“Molly, I know what you mean when you say—”
“He never should have been at that place, Arthur, and he certainly should not have been allowed to talk to some bar floozy who is just out to make a quick score.”
Murph’s palms, damp with perspiration, came to rest on Molly’s shoulders. He looked into her eyes and began the crucial search for just the right words to say. Her emotional storm settled somewhat, but the flood of anxiety that followed continued to rise.
“Look, Molly, I understand what you are saying here, I do. But I have to tell you, I don’t feel it’s as bad as you’re thinking,” Murph said. “The girl was just talking to him. That’s it. Nothing happened, right?”
“That’s not the point, Arthur,” she answered. “And you know it. It’s never only about what happens. It’s also about what could happen. And I am very worried about that—especially now that we are in this city that is filled with all sorts of dangers for folks like us—especially Mickey.” Her senses were reeling. She could feel her blood bubbling beneath her skin.
“Please, Molly, I’m sorry. Really. I don’t want to upset you. And I do understand what you are saying. I do. I promise you. I will be more careful with Mickey this time. I will. But you need to give Mickey a little room to be a man. To grow up some. And you need to trust that Boston is the right place for us—for all of us.”
“A man?” she fired back. “Really, Arthur? You didn’t just say that, did you?”
“You know what I mean, Molly. Sure, Mickey’s special. I get it. And I know this is hard. But if we are going to try and help him live a life that is as close to normal as we can, then you have to bend a little. And that means that you have to believe that we are in the right situation here in Boston and that he will be fine.”
“I don’t know, Arthur,” she said, folding her arms tightly around her middle. “It all seems different this time. It just doesn’t feel right anymore.”
A nameless but primitive rebellion raged inside of him. He loved her more than he ever could have imagined but he had traveled too far, sacrificed way too much, to just let his dream wither away.
“You’re going to have to trust me, Molly,” he said, his mind now engaged in a frenetic series of calculations. “You do. Stop punishing me for that incident two years ago at The Bucket back in Milwaukee. That wasn’t my fault. You know that. And nothing has happened to Mickey since then. Right?”
She said nothing. That brief hesitation filled him with a burning wrath that heated his body instantly.
“So that’s all?” he said. “No comment. You’re just going to stare at me and say nothing? Come on, Molly, be fair. I need to know that you are with me here. I need to—”
“I know what you need, Arthur,” she finally said. “But it’s not that easy. And other people have needs too. It’s not like before. Things here are different. Feelings are different. That’s what I need you to understand.”
He did understand—or at least he thought he did. But honestly it made no difference if he did or he didn’t. He still felt the same way. So when the conversation ended, he walked away, anxious and discouraged, seeking a dark, remote place where he could sit and be alone, even if it was just for a brief moment, with his roiling fears.
POLO GROUNDS—APRIL 18, 1950
The earth continued its processional thaw as spring carried on in its usual fashion. The air, now decidedly warmer than the chilly gusts that blew through March, was filled with the robin’s song and the unmistakable redolence of dogwood blossoms and forsythia. And despite the frosty rumblings that had threatened to derail Murph’s managerial debut before it had even begun, there was only a remote murmur of dissension left when the Braves headed north and took the field for real in April.
One by one, each player settled in and turned his focus to the new season and the quest that all of them shared—capturing the National League pennant. It had been a long road for Murph. As he stood at home plate across from Burt Shotton, lineup card in hand, he filled his lungs and looked around at the magnificent double-decked grandstand that arched around the batter’s box and down the baselines, all the while entertaining the steady montage of painful reminiscences filtering through his brain. It was good to know he had finally arrived.
“Hey there, Skip,” Shotton said, his eyebrows dancing playfully beneath the peak of his cap. “You’re a long way from Borchert Field.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Murph replied, eyeing with a twinge of envy the two blue stripes on Shotton’s sleeve—artful stitching that served to commemorate the two National League pennants he had won. “But if it’s all the same to you, I think I’ll stick around for a while.”
