Sophomore Campaign

by Nappi, Frank;

  Still reeling from the previous failures that night, he limped to the plate, carrying with him myriad misgivings and a chance for redemption. The bases were full of Brewers, and the crowd, still drenched in the thunderstorm of frustration that had washed away their voices for most of the night, began to stir, morphed into a striation of beleaguered souls united by the intoxicating idea that the script for some late inning heroics had all but been written.

  The pitcher’s first offering was true—a four-seam dart that split the plate knee high for a called first strike. Danvers bristled at the call, then stepped out of the box, rolling first his eyes and then his shoulders in a desperate attempt to shake himself from his offensive stupor. The next offering missed up and away, followed by an off speed delivery in the dirt. Both the buzz from the crowd and Danvers’ confidence seemed to burgeon uncontrollably as the count shifted in the batter’s favor. Even Matheson could not contain his enthusiasm.

  “All right, Woody!” he screamed, the vein in his right temple straining against his leathery skin. “Bases chucked. You got ‘em now. He’s gonna try to bell the cat. Be ready now. Here comes a fat one.”

  Matheson was right. After wiping the sweat from his brow and then fingering the rosin bag and firing it to the ground, the frustrated pitcher grooved a fastball dead center. It was a perfect pitch—just as if it had been placed on a tee. Danvers drank in the opportunity, guzzled the myriad visions of breathless glory attached to the albescent sphere as it spun right toward his happy zone. The bat met the ball just as it crossed the plate. The timing was perfect, producing a melodious crack that for an instant, catapulting every fanny out of its seat for a closer look. It sounded like victory. Sweet victory. But that sound was all they would get, because in his haste to expiate the night’s previous failures, Woody Danvers had swung too hard. Way too hard. His whole body twisted in spasmodic pulsation. His front shoulder flew open prematurely, and the back one dipped below his hands, so much so that when he whipped the bat through the hitting zone, he only caught the underside of the ball and sent it soaring straight up in the air, like a toy rocket whose trajectory was harmless and predictable. It wasn’t long before the catcher was camped under the towering pop, pounding his glove as the lifeless ball parachuted safely into the yawning pocket.

  When the game was over, the reporters spilled through the clubhouse and into Danvers’ locker like a clutter of spiders carrying venomous intent. Their assault was dogged and merciless.

  “What happened to you, Woody?” one writer asked. “Good God, you went from a house on fire to a smoldering campfire at a Girl Scout cookout.” Danvers flushed, and his eyes alighted. The next salvo was even more biting.

  “So, Woody, how are you gonna sleep tonight, with those goat horns on your head?”

  The tortured slugger rumbled like a volcano. His face contorted with jeering defiance, and from his narrowing lips came a sizzling sound, something shrill and inhuman that had risen up from a place deep within him, the place in everyone rarely touched by others, the place where all clouded memories and brooding insecurities reside quietly, peacefully, until roused from their slumber.

  “You goddamned guys are unbelievable,” he exploded, firing his cap to the floor. The force of the projectile set them all on their heels. “Unbelievable. For weeks now, nobody’s been better. Nobody. Where were you then? Huh? At Lester’s locker. That’s where. Or somewhere else. It sure wasn’t here. So, why now? Huh? Why? Why don’t you go ask Lester why he couldn’t get it done? How about Hooper? Was he brilliant tonight? Or Finster or McGinty or Jimmy Llamas? Why don’t you go bother them? Huh? Go see if they’ll listen to your bull because I’m done.” Danvers was inconsolable. He just slammed his locker and stormed off. Refused to speak to any of the media for days afterward. Things were certainly amiss.

  But of all the Brewers, Mickey was struggling the most. He just wasn’t himself. More than ever, his thoughts were scattered and prickly. It could have been all the ugliness he had seen. He was still asking Murph about the “men in white hoods” and was relentless in his pursuit of an answer to what in his world was a simple question.

  “Murph, why does Lester being dark matter? We like him. Why don’t other folks?”

