“I have to learn where to pitch to these players,” I said. “They hit today, but they were hitting hard every game. Mix up my pitches more. Like I did when I kept Dave Rowe off his feed that first time, back in March.”
Now Mr. McKim laughed. He slapped his knee. “Remember how Rowe looked? He swung so hard he practically drilled himself into the ground?”
Cindy pushed herself to her feet. “Grasshopper Jim Whitney once told me how he did in the first professional game he ever pitched. He said the town pretty much wanted to buy him a one-way ticket back to Conklin.”
With a whistle, I shook my head. “He sure pitched well today.”
“Yes,” Cindy said. “Because he threw out that bad batch of beer.”
“Speaking of beer,” Mr. McKim said, and he rose, too. “I think I should sample how Colorado makes porter.”
So I handed him my stein. He laughed, took a sip, wiped the foam off his upper lip, and began walking toward the Mountain Lions and Cowboys. “If you two shall excuse me. Cindy, I will see you at the Albany. Master King, I hope you will join us for supper before we catch the 9:27 train back to Kansas City.”
For the longest time, I just sat on the bench. Somehow, I still had a spot on Kansas City’s roster. I couldn’t understand what had just happened, but then I looked up into those lovely blue eyes of Cindy McKim.
“Thank you,” I said.
She shrugged. “That Dug Dugdale probably deserves the thanks more than I do. Papa gets into moods like these. He’s a different person when he steps inside a baseball park for a game. A total stranger. Says things he later regrets. He might have told you to go to thunder, but tomorrow morning he would have offered you more money to come back to the team.”
I smiled. “Maybe I thanked you too soon.”
She laughed, and offered me both of her hands. I took them, feeling the tingling that ran from my fingertips to my shoes. She pulled me to my feet.
“Come on,” she said. “Walk me back to the Albany Hotel.”
She held out her arm toward me, and for once that day I wasn’t greener than a cucumber, so I didn’t turn down such an invitation.
First though, I looked back, and I saw that Dan Dugdale was gone. That filled me with regret.
“What’s the matter?” Cindy asked.
“Oh … Dug … the catcher … he’s gone.”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll see him again.”
“How can you know for sure?”
“Because a ballist who can hit like that isn’t going to be in the Western League forever.”
I shook my head. “Dug once told me that hitting wasn’t his strong suit.”
“He lied,” Cindy said.
* * * * *
It was a great walk. We didn’t take the trolley. We walked, arm in arm, stopping to look at the sights Denver had to offer.
Two miners whaling each other with fists in front of a boarding house.
Two cowboys racing their ponies down a street, while other cowhands and a handful of chirpies cheered. The black horse won.
A confidence man running a shell game. He let Cindy win fifty cents, and she took the coins before we walked away. Both of us knew that the confidence man had salted the mine, as one might say. He let Cindy win so he could take the other fools for most of their money. And this is something you need to know about Cindy McKim. The money she had won, she dropped in the tin cup of a blind man who stood on the corner. Yet when I told her that that fellow wasn’t really blind, she said softly, “I know. But it doesn’t matter.”
When we reached the Albany Hotel, Cindy suggested that I go upstairs to change out of my baseball uniform, and meet her downstairs in an hour. It was the longest hour I ever had to endure, because it took me no time to change my clothes, wash my face, and comb my hair. It was worth the wait, though, for she came down the stairs looking beautiful in a lovely evening dress.
We ate oysters and antelope with her father in the dining room, onion soup, and chocolate cake, and the evening ended all too soon. I knew I wouldn’t see them on the train. They would be in their fancy car, and I would be with the rest of the Cowboys, probably sitting next to Fatty Briody and trying to sleep despite his snoring.
“We will see you in Kansas City,” Mr. McKim said as he shook my hand. “Hard to believe, isn’t it, lad, but the season will start before you know it. We’ll put this trip to Denver behind us and start the season anew. Victory after victory after victory, and you, I am sure, will be one of the kings of the baseball diamond. You’ll make all of Kansas City proud.”
Dave Rowe, of course, had other designs.
