Lester’s words had unlocked a precious memory for sure and had Mickey standing on the mound, feeling like he knew exactly what to do.
“Nice and easy.” He kept hearing in his head. “Slow down. Don’t be so strong or too forceful.”
So when Willie Jones stepped in to take his hacks, Mickey delivered a fastball that was straight and true but less than its normal speed. Jones’s eyes lit up as the ball floated across the plate like some swollen piñata. Jones did not miss. He sent the offering screaming down the left field line, where it rolled around in the corner before finally being scooped up and thrown in, but not before two runs had crossed the plate.
Dick Sisler was next. The chiseled left-hander jumped on the first pitch as well, one hopping the wall out in left center field. That scored two more runs and put Sisler on third with still only one out.
“What the hell is he doing out there?” The guys on the bench complained. “He’s not even pitching. What the hell, Murph?”
Murph pulled his cap down over his brow and cringed. There was nothing he could say.
The next two batters, Mike Goliat and Stan Lopata, both had similar success against Mickey’s halfhearted effort, registering back-to-back doubles that plated two more runs. The carousel was in full motion. And the natives were restless.
“Come on, Murph, are you kidding us here?” the bench carped. “Get him out of there. He’s killing us—absolutely killing us. We’ve barely broken a sweat and are down six runs already.” It pained Murph to have to go and get him. But letting it go on was brutal, and he had to save some face in front of the guys. As it was, he feared he had now lost what little credibility he had gained.
The walk to the mound seemed unending, as was the removal of Mickey, but not nearly as painful as what was to follow once the final out had been recorded. Many of the players were sullen and quiet, but their silence spoke volumes.
Some, however, were not inclined to let their displeasure go unheard. They spoke freely about things like bush-league play, failure to execute, and colossal stupidity. And it was loud and pointed. Warren Spahn fired the first salvo.
“Murph, what the hell was that today?” he asked. “Are you shittin’ me?”
“Just back off, Spahny, all right?” Murph shot back. “The kid had a rough outing. That’s all. Happens to all of you.”
“Really? That’s your assessment of this? Rough outing? Not that we pissed away a golden opportunity to gain more ground and to keep the train rolling—or that it was the most embarrassing moment of all of our lives as ballplayers? You don’t see that? Only that it was a rough outing?”
“You know what? I am so tired of your ‘look at me’ candy-ass prima donna attitude. Maybe once, just once, you can look at things beyond what they mean to you. Try it some time. That’s what guys on a team do.”
Bickford, who came over once the yelling began, joined the fracas. “That is what we’re saying, Murph. This team just suffered because you think the whiz kid has the right stuff. Maybe he was good on the farm. And yeah, he throws okay and even fooled some guys up here. But he’s not on the farm anymore. And he’s nuttier than a fruitcake besides. That ain’t gonna work here.”
Murph’s rage soared. He began screaming about teammates and loyalty and watching backs. Then he stopped—as if he had an epiphany—and motioned an imaginary line down the center of the locker room with his outstretched arm.
“Okay, fellas, everyone who is so damned perfect and has never screwed up in a game or had a really awful performance can stay on this side of the locker room from now on. The rest of us neophytes who are not worthy to share that hallowed space with you will stay on this side. Better?”
A few guys snickered and mumbled under their breath.
“What the hell are you getting all crazy for, Murph?” Torgeson asked. “The guys are just upset.”
“Upset? Upset? No, I’m upset. Me! I’m the one who should be upset here. One bad outing and you’re all ready to lynch the kid, is that it? Huh? Pathetic. Nobody else wants to take any responsibility here. Or behave like a professional. Or act like you’re part of a team. No? Okay then. Be upset. But that’s just tough shit. I’m in charge here. And I make the rules. So you can bellyache all you want. Mickey Tussler is on this team. He’s part of our staff and he will be getting the ball again in five days. I told you all from day one my door says ‘Manager.’ Mine. Nobody else’s.”
“Yeah, well I told you that the kid was trouble,” Ozmore said, slipping out of the shadows like a serpent. “Nothing but trouble.”
Now it was on.
“You’re gonna say something?” Murph mocked. “Really? Please. You? You’re the last one who should talk about what happened today.”
“Oh yeah, Mr. Big League Manager, and why is that?”
“You really want to do this now, in front of everyone?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about, Murph.”
“You really are a piece of work, Ozmore, you know that? All Mickey wanted was to talk to her. Because she asked him to. That’s all. Because they’re friends. But I guess you’re a little intimidated by that. So you couldn’t keep your big, stupid mouth shut. And by golly, look what happened. Was it worth it? Huh?”
The room grew noticeably quieter as those who were listening either sat or stood, processing what was just said.
“I didn’t say nothing to her,” Ozmore protested. “I don’t know what he’s talking about. Why do I care who my sister talks to. Honest, guys, she must have changed her mind. On her own.”
The silence that had filled the room now gave way to a steady murmur that had Ozmore in a sheer panic.
