Murph, feeling like he wanted to place his hands around McNally’s throat and squeeze, did what he usually did in circumstances such as these. It was the only way he knew.
“I wouldn’t go popping any champagne corks just yet,” he said before walking away.
Mickey led the Brewers onto the field to a chorus of raucous cheers. The tiny ballpark was in bloom. In every row, in every seat, in every corner where there was enough room to house a body, hope was ripening with a pulsating, breathless energy. All of the Brewers tingled with the energy flowing from the stands, as if somehow the standing-room-only crowd had found a way to transmit the emotional current to each of their hometown heroes.
Mickey felt his stomach churn. The excitement was awesome, and made him smile for the moment, but reminded him just how vital he was to the night’s happenings. He scanned the crowd behind home plate quickly as he prepared to take his warm-up tosses. He saw Mr. Meyer, the butcher. In the row behind him, just to the left, was the man who fixed the leak in Murph’s roof last fall. He was sitting next to Mrs. Kutner, the elementary school teacher, who was talking with Joan Ulanoff, a good friend of hers who had just arrived and hadn’t even had time to sit. Mickey noticed that the man sitting directly behind her was laughing and using a handkerchief to clean the dust off her seat. It was Sheriff Rosco. And of course, there was Molly, sitting in her usual seat, watching her special boy perform at a level she was still unable to truly conceptualize. There were so many people there who he knew, and just as many, mostly men dressed in suits and fedoras, that he did not. And they were all holding rectangular pieces of cardboard, each with his name on it, spelled in such a way as to celebrate the young hurler’s pitching prowess: GO MICKEY! He had a fain’t impulse to begin counting but Lester’s impatient cry from behind the dish jolted him back to matters at hand. He began treating the eager crowd to a series of warm-ups that sounded something like a twenty-one gun salute.
The Rangers began their quest for back-to-back pennants with Kiki Delaney, the speedster who had had another productive year. Delaney lead the league again in all of the less glamorous offensive categories, infield hits, bunt singles, and stolen bases. He was their catalyst, the spark that ignited a fairly potent Ranger attack. Delaney stepped into the batters box, and Mickey prepared to unleash his first pitch, all while the rumbling ballpark prepared to erupt into complete bedlam. Every fan was on his feet, clapping, whistling, or stomping the high risers with fevered craving. Mickey was still nervous, but the frenetic atmosphere buoyed his resolve and he felt a familiar lift of his heart, just like the very first time he took the mound at Borchert Field.
It was nice to hear his name, and all the applause. He was thinking that he wanted to talk to all of the nice people who had come to cheer for him, perhaps thank them, maybe have them over to the house, where he could show them his rabbits, and the new pen he had built for them, when the immediacy of the moment took over, causing him to roll his arms in customary fashion, kick his leg, and fire the evening’s opening salvo.
The pitch was deft and true, a fastball so fast, so explosive, that it was only heard, not seen.
“Steerike one!” the umpire called, as the ball popped Lester’s glove.
Upon hearing the thunderous explosion, and the subsequent judgment, the crowd roared even louder than before. The Brewers’ bench was just as pleased.
“Atta boy, Mick,” they called to him. “Atta boy. All you now. Go get ‘em.”
Mickey’s next delivery was just as impressive—a four-seam heater that blasted into Delaney’s kitchen, shattering his bat into a thousand pieces. The overmatched speedster just stood there forlorn, with only the remnants of what formerly was his favorite piece of lumber in his hand, like a little boy whose balloon had just been popped. Murph and Matheson looked at each other and smiled.
“It’s a beautiful thing, Murph,” Matheson said, tugging excitedly on the peak of his cap while motioning to the Rangers’ dugout. “Look at all of ‘em over there. Sweatin’ like a bunch of whores in church.”
Delaney’s shoulders sagged. He walked back to the bench, grabbed another bat, and slipped back into the box, but everyone knew, including Delaney himself, that it was pointless. The fear flickering in his eyes revealed itself to all, and shone more brightly when Mickey rolled his arms once more and dropped a wicked 0–2 hammer on the paralyzed Delaney, buckling his knees as if the frightened batter had been cut down at the ankles by a buzz saw.
