  “Grip the ball this way,
” Murph explained, showing Mickey the baseball, “and spin it like this—like you are snapping your fingers.”

  Mickey’s head was the only thing spinning.

  “But Mickey does not understand. If I spin the baseball, how can I throw it?”

  Mickey’s obtuseness challenged Murph’s patience. It took some doing, and Murph almost gave up a few times, but eventually the young phenom got it. And it had remained a secret for months, suspended in designed dormancy. But now was the perfect time to summon the magical mystery and share it with everyone else.

  “Mickey,” Murph yelled from the dugout.

  The boy turned his gaze toward the voice, as did Boxcar. Murph smiled, nodded his head, and, made a curious gesture with his hand.

  “Come on now, Mick,” he encouraged. “Just like we practiced.”

  Mickey’s eyes studied Murph’s face with discernable deliberation, as if the manager’s instructions were slowly dissolving into an actual plan. He titled his head and scratched his cheek, remembering now what he and Murph had worked on previously. With this thought now fully hatched, Mickey toed the rubber and peered in at Boxcar, who was wiggling two fingers against the inner half of his right thigh.

  Mickey nodded and fired what looked to be another missile, a shoulder-high delivery that was destined to land well above the strike zone. High fastball. Just a waste pitch. Delaney relaxed his bat, and the umpire ducked behind Boxcar, certain that he was about to take the wild pitch square in the face. Yet as the spinning sphere approached its destination, it dove sharply, suddenly, buckling Delaney’s knees before plunging a good three feet across the center of the plate and into Boxcar’s glove. The Ranger’s leadoff man, stunned by the drastic change in trajectory, looked sheepishly behind him, waiting to be rung up. Boxcar turned his head as well, only to discover that the man in blue had only now just lifted his head back up into view.

  “Ball one,” he finally called.

  Boos and jeers rained down from the stands. Murph, Matheson and the entire Brewers’ bench launched invectives of their own.

  “Where’s your glasses and cane?” they screamed. “That’s a curveball, ump.

  Ever see a curveball? Pathetic. Jesus H. Christ! That ball was right there.”

  The umpire stood vexed as Boxcar returned the ball to Mickey, pretending not to hear any of what was being said. He had called Mickey’s games before, but had never seen anything except pure heat. The error in judgment had him rattled.

  “Sorry ’bout that, Boxcar,” he finally whispered as he crouched behind the catcher in preparation for the next pitch. “I just missed it.”

  Boxcar, who was breathing heavily, answered without turning around.

  “You better not blink again, chief. The boy will be dropping them yellow hammers all afternoon.”

  Now that the seed of doubt had been planted, Mickey and Boxcar owned Delaney. He didn’t know what to expect. Mickey wasted no time cashing in on the indecision, freezing Delaney with a letter high fastball and sending him back to the bench shaking his head. The next two batters met with a similar fate, each going down on 0–2 curveballs that had the entire ballpark wide-eyed and speechless. Mickey had electrified the home town crowd as only he could. But it was time for the bats to join the party. The Brewers had played so many games last year that featured stellar pitching and anemic offense. Murph was mindful of the need to erase the trend.

  “Okay now, fellas,” he said, clapping his hands while pacing the front of the bench. “Let’s get those sticks going.”

  Pee Wee waited in the on-deck circle, swinging two bats and eye balling Lefty as the southpaw completed his warm up tosses. There was certainly no love lost between the two, especially after Lefty used Pee Wee as a pawn last season in order to orchestrate the first deplorable incident with Mickey.

  “How could you just leave him, Lefty? At a bar, all by himself? You know he can’t handle himself that way. You said you’d take care of him.”

  The jealous hurler just smiled, his complexion waxy from a night of drunken debauchery. “Relax Pee Wee,” he said callously. “He was with a girl. I did him a favor. You should be thanking me. Besides, you’re the one who brought him.”

  The truth of the statement, although spun to suit Lefty’s argument, stung mightily. It left the diminutive shortstop bitter and vengeful. He became very vocal about his feelings regarding Lefty before the surly pitcher moved on to the Rangers. And Lefty had heard every word of it.

  The Brewers’ leadoff man stepped into the box to a raucous chorus of “Let’s Go Brew Crew!” Lefty stood still on the mound, his eyes dark and ulcerous, his mind echoing with accusatory voices, gobbling and jabbering in incomprehensible tones. The noise melded together with the shrill wail of police sirens and the cold clicking of handcuffs, until the cacophony rose up and filled the man with rage even he had underestimated.

