Sophomore Campaign

by Nappi, Frank;

  STRETCH RUN

  Despite a pitching rotation that was one starter short, and some residual fall out linked to the Sanders scandal, the Brewers made Matheson’s prognostication stand up, going on a two-week tear that saw the resurgent Brew Crew peel off nine straight wins, catching the first place Rangers for a share of the penthouse while igniting a frenzied interest throughout the entire town.

  This excitement fed off itself, morphing into a sort of willful paradise, a passionate, breathless longing for the impossible dream, an uncompromising fervor that captivated even the most dispassionate Milwaukee resident. The local butcher, bathed in this vicarious hue of the team’s success, hung a large sign in his window extolling the recent exploits of the hometown heroes; many farmers, despite the daily rigors germane to tending fruitful cornfields, stripped their scarecrows of the usual flannel and denim in favor of full Brewers regalia; on every street corner, lampposts were tattooed with colorful fliers advertising the next five home dates at Borchert Field, and many of the municipal buildings closer to town decorated their doorways with Brewers flags and adorned their windows with an assortment of red and blue crepe paper streamers.

  The fever was rampant.

  Interest really peaked during four weeks of stellar baseball; now, after a rigorous schedule that began months ago, entrance to the playoffs came down to just one game. A one-game tie breaker—winner take all. Once again, Murph’s Brew Crew would have to face McNally’s Rangers on the final day of the regular season to determine their post-season fate.

  In the wake of all the hoopla surrounding the Brewers incredible rise to prominence, Arthur Murphy became a wanted man—that is, a steady stream of people began showing up at his office and his home each day, all seeking an audience with the most popular guy in town. Some just wanted to be around the man, to share in the excitement that was by most estimations attributable to him. Others came by just to wish him luck, and to tell him how much his team’s success meant to them personally, and of course there were a few visits from the token opportunists who happened by, seeking tickets or an autograph. Everyone wanted a piece of Murph. He must have accepted more than two dozen visits over a five-day period, most of a harmless nature, but none as strange as the one he received from Sheriff John Rosco.

  “I hear you’re a pretty popular fella these days, Arthur,” Rosco began, his mouth thin and tight. “Sure is a great story. I’m happy for you. You have handled this whole Lester thing with a lot of poise. I have to say—I am very impressed.”

  Murph was silent for a moment.

  “Well, thanks, John. That’s mighty nice of you. Really. But somehow, I don’t think you came all the way out here just to tell me how wonderful I am.”

  “Now, what kind of comment is that? Come on, Murph. Ain’t we friends?”

  Murph cringed over the insipid insincerity.

  “Friends? No, John, we’re not friends. My friends don’t threaten the people I love.”

  Rosco grew moodily silent for a moment before finally answering.

  “Are you still upset over that whole misunderstanding in the car with Lester?” Rosco asked. “Now I thought we were past that?”

  Murph’s eyes were distant. He seemed to be beyond the unscrupulous lawman.

  “Okay, Murph, okay,” he continued. “You win. I’m gonna level with you. I appreciate you not showing them G men the tape. I do. That could have really been a heap of trouble for me. And I’m still not quite sure why you didn’t. Hell if I know too much of anything these days. Anyhow, I wanted to say thanks. And, I wanted to ask you for it—the tape. I mean, if you’re not gonna use it, ain’t no sense in you hanging onto to it, right?”

  “I’m keeping the tape, John.”

  “Well, that don’t make much sense now. Why would you—”

  “Look, John,” Murph said, shaking his head. “I’m a busy guy these days. You may have heard. I have a big game to prepare for. So if it’s all the same to you, I think—”

  “Funny you should mention that,” Rosco said, laughing intently. “I just may be able to help you with that—or at least sweeten the pot a bit.”

  Murph struggled with an unpleasant feeling. A nagging tapping at the base of his skull that seemed to suggest that there was even more to Rosco than he had previously imagined.

