“Because you were so late doing your stupid experiment,” Mr. Heim said. “Cowboys playing cowboys.”
“Our boys did well being cowboys,” Dugdale said. “Not playing them. And they weren’t late. It was the train that was late.”
“You’re better at playing cowboys than playing baseball,” Mr. McKim snapped.
“We’ll beat Boston tomorrow,” Dugdale said.
“They pitched Pop Tate today,” Mr. McKim said. “He’s not even a pitcher. He’s a stupid catcher. That’s how much contempt John Morrill has for us. He hurls a catcher against us. Do you know who he’ll likely start tomorrow?”
“Joe Hornung?” Dugdale answered.
Hornung played the outfield. Neither Mr. McKim nor Mr. Heim laughed at Dan’s joke.
“Radbourn!” Mr. McKim yelled. “They’ll be hurling Old Hoss himself.”
“And we’ll beat Radbourn.” Dan’s smile vanished. “Or whoever Morrill pitches. Guaranteed.”
“You better hope you do, Dugdale,” Mr. McKim said, “or it’ll be your damned ass.”
When our owners stormed off, Mox McQuery came up to Dan. “Dug,” he said in a whisper, “listen. You know this game better than me. And the way you just guaranteed our victory … well, I think you know, that, well … maybe you should be our manager. I’m a good first baseman. But I just ain’t got what it takes to be no leader.”
Dan shook his head. “I mean,” Mox said, “just till Dave comes back.”
“If Rowe comes back,” Charley Bassett put in.
“I’m no manager,” Dan said.
“Hey,” Cod Myers sang out. “What about Mister Bill? He sure made a fine trail boss. And he loves the game.”
“Mister Bill loves the game,” Mert Hackett said. “But he don’t know it. He knows cattle. And men.”
“Boys,” Dan said. “I’ve got an idea for someone who just might be our answer to finding a manager. Come along, Silver.”
* * * * *
We found Cindy McKim by the entrance to the Hole. Dan signaled a hack to bring his rig over for us. “Come on, Silver,” Dan said as he climbed into the buggy. “And bring your sweetheart along, too.”
The driver applied his whip, and the matched set of gray Percherons carried us away from the Hole. Cindy took my hand in hers as I said to Dan, “You once told me you never guaranteed a victory. Not in baseball. Said there are too many … too many in- … intangibles.”
“You’ve a fine memory, Silver,” Dan agreed from his seat across from Cindy and me, his back to the driver. “I did say that.”
“But Mister McKim … he’s a terror …” I swallowed, having forgotten for a moment about whom I was sitting next to.
Cindy McKim, however, spoke right up. “My father’s worse than a terror. And he will fire you on the spot if you lose tomorrow’s game.”
“We won’t lose,” Dan said.
“How can you be sure?” I cried out. “Boston isn’t the best team in the National League, not by far, but Old Hoss Radbourn’s one of the best pitchers we’ve seen.”
“I’m not so sure. Silver, this is baseball. It isn’t life. If we lose, no one will remember my guarantee except McKim and me, and, I reckon, you. It’s like a damned fool bet on a horse race, or the turn of a card, or a shooting contest. But I don’t think we will lose. Because Mister Bill made us a team yesterday,” Dan said matter-of-factly. “Hell, even Frank Ringo felt like a cowboy. He didn’t even have a drink before or during today’s game. We’ll play together. Like we worked together yesterday. That’ll be one difference.”
“And another?” Cindy asked.
Dan pointed a finger at me. “Silver. He’ll be pitching.”
My throat had turned to cotton, but I croaked out, “Where are we going?”
“To get us a manager.”
Realizing what street we had turned down, my stomach sank. “Who?” I was barely able to get out.
“Who knows the game of baseball better than anyone in this city, Silver?” Dan asked.
I knew the answer. I felt like throwing up. Cindy McKim knew the answer, too.
“You mean Silver’s mother?” she said.
* * * * *
Naturally Dan had given the hack the address of our old house, so I had to tell Dan that we’d moved. He informed the driver of his mistake, and the old Italian muttered something to himself and then turned down the next street. He didn’t seem to mind. A longer drive meant a higher fare.