“Strike three, yer out!”
The frenzied crowd erupted once more, stomping its feet while waving the promotional GO MICKEY! placards that had been distributed prior to the game. It was just the sort of start everyone in Brewer Land had hoped for.
Mickey seemed fueled by the enthusiasm raining down all around him, disposing of the next two Ranger batters in similar fashion. He had not looked this imposing, this indomitable, all year. It took the Baby Bazooka just eleven pitches to complete the Rangers’ half of the first frame; now it was the hometown boys’ chance to try and put a mark or two on the pristine scoreboard.
When Lefty Rogers trotted out to the mound for the home half on the inning, the mood of the ballpark changed drastically. Those who had just spent the previous minutes laughing and cheering morphed without warning into a hideous monster, a poly-headed creature with countless arms, a pernicious, rabid beast that hurled both invectives and an assortment of loose objects at the surly turncoat. Nobody had forgotten the role he played in last year’s scandal with their beloved Mickey, and nobody forgave his subsequent defection to the Rangers. Rogers loved every second of it, placing his hand to his ear while shrugging his shoulders, something that enraged the unruly crowd even further. They continued to pelt him with hot dog buns and apple cores, and yelled as loudly as they could all the horrible things they would do to him if they caught him outside, stopping only when Pee Wee McGinty’s name was announced.
There was certainly no love lost between Rogers and McGinty. The diminutive shortstop stepped into the box like a demon, his eyes ablaze with loathing and retribution. He wind-milled his bat around several times, then set his hands and prepared for the first offering. Rogers showed no emotion, except for a fain’t smile that was barely visible behind the webbing on his glove. The truth was, he had owned McGinty all season; made him look foolish just about every time he had faced him. The only blemish on the fireballing left hander’s record was a bunt single that proved to be of no consequence in one of the last contests of the year.
“Game on,” Lefty whispered, rocking back.
The impudent pitcher brought his hands over his head, pivoted on the rubber with his left foot, and with one swift woosh, fired the ball at the catcher’s glove. It was certainly a good fastball—not nearly as awe-inspiring as the ones Mickey had just thrown—but it was hard and heavy and placed artfully over the outside corner of the plate. All McGinty could do was wave at it. Lefty got the ball back, and with the deliberation and skill of a surgeon, let fly again, this time shaving the inside half of the dish for a called strike two. An intoxicating confidence began to blossom before Lefty’s eyes. He was feeling it. His ball had that extra little hop it always had on days when he was almost un-hittable.
The entire Brewer team recognized the fire in Lefty’s eyes, and the impressive nature of their nemesis’ first two tosses. Each man lifted himself off the bench, and climbed to the top step of the dugout, where they all proceeded to rally behind their teammate.
“Come on now, Pee Wee,” Finster shouted, clapping his hands wildly. “This guy ain’t nothin’. He’s nothin’, Pee Wee.”
“Hey now, number one,” Danvers added. “Little bingo now. Stroke ‘em kid.”
Even Mickey, who usually occupied himself during their at bats with pitch counts or puzzle books, got into the act, squeezing himself in between Danvers and Lester.
“Hit the ball, Pee Wee,” he yelled. “Hit the ball.”
Pee Wee heard the cries of support, and dug in harder with ever
y one that followed. Lefty was equally focused. His next delivery was strictly a “show me” pitch—a sharp breaking ball in the dirt designed to get the batter to chase or, if nothing else, alter his timing. McGinty wasn’t fooled. He just stood there, fully aware of Lefty’s transparent stratagem. Then, mindful of Lefty’s fragile ego, he asked the umpire to check the ball. The man in blue slid the mask away from the front of his face until it rested on top of his head. Then he rolled the ball around in his hand, examining each side with a critical eye.
“Nah, this ball’s okay,” he finally said, rubbing out a smear of dirt caught in the laces. He looked it over again for good measure before slamming his mask down and tossing the object of his inspection back to Lefty.