  “Well,” the sheriff continued. “I hear that you’ve been poking around a little, inquiring about Chip McNally’s alleged role in all of the monkey doings related to Lester. Makes sense. I’d be doing the same thing. But McNally’s a pretty slippery fella, Murph. You know that. Ain’t easy to catch a guy like that. Unless, of course, you’ve got a friend who may know something—someone, let’s say, who’s willing to help out a bit?”

  “What is it that you want, John?” Murph asked, exasperated by the sheriff’s circumlocution.

  “Now, there you go again, hurting my feelings, Murph,” he said. “I just want to help out. That’s all. I can give you McNally—lock, stock, and barrel. He’ll never be a thorn in your side again.”

  “Yes… and?”

  “Here’s what I’m thinking. A friendly wager. You beat McNally in the big game, you can keep the tape. And, as a bonus, I’ll give you the scumbag. Fair and square. I’ll testify and everything. You will never have to see his sorry ass again. Wouldn’t that be grand?” Murph breathed deeply and folded his arms.

  “And if I lose?”

  “If you lose, you give me the tape, and we never talk about this again. We close the book on this nasty little chapter forever.”

  A puzzled came across Murph’s face.

  “Why not just make the exchange right now, John? You know, the tape for McNally? Why all the rabba dabba?”

  Rosco pulled out a cigar, bit off the end, lit it and released a cloud of smoke over Murph’s head.

  “I’m a sportsman, Murph. Love the challenge, and the gamble. Keeps the blood flowing. Nothing like it. Besides, think about it. Should McNally win, ain’t nobody gonna want to go after the guy. It’ll look like sour grapes. Can’t have that. Only a winner gets the sympathy of the people. That’s just the way it goes.”

  Murph stiffened at first. Then he melted a little, a subtle thawing noticeable not even to the most astute observer. Rosco’s idea was a little out there, but it had somehow reached out and wrapped itself around Murph’s imagination nonetheless. It only took another few seconds for the hesitation to finally give birth to a decision.

  “You know what, John? That’s fine. It’s fine. Nothing’s gonna stop us this time. We’re gonna win this damn thing anyway, so why not get both you and McNally off my back in the process? Right? Yeah. I like the sound of that. You got yourself a deal.”

  Murph reached out, and he and Rosco locked hands.

  “Okay then. We have a deal.” Rosco smiled.

  “Yes, we have a deal. But I have to tell you, John. I still don’t like you. And you should know something right now. If you step out of line here—if you do not live up to your end of the bargain, or if any other stuff happens, you’re done. I mean it. If you screw with me, you will be one sorry son of a bitch.”

  PENNANT FEVER

  As the hours before the final contest wore on, Murph grew more and more uneasy, with the indomitable fear of yet another season that would see him and his Brew Crew whimper into the off season without having finally made some meaningful memory for the Milwaukee faithful. He felt so miserable that he questioned whether or not he would even make it to the game—thought that perhaps at any minute, he would take one final breath, a painful attempt for just a little more air, before collapsing violently to the ground.

  The enormity of the situation was overwhelming. Molly was there for him, her cheery buoyancy a constant source of comfort. Yet, despite her gentle ways, Murph struggled with the specter of fading hope, with the possibility that this could be the last game he would ever manage for the Brewers. Dennison’s edict was clear.

  “You know what you have to do, Arthur, right?” he had asked at the
onset of their last closed door session. “I’m not kidding this time.”

  “I know, Warren,” he said, struggling against pangs of sullen aggression. “I get it.”

  As a way of allaying his nervous energy, Murph summoned the entire team for an early meeting and subsequent practice the day before the showdown. He stood in front of them, with something camouflaged and disrupted brewing behind his eyes.

