The Southpaw

by Mark Harris

  When we got back on the bus Dutch told us some stories of Lazybones, for they played together many a year on the old Mammoths, when they was called the Manhattans. Dutch said Lazybones could sleep 16 hours at a stretch. Yet give him a bat in his hand and he was not sleepy, not by a long shot, as the records prove. Well, you have probably read a good deal about Lazybones without me telling you anything you don’t know. There is as many stories about Lazybones as about John McGraw or Ty Cobb or Shoeless Joe Jackson or Babe Ruth or Walter Johnson. I wish I could tell them like Dutch told them, sitting up there in the front of the bus with his feet stretched out on a suitcase, staring ahead at the road and thinking old memories and telling old stories. I moved up front. I took down a suitcase from the rack and stood it on end and sat in the isle, and I listened to them stories for 75 miles or better. They would just about make you weak from laughter. Or they could make you cry. If you ever heard Dutch tell about the death of Babe Ruth it would make you cry. I don’t care who you are.

  Mostly he told funny stories. I seen the driver, and I seen that he would smile. We would pass under a light in a half-assed sleepy town, or a car from the other direction would shine in his face, and he would be smiling. I guess for a bus driver it was a pretty big night. It was quiet, and I remember. Dutch talked soft, and we rode and rode and I never felt so peaceful and happy in all my life, listening there to the soft voices in the dark of the night. Then I heard a voice from the back. It was Swanee. “Dutch,” he said, “suppose you was to do it all over again? Would you be a ballplayer all over again?”

  Dutch thought awhile. “By God I would,” he said.

  “Not me,” said Sad Sam.

  “Bullshit,” said Dutch. “What else would you be?”

  “Bullshit is right,” said Red. “There ain’t a man on this bus that could eat like he eats in any other line of work. Leave us not kid ourselves. It is a stupid f—ing way of making a living but it is better than eating somebody’s crap in a mine or a mill or a farm or an office. It is the gold we are after.”

  “This is all getting too deep for me,” said Dutch. “Boys, let us have some music.”

  “Smith and Simpson is asleep,” I said.

  “You and Roguski sing,” said Dutch.

  “We cannot sing except all together,” said I.

  “That will sure play hell when it comes time to come down on the limit,” said Sam, pretending like he was talking to Dutch’ and I was not there. “Of course you might string up a radio between New York and Queen City. Then the 3 can sing at 1 end and Wiggen at the other.”

  Then Red said loud, like he was talking to Dutch and Sam was not there, “I was just telling George that if Sam Yale has not got some youngster on the club to razz and rag he considers the season a bust.”

  “I do not mind,” said I.

  “Boys,” said Dutch, “why must we snipe at 1 another at a time like this? I certainly do hope in my heart that there will be no politics on the club this summer. Sometimes I think every ballplayer ought to be struck dumb at birth and kept like that until he has bowed out for good. If I had my way it would be done, for I sometimes think I would rather manage a squad of goddam gymnasium teachers. Talk talk talk. Politics, politics.”

  We got to Jacksonville early in the morning and slept all day in some damn hotel that did not have no air condition. It was so hot I could barely sleep. Perry slept with some friends and said they had a cool place.

  Considering that I was tired I done well that night. Mike’s kids was looking better, hitting harder and connecting more often. They scored 3 off me in the third on a pop fly home run by Brooks that in any ordinary park would of went for an out. All it was was a little looping drive that never sounded nor looked like a hit a-tall. There was 2 on at the time, both of them on singles that bounced off the wall in right, the wall being located about 6 feet behind first base, or so it seemed. Brooks went strutting around the bases like he done something unusual. Then I settled down and throwed wide to lefthanders and close to righthanders, and when I left the game after 5 innings we was ahead 7–3.

  Afterwards Dutch asked me what that kid Brooks hit off me. “Hit!” said I. “He never hit nothing. His bat bumped into the ball.”

  “What in hell did he hit?” said Dutch.

  “Just a fast ball,” I said.

  “Thank you,” said Dutch, real sarcastic.