“He’s got no proof I said anything,” he rambled. “None at all. Like I just said. Why would I care if the kid talks to my sister? Right? Come on. It’s crazy talk. Besides, what the hell does my sister have to do with the kid pitching anyway? He couldn’t find the strike zone today because the kid just don’t got it. Ain’t nothing to do with me or my sister.”
Murph stood now, frustrated and uneasy.
“All of you, especially you, Ozzy, know about Mickey,” Murph said in a desperate voice. He was not looking at Ozmore as he spoke but at the others who had gathered around the commotion. “He’s not like the rest of us—in a lot of ways. Things bother him. And he has trouble at times dealing with those things. But he’s also incredibly talented on that mound. You guys have only gotten a glimpse of that so far. So what I’m asking is that you cut the kid a little slack. You know, do what you can to make him feel comfortable and okay—not because I love the kid or because I asked you to. But because his arm can help all of us win a championship here.”
Murph’s impassioned plea was not his best speech ever, but it had enough power to change the tenor of the room. Players were nodding and a couple even emitted an audible “okay” under their breath once Murph was finished speaking. The only one who was completely still was Ozmore, who was slowly discovering that the tide had somehow changed.
“Hey, whatever it takes,” he finally said, appealing to the prevailing sentiment in the room. “You know me. I just want to win. Whatever it takes. If that’s what everyone wants, then I … uh … want that too.”
Murph smiled and wrinkled his nose. “So let me see if I understand you now. Then it’s okay if Mickey talks to your sister? You’re okay with that?”
Ozmore surveyed the room. The tacit judgment was more than enough to influence his response. “Well, yeah, of course I am. I’m a team player. And they’re just talking. Just friends. That’s all.”
“And you’re willing to get off the kid’s back, about everything, so we can really make a run at this thing?”
“You heard what I said, Murph,” Ozmore announced. He swallowed with some difficulty. “Yes, I will help him out. Of course. We’ll all watch out for him. Hell, why wouldn’t I?”
ALL-STAR BREAK
With just three games left to play before the midsummer classic, Murph was feeling pretty g
ood about things. The three days off would give tempers a chance to cool. The break would also provide him with the opportunity to get away with his family—back to Milwaukee—where he could counsel Mickey and also begin to set things right with Molly.
The first half of the season concluded for the Braves by Murph’s crew taking two of three in Cincinnati from a struggling Reds team. It wasn’t exactly what Murph had hoped for, but he was happy to get away at the half with a third-place finish, trailing the league-leading Phillies by just two games. If people had told him before the season began that he’d be just two games out of first place midway through his rookie season at helm of a major league club, he would have said they were crazy. It was more than he could have hoped for. He was also pleased that he had successfully managed to avoid Mickey’s spot in the rotation, thinking that it would be best if he had his next outing in front of the home crowd after the break.
Molly had already left Boston after the last home stand and was awaiting the arrival of Murph, along with Mickey of course, and Lester, who had no place special to be for the next few days. Diamond Drive was like a tonic for her; Milwaukee was where she had begun her new life with Murph.
The place was a far cry from what it was when she first saw it—a small, modest gray dwelling that looked as though it had been dropped indiscriminately in the middle of a pale grass field flanked by clusters of big dead trees and restless tumbleweeds. The windows, clouded casements that winced uncomfortably at the barren acreage just outside, allowed only glints of light to pass through. Molly remembered commenting on how she had never seen a place so dark inside. So when they had married and the place became hers as well, she had gone to work immediately.
Her touch was everywhere, from the carefully sculpted flower beds in front to the white lace doilies and warm, bright country curtains in every room. It even smelled like her—like lilacs. Now she was as much a part of that house as he was. And now that she was back, she wondered how she would ever be able to leave again.
It had taken her so long to arrive, to be able to live in a dwelling that was not just a house but a home. For so many years prior to Murph, she had lived as a prisoner, her soul fettered to something dark and sinister. Her heart had been incarcerated as well, beating timorously as though it were resting between two stone walls drawing closer and closer, inches away from pressing together. She survived the only way she knew how, by immersing herself in the chores germane to life on a farm. She could lose herself in the mixing of animal feed or the husking of corn. She knew how to milk the cows and could spend a whole afternoon bottle-feeding the lambs. And of course Clarence needed his clothes washed and his meals prepared. She could do all that.
But there was never any time for her—time to read about distant places and the romances unfolding there. There was no opportunity to ride horses or to walk in the morning when the sun had just begun to tickle the dewdrops on the sleepy grass, lighting them up like a blanket of diamonds. And there was no occasion to sit and play her clarinet, something she loved more than anything else. She had simply trudged forward, day after day, certain that her tortured life would conclude one day on that farm.
Then she met Murph, and all that changed. She realized that those things that made her who she was were forgotten but not gone. She was alive again and doing all the things she had long since relinquished. And there were so many other wonderful things she discovered, too, like what it felt like to be loved and cared for—what it felt like to be a woman. Sure, the demands of living a baseball life posed some challenges, but they were making it work. Somehow it just worked. They were totