Cooper’s irritation was replaced by wild disbelief. “You’re kidding, right?”
“Do I look like I’m kidding?” Murph said, his face now a contorted mess.
Cooper laughed and shook his head. Several of the players, including Spahn, heard the commotion and peered into the dugout before resuming play.
“Hey, I don’t know what to think anymore,” Cooper answered shaking his head. “But if I were you, I would—”
“Just do as you’re told, Coops, okay? And do it now.”
Spahn battled for the remainder of the inning. Despite the audible excitement of the crowd and gloves popping in the bullpen, the crafty southpaw regrouped and wriggled his way out of trouble. After walking the sixth place hitter, he fanned the next one on a slider in the dirt and then induced a 5-4-3 twin killing to escape with the lead.
The air in the stadium grew thicker as the game wore on and odd, unsettled feelings swirled through the late afternoon shadows. While the Braves prepared to take their swings in the top of the ninth, intent on padding their one-run lead, tempers flared in the corner of the visitors dugout.
“Murph, did I hear right?” Spahn asked. “I’m not going out for the ninth?”
“Just put on your jacket and watch the rest of the game, Warren. You did fine, but you’re done.” Murph turned to face the field, only to find Spahn back in his face moments later.
“Well if this ain’t bush league, I don’t know what is,” Spahn complained. “There’s a little something here in the big leagues called professional courtesy. What that means, Triple-A, is that when you’re thinking of taking out your ace, you come ask him how he feels and what he thinks.”
“You’ve thrown a lot of pitches, Warren, and, honestly, you look like you’re just about out of gas.”
The sound of Sam Jethroe’s leadoff single and the response from the bench halted the pitcher’s advance momentarily.
“Is that what you think?” he asked. “That I’m out of gas?”
“That’s what I said.”
“And did it occur to you to come out and check on me—just to see how the hell I was feeling?”
Murph muttered a word or two under his breath and looked into Spahn’s eyes. “Look, Warren, do you really want to do this? Really? All I did was get a couple of arms up. That’s all. A manager is allowed to do that. I think that’s one of the rules that’s the same in the majors as it is in Triple-A. And I would have been thrilled to pay you a visit but as luck would have it, you got yourself out of that jam. So there was really no need. So, why don’t you zip up, plant it on the bench, and watch the rest of the game. Nice job today.”
Spahn banged the fleshy part of his left palm against his thigh. “So that’s it,” he thundered. “Huh? Just like that? Go sit down? Bullshit. Absolute bullshit!”
Silence settled into the dugout until the Braves’ bats, seemingly inspired by the eruption of emotion, caught fire. They sent nine men to the plate and scored a half dozen runs, highlighted by Lester’s three-run shot over the center field wall, to grab a commanding 11–4 lead in the ninth. The unexpected success had everyone feeling good, especially Murph, whose last inning pitching decision suddenly seemed much easier now. Bullpen coach, Bob Keely, knew what Murph was going to say long before the rejuvenated manager sidled up next to him to bend his ear.
“Listen, Bobby,” he began. “I would go with Antonelli if we were still up by only one, but now that we’ve cracked it open, it seems like the perfect time to get the kid’s feet wet. You know, give Mickey the ball and see what he can do.”
Keely said nothing. He just stood still, feet crossed, hands folded over the top railing of the dugout, watching as the bottom half of the eighth frame drew to a close.
“I mean that’s the smart thing to do, right, Bobby?” Murph persisted. “’Cause I mean if you think—”
“Murph, you don’t owe me or anyone else here an explanation,” Keely said flatly. “Your door is the one that says ‘Manager,’ remember? It’s your call.”
It did not take Mickey long to get used to the idea of closing out the game. Just a few words from Murph and he was adjusting his cap, pounding his glove, and bounding out onto the big field for his major league debut. He arrived on the mound under a fickle April sun that struggled to heat the chilly afternoon air. Mickey breathed in deeply and arched his head back so that he could see errant wisps of white drifting across the great blue canvas that stretched on for eternity. It reminded him of the silky designs he often saw in the corners of the barn back home in Indiana. The reminiscence was not all that soothing, so he turned his attention to more pressing matters. The dirt beneath his feet troubled him, so he spent a little time with his back to the plate, head down, feet busy, as he made some last-second adjustments to the loose earth in front of the rubber. Then he turned to face Lester.