  Murph frowned. A pall of loneliness and doom gradually stole over him. “I don’t know, Mick,” he answered, shaking his head erratically. “I told you before, a hundred times, it ain’t easy to understand.”

  The weight of confusion was eating away at him. It showed. Then again, maybe the boy was just getting tired. He had logged a lot of innings and had performed at an almost superhuman level. It was a lot to ask of a kid who still was, in essence, just a farm boy. Of course, his troubles could have had something to do with the notes he began receiving in his locker every day, He did the same thing every time he got one—leaned up against his locker, limbs slack, eyes wide and curiously vacant, his lips parted from his teeth, quivering in silent alarm. His hands were also unsteady, and the tiny paper would shake violently as it dampened beneath his tremulous grip. And the words. Those words he read to himself, over and over, were like tiny daggers pressed slowly into his sides.

  Forget what you saw boy, or someone will get hurt bad.

  Each time it happened, he felt this unavailing shame, as if somehow he had done something wrong by seeing what he saw. And he saw it, over and over again. That face, ugly and mean, revealed to him and only him that night. It was awful. The desire to conceal his secret was mastering. Nobody could know about this. Nobody. So each time he got another note, he tore the dreaded paper into a thousand pieces, one small section at a time, and then sprinkled the remnants like confetti into the waste paper basket, all this while reciting catatonically his favorite poetic lines.

  Murph saw the boy was floundering, but was powerless to put a name to it. He hoped quietly that whatever it was that was ailing his young ace would pass as cryptically and swiftly as it had come. But things only got worse.

  Mickey got the ball in the first half of a twi-night double dip against the Giants. It was a perfect evening, attenuated by a resplendent, even sky tinged here and there with splashes of red and orange. Borchert Field was filled to capacity, something that had become customary each time Mickey took the hill, with legions of Mickey Tussler disciples, including of course the rabid coterie of worshippers from Mickey’s Minions and the Baby Bazooka Brigade. They were always the most vocal and demonstrative, but their unbridled zeal had struck a chord with many of the less expressive fans, who, after observing the antics of these fanatics, began coming to the ballpark dressed from head to toe in Brewer garb while carrying placards and banners professing their unmitigated love for their favorite Brewer. Everything was right, Murph told himself, filling his lungs with the cool evening air. This would be the night that Mickey would return to form.

  The game began uneventfully, with Mickey retiring the first three batters in order, each on a weak groundball to the right side of the infield. The Brewers went quietly in their half of first as well, and were back on the field before most of the crowd had time to grab a hot dog or arrest the thunder of the beer carts rolling through the stands.

  The leadoff batter for the Giants, Johnny McCullers, began the top of the second frame with one of those classic at bats that seemed to go on in perpetuity. He had fallen behind 0–2 on two straight fastballs that shaved the outside corner, but battled back, fouling off the next two offerings before demonstrating a keen eye on the next two pitches, which both missed just off that same corner. With the count now even, McCullers really went to work, spoiling the next five fastballs with a quick, defensive flick of the wrists, spraying the crowd with a shower of souvenirs. Mickey continued to fire, and McCullers answered the bell every time, fouling each one into the stands. The dance went on for several more pitches, until the umpire, having depleted his supply of baseballs, called time so that he could reload his pockets.

  McCullers stepped out, and banged his cleats with the barrel of his bat. His arms we
re tired, but the determination still burned. He exhaled loudly, rolled his shoulders, and dug in once again. Mickey was up for the challenge as well, drawing strength and energy from the 15,000 strong who were standing and chanting in unison his name.

  Mickey received a new ball from the umpire and spun it in his hand, searching for just the right grip. Then he took his sign from Lester. Another fastball, this time up and in. A little chin music. Something high and hard, designed to get into the stubborn batter’s kitchen. McCullers had been leaning over the plate the entire at bat, trying desperately to protect the outer half. He was definitely vulnerable inside. A well placed heater would most certainly saw him off at the hands and end the interminable battle right then and there.

