by Mark Harris
Horse Byrd was in and out of trouble for 2 innings and finally was lifted for a hitter in the last of the seventh—Sunny Jim it was—Gene Park on second and 1 down. Sunny Jim batted left-handed against the righthanded Tawney and sent a screaming line drive into the bullpen in right. Knuckles and Piss and Keith Crane was all warming there with Bruce and Goose, and when Casey Sharpe come charging in after the ball you can imagine that these boys was hardly a model of co-operation in helping him get it. They stood their ground while Casey went scrambling around between their legs. Alf Keeler claimed interference and demanded that Gene Park be sent back to third, but nothing come of it.
So it was 6–3 when Keith Crane come on to relieve in the eighth, Dutch forced to the gamble with Keith, Keith being the only left-hander left to throw. Boston rode him hard, calling him all kinds of a n—r. But he stood up under it fairly well, having been coached in the matter by Perry, and he blanked them in the eighth. Dutch moved Canada in to first base and sent Scotty Burns in center. We now had no reserve outfielders on the bench, and no reserve infielders neither, the barrel scraped clean, the long trip almost done but the tank just about dry.
That Boston ninth was murder. With every pitch I whispered to Keith Crane, and I prayed for him, and I twisted and turned on the bench, helping each pitch along, working at least as hard as him, until after what seemed like 25 minutes at least he had 2 down, but 2 on, and Granby the hitter. We all remembered when Granby clubbed a home run off Keith at a crucial time a few weeks before, and Dutch and Keith and Red and the whole of the infield had a long conference. A home run now would knot the score.
Then Dutch come back to the bench, and then Keith pitched—a ball, wide—and Dutch was flying out on the field again and arguing with Toft, and then when that was over with he come back, swearing and fuming and claiming he would see Toft put on the retired list in the winter if he had to murder the Commissioner.
Everybody always asks me, “What kind of a man is Dutch Schnell?” I never know exactly what to say. I think he is a great manager, and the statistics back me up in this. His first and only aim in life is winning ball games, and more often he wins them then not, sometimes doing it with worse material then the next club has got. He brings out the best in a fellow if the fellow is his type of a ballplayer. He is always in a fight, right or wrong standing by his guns. Red says if Dutch was Noah in the Bible he would not of took to the ark but would of stood arguing with the goddam flood. There is nothing Dutch will not do for the sake of the ball game. If he thinks it will help win a ball game by eating you out he will eat you out. If sugar and honey will do the trick out comes the sugar and honey bottle. If it is money you need he will give you money. And if he has no further need for you he will sell you or trade you or simply cut you loose and forget you.
And then it was over—the ball game, the race, the long long haul from Aqua Clara to the flag. Most of all what was over was the backache.
For Granby lifted a shoulder-high curve to dead center field, and Scotty Burns turned and run back 10 or 15 feet and then turned again and camped and waited, and as the ball come down so did the pain in my back, starting from the knob at the back of my neck, down,
down,
crunch,
FLASH!
Crunch
FLASH!!
CRUNCH
FLASH!!!
knob by knob, hitting the lowest knob at the moment the ball snuggled in Scotty Burnses glove, and out through my spine—gone I do not know where and do not care. But gone, and for good and ever.
Chapter 37
NO NEED to describe the clubhouse afterwards. Such a noise I never heard before nor since, nor such a crush of writers, nor such a flashing of bulbs, nor such a flood of beer, and in the midst of it all Alf Keeler come in from the Boston side, tears running down his cheeks while he pushed through the crowd and reached for Dutch’s hand and shook it. “Congratulations, Dutch,” said he, and then he turned quick and started out, and Dutch called after him, “Good try, Alf,” and this made me laugh a little because I wondered what Dutch would of said if the table been turned, would he of been satisfied with a “good try,” and Krazy Kress come along and slapped me on the back, all 350 of his stupid pounds behind it, and he asked me why so quiet, and then he pushed on.
After about a half an hour things calmed down a little and Dutch stood on a bench and asked would the writers and all others kindly withdraw while the boys transacted some business, and they done so, and we all sat pulling at beers and Cokes and franks, listening to the sweetest lecture ever heard.