Not another word was exchanged between the two men as the umpire completed his discussion of the ground rules. Then both managers shook hands and returned unceremoniously to their respective dugouts.
Connie Ryan led things off for the visiting Braves. Mickey and Lester watched from the far part of the dugout as Ryan banged his spikes furiously with the knob of his bat before digging in for good. Then just like that, the cry of “Play ball” split the air and the game was underway.
The first pitch of the season was an outside fastball that popped the catcher’s glove like a firecracker. The crowd roared its approval.
“Strike one.”
Ryan shook his head and stepped out of the box. Murph, now positioned on the top step of the dugout just behind the on-deck circle, took the opportunity to buoy his leadoff man’s resolve.
“Come on now, Connie,” he barked loudly. “Come on now. Get your hacks, kid.”
Mickey remained with Lester, talking in hushed tones as Ryan fouled off the next three offerings. Lester commented about how the Giants starter had missed his spot on each of the last two attempts, but something in the crowd commandeered Mickey’s eye, diverting the boy’s attention while ushering in a deluge of random thoughts that temporarily sealed the young hurler from Lester’s intent.
“You listening, Mick?” Lester asked. “You hear what I said?”
Mickey nodded, but his gaze was still fixed on one particular New York fan—the one dressed in a cardboard crown and burlap tunic with brown leather belt that matched the makeshift club he was brandishing in his right hand.
“Mick, come on now,” Lester persisted, shaking Mickey’s shoulder. “You paying attention?”
Mickey turned to Lester, then extended his forefinger in the direction of his fixation. “Over there. Just behind the other dugout. He looks like a character in a book my mama used to read to me when I was little,” Mickey announced. “Mickey thinks it was called The Giant and the Tailor. Or it could have been The Selfish Giant or maybe Jack the Giant Killer. I am not sure. My mama read me lots of stories.”
Lester chuckled and shook his head.
“That ain’t no giant, Mick,” Lester said. “He ain’t no more of a giant than you are. He’s just a mascot, cheering on his team.”
Mickey showed no signs of comprehending Lester’s explanation.
“I ain’t ever seen no mascots,” he answered, his eyes glued to the animated man’s uproarious gesticulations and antics. “But I sure seen plenty of giants. In books. I also seen some wolves, trolls, and witches. Witches scare me a little. Not cause they are real or anything. Mickey knows that they are not real. But because of how they look. Unless they are good witches, but that don’t happen all that much. My mama used to tell me that you can’t always tell what’s on the inside of a person by looking at the outside, but I reckon that most times I can see—”
“Okay, okay, Mick,” Lester said, stopping the young man before he slipped even further into his digression. “I’m just saying that mascots is common in the big leagues. There’s lots of things up here that’s different from where we come from. Mascots is one. Another would be paying attention to the game on the field. Ya gots to learn here. While you were yammering away, Connie flew out to left and Jet went down looking at a 3-2 hook.”
Mickey turned to face
Lester with a note of indignation, running his hand over his chin. “I know what’s happening out there, Lester,” he replied. “Connie hit a 2-2 outside fastball that was caught just before it went foul into the stands and Sammy Jethroe fouled off three pitches before going down on a curveball that looked like it was ball four.”
Lester stared at Mickey. He was thinking that the boy’s eyes were now deeper than before and was certain there had to be some obscure meaning behind it, but he possessed neither the patience nor the inclination to pursue it.
“Okay, Mick, I get it. Just watch the game, will ya. The way the rest of us do. You never know when Murph’s gonna need you. And you’s gonna wanna be ready.”
Lester would have to wait a while for Mickey’s response, for after Willard Marshall grounded out weakly to second base to complete an uneventful 1-2-3 inning, Lester was gearing up and running out on the field to take some warm-up tosses from Braves ace and local legend Warren Spahn. Lester could not help but smirk a bit from behind his mask. Man oh man, if his mama could only see old Lester now, he thought to himself. Playing in the big leagues with all these white boys. He was still having trouble believing it was actually happening.