  This wrath traveled quickly to his left arm. Pee Wee had barely dug in at the plate before Lefty dusted him off with a two-seam fast-ball that whizzed by his head, sending the batter sprawling to the ground in a desperate attempt to dodge the ball of venom. The boo birds were off their roost again, this time showering the field with a deluge of apple cores and soda bottles. Lefty waved his arms to the crowd invitingly, his glove hand motioning for more trash while the other was pressed to his mouth blowing kisses.

  “Do you believe this guy?” Danvers complained to Finster. “Incredible.”

  The two of them watched as Lefty continued to taunt the crowd and then Pee Wee, who had just stood up and cleaned himself off. “Hey, asshole,” Danvers screamed from the dugout. “How ‘bout dancing with me next?”

  Some fragment of Lefty’s attention was still lost in the crowd, but he heard the challenge and could not resist. He looked right at Danvers. He inhaled deeply and with nostrils flaring, began walking in his direction, ready to take on the Brewers’ third baseman right there. He had all but reached the first base foul line when McNally’s voice, harsh and savage, arrested his advance. “Rogers, you get your ass back on that mound and pitch goddammit! You don’t get paid to screw around.”

  The grounds crew dispensed with the garbage in a timely fashion and the game resumed. Pee Wee swung and missed at the next pitch and took the next two outside to run the count to 3 and 1. Lefty was throwing hard; it seemed as though all the shenanigans had stoked his fire. Pee Wee knew he was not going to be able to get around on the fastball. He called time. With one foot inside the box and the other just outside the chalk, he held his bat with two hands, exhaled loudly, and brought the barrel gently to rest against his forehead, as if he were transferring his intention to the instrument. Then he glanced furtively down the third base line before climbing back in the box to resume his battle.

  Lefty was still unhinged. His face burned in the hell-colored sunlight. He thought for a minute about throwing at Pee Wee again, just to teach him a lesson about making him wait. But the sound of McNally’s voice, still shrill and admonitory, broke up the feeling into frenetic coils that festooned throughout his body. He sighed with frustration, passed his tongue over the outside of his lips, wound up and fired. It was a perfect delivery; knee-high four seamer that would have painted the black on the inner half of the plate had Pee Wee not run up, slid his hand up the barrel of the bat and dropped a perfect bunt up the third base line. Both Lefty and the third baseman scrambled for the ball, but by the time Lefty’s fingers plucked it from the grass, Pee Wee had already crossed the bag safely.

  “Way to go, Pee Wee!” Murph yelled. “Way to get it going.”

  Arky Fries was next. He saw just one pitch, a jam job that resulted in a foul out to the catcher. With the speedy Pee Wee still at first, Woody Danvers strode to the plate.

  He too had a history with Lefty. Hated the guy. Some of it stemmed from the whole Mickey thing, but the truth was they never got along. Two egos that large were bound to bump into each other, and that’s just what had happened, time and again. Now they were enemies for sure. And with
Boxcar laboring under the weight of this undisclosed illness, Danvers remained the only legitimate power threat in the Brewers’ lineup.

  Danvers cut the tension with a few practice swings before stepping in to take his hacks. Lefty stewed, glaring at Danvers with intolerant eyes, gray and ominous. He felt the urgent need to carry out this furious, unflagging will for retribution as Danvers cocked and waved his bat by his ear, settling down only after Lefty had delivered his first pitch, a high hard one up and in that backed Danvers off the plate. The second and third pitches were exactly the same—more chin music. Danvers stepped out, tapped his spikes and grinned. It was obvious Lefty wanted no part of him right now. A fourth pitch, up and away, sent the Brewers’ slugger to first with a base on balls.

  The crowd began to stir now, intoxicated with the idyllic scenario that was unfolding before them. Mickey notwithstanding, Boxcar was the fan favorite. He had been with the team for years, and was the heart and soul of the club. The face of the franchise. He had spoiled them time and again with many a spectacular feat, so much so that the locals viewed him as a baseball deity. A man imbued with the ability to will his team to victory. They roared and chanted his name even louder now, for all of them had heard of the mysterious physical malady that had afflicted their hero and were thrilled to see him, as improbable as it seemed, in his familiar cleanup spot.

  Boxcar! Boxcar! Boxcar!

  He smiled, and tipped his hat to the adoring crowd, but there was something shadowy and vacant about the man. Ghostlike. He was thinking of years past as he stepped to the plate. And of friends and teammates from those years and how they knew him and his ways and how they had come to rely on and appreciate all that he could accomplish on the field. Of course, his mind also wandered to those moments of exhilaration, when his exploits, now legendary in their own right, led to victory for the Brewers and celebration for the entire city of Milwaukee.