  “I don’t think I have to tell all of you what tomorrow means,” he began, wiping the corners of his mouth with his forefinger and thumb. As he stood there, he recalled, in a blurred montage of images from his past, the fleeting glory that had whispered to him such false promise. There was the Rookie of the Year honor back in 1924; then there was the batting title the following season. He even hit the pennant clinching homerun later that year. Oh, what could have been had Fate only smiled upon him. It was another lifetime ago, sure, yet during moments like these, the sting was just as painful. “Tomorrow, we have a unique opportunity, fellas,” he continued. “Redemption. Tomorrow is about redemption. About righting a wrong. I want you to remember last year. I want you to remember what it felt like to watch them celebrate, knowing that you were going home for the winter. I want you to picture that—every pitch, every out, every inning. Picture how that made you feel. Then I want you to look inside yourselves—really look inside yourselves—and imagine just how awful it would feel for that to happen to you, again. How it would stick in your craw, eat away at you, for the rest of your lives. Trust me, fellas, there are some things that you never forget. It will trail you like a ghost if Chip McNally and the Rangers get the best of you again tomorrow.”

  He picked up the baseball resting on the trainer’s table and looked into it as if it were made of crystal.

  “But, the opportunity for you to set things right—to claim what is rightfully yours—is priceless. Embrace that. Use that as the motivation to play your asses off. Play every out like your life depends on it. Like it’s the last out you will ever play. Do that, because it will inspire you. Do that, because you owe it to yourselves. And to those fans who will be screaming for you. Do it, because for some of us, it may very well be the last hoorah.”

  Then, through a luminous morning mist that made each of them appear to be apparitions out for a senseless jaunt, they took the field in customary fashion, with the infielders spreading across the freshly turned dirt in preparation for box drills and the outfielders loping out toward the damp grass where they would spend the majority of the morning shagging flies. The pitchers and catchers did their own thing as well; jogged down the right field line, settled in the corner and began pairing up for some light throwing and tactical preparation for tomorrow’s big contest.

  “Mr. Murphy sure wants to win that game,” Mickey said, as he and Lester began stretching their legs. “Yup. Mickey thinks Mr. Murphy is a good manager. He should win. He likes baseball more than anyone I know.”

  Lester smiled.

  “Yeah, Mick, he does,” he said, sitting on the grass.

  He spread his legs out as far as they would go, until the formed a giant “V”, then leaned forward with his fingers, reaching first for his left foot, then for the right. Mickey did the same.

  “He sure does, Mick. But just liking the game ain’t enough sometimes. You gotta prepare, work hard, and then the players, like us, we gotta perform. Do the things that everyone’s expectin’ us to do. Then old Murph got’s a chance to bring home the prize.”

  He stopped for a minute to pull his legs into his body.

  “And even then, if all that happens, there ain’t no guarantees. Baseball’s funny like that. You just never know.”

  Mickey’s nerves tightened. He clenched his teeth and drew both hands together in a sudden tremor of realization.

  “What if Mickey is no good tomorrow, Lester?” he asked, plowing through a snowstorm of unsettling thoughts. “What if they hit the ball, Lester? Or I can’t throw hard enough?”

  “Don’t sweat it, Mick,” Lester replied, his eyes wide and calm. “You’re the best we got kid. Hell, you’re the best anyone’s got. Ain’t no game without you.”

  Mickey’s eyes were glassy in the morning glare. He was thinking about last year, and Lefty, and what had happened to Oscar that day, and how he had lost control, and wound up sitting in that dirty jail cell instead of pitching that day. God he missed Oscar. He was also remembering Murph’s face after that game—how it looked like it was melting right off his head.

  “But last year, Lester. Last year, Mickey wasn’t there. Mickey let the team—”

  “That was last year, kid,” Lester said. “Last year is last year. Ain’t nothin’ to be done about that now. All you can do is go out there tomorrow and do like Murph said—give it everything you got. Somethin’ tells me that if you can do that, we’ll all be alright.”

  Mickey rose to his feet. He was still a little stiff, but his breathing was easier for the moment. He put on his glove, took the ball from Lester and watched almost hypnotically as his partner jogged a few steps away before settling directly across from him, some sixty feet away. Then, in the first warm rays of the ascending sun, the boy began tossing the baseball, ever mindful of the daunting test that awaited him.