“Okay now, Mick,” Lester called out. “Here we go now. Just like you can.”
Mickey executed his warm-up tosses in fine fashion and stood awaiting his first challenge. He felt a bit odd, as if he were outside himself, watching the scene unfold from a distance. He was uncomfortably aware of his heartbeat as it hammered away at the walls of his chest, and the sound of the air whooshing in and out of his nose made him wonder about things like the speed at which his blood now flowed and whether or not it was observable to all who were watching. He was also homesick. This was nothing like Borchert Field. Yes, fresh green grass, three bases and home plate, foul lines, scoreboard, outfield wall, and umpires. But it all felt different somehow—especially the crowd. They were loud and restless, and there were so many of them. The kaleidoscope of faces before him was daunting and he fought momentarily against the impulse to duck from sight. Then he heard Murph calling from the bench and he was almost certain he could make it through okay.
“Go get ’em, Mick,” he prodded reassuringly. “Toss that apple right to the glove now.”
Whitey Lockman was Mickey’s first challenge. The Giants’ left fielder was already 2–4 on the day and was looking to get on base and ignite some offense for his deflated club. Lester recognized this and knew Mickey would have no trouble getting ahead of Lockman instantly.
“Here we go now, Mick,” Lester called from behind his mask. Then he pounded his glove and put down one finger between his legs. Mickey took the sign, licked his lips, and, with eyes now narrowed, reared back and fired a four-seam fastball that exploded through the strike zone.
“Ball one!” was the call.
Although the pitch missed its target, the crowd—instantly captivated by the velocity of the pitch and the thunderous report of the ball once it hit Lester’s glove—fell silent, struck by the sheer wonder of what everyone had just witnessed. The sudden stillness ignited in Mickey a resolve that fueled his next few moments. Mickey missed again, up and away, but then three straight flaming fastballs sealed Lockman’s fate. Next for the Giants was Bobby Thompson, who had managed three hits in the first four at bats. The Giants’ matinee idol looked foolish this time around, however, offering at two curveballs in the dirt before grounding out weakly to second base.
The Giants’ final hope came in the form of Sam Jasper, who stepped to the plate in a silence so deafening that he could hear his own blood pumping, strong and erratic, in his ears. Mickey watched as the Giants’ fifth-place hitter smoothed the dirt in the batter’s box with two quick passes of his left cleat, only to dig out a small narrow divot toward the back of the box in which his rear foot could rest. He settled in, ready to take his shot at the young hurler. Any feelings of apprehension Mickey had prior to his debut departed, though his fascination with the size of the Polo Grounds and its now silent inhabitants remained. He stood sixty feet, six inches from his last batter, his eyes darting back and forth between the countless rows of seats and Jasper, who was only now ready to face Mickey and what everyone in the ballpark was calling his “electric stuff.”
Mickey toed the rubber, placed his hands together at his waist, and looked in at
Lester. Armed with his instructions, he rolled his arms, kicked his leg, and let fly a two-seam fastball that twisted through the air like a lightning bolt, vaporizing everything in its path before slicing Jasper’s bat in two. The stunned hitter just stood at home plate, dumbfounded—the knob of his Louisville Slugger in one hand and a look of utter bewilderment on his face as the ball rolled harmlessly out toward the mound. Before Jasper could get his wits about him, Mickey scooped up the squib and fired it to first baseman, Earl Torgeson, for the final out of the game.
The impressive victory became great fodder for the press. The coterie of sports writers assigned to the Braves from season to season had spent the majority of their time in typical fashion, camped out at the lockers of Spahn, Jethroe, and Cooper. The bigger names always drew the lion’s share of the attention. Although on this day, with the stragglers from the sellout crowd still buzzing about this unknown whiz kid who had lit up the radar gun in his one inning of work, a few reporters found their way to Mickey’s locker as well.
The guys all noticed.