“Sixteen hundred bucks a year buys a lot in Kansas City,” Dan said as we neared our home.
“You’re getting eight hundred,” I told him. “For one month of baseball.”
Dan laughed. “If I’m not turned loose tomorrow.”
I could feel the sweat coming out of my pores and I became light-headed. I didn’t know if I would vomit or maybe even pass out. But somehow I found enough strength to say in a hoarse voice, “It’s right up here … on the left.”
“Silver,” Dan said when I stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. “If you don’t want to do this, you don’t have to. Mox can manage well enough.”
Cindy squeezed my hand.
“No,” I said, and climbed up to the porch, went to the door. I had never used the bell, had always just walked inside the house. I mean, it was my house. I had paid for it. But today I pulled the lever, and heard the bell chime.
It seemed to take forever before Mother opened the door.
* * * * *
“Coach?” Mother pushed her coffee cup out of reach. “You want me to coach … professional ballists?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dan Dugdale assured her. He sipped his coffee, washing down the piece of pound cake my mother had placed before him.
I wasn’t eating.
Mother seemed unable to comprehend Dan’s proposal, and finally shook her head. “Augustus McKim would never allow that. Nor would Heim, that mean-spirited, flim-flam beer meister. And I am confident that the National League would never tolerate a woman on a bench in any capacity, other than maybe a mascot.”
“Yes, ma’am,” Dan Dugdale said.
“So then …” Mother began, but paused, not knowing what to say since Dan was agreeing with everything she said.
“You sit in the stands, Missus King,” Dan said. “Front row. You tell us what you think we should do, who should play, things like that. That’s all there is to managing. Mox will do your bidding.”
“That’s …” Mother just shook her head.
“Ma’am.” Dan gave Mother his most disarming smile. “I think you’ve been to the Hole enough to know that folks in those stands are telling us what to do and how to play all the time. We don’t listen to them. But we will listen to you.”
My mother let out a heavy sigh. “It’ll never work,” she declared as if no one could dispute her.
“Give it a try for one game, Missus King,” Cindy said.
“Miss Cindy is right,” Dan said. “If it doesn’t work tomorrow, it really won’t matter. McKim and Heim will have me draw my time. Mox, too. Most likely Silver here, as well. One game, Missus King. One game at a time. That’s the way this game’s supposed to be played, anyhow.”
During our conversation, Mother had looked older to me than she ever had. But suddenly, in the last few minutes, her color had picked up, she looked brighter. She reached for her coffee cup, which I had to slide a few inches toward her. “I suppose …” she said. A twinkle flashed in her eyes as she looked first at Cindy, then at me, her eyes finally settling on Dan. “Maybe it could …” she started to say.
Dan Dugdale shot out of his chair before she could finish. “We’ll see you at the Hole tomorrow before noon, ma’am.” I started to rise, but Dan had already rounded the table, pressed his hands on my shoulders, and shoved me back down into the seat. “Come along, Miss Cindy,” he said. “We’ll wait for Sil
ver out on the walkway while I try to get us another hack. I bet Silver and his mother have a lot to talk about.”
Then they were gone, leaving me alone … with … my mother.
The sound of our old Seth Thomas clock, a familiar object from our previous home, filled the space between us. Mother studied her coffee cup, now empty. I stared at the door Cindy McKim had closed behind her.
“Papa,” I said, thinking of an opening, “should be home directly, shouldn’t he?”
“He has a masonry job on Twentieth,” Mother said.
“Oh.”
The sound of the Seth Thomas seemed to get louder.
“Silver.” It was Mother who finally found the courage to bring up the subject that had been weighing on us both. “What you said … that … evening …”
“I was angry,” I told her.
“With reason.” Mother looked at the door. The corners of her lips turned upward into the beginning of a smile, a reflection, an absolution. “She … Cindy … she seems a very nice young … lady.”
“She is.”
Her hand reached toward mine, but stopped halfway. I stared at it. For a second I imagined it as a rattlesnake, but then saw it as the proverbial olive branch, and I took her hand in my own.