“Boys,” said Dutch, “I will be quick. I will say only God bless you 1 and all, for this is the happiest moment of my life. God bless Keith Crane for some cool work in relief and God bless Swanee Wilks for a hit at a time when the cash was on the barrel and God bless Sunny Jim Trotter for the same. God bless you all for being the right man in the right spot at the right time.
“I do not wish to be a gymnasium teacher, but there will be a slight celebration in the Moorses sweet this evening and I would like to request that at least 9 men stay sober more or less, for according to the rules of the Commission we must play tomorrow’s ball game. Soberest man pitches.”
This brung a terrific laugh. Then Dutch hauled out this towel with the 150 cash inside, and he reached in the glass and drawed forth several slips of paper and found the 1 he wanted. “September 27,” he said. “Jones. Who will take this 150 to Ugly Jones at the hospital?” Nobody said nothing. Gene said he would take it but he doubted that he would have the time until after the World Series. I thought about taking it myself, for Ugly was always good to me and helped me out of tight spots whenever he could. It was always a good sight to see Ugly coming in towards the mound from short with a word or 2 of advice. If Ugly had of been in the clubhouse before game time he might of spoke up for me, too, and I said I would take Ugly the money and best wishes from all his friends that was too busy to go down and see him theirself.
The boys laughed, and Dutch give me the money and told me go straight to the hospital and not get tangled up with any young ladies along the way. This brung another terrific laugh. “Okay boys,” said he, “now on to your business,” and he went back in his office and Red took over, Red acting captain in place of Ugly, and we voted shares, 29 full shares for 25 ballplayers plus Dutch and 3 coaches, 1,000 each for Squarehead Flynn and Bub Castetter and Keith Crane. Practically every name that anybody could think of we voted them a small slice of the melon—batboys and clubhouse watchmen and specials that guarded the doors. After the Series when the books was balanced my full share come in the mail—5,876 and some change.
But on the way to the hospital I knowed that Ugly wouldn’t of spoke up for me in the afternoon against Dutch, not in 1,000,000 years. The more I thought about Ugly the more I realized that he would be the last man on the club to help a fellow out. Ugly Jones and Ugly Jones and Ugly Jones are the first 3 things on Ugly Joneses mind and always was, and finally what I done I shoved the money at this nun at the desk on Ugly’s floor and told her it was from the boys.
“I will give it to Mr. Jones,” said she. “And who shall I say brung it?”
“Thank you, Sister,” said I to her. “Wiggen.”
“How is your back?” said she.
“100 per cent better,” said I. “In fact, it has disappeared altogether.”
“It was all in your mind,” she said.
I ate a bite of supper downstairs in the coffee shop near 2 doctors telling 2 nurses about the ball game today and such things as what it meant when the flag was clinched. Then this 1 doctor explained how Henry Wiggen pitched and what he throwed and the various reasons for his success. I hope he knows more about his own line of work then he does about mine.
Between thinking about Ugly all alone up there in the hospital and hearing all that jabber from that cockeyed doctor I begun to sink in the foulest of moods. By the time I hit the Moorses sweet I was so blue, and so down in the mouth, and so disgusted I c
ould hardly see. By all the rules I should of been riding high, yet I was not, and a whole raft of things was threshing around in my mind, and I tried to look them over as they swum past in a jumble and pick out the single thing that was causing the trouble.
But I could not, and the Moorses and their fancy celebration only made it worse, old Lester T. Moors, Jr., showing me off to his society friends and telling them I was practically his personal discovery, and then probably telling them later how he got me so cheap at contract time in Aqua Clara in the spring of 50, and Patricia wandering around like she was everybody’s mother loaded with jewels to the armpits, and the writers flocking around Dutch that back in August they was yowling for his blood, and Dutch with 1 arm around Lindon crying “God bless Lindon Burke” when a few weeks before what he could of did for Lindon was show a little faith in the boy.