  On the train to Savannah we seen a report in the papers stating that Dutch spoke long distance with Brooklyn, trying to buy Bill Scudder for 75,000 plus Gene Park and Goose Williams. That was why Dutch played Perry at second all 4 nights in Jacksonville, for he wanted a good, long look at Perry. Red told me. I never met a man that could figure the angles like Red. Red said that Dutch believed that for every colored ballplayer on a ball club there ought to be another to room with him, and that tied in with Dutch asking me about what Brooks hit, for if he sold Goose he would of brought Brooks up. There was another report in the Savannah paper saying that Dutch was ready to close a deal with Brooklyn, giving them Goose and Sid Goldman plus cash for Bill Scudder, and this made sense when tied in with the report the day after that St. Louis was ready to swap the Mammoths Jim Klosky for Gene Park plus cash, St. Louis badly needing a second baseman and Brooklyn feeling that Goldman and Williams would plug their gaps, though of course they was far from wild to part with Scudder. That would of meant that Perry Simpson would take over for Gene Park at second for us, Klosky at first, Brooks would come up and I would of probably been sent back to Q. C. Well, we was all in a nervous frame of mind and no mistake.

  I pitched like a fiend the first game against Philly in Savannah. If they ever seen what I throwed they seen it too late to hit it, or if they hit it they never got a good piece. I worked 6 innings and give up 4 hits and no runs, and Bub Castetter finished and was wobbly all the way, but we won it on home runs by Sid and Gene Park. The trading talk sloped off some. That stuff goes hot and cold, and now it was cold, at least for a time.

  Dutch probably turned cool on the trades. Maybe he was beginning to feel like I felt. I felt like this was a club, not just a bunch of ballplayers, but a club. Maybe there was politics and mutterings and mumblings, but it never mattered, for when you was out there it dropped away, and if Sad Sam Yale ain’t spoke a word to Red Traphagen in years unless it be a dirty dig nonetheless you would of never knowed it watching them work together, and if George never spoke no English except his 2 favorite words it never mattered neither, for the lovely throw from third to first is something that got nothing to do with words.

  I knowed that if anybody beat us they would go a long way to get it done, and when they was done they would know they been in a scrap. We could be beat. Sure! But beat us once and we would beat you 3 times back. We won easy and we lost hard all spring.

  Philly beat us 2–1 the second day in Savannah, and we beat them on the third, 5–2. Savannah is where Perry was born, and he left when he was but a tot, him and 3 sisters and his brother and their uncle in an old 24 Moors with half the windows broke and no door by the driver. Perry says it was the coldest ride he ever took, going in the dead of winter from Savannah to Colorado. The uncle had a job in Pueblo, Colorado, and when they got there the job was took by another. Don’t things like that just make you boil? Who would of thought that someday Perry would come back to Savannah and it cost you a buck just to see him from the bleachers?

  Dutch played him at second on getaway night. He beat out a bunt twice and stole 2 bases. When Perry gets on base he gets the other pitcher rattled plenty. You can’t judge Perry by averages. The way you judge him is by the number of times he gets on base, whether bunting or drawing a walk or beating out a roller that on most fellows would be an out, and you got to judge him also by the way he keeps the opposition worried. Then, too, every so often he will powder 1 plenty. As a defensive second baseman I consider him the equal of anybody in the league except Gene Park and possibly Pearce of Brooklyn, though I even doubt that Pearce can go so far to his right as Per
ry.

  We took 2 out of 3 from Atlanta. I pitched the full 9 the third night, the first of the pitchers to go the route, and we lost 3–2.

  It was the night I beaned this kid name of Scooter Lane in the seventh inning. We was leading 2–0 when Scooter come up, a right-handed hitting outfielder that seemed to like outside fast balls. So we naturally throwed him curves, close, that a smarter ballplayer might of expected, but he did not, and he leaned in, and the first pitch hooked and caught him full in the face, and it made a dull sound like if you was to drop a grapefruit on the sidewalk from 2 stories up, and he stood there looking at me, and it seemed a long time, and it seemed like he was smiling, and then his knees give way, and he leaned on his bat, and then he dropped.