When we stepped off the train at Union Station in Kansas City, he reminded me that I was worthless, had blown our chance at victory, and that I had better find a comfortable spot on the bench.
“Because,” he growled, “that’s where you’re gonna be till October the Eleventh.”
I didn’t tell Mother or Papa that. And I didn’t have to tell them how I had stunk things up in Denver. James Whitfield’s telegraphs had found their way to the Kansas City Times, and those newspapers had found their way to my parents. They didn’t mention the games, just took me home, and made me catch up with my schoolwork.
* * * * *
Anyway, I think I’ve almost caught up to where I left off when I began this narrative.
On April 30th, we opened the season to a packed League Park against Cap Anson’s Chicago White Stockings. We played them well, too, but fell 6 to 5. From my spot on the bench, I had a good view of the entire game.
On Saturday, May 1st, we played a lot worse. Chicago 17, Kansas City 8.
Dave Rowe’s brother and the rest of the Detroit Wolverines came to Kansas City on Monday, and stomped us, 11 to 4. On Wednesday, we played Detroit again, and lost, 4 to 3.
“Good luck in St. Louis,” my parents told me at the train station on Thursday, before I boarded the coach with my teammates, heading off to play the Maroons.
They beat us on Friday, May 7th, 7 to 5.
But on Saturday, May 8th, I won the game for the team through my pitching and my home run, and felt like a king after that 2 to 0 victory.
Of course, feelings such as that don’t last long in the world of professional sports.
Dave Rowe saw to that.
Chapter Eleven
On Monday, we dropped the last game of the series, 5 to 3, which I blamed on the fact that no one on our team, with the exception of me, belonged on any baseball diamond that day. Grasshopper Jim remained in the hospital—just so the doctors could be sure his skull wasn’t fractured and his brain wasn’t compromised. Every member of the team reeked of whiskey. Except me, even though during our Saturday victory celebration Fatty Briody and even Charley Bassett allowed me to drink beer—but only two. Novice that I was, those two bottles left me fairly pickled but not hungover on Sunday. I went to the hospital to visit Grasshopper Jim while the rest of the Cowboys returned to Dixie Lee’s for more drunken debauchery. By Monday, of course, I had completely recovered, but regarding my teammates … well, they weren’t fit to play baseball.
Still, Dave Rowe did manage to hit a two-run home run, scoring Charley Bassett. After touching home, he staggered to our bench, leaned forward, gripping the hard wood with both hands, and vomited.
Everyone on the bench slid over, to one side or the other.
Rowe rose, sat down, wiped his mouth with his cap, and shook his head. “Two-day drunk. No one will ever know just how hard that home run was.”
The Maroons pitcher, Joe Murphy, laughed, but we had grown accustomed to laughter, heckles, and finger-pointing.
Murphy’s teammates, the spectators, and even the umpire had been ridiculing our rough-looking players, but mostly they had been howling insults and jokes at Fatty Briody because of the fat mitt he had been using. Eventually Fatty replaced that big gl
ove and wore his two thin gloves. That got everyone in the stands or on the home bench worked up so much that they began insulting Fatty with other comments.
“Where’s that fat mitt?”
“Look at his gut. He musta et it!”
“Hey, Catch’. We don’t like that cap, either? Why don’t you swap it out for somethin’ better?”
“That was a catching glove? Hell, I thought he was just holdin’ one of his chins!”
The game remained close because the Maroons stank of whiskey, too. This being St. Louis, if you included the spectators, I might have been the only one at Union Grounds who was neither inebriated nor hungover, because while the National League did not allow the sale of inebriating spirits at the stadiums, saloons surrounded Union Grounds, which made it easy for people to sneak in flasks of liquor or bottles of beer.
After the game, we checked Grasshopper Jim out of the hospital and caught the train for home.
We had more than a week before our next game. “It’s our only break, you boys,” Dave Rowe told us. “Damned league couldn’t figure a way to get the teams back east out here. So enjoy yourselves. I’m going to Topeka. To … ahem … do some scouting.”
I, on the other hand, had no break. Mother threw the ball with me the first day, then sent me back to Mr. Stokes’ school, and when I got back home, she and Papa would make me practice. On Friday, after school, I finished my studies and was pronounced an educated man.