  Lester kept one finger flush against his inner thigh until Mickey nodded; then he set the target just inches from McCuller’s belt buckle. As the determined batter whirled his bat overhead, Mickey rocked back, extended his front leg and fired a dart that blistered the air en route to Lester’s yawning pocket. McCullers, who had been expecting something away, froze instantly, his arms locking up like seized gears in an overworked machine, just as the ball exploded through the strike zone.

  “Ball three,” the umpire shouted. “Inside.”

  The Giant’s bench roared its approval, reveling in the valiant battle their comrade was waging against his formidable opponent, while Murph broke out of his silence with cries of torment.

  “Oh, for Christ sake!” he thundered. “Come on, ump. You’re squeezing him now. That plate’s got two sides. Holy crap. Open your eyes. You’re missing a pretty damn good game here.”

  A torrent of boos rained down all across Borchert Field as the crowd began to voice its displeasure as well. Mickey, unphased by the raucous milieu, took the return toss from Lester and prepared for his next delivery. He licked his lips, blew out a cleansing breath, and adjusted the buckle on his belt, pulling it sharply to the left, then back a tad to the right, so that it lay in the center of his waist. Then he lined up his feet in their customary position, three inches from the right edge of the rubber. Standing there, looking at Lester’s index and middle finger dangling furtively in between the crafty catcher’s legs, Mickey was thinking that the air was cooler than usual. And that his stomach felt full, like maybe he had eaten too many biscuits and gravy at the pre-game meal. His eye marked the antics of two pigeons just beyond the grandstand, tussling over the discarded remnants of a hot dog bun. He smiled. He thought of Silas Harper, and the coop of pigeons the old man had at his place just down the road from the old farm where Mickey had grown up.

  “These are special birds, Mick,” he always told him, placing one in the boy’s hands so that he could examine the creature up close. “Messenger pigeons. Trained ’em myself. Can carry a message a hundred miles. Yes sireee. Amazing birds.”

  Mickey smiled at the reminiscence, and somewhere, in the region of his mind reserved only for those thoughts that possessed the power to warm his fractured heart, he considered that maybe these Borchert Field pigeons weren’t Borchert Field pigeons at all. Maybe, just maybe, they belonged to Silas Harper, and had flown all the way from Indiana with a message. For him. His smile grew wider. He had just stepped off the rubber and began his quest to catch a better look when the sound of Murph’s voice shook him from his momentary musing.

  “Come on now, Mick. Concentrate now. Go get him. No letting up. Go right after him, kid.”

  Mickey refocused, steadying himself once again on the still pristine white stripe. With Lester’s target now his primary focus, he placed his hands together, rolled his arms in inimitable fashion, and broke off a 12–6 bender that dove through the strike zone so sharply, so stealthily, that by the time McCullers had taken his hack, the ball was gone, leaving only the cool, vacant air as fodder for his eager bat.

  “Steeerike three!” the umpire cried, ringing up McCullers with a histrionic flare that delighted the expectant crowd. Their boy had won the battle. The roars of approval were fleeting, however, replaced by gasps of incredulity and disappointment once everyone saw McCullers scampering down the line toward first base and Lester, who had let the brilliant pitch slip through the five hole, chasing the ball all the way to the wall behind home plate. By the time the dejected catcher retrieved his blunder, McCullers was standing safely on the first base bag.

  Lester had been brilliant all year defensively. Nobody in the league was better. He had performed flawlessly for the entire season, making all the routine plays when called upon and turning in some highlight reel material as well. But there were still some malcontents, a sect of myopic trouble stirrers who refused to accept the presence of a black man on a white man’s diamond, who came to the ballpark, just waiting for a moment like this to spew their venom.

  “That’s what you get when you let a negro do a man’s job,” one of the more vitriolic members of this unholy faction screamed from the seats behind home plate.

  “Hey, boy, don’t you have some things to shovel, or some shoes that need shining? Hmm? Are you listening to me, boy? Maybe I ought to come down there and slap that fat head of yours, teach you not to go messing up the game the way you do.”