“Mickey, were you intimidated out there today?” one reporter asked. “How’d you feel?” The boy said nothing, just gazed vacantly at a point in the distance, as wisps of awareness drifted across his consciousness.
“Come on,” another member of the press prodded. “Don’t be shy, kid. We know you were called the Baby Bazooka in Milwaukee. Are ya for real or just some flash in the pan? Give us something here. Anything.”
“Flash? Pan?” he repeated.
“Come on, kid. Spill it. Tell us about yourself.”
Mickey stood now, face pale, mind polluted, rocking back and forth. He resembled a crumbling statue.
“Slowly, silently, now the moon, walks the night in her silver shoon.”
The muscles in his stomach and in his legs began to ache. His face burned too. His discomfort continued to escalate as the frustration of those asking questions swelled.
“Hey, what is this?” a third man asked. He was tapping his pencil against a small pad of paper. “Kid, are you all right? What’s all that mumbo jumbo about the moon? All we want to know is how you feel about today’s performance.”
Mickey’s agitation grew worse as several beads of sweat ran from his forehead into his eyes.
“I-I-I don’t know,” he finally said. “Fastball up and in. Breaking stuff away. Nothing too good on 0–2. Ignore the crowd. It’s okay, it will be okay. Mickey is—”
Murph and Lester, who had been seated at the opposite end of the room, heard the commotion and rushed to Mickey’s defense.
“I think that’s enough for one day, fellas,” Murph said, stepping in between Mickey and the predatory cluster. “Mickey’s had enough excitement for one day. We’ll have to catch up with you guys next time.”
The group of reporters just looked at each other, frustrated and dumbfounded.
“Come on, Murph.” They called after him as he ushered the boy away to safety. “We’re just getting started here. Are we gonna see the kid again? What’s your plan for him?” Murph walked a few more steps, pushed Mickey gently in the direction in which he wanted the boy to go, then turned to face the ravenous bunch.
“I said enough is enough. No more today. And I mean it.”
Now, many minutes later, after the intrusive threat of outsiders had been quelled, a bunch of the guys were all focused on picking up the rattled boy’s spirits. For the most part, all the early banter about Mickey’s idiosyncrasies and peculiar way of talking was gone. There seemed to be less room for hasty criticism.
“Hey, kid,” Spahn said, placing his left hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “Not too shabby. I have to admit, I had my doubts. We all did. But that was some real cheddar you were dealing out there. You made some folks sit up and take notice. Hell, it ain’t every day that a rookie gets Bob Holbrook and C. Roger Barry to stop by after the game to chat. Even if you did freak out a little. Nice going. Just don’t go thinking it’s as easy as that every time. This is the bigs, son. Ain’t always this easy.”
Celebratory laughter filled every corner of the room. It was always good to begin the year with a win.
“Yeah,” Tommy Holmes added. “This ain’t for the faint of heart. No, sir. But I have to say. Ain’t many guys able to silence a packed house at Ebbets Field.” Holmes’s comment was punctuated by a barrage of supportive slaps on Mickey’s back, all of which elicited only a simple, diffident response from the astounded young hurler.
“Thanks, uh, thanks a lot,” Mickey said, shrugging his shoulders awkwardly. “Mickey had fun today. Pitching. Pitching was fun.”
The entire locker room erupted, once again—this time in waves of laughter.
“Did you hear that, Ozzy?” Connie Ryan screamed from across the room. Ryan noticed, with more than a little confusion, that Buddy Ozmore seemed to be hovering above all the merriment, detached from the feel-good moment in which the rest were basking. “Fun. He said he had fun today. That’s priceless. Fun.”
Ozmore winced as if some errant specks of dirt had flown into his eyes, then continued placing his gear in his locker. It was only after the last article was in its proper place that he finally spoke.
“Don’t see what all the fuss is about,” he said, closing the metal door and turning toward the exit. “Shit, he only got three outs.”
It was late in the afternoon, and there was just enough light outside for Molly to see the look on Murph’s face as he got out of his car and made his way toward her. The strained, severe look on his face puzzled her but then troubled her even more once he was inside.