“Your schooling is over, Silver,” Mr. Stokes said, keeping me in the brick building after he had dismissed all of the others.
I stared at him. School wasn’t supposed to let out until June, but I had no good reason to mention that.
“What are your plans?” he asked.
“Baseball,” I answered with a shrug.
“Baseball,” he said, “is a game, not a profession.”
“But I’m …” I stopped. Being an educated man, I had learned the wisdom of not telling anyone, not even a friend who was catching for a Western League team in Denver, that the Kansas City Cowboys paid me $1,600 a year. To sit on the bench.
With a weary smile, Mr. Stokes shook his head, and closed his lesson book. “I know, Silver, that the Kansas City Cowboys pay you to play baseball. But have you given thought to what you will do for a living when you no longer can play this children’s game?”
“Oh.” I waved away such long-term concern, and in doing so brought my right hand into view. Big hands. What would I do? Lay bricks? Then I thought of something else. Dave Rowe despised me. Mr. McKim had been set to release me in Denver before Dan Dugdale intervened, and Mr. Joseph Heim had practically thrown Mother and me out of his office. I remained clueless about what Mr. Whitfield thought of my ability, or of me as I had not read his article about my Saturday victory against the Maroons.
“I have to go, Mister Stokes,” I said as I gathered my dinner pail and my books for the last time, and raced out of the schoolhouse. I sprinted to the nearest streetcar, took it to our neighborhood, ran into the house that we would be leaving soon for a better home, grabbed my baseball gear, and made my way to the Hole.
Yes, Dave Rowe had given us the week off, but I knew I had to work. And work hard to keep alive my dream, and Mother’s dream.
* * * * *
“Howdy, Kid. Where you been?”
Fatty Briody sat on our bench, using Dan Dugdale’s mitt as a pillow, while he dipped a ladle into a nearby bucket and drank water, refilled the ladle, and drank more. Sweat poured from his every pore, but his sweat did not stink of forty-rod. It was the sweat of hard work, which, you know, smells different than whiskey sweat.
On the infield, Charley Bassett picked up a ground ball Jim Lillie had hit, tossed the ball to second base where Cod Myers caught it, stepped off the bag, and drilled a missile into Mox McQuery’s hands. The big first baseman then threw the ball back to Jim Donnelly, who tossed it to Lillie.
“Let’s do it again,” Lillie said, and hit another grounder to Bassett.
They weren’t alone.
Fatty set the ladle on the edge of the bucket, and pushed himself to his feet. “So … we wondered if you’d quit us?”
“Quit?” I asked.
“Wanna catch for me?” Fatty asked. “I’m gonna hit some fly balls to Shorty and Petey.”
Sure enough, Pete Conway and Paul Radford stood in left field, waiting. Stump Wiedman and Jim Whitney were throwing the ball in right field. Even the poker-playing ballists had left their decks of cards in their pockets and were sprinting from the right-field line to the center-field fence, stopping, then running back to right.
“I thought Dave gave us the week off,” I said.
Fatty laughed. “Yeah. Well, you was at Saint Louey, kid. You saw how we stank. Or how we played against Chicago and Detroit before we even taken that train ride east. Figured we could use some practice. Reckon you did, too. That’s why you’re here, ain’t it?”
“You’ve been practicing all week?” I asked.
“Well … some of us. I showed up Thursday. But I reckon that was only yesterday.” Fatty smirked. “C’mon.” He grabbed his big Spaulding bat and headed down the base line.
“But, Dave …” I said as I caught up with him, tugging on my fingerless glove. “He’s not practicing. He went to Topeka.”
“Not to run whores, kid. Well … maybe a little. He and McKim went to Topeka to watch the Capitals play the Soldiers, then I think they was goin’ to Saint Joe. The Reds is playin’ the Tree Planters. You heard what ‘Bond Hill’ Hart done against the Maroons, didn’t you?”
“Uhh … no.”