  Lester looked up at the rabid miscreant, his eyes heavy and gray, then turned and began walking back to home plate.

  “Don’t you turn your back on me, boy. Ain’t you listening? Huh? Is you stupid too? Can’t you talk? Maybe that’s your problem. You’re just a big, dumb coon who don’t know no better. That’s why maybe you need to be taught—and I’m a mighty good teacher, boy—that there ain’t no place for no dirty, stinkin’ monkeys on a baseball field. That’s right. Are you listening, boy?”

  Lester was more than halfway back to home plate when he stopped suddenly. His face, now moist with perspiration, was hard and strained, and his nostrils flared, sending forth into the cool night air, with every breath, two barely perceptible lines of volcanic respiration. He knew that he should have just kept walking, like his mama would want him to, but something inside broke loose and was insisting to be heard.

  He had just turned to face the reprobate once again when the strangled cries of another arrested his advance.

  “Lester Sledge ain’t stupid, Mister,” Mickey shouted, walking in from his position on the mound toward the angry man’s seat. “He’s right smart. And he’s my friend. My friend. You stop saying those bad words to him. He’s my friend. Mickey thinks that…”

  Lester turned yet again, this time placing himself strategically between an unhinged Mickey and his intended destination. The boy continued to scream at the man while trying to get closer, despite Lester’s bear hug and reassuring whispers that everything was okay. The entire Brewers’ bench emptied. Mickey’s unexpected display enraged the man even further.

  “Are you talking to me?” he fired back, finger pointed in Mickey’s direction. “Ain’t this rich. This is just priceless. Man alive. Now I done seen everything. A damn retard defending a stupid, good for nothing coon. What a circus. Sit down, retard, before you get hurt too.”

  Murph and the others got in between the war of words, and someone was just about to summon security when the natural order of things took over. It hadn’t been more than a second or two after the words left the man’s mouth that he was besieged by an impromptu assembly of Brew Crew vigilantes who, having taken umbrage at the pejorative remarks launched at their favorite son, leapt from their seats, subdued the villain and began dragging him, with a good deal of difficulty, toward the exit.

  “Let me go! Take your friggin’ hands off me!” he screamed, struggling to break free. “What’s wrong with you people?” The man continued to struggle, his invectives becoming less and less audible as the group of men dragged him further and further from the field. He continued to rant about the white race, and injustice, and the old world order, but nobody was listening. Nobody, except Mickey, who heard the final words of the man’s diatribe loud and clear. “I’ll get you! You hear? Your black ass is mine. You hear me? I will get you.�
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  The words were shrill and hateful and rattled the boy, brought him back instantly to that violent memory of not too long ago. And to those horrible little notes that just kept coming, day after day.

  Mickey tried to go on. He got back on the mound and continued to pitch. But his mind was somewhere else. Somewhere dark and menacing, a place he’d only just discovered. A place he scarcely understood. He walked the next batter he faced on four straight pitches. That was followed by a sharp single up the middle, a booming double off the top of the left field wall, and a bases clearing triple that was smoked down the right field line. In a blink of an eye, the Brewers were trailing 4–0.

  Lester called time and made a trip out to the mound at Murph’s behest. Mickey was reeling, and spoke frantically to Lester with a back draft of fear and uncertainty washing over him.

  “Mickey doesn’t understand why people call you names, Lester Sledge,” he began. “And why they want to hurt you. Mickey is trying to help Lester. Honest. I am. But I’m afraid. Mickey is a little scared.”

  Lester sighed and searched for words carefully, as if negotiating an unfamiliar room in the dark.

  “Hey, no worries, Mick,” he said, patting the boy on the shoulder. “Come on now. You’re one of my best friends. And you are helping. Just by being with me. That guy, and the others like him? Don’t pay them no mind. Ain’t nothing worth troubling yourself with. My mama used to say, ‘the empty drum always makes the loudest noise.’ That’s all they are. Empty drums. Ain’t nothing fer either one of us to worry about.”

  Mickey was still, silenced by some internal affliction that he could not permit to the surface.