  When I reached him Red was bending over, and the umpire, and the crowd was still and silent, and then the doctor come, and the Atlanta trainer, and they stood the kid up. His face puffed up like a balloon, and he covered it with his hands, and they walked him off and out of the park.

  Then I become terribly wobbly and give up 2 runs. Dutch give me a talking to between innings, saying “Forget it. Them things will happen. Steady down and do not be a goddam gymnasium teacher,” and I steadied a bit in the eighth but got worse instead of better in the ninth, and the Crackers pushed across the winning run before I got a man out.

  I showered and dressed quick and hustled out of there and over to the hospital. They had Scooter laying out in the hall on a stretcher, and his face was covered with wet towels, and I went in a little room and spoke with the doctor. The doctor said there was nothing broke. He said Scooter would be a little fatter down the left side of his head for a week or so, but otherwise nothing serious, and then we went out to where Scooter was, and the doctor took the towels off. “See,” said the doctor, “does not Scooter look good all blue like that?” and Scooter tried to smile, but he could only work his lips in a very sickly way, and he did not open his eyes, and I said, “Lane, this is me, Henry Wiggen, that conked you,” and he stuck up 1 hand, and I shook it.

  “The doctor says you will be up and around in a week,” I said. I could hardly look at him, for his face was an awful mess. Yet I looked at him square, out of duty. “Scooter,” said I, “I have got a train to catch or I would keep you company awhile. I wish you would write me a letter and tell me how you do. I will be either with New York or Queen City. You can watch the papers and see. No doubt you will soon be up there yourself.” This was a lie, and I knowed it, for he was not that good of a ballplayer. Yet I said it. “Scooter,” said I, “you may be a little blue now, but you will be red hot by opening day.” I thought that was fairly clever, and he gripped my hand again, and I loosened his shoes and took them off and carried them over to a basket and knocked the dirt out of the spikes and brung them back and laid them on the stretcher. Then I said “Goodby,” and I went. He never wrote me the letter. But I followed the Southern Association averages in “The Sporting News,” and Scooter done middling well, hitting about .260 on the year.

  We whipped Philly 2 out of 3 in Knoxville. Swanee Wilks says once you are in Knoxville you are in the deep north. Sad Sam went the route the first night. That was his first full trick, and he set them down with 1 run on 5 hits, and Hams Carroll done as well the next, and Knuckles lost a close 1 the third night, and then we went over to Roanoke for a weekend pair with Philly, the last weekend but 1 of the spring. All we done most of the way over was play poker. There was a big game down in 1 corner, Sam and Goose and Knuckles and Bub and Ugly and that bunch, and another fairly big 1 somewheres in the middle of the car, Gil and Herb and Sid and the Caruccis and that crowd, and way down at the far end there was me and Perry and Coker and Canada and Squarehead and Lindon and Bruce playing a nickel limit. We played about 3 hours and Squarehead won a buck, and then he said this was too small potatoes for him, and he went up the line to where Sad Sam’s game was, and we all went up and watched.

  Them boys played it for blood. They played 5-card stud 50 cents the limit and none of your circus games such as the rest of us played, 7-card and draw and spit in the ocean and such as that. If the betting got down to 2 players the sky was the limit if they both agreed. Sam always plays with a dead cigar in his mouth, and Knuckles always drinks water, and Ugly keeps clucking his lower teeth out over his uppers. If that ain’t disgusting! They never say a word except whose deal it is and what was bet.

  Squarehead dropped 25 bucks in 15 minutes, going clean broke when Sad Sam Yale drawed a 4 of clubs and filled a straight that nobody figured him for, least of all Squarehead.

  Even now I seldom see a 4 of clubs but I think of Squarehead Flynn and Sad Sam Yale and the whole of that spring from Aqua Clara north, the singing, the bus ride, the trains, Patricia Moors and Scooter Lane, day games, night games, laughing and crying, Patricia crying in Aqua Clara, mostly a happy time, for it was a good club, maybe even a great and immortal club, and that was the best spring of my life, the spring when the dream come true.