It became even more surreal when Eddie Stanky stepped up to the plate to lead things off for the Giants. The gritty second baseman they all called “The Brat” had been a baseball fixture for years. He was not known for his skill and baseball prowess as much as he was for his inimitable way of surviving and surviving well. “He can’t hit, can’t run, can’t field. He’s no nice guy … heck, all the little SOB can do is win” was what they all said about Stanky. Lester had read all about him and so many others for years, and now there he was, “The Brat,” digging in the batter’s box just inches from the starstruck catcher.
Spahn was not nearly as impressed and disposed of the Giants’ pesky leadoff man in quick fashion. The next batter, Whitey Lockman, also fell victim to three very live fastballs, giving the Braves’ ace two easy outs to begin the inning.
“Atta boy, Spahny,” Murph called from the dugout. “Atta boy. Go get ’em.” Spahn rolled his eyes, then pounded the ball in his glove three times as he prepared for his next challenge. Bobby Thompson was the third batter to face Spahn. He strode to the plate, wielding his bat like a samurai sword. His presence further ignited Lester’s awe; the wide-eyed backstop shook his head, excited at the sight of yet another baseball legend yet appropriately fearful should he get caught staring at the Giants’ all-star center fielder.
Spahn started Thompson off with a curveball that broke out of the zone for ball one. The next offering was a fastball, quick and true, that shaved the outside corner for a called strike. With the count even at 1–1, Lester went to work. He knew that Thompson was a very good breaking ball hitter and would probably be looking for something off speed. Hard fastball inside was the way to go for sure. With the stratagem in place, Lester flexed his glove, pounded it with his fist a few times, and proceeded to put down one finger. Spahn’s face became a twisted mask. He stepped off the rubber, removed his cap, and ran his forearm over the sweaty strands of hair that hung just above his furrowed brow. He exhaled loudly and resumed his position on top of the hill. Lester, oblivious to the pointed histrionics, placed one finger between his legs again. This time, Spahn remained where he was, shaking his head vehemently. Lester repeated the request, and once again, Spahn shook him off. Lester removed his mask and turned his head over his left shoulder.
“Time,” he called. Then he trotted out to the mound to chat with his pitcher.
“What are you doing out here?” the surly hurler asked. “Just go back where you belong.”
“Ain’t working out so well that way,” Lester replied.
Spahn huffed and narrowed his eyes. “Listen, I don’t need some cotton-picking country boy from the Negro Leagues telling me how to pitch to Thompson. I know what I’m doing.”
Lester shook his head.
“Ain’t saying you don’t, Warren, but I do think that Mr. Thompson is looking for a curveball and he’s mighty good at hitting ’em. What’s say we lock the boy up with a fastball inside then junk him away. That’s the way to go here. I can tell by the way he’s holding his body what he’s looking for.”
Spahn’s temples began to throb. “Really? Ten minutes into your career and you can tell what he’s looking for? Man oh man. You must have really done some serious voodoo magic with all those other boys you played with. I mean I know you can catch. But I didn’t realize you could read minds and bodies too.”
Lester looked down for a moment before answering. “Listen, Mr. Spahn, I ain’t no fortune teller. And yeah, I’m new. But I’ve played before. Baseball is baseball, black or white. Just like people is people. I’m just saying that sometimes you got to trust your catcher. That’s all. Let’s do it my way this time, then you can go after him any way you want next time.”
The arrival of the umpire at the mound gave Lester the perfect opportunity for an exit. He jogged back to home plate, pulled down his mask, and squatted once again. Spahn peered in, and Lester put down one finger. Without either protest or confirmation, Spahn wound up, kicked his leg, and let the pitch fly. Fastball, in tight. The ball’s trajectory was true. It split the air deftly and was just about to come to rest neatly in the yawning leather pocket that awaited when Thompson threw the barrel of his bat out, catching the ball square and launching it high and deep into the crisp spring air. The little white sphere climbed higher and higher as if being pulled by some invisible string, scraping a cloud or two before finally coming to rest well beyond the left field fence.