And Perry Simpson and Swanee Wilks clinking glasses together though from beginning to end Swanee hated and detested Perry and hated and detested me even worse for rooming with Perry, saying how could I do it and still hold my head up in public, and all this Perry knowed, for Swanee even told him 1 time to his face like the straightforward fellow he is. Yet here was Perry buttering up to old Swanee.
And the top of it all was Red and Sam, the 2 of them, their foot up on the bar rail murmuring sweet little things in 1 another’s ear like a couple lost brothers that hadn’t saw each other in 19 years.
Oh, winning heals many a wound in the flesh! And I could not help thinking, “What if we lost? What if 6 games between April and September had went the other way? What then? Would Perry and Swanee be drinking together? Would Red and Sam Yale? And suppose I only won 13 games instead of 26? Would I then be the little golden apple in the eye of Lester T. Moors, Jr.?”
I turned and left. When I reached the door I heard a most familiar voice back in the distance. “Where is Henry Wiggen?” it said. “God bless Henry Wiggen.”
But I kept on going, and out by the elevators who should come out of the shadows but Krazy Kress. “Henry,” said he, “could I see you a minute?” and I said he could, and we went down in the Manhattan Drugs. “Now Henry, concerning Korea,” said he, “it is more important then ever that you go along. Sam Yale says he might come.”
“I would not cross the street to see Sam Yale hung,” said I.
“What in the hell is wrong with you?” said he.
“Nothing,” said I. “Nothing and everything.”
“A little good old Japanese air will set you up in the other alley,” said he. “You can relax on the long boat ride.”
“I doubt that the Japanese air is any better then America,” I said.
“Tell me what is wrong,” said he. “I will only find out in my own way if you do not. What was the blowup in the clubhouse this afternoon?”
“No blowup,” said I.
“I understand that you had words with Dutch and Sam. A few rolls in the hay with them Japanese girls will clean the poisons out of your system.”
“Leave us forget Korea and the girls,” said I. “I have got a girl of my own,” and I thought about Holly, and then the only place I wanted to go was Perkinsville, and I remembered Mort Finnegan that got shot to death in Korea for what reason I do not know.
When the waiter brung us our food Krazy wished to pay, but I said no and paid my own, and when I took out my wallet I seen the old picture of Sam that I stuck in there so many years before. “You ever seen this?” I said. “It was in the front of Sam’s book that he wrote.”
“What book?” said Krazy. “Sam never wrote 6 words in his life,” though a second later he remembered what I was referring to—the book “Sam Yale—Mammoth” that he—Krazy—wrote. “Grab a couple books and catch up on your reading on the boat ride over,” he said. “These ocean voyages get wearisome.”
“That book was a pack of lies,” I said.
“I would not say that,” said Krazy. “I thought it was a good book and read it several times myself.”
“It is horseshit,” I said. “Sam says so himself.”
“Then why did he sign his name to it?” said Krazy.
“Why, he wrote it,” I said.
“He did not,” said Krazy.
“Well then,” said I, “whoever wrote it certainly piled up the horseshit thicker and faster. I could write a better book then that lefthanded. Furthermore, if I ever wrote a book I would write it myself and not hire some lug to do it for me. Why does not somebody write 1 decent book about baseball, Krazy? There never been a good book yet.”
“There been dozens of good books,” said he.
“There has been only fairy tales,” I said.
“It is a fairy tale game,” he said. “You are 21 years old, Henry, and you have very few brains in your head except with a baseball cap on. Yet you will draw upwards of 10,000 this year for 40 afternoons of work. Is that not a fairy tale game?”
“40 afternoons,” I said. “That is all you seen, Krazy. The pain in my back you never seen. I can see the point in a man falling down stairs and coming up with a pain in his back, but I cannot see too much sense in walking around half the summer with a pain from sheer tension. When we sewed up the flag this afternoon the pain melted in a minute. That is too crazy for me, and it made me a little wise to myself. After this I will be Old Take It Easy Wiggen. I bust my ass for no man after this.”
“That is not how greatness is made,” said Krazy. “That is not how a man gets his name in the Hall of Fame with the immortals. Nor that is not how a man cops the big green.”