The crafty pitcher wasted no time. He got the ball back from the umpire and immediately positioned himself on the rubber. He peered in at the catcher, filled with a restless irritation that distorted his already misshapen face. He shook his head once. Then again. He shook it a third time, now with more animation, prompting McGinty to step out of the box while the disjointed battery tried to get together on a game plan.
The crowd, already disenchanted with the antics of their former idol, booed heartily. Finally, on the fourth try, the Rangers’ backstop put down something to Lefty’s liking. Fastball away. It was exactly what Lefty wanted. He had beaten McGinty all year on hard stuff away, and having just shown him something off speed, the likelihood of blowing a heater right past him was never better.
Lefty placed the ball exactly where he wanted it—less than an inch off the black on the outer half of the plate. He watched and admired his handiwork, as the spinning sphere whizzed through the air en route to its intended destination. He was all set to turn his back and begin watching the celebratory around-the-horn tossing when, over the steady hum of the crowd came a sharp crack, like a large, dry twig being snapped in half. Lefty, perplexed by the unexpected fly in the ointment, watched with jaw agape as the ball rocketed up and over the first baseman’s glove. It rose steadily as it traveled, like a fighter jet just launched, increasing in speed as it flew until finally touching down directly on the foul line, kicking up a plume of white powder before rolling into the right field corner. McGinty was halfway between first and second base when he heard the call. “Foul ball!” screamed the first base umpire. Pee Wee’s immediate instinct was to go after the man—punish him for botching such an important call—but Murph was in midflight already from the dugout and arrived on the scene before McGinty could get anywhere near the guy.
“What are you, kidding me? You blind or something?” Murph wailed. “You have to be kidding me! I can still see the dust in the air.”
“The ball was foul, Mr. Murphy,” the umpire said, brushing an errant wisp of silver from his eyes and tucking it back under his cap.
“Foul? Foul? How do you figure that? The goddamned ball hit the line. That’s a fair ball.”
His eyes were distant and tepid.
“Look, I call ’em as I see ’em. The ball was foul. End of story.”
“You can’t call crap with your eyes closed,” Murph fired back, moving in so close to the official’s face that he could smell his tobacco-laden breath.
“Watch yourself now, Mr. Murphy,” the umpire warned. “I’ll run you just as sure as I’m standing here.”
Murph continued his protest, joined now by the crowd, which had become completely unhinged, pelting the field once again with anything it could get its hands on, including cigar butts, chewing gum and soda bottles. Both Murph and the umpire danced through the shower of debris as they continued their heated exchange.
“Call ’em as you see ’em?” Murph repeated. “Really? That’s your damn answer? Maybe you should get your eyes checked. Or maybe you need to consult the rule book. You do know the rule, right? Because I have never seen you before on a baseball field. Guy your age, just starting out? Makes me wonder if—”
“It was foul.”
The legion of Brewer faithful continued to voice their disapproval, littering the area around first base with merciless rage. Pee Wee, who had been restrained almost instantly by Matheson and Arky Fries, was still barking from a distance.
“Bullshit,” Murph fired back, turning the bill of his cap around toward the back so that he could get even closer to his target’s face. “That ball was as fair as the day is long and you know it.”
“I said the ball was foul,” the umpire repeated, stepping backward. “Foul ball. Now get your ass back to the dugout or I’ll run you right now.”
With his hands affixed to his hips, and a head that now hung limply between his shoulders, Murph capitulated, exhausted from the frantic swim against the current.
“The ball was fair, and you know it,” he said one more time before turning toward the dugout. “Bullshit.”
Murph was steaming, and had to force the rational portion of his brain to function. There was still an entire game to play, and he would have to be lucid enough to manage the rest of it. He had all but reached the dugout steps, and regained his poise, when McNally took the opportunity to rub a little salt in the wound.
“Sure is a shame, Murph,” McNally called from his perch in the opposing dugout. “That had triple written all over it.”
Murph said nothing.
Pee Wee, still reeling from the horrible injustice, continued his at bat after the grounds crew cleaned up the remnants of the debacle that had just ensued. The fleeting success he had just enjoyed buoyed his resolve and he dug in now even deeper. Lefty, who had watched the entire spectacle from a safe distance somewhere behind the mound, hopped back eagerly on the rubber and set his sights on disposing McGinty once and for all. He got his sign, reared back and fired even harder this time. The ball jumped out of his hand and sped toward the plate in wild fashion, missing the mark by a healthy margin. Lefty cursed himself for evening the count and for giving the overmatched batter and his teammates a tremor of hope.
“Atta boy, Pee Wee!” they screamed from the top step. “You got him. Do it again, kid.”
Lefty took the return toss from the catcher and walked behind the mound once again. There, with his back turned to McGinty, and glove tucked neatly under his arm, he rubbed the ball vigorously with both hands while chastising himself. The bizarre ritual went on for a minute or so, until the mercurial hurler put his glove back on his hand and banged the ball inside the pocket, grunting loudly before assuming his regular position atop the hill.
The next pitch was masterful, a two-seamer with extra mustard that began in the center of the plate before tailing away suddenly just as it burst through the hitting zone. Pee Wee could do nothing but wave at the elusive offering once again, ending what was a most protracted, laborious at bat. The outcome reopened the wound from minutes before. “Bull!” Murph screamed again in the direction of first base. “Absolute bull! You’re killing us out there. Let the players play. He should be standing on third base right now.”
Lefty retired Arky Fries and Woody Danvers in routine fashion to close out the Brewers’ half of the first. With the score knotted at zero, Mickey skipped out to the mound to face the middle of the Rangers’ lineup. He was never better, electrifying the partisan crowd with pinpoint accurate balls pitched at dizzying and inexplicable speeds.
This went on, batter after batter, inning after inning. And despite a couple of appeals to first base on check swings that went in favor of McNally’s boys, Mickey had a choke hold on the Ranger offense. Through the first six innings, he retired all eighteen batters he had faced, twelve by strikeout. The kid was simply un-hittable.
For all his bluster and supercilious antics, Lefty was almost as good, shutting down the Brew Crew in similar fashion. The home team had managed only two hits and a walk, but all three men died an uneventful death on the base baths, leaving Murph and Matheson scratching their heads as to how they were going to push a run across.
The top of the seventh promised to hold more of the same. Mickey jumped out quickly to an 0–2 c
ount on Clyde Rivers, burning two fireballs right past the Ranger right fielder. With the batter now in a hole, Danvers dropped back at third, even with the bag. For a moment, Mickey glanced around and scanned the crowd, as if he were momentarily blinded by the lights and fevered activity. His eyes danced from placard to placard, and the raucous cheering filled his ears.
Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!
He smiled a little, and was feeling, in the most private chambers of his heart, that Oscar was looking down on him; it felt good, but he wished that that Daphne and Duncan could be there watching too.
With thoughts of his beloved creatures fresh in his mind, he uncorked his next pitch. Lester had called for a bender, low and outside, but Mickey’s arm sagged a bit during his follow-through. The ball helicoptered a bit, hovered right in the center of Rivers’ happy zone. His eyes widened. The stunned batter took advantage of the fortuitous miscue, smashing a bullet right down the third base line.
Danvers, anticipating a late swing on the part of the right handed hitter, had moved off the line, leaving a gaping hole between he and the bag. Out of position now, and with only a mere fraction of a second to react, the slick fielding keeper of the hot corner laid out, fully extended, his yawning glove turned in backhand fashion. The scorched ball skipped like a skimmed stone before lodging itself in Danvers’ web. The force of the smash was so great that it carried his body back a step or two toward the outfield grass. In the infinitesimal time it took Danvers to realize what he had just done, he spun to his feet, cocked his arm and fired a pea over to Finster just before the runner stepped on the bag.
Danvers stood across the diamond admiring his handiwork, and was just about to pump his fist in celebration of the highway robbery, when the first base umpire began gesticulating wildly, throwing his arms to the side as if he were tossing out a bucket of bath water.
“Safe!” he cried, pointing his finger at Finster’s back foot. “Off the bag.”
Sophomore Campaign Page 23