“Really? He no-hit those sons-of-bitches. But Leavenworth … that’s the Soldiers, you know … they have some fine ballists playin’ for ’em. And we saw just how strong them Denver boys is. Western League ain’t a bunch of hayseeds playin’ on cow pastures. McKim and Rowe … they’s lookin’ for ballists. Nobody’s an untouchable, not on the Kansas City Cowboys’ roster, that’s certain sure. Not when you’re one-and-six and the New York Giants is comin’ to town. Not when you’s us.”
I looked off to center field, where the card players had stopped sprinting, and were now walking slowly, heads down and gasping for breath. One of them stopped, and dropped to his knees.
Certainly we needed practice. I felt like an idiot. All I had been doing that week was playing catch with Mother and Papa, and going to Mr. Stokes’ school.
“’Sides,” Fatty said as he fetched a ball from one of his pants pockets, brought the bat up, and prepared to hit. “We’s all professionals. And nobody, not even the worst amateur, likes getting his ass kicked.”
So we practiced, morning through afternoon, the rest of the weekend, even Sunday—Mother let me miss church.
On Monday, May 17th, we met again, but stopped our workout just after noon as we had to play the Giants the following day. By then, Dave Rowe had returned, fortunately, with not one player from one of the Western League teams. That made us feel a little safer—for the time being. Rowe passed a bottle of Irish whiskey around the bench, saying we looked fit and might be able to hold New York to ten runs tomorrow.
“Hey …” Joseph Heim snapped his fingers as he crossed the gate on the third-base side toward our bench. He kept snapping his fingers, pointing. At first, I thought he wanted the rye, which Grasshopper Jim had not let me sample, but the bottle was back in Dave Rowe’s hands, and our team president seemed to be coming toward … me?
I swallowed. Maybe Dave Rowe had found a player, after all, and Mr. Heim was coming to fire me. Instead, he stopped in front of Charley Bassett.
“Where the hell do I find a cowboy?” Mr. Heim demanded.
Charley Bassett blinked.
“You’re from Dodge City, Bassett,” Mr. Heim said. “I need to have a cowboy. A real cowboy. And I need him for tomorrow.” Heim grinned like a villain in some melodrama pla
ying at the Opera House. “Well …?”
From talking with Charley Bassett on the train ride, I knew he had been born in Central Falls, Rhode Island, and had attended Brown University.
“You know, Charley,” I said. “The stockyards.”
“Uh …” Charley swallowed, and tried to mask his New England accent. “Yeah. Stockyards. Or …” He snapped his fingers, a pretty good imitation of Mr. Heim, though our boss did not notice. “Or …?”
“Packing house,” I said.
“Which one?” Mr. Heim asked.
“Armour Packing Company.” I figured I owed my father’s employer that much.
Mr. Heim turned to Bassett. “That right?” he asked.
Charley Bassett breathed a sigh of relief. “Yeah. Armour. Sure.”
“Good. Thanks, Bassett. Now, all you boys, I want you to wear cowboy hats tomorrow because I’ve changed my mind. No baseball caps. Cowboy hats for the Kansas City Cowboys! McKim was right. Cowboy hats. Make them …” He started snapping his fingers again. “Make them?”
“Red?” Charley Bassett asked.
After all, we were supposed to be wearing our chocolate and maroon uniforms tomorrow.
I laughed, elbowed Bassett in his side, and said, “That’s a good one, Charley.” I was thinking, Where in hell would we find red cowboy hats, you Eastern greenhorn?
“Brown,” Mr. Heim said. “Yeah, brown hats. No. Black. Yeah.” A wicked grin masked his face. “Black.”
“You payin’ for these hats?” Fatty asked.
“Hell, no. You just come outfitted for tomorrow in black hats. If you don’t have a black hat, you don’t play. And don’t get paid.”
After Mr. Heim left, Charley Bassett, Pete Conway, Fatty Briody, and the rest of my teammates—except the poker players—came up to me, demanding to know where in hell they could buy black cowboy hats. They cussed Mr. Heim as a miser. The poker players said we should form a union. Rowe pulled his .32 and told everyone to shut up, then he glared at me.
“This is your damned fault, boy. Cowboy hats. What a joke. But it’s your town, so where the hell do we get those big lids?”
The Kansas City Cowboys Page 9