  JUDGMENT DAY

  The evanescence of September twilight faded quickly into a deep night. The entire area surrounding Borchert Field lay shrouded in darkness save for the brilliant glow of a silver moon that shone through the weightless clouds hovering dreamily above the dozing hamlet and the emerging light beginning to hum from the towering light stanchions all around the stadium—splashes of artificial luminosity that lit the eager faces of the Brewer faithful as they poured through the turnstiles and made their way to their seats.

  Murph had been in his office the entire day, fettered to his desk and the daunting prospects which lay ahead. He had come a long way in this game, had his fair share of both success and failure, with the latter emerging as the norm the past few years. Still, through it all, the game was all that mattered. Just being a part of it. Baseball was him. He was baseball. Now, after all these years, everything had been reduced to just nine innings; twenty-seven outs to determine his fate. Christ it was vexing. The sea of crumpled lineup cards strewn across the floor told the collective story of his torment.

  “What’s all the lollygagging about, young fella?” Matheson barked, clearing a path on the littered floor with his foot. “Come on now. Time’s a-wasting. It’s time to thump the tub.”

  “I just don’t know, Farley,” Murph said, shaking his head. “I don’t know if I can stomach this. Don’t know if I can do it.”

  “What are ya talking about, Murph?’ the old man questioned.

  “It ain’t like before, Farley. This is really it. Dennison means business this time.”

  “Bah. Warren Dennison is a damned mooncalf. A real soft head. Don’t know his ass from third base.”

  The tumult slowly rising outside from the impatient crowd reached Arthur’s ears. He was weighing an image of a younger him, circling the bases, then crossing home plate with the pennant clinching run. The entire team was waiting for him, arms open, mouths frothing with celebratory juices. It was a moment he never forgot. That, and the conversation he had afterward with Otis Clayton, the man who had scouted him for the big league Braves.

  “You’ve arrived, kid,” he said, stuffing the end of his pipe with a pinch of tobacco. “And let me be the first to say it. You’re the real deal. Five-tool player. One who is going to be one of the best to have ever put on a pair of spikes. Your future is as good as done.”

  It was all there that day, unfurling before him like a golden path to stardom and baseball immortality. Standing there now, he realized just how far he had fallen. Somehow, things just did not turn out the way he had always envisioned.

  “I know, Farley, I know,” he said, trying to jolt his face back into some semblance of sanity. “It’s just that—ah, never mind. You’re right. We got a game to play.”

>   “That’s the old pepper, Murphy boy,” Matheson gushed. “Now let’s go out there and give ‘em hell.”

  The steady glare from the stadium lights painted the freshly manicured field with a luminous sheen, one that imbued the dirt and grass with a celestial quality. Murph climbed the dugout steps, gave a long look around and filled his lungs before placing one foot on the sacred ground, careful not to disrupt the freshly lain lines of lime as he made his way toward home plate for the pre-game ritual. McNally was already there, his mouth curling in a fain’t but noticeable smile, as if to suggest that he somehow knew the outcome of the contest and was trying not to boast too early. He was always the same—always in character. Murph hated this man now more than ever.

  “You guys sure are making this a habit,” the umpire said as Murph arrived at the batters box. “Wouldn’t be the final game of the season without a showdown between you two.”

  Murph forced a smile and handed the man in blue his lineup card. McNally was still wearing that stupid grin.

  “Yup,” the opposing skipper said, pulling his lineup card from his back pocket. “Every season ends the same way. You can count on that.”

  Murph fought against the throbbing in his temple. “Don’t be so sure of yourself, gimpy,” he said, rubbing his hands together. “Things are a little different this time. You couldn’t get to my pitcher this year.”

  McNally found himself propped up against the old truth and struggled momentarily with the feeling.

  “Now, I told you I had nothing to do with that, Arthur,” McNally said, laughing. “It hurts my feelings that you would suggest that I did. Was a terrible thing that Rogers did. A real shame. I actually want Tussler in the game. Wouldn’t have it any other way. This way, when we beat you—and make no bones about it, we will beat you—there ain’t no excuses to be had.”