“You were my baby,” she told me. “You will always be my baby. My only child. Our only son. I never wanted to play baseball. Never wanted to be a boy. I don’t think I’d be very good at either.” Knowing how she was able, when the need arose, to use her charm, her smile, her iron will, I expected her to hit a home run. But she continued in an unexpected direction.
“If you want a horse, or a pony, or …”
I lifted my hand, giving her a moment to pause, to wipe away a tear, to regain that Samantha Koenig composure.
“Mother,” I told her, “I just rode three miles on a horse yesterday. Probably closer to four or five miles, considering all the difficulties I had in handling the beast.”
Her eyes narrowed. She stared at me, not comprehending.
I grinned. “A horse, I’ve learned, isn’t all it’s cracked up to be. And cowboying isn’t the easiest way in the world to make a living. My backside hasn’t hurt so much since that time Papa whipped me for busting out Mister MacDougall’s window when I was seven.”
This made me laugh as I recalled Mister MacDougall storming after me, yelling at the top of his lungs. Mother began laughing with me, but only for a few seconds before her laughter became sobs. Suddenly she was crying, the sounds coming from her akin to the noise the cattle made as we had herded them from Mr. Bill’s ranch. I came out of my chair, and reached for her. She buried her head against my shoulder.
“Mother,” I said in an effort to comfort her.
“All I ever wanted was the best for you,” she said. “Not me. Not your father. For you. I never meant to be …”
I pulled her closer. “It’s all right, Mother. I love you.” Telling her this seemed to make her cry harder.
It took her a long time to finally dam her tears.
“D-d-do you th-think …?” my mother stuttered, and she never stuttered. She paused and wiped her eyes before continuing. “Would that … Cindy … would Cindy and you care to dine with us this evening? Dan Dugdale, too. Your father … he should be home before too long.”
“I’ll ask them,” I told her.
* * * * *
It turned into a delightful evening. Papa, Cindy, and I retired to the back porch to watch the stars, to enjoy the early September breeze and those first hints of autumn. We swapped stories and jokes. Mother and Dan Dugdale remained at the dining room table. They talked baseball.
Chapter Twenty-Three
Dan Dugdale’s plans did not end with the hiring of my mother—even if she earned no salary but merely an upgrade in where she and Papa would sit for our home games. That I learned on Tuesday morning when our players began arriving at the Hole.
Mother sat in her new seat and chatted pleasantly with Mr. Heim and Mr. Whitfield, while Mr. McKim stood near the visitor’s bench, speaking to Dan. I sat doing my stretching, although mostly I was listening to Dan and Cindy’s father, and keeping my eyes trained on home base and the man standing inside the six-by-three-foot batsman’s lines.
“Dugdale,” Mr. McKim said, “have you lost all reason? You’ve sworn you can beat one of the best pitchers in the National League today after you were trounced by a damned catcher yesterday. You’ve talked me into letting Silver’s mother sit closer than I do at the very stadium that I helped to build. Not that I need a better look at the abysmal baseball you practice and just how horrible those sons-of-bitches the National League sends us as umpires actually are.”
He was worked up, Mr. McKim was, and it wasn’t ten-thirty in the morning yet. We had three-and-a-half hours before the game started.
“Hire …”—Mr. McKim spat and pointed at home base—“him? Mert Hackett?”
“Center fielder,” Dan said. “At least until Dave Rowe returns.”
“Rowe could very well return tomorrow,” Mr. McKim said. “If you don’t win today.”
“He’s better than Dave Rowe,” Dan said.
“You damned fool. If I signed that darky, the loaf Cap Anson would pinch would fill this entire hole. Don’t you understand that?” While Mr. McKim increased his vehemence, Dan Dugdale nodded at Stump Wiedman, who threw a ball catcher Frank Ringo never had a chance to catch.
That loud, wooden smack of the bat hitting the ball caught everyone’s attention.
Mr. McKim turned, but, by that time, Mert Hackett had rounded first base. Our vice president’s eyes caught up with our mascot as he dashed toward third. By then, Mr. McKim was watching center field, where Shorty Radford sprinted to pick up the ball that had caromed off the fence.