As Thompson circled the bases, the partisan crowd erupted in a wild celebration, drowning out the litany of expletives that were spilling out of Spahn’s mouth. Murph called out some words of encouragement from the bench, and Ozmore and Torgeson made a brief visit to the mound to try and corral their pitcher’s untamed emotions. Lester just sank beneath his mask. It took Spahn just a few seconds to regroup. Cleanup hitter Don Mueller took his turn looking to make it back-to-back jacks but proved no match for the incensed Spahn, who channeled his anger into three straight curveballs that looked as if they had been dropped from some invisible ledge in front of the plate. Side retired.
Spahn’s walk to the dugout was slow and deliberate, his gait a clear harbinger of the storm brewing inside of him. He negotiated the dugout steps with little trouble and then fired his glove against the wall before sitting on the edge of the bench, arms folded close to his heaving chest. Lester saw the tirade and despite pangs of angst and uncertainty knew what had to be done.
“Uh, listen, Warren, about that pitch. I just want to say that—”
“Drop dead, rookie-boy,” Spahn fired back. “Let that be a lesson to you. You’re playing with men now. So let’s let the men make the important decisions from now on. Fastball my ass.”
Everyone on the bench heard the exchange and cringed. It was as if time had stood still just long enough for Spahn’s mini harangue. Then, little by little, each player began to stir again, milling about the dugout with trepidation. Lester was left standing still, inanimate, until the sting of embarrassment dulled enough to allow life again. Then he turned away and let his shoulders fall, drawing long, deep breaths and looking about with forlorn eyes, searching helplessly in the circle of fractured faces all around him for some semblance of hope.
Murph saw the whole thing. His anxiety stirred, rolled around inside of him like a marble that managed to bump into every nerve possible. He cringed with every “touch,” fidgeting several times in defiant response. Then, without notice, it morphed into something much larger and surged through him like an ocean swell.
“Murph, you okay?” Mickey asked, mindful of the man’s altered state.
“Not now, Mick,” he answered, pushing past the boy so as not to lose any momentum. “We’ll talk later.”
Lester had only managed to get a few steps away from Spahn when Murph made it clear that he was next in line for some
verbal sparring with the disgruntled pitcher.
“You know, Spahny, shit like that happens all the time. It does. Ain’t nothing to do with experience or color or nothing like that. If that same pitch is just a little more right or even a little left we might not even be having this discussion. It’s part of the game.”
Spahn’s fever abated. He did not address Murph; he barely even looked at him. He simply walked away.
Ozmore, who had been watching, could not resist the opportunity to weigh in. “Man, Murph, you really don’t have any idea what you’re doing, do you?” Then he pulled out a four-leaf clover that he had been carrying with him and laid it gently on Murph’s shoulder. “Here. You could use this a lot more than I can.”
The game moved on at a rigorous clip. Both teams’ offenses sputtered, resulting in a quick exchange of zeroes for several frames until Boston erupted in the top of the fifth inning for five runs, highlighted by a long three-run homer off the bat of Buddy Ozmore. The prodigious blast gave Spahn and the Braves a comfortable 5–1 lead.
The four-run cushion seemed as though it would be enough for the Braves’ ace, who cruised through the sixth and the seventh innings with no trouble at all. However, a leadoff walk in the bottom of the eighth, followed by another walk, an error, and back-to-back doubles plated three runs for the resurgent Giants, who seemed poised for an opening-day comeback.
“Hey, Coops, you and Burris take Antonelli and Mickey down to the pen and get ’em both loose right away,” Murph barked. “Ain’t no time to waste here. Let’s go, on the hop!”
The catcher’s face briefly clouded. “If you say so,” he replied. “Antonelli, Haefner, let’s go. Down to the pen. Now.”
Murph’s face flushed. “Cooper, didn’t you hear what I said?”
“Yeah, I heard you. You said get Antonelli and Haefner down to the pen. What the hell do you think I’m doing?”
“Antonelli and Mickey Tussler,” Murph fired back. “Mickey Tussler. Not Mickey Haefner.”
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