“Hey, nice win today, Mr. Murphy,” she said, winking before her face erupted into an ear-to-ear smile. “Now that’s the way to make a debut.”
He could barely see her through his fog of worry.
“Yeah, well. Sometimes a win ain’t really a win at all.”
Molly looked at him with narrow eyes lit by a flash of incredulity. “Are you for real, Arthur?” she asked. “Honestly, you win the first game of your professional career, Mickey pitches a wonderful inning, even the crowd eats it up to some extent, and you come home with that long face on, complaining? I just don’t get you sometimes.”
Molly folded her arms and shook her head slightly from side to side.“It’s not that simple, Molly,” he explained. “This is not Milwaukee and some minor league operation. The stakes are much higher here, and the personalities far more complex. Nobody sees that. There’s a lot of pressure here. I’ve got a lot of other issues besides runs, hits, and errors.” She stood listening while he rubbed his temples.
“Well?” she asked. “I’m all ears, Arthur. Let’s hear it. What’s bothering you? Tell me. Please. We always talk about everything. Maybe I can help.”
She was right. He had fallen into the habit in the last couple of years of leaning on her when his life as he saw it veered off its intended path. Despite all of her own hardship and turmoil, she was always there to listen, and more often than not, to offer insights that not only allayed his concerns but actually brought an end to whatever was plaguing him. But somehow, this was different. He felt outside of her—removed—as if he were standing on one side of a creek and she on the other. He looked on helplessly as the watery barrier twisted its way for miles and miles, its frothy white gums menacing and unrelenting. Sure, she could see him, and he could perceive the warmth in her outstretched arms, but the disconnect was palpable and uncompromising; she could not see the line of sweat above his lip or hear the hammering of his trepid heart. She could not feel the suffocating fear. The creek just surged on.
“Thank you, Molly,” he sputtered, trying desperately to find a way to express his present condition. “But I think this one has to be mine to figure out. At least for now.”
HOME STAND—MAY 1950
A tempest of thoughts swirled in Murph’s head, rendering the fledgling skipper ill equipped to weigh the crumbling difference between success and impending misfortune. A couple of weeks had passed and the dissension o
n the team—a rift that was supposed to be fleeting—was actually gaining momentum. Even a .500 road trip, which saw Mickey earn victories in each of his first two starts, was not enough to mend the splintering clubhouse.
He sat by himself, in the cool shadows of his office, ruminating over his predicament. He had known that life in the big leagues would be challenging given the level of talent here and the brilliant baseball minds he’d be sparring with. Matheson made sure he knew that before they said their final good-byes.
“Ain’t no walk in the park or some two-bit rodeo up there, Murph,” the old man had prattled. “No, siree. Up there, the shine is on the ball, but it’s you who’s gots to keep it there.” He knew what Matheson had meant, and had no problem putting his baseball acumen up against anyone else’s. He was certain he could handle the baseball part. But he never imagined having to play schoolmaster to a bunch of self-indulgent adolescents. Wasn’t he past all of that?
In the silence of the small office, he could hear the distant hum of the lawn mowers preparing the field for the day’s practice. The sound, while at first soothing, now spawned a restlessness that could not wait. He got up from his desk, looked left, then right, before walking to the other side of the room where he stood for quite some time, hands shoved deep into his back pockets, eyes affixed to the 1948 Milwaukee Brewers team photo that hung above a rusty three-drawer filing cabinet. He mused silently about how far that team had come from those first few weeks and the rash of mean-spirited pranks designed to discourage Mickey. Murph ran his finger over each row of players, reminiscing about each one and what they all meant to him, before stopping on Lefty Rogers. He shook his head and frowned. Boy, did Lefty sure feel the heat once Mickey had arrived with his blazing fastball and pinpoint accuracy. All the sorry southpaw could do was find ways to get the kid off his game and try to infect the others with his venom. Nailing Mickey’s cleats to the floor with the help of Woody Danvers. The incessant name-calling and insults. And then there was the heinous abduction at The Bucket, something that could have turned out much worse had Sheriff Rosco not found Mickey when he did.
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