  Chapter 22

  WE FINISHED it up in Philly the Sunday before the Opener, Sad Sam Yale letting them down with 5 hits. I suppose I should of seen the handwriting in the cards right then and there, for Dutch must of already been planning to start me when the season got under way Tuesday. Else why would he of worked Sam Sunday? But I was so busy watching Sam I wasn’t thinking ahead much. It was really beautiful. I sat betwixt Coker and Perry in the dugout, and we watched, and it was beautiful. It was the third straight time Sam went the full 9, and all in all it was the neatest, cleanest job anybody turned in all spring. The minute the game was over I ducked back through the dugout and in the clubhouse. Then in come the rest, all hilarious. Here is what it was like:

  In comes Sad Sam Yale, and he says, “Mick McKinney, you Irish bastard, come here and give my arm a rub.”

  “Coming, pal,” says Mick. Sam whips off his shirt and Mick goes to work.

  In comes Goose Williams. “Nice game, Sam,” says Goose.

  “Goose,” says Sam, “what in the hell did you do with my 9-inch raping tool?”

  “I never seen it,” says Goose.

  “You lie, you bastard, for I loaned it to you in Aqua Clara.”

  “That is right,” says Goose. “So you did. Sam, I must of lost it.”

  “Damn it,” says Sam, “ain’t that the way? You loan a thing to a fellow and you never get it back.”

  “Maybe Ugly will loan you his,” says Mick.

  “Ugly, you ugly bastard,” shouts Sam. “Loan me your 9-inch raping tool. I will give it back to you in New York Tuesday.”

  Ugly never gets a chance to answer. In comes Bradley Lord. “Men,” says he, as loud as he can, “nobody must get dressed, for Miss Moors wishes to come in and say a word or 2.” He sits on a bench far from the rest.

  “Get your ass off that bench,” says Knuckles Johnson. “That is my bench.”

  “Your bench?” says Bradley Lord.

  “That is Knuckleses bench,” says Swanee Wilks.

  Bradley Lord gets up and stands by the water cooler. In comes Red Traphagen. He sits down where Bradley Lord was, and he begins to shed his harness. He unstraps his protector and slips it off. He unstraps his shin guards. He reaches down in his pants and yanks out his cup. He looks across at Sad Sam Yale. “Nice game, Sam,” says Red.

  “Thank you, friend,” says Sam. That is the longest conversation Sam and Red have had in years. Mick goes over to Red. He tapes Red’s finger where a nail is broke and bloody. In comes Dutch. He is smiling. He goes to the trough.

  “Miss Moors is coming,” says Bradley Lord.

  “She will have to wait until I am done pissing,” says Dutch. “Nice game, Sam.”

  We all sit on the benches, talking quiet. Sam Yale speaks out above all the rest. “Dutch,” says he, “Goose borrowed my 9-inch raping tool in Aqua Clara and never give it back. Could you loan me yours?”

  Dutch stands there buttoning his pants. “I use mine yet,” says he. “Joe Jaros never uses his. Borrow Joe’s.”


  Everybody looks at Joe. He is sitting on a bench. He takes off his cap. He is old, yet there is not a gray hair on his head. He bends his head forward. “For every hair on my head I will use my 9-inch raping tool 1 more time,” says he. “The same goes for Egg.” There is a great laugh, for Egg is as bald as a baseball. Egg spits out a squirt of water from the cooler, and it lands on Joe. Sunny Jim Trotter goes to the trough.

  “Miss Moors is about to come,” says Bradley Lord. Sunny Jim looks at Bradley Lord, but don’t stop what he’s doing. A great laugh goes up. Sunny Jim finishes and goes back and sits beside Scotty. They talk together in a low voice.

  “I will be damned if I was out at first that time,” says Lucky Judkins.

  “Things was getting called bad all day,” says Pasquale.

  “Toft is getting old,” says Clint Strap, meaning Dale Toft, the well-known umpire.

  “Was that Toft umpiring at first?” says Canada.

  “Yes it was,” says Clint.

  “Pasquale,” says Sam, “loan me your goddam 9-inch raping tool.”

  “Pasquale never needs it,” says Hams Carroll. “He might as well loan it to you.”

  “I will need it in the winter in Frisco,” says Pasquale.

  “Pasquale,” says Dutch, “get Mick to give you a new sunshade if you need 1.”