Before Mert Hackett had crossed home plate, Mr. McKim had lowered his arms.
“Keep going, Mert!” Dan called out, and Mert Hackett started for first base again. Second. Third.
When Hackett picked up even more speed while heading home for the second time, Mr. McKim yelled, “By Jehovah, look at that little … Cherokee … run!”
* * * * *
“We can’t hire him,” Mr. Heim protested. “He’s a … well … I mean. There’s this understanding we all agreed on. And … well … he’s our mascot.”
“He’s faster than King Kelly and he hits like Dan Brouthers,” Mr. McKim said. “Besides, we’ll call him a Cherokee.”
Mr. Heim shook his head. “Seminole, maybe.”
“No. Cap Anson would not allow a Seminole to play baseball. They are too dark-skinned and intermarried with runaway slaves.”
“And Cap Anson ain’t about to allow that ni- …”
“Cherokee.” That came from Mother, sitting in her seat.
Our owners looked up at her, then at each other, then at Mert, Dan, and me.
“Jim Whitfield will put it in the Times. We’re not only the Kansas City Cowboys. We’re the Cowboys and Indians. Think of how Barnum would promote that.”
“I don’t know,” Mr. Heim said.
“I don’t, either.” Mr. McKim whipped off his Stetson and slapped it against his leg—similar to how the Andersons and Duncklee slapped their hats against their legs. “But I’m damned sick and disgusted at losing. If this doesn’t work … and it might not … then you can have your mascot back and I’ll have my pound of flesh.” His eyes landed on me. “Probably two pounds.”
“Cherokee,” Mr. Heim tested the word, the lie.
“Yes,” said Mr. McKim.
“Well, why did we hire that Ringo fellow? I mean, how many more drunks and bone-headed ballists do we need on this team?”
“Enough to win,” Mr. McKim said.
I added, “Besides, Ringo’s a back-up for when Dug can’t catch.”
“Last time I saw Ringo behind that home base,” Mr.
Heim said dryly, “he couldn’t catch a cripple.”
“We’re talking”—Mr. McKim pointed at Hackett—“about him.”
With a heavy sigh, Mr. Heim shook his head and spit into the dirt. “You might be able to fool John Morrill. But this ain’t ever going to flim-flam Cap Anson.”
“Let’s find out,” Dan Dugdale said.
* * * * *
Our line-up that afternoon read as follows:
Leading off: Paul “Shorty” Radford. Right Field.
Batting second: Al “Cod” Myers. Second Base.
Batting third: Mert “Cherokee” Hackett. Center Field.
Batting fourth: Mox McQuery. First Base.
Batting fifth: Dan Dugdale. Catcher.
Batting sixth: Charley Bassett. Shortstop.
Batting seventh: Jim Lillie. Left Field.
Batting eighth: Jim Donnelly. Third Base.
Batting ninth: Silver King. Pitcher.
We faced John Morrill’s Boston Beaneaters, who indeed pitched Old Hoss Radbourn.
Here’s what you might have forgotten about Charles Gardner Radbourn. Back in 1884, when he was pitching for the Providence Grays, he had started seventy-three games, finishing with a record of fifty-nine victories and twelve losses. You want his record in the three years before that? Well, 25 and 11 in 1881, 33 and 20 in 1882, and 48 and 25 in 1883. The year before the Cowboys joined the National League, Radbourn had gone 28 and 21 and the Grays had sent him and Con Daily to Boston, likely figuring that Radbourn’s arm just couldn’t take pitching like that anymore.
His arm looked mighty fine on that September afternoon when our game began.
“What happened?” Cod Myers asked as Shorty Radford returned to the bench after striking out on five pitches in the first inning.
Myers dropped his bat in the rack at the end of our bench.
“Did you see that pitch?” Shorty answered.
“Well, no,” Cod answered.
“Neither did I. Hell, I didn’t see a damned one of them.”
Cod struck out, too. So did Mert Hackett. After he jogged back to the bench to drop his bat in the rack and take off for center field, Mr. McKim began letting him hear it all.
The Kansas City Cowboys Page 19