“Then I will not be great,” I said. “Nor rich.” He looked at me and laughed. “Laugh, you fat fool,” I said.
“Jesus, Henry,” he said, “do not shout at me. I done nothing. Furthermore, I can not help it if I am fat. My mother and father was fat before me.”
“I apologize for saying you are fat,” I said, “though you certainly are. And I guess there is really no sense in blowing off to you. I have really learned a lot this year, and it never really added up until this afternoon. But I will tell you 1 thing, Krazy. You have f—ed up the game of baseball. You have took it out of the day time and put it in the night. You have took it off the playground and put it in the front office.”
“It is the same old game,” said he. “There has hardly been a rule changed in 25 years.”
“You have mixed it all up,” I said. “I do not know how. I know only 1 thing. I know only that from here on in I play baseball for the kicks and the cash only, for I got to eat like you do, but as for the rest—Japan and Korea and society bastards like the Moorses, writers and fans and spontaneous demonstrations cooked up by drunks like Bill Duffy, fancy celebrations and the wars and the politics of it—all this I leave to them that glories in it. I bust my ass for no man. I get my head shot off for no man like this Mort Finnegan I was telling you about. And I will never wind up forgotten in a stinking hospital like Ugly Jones.”
“What?” said he. “What about Ugly? What is all this you are saying in connection with Ugly?”
But by then I was off my chair and halfway out the door, and it takes Krazy Kress so long to get rolling that the elevator was closing by the time he hit the lobby.
Chapter 38
THAT night I slept like I probably didn’t sleep in 2 months, feeling pretty good about everything, my back in particular, and never giving so much as a thought to my chat with Krazy. Sunday afternoon we finished up, just going through the motion, many of the boys drilling hard and sweating out their hangover, Boston with their bags half packed and ready for the long trip home. There couldn’t of been more then 4 or 5,000 people in the stands, out for the afternoon sun and a little relaxation. Herb Macy and Gil Willowbrook shared the pitching assignment and we won 7–6. Or 8–7. I don’t remember exactly and see no sense in digging through the clips.
I seen neither hide nor hair of Krazy, and that night me and Bruce Pearson went to this baseball movie around the corner from the hotel called “The Puddinhead Albright Story” that even
Bruce could see for the usual slop that it was where nobody sweats and nobody swears and every game is crucial and the stands are always packed and the clubhouse always neat as a pin and the women always beautiful and the manager always tough on the outside with a tender heart of gold beneath and everybody either hits the first pitch or fans on 3. Nobody ever hits a foul ball in these movies. I see practically every 1 that comes along and keep watching for that 1 foul ball but have yet to see it.
Monday we sat for our picture, everybody all smiles, the batboy up front on the ground, 1 row sitting and 1 row standing and 1 up high on a bench, everyone there but Ugly. The picture is hung in a frame on the wall. I am looking at it now. Over the picture it is wrote, CHAMPIONS OF THE WORLD. Then we drilled a light drill, and by now the farthest thing in the world from my mind was Krazy Kress until about 9 o’clock Tuesday morning Patricia Moors woke me up rapping on the door, and I said come in and in she come with the paper folded back to Krazy Kresses column. “Have you read Krazy’s column?” she said.
“I been sleeping,” I said. “I hardly ever get up at the crack of dawn just to read the papers.”
“Well, read it,” she said, and she give it to me.
First off there was this smart-aleck picture of me that was first took back in September of the year before when I come up to the Mammoths with such a confident attitude about everything, and over the picture it said
“LEAVE US FORGET KOREA”
The column was as follows:
HENRY THE WHINER
We have had just about enough of Henry Wiggen, southpaw extraordinaire whose feats on the ball field have been nothing short of miraculous but whose drawing-room manners leave much to be desired. We are sick and tired of pampering and coddling and finding in our hearts the love that surpasseth understanding for a young man whose impudence and arrogance and downright orneriness deserve not the rich purse which he has just won, but, instead, a powerful kick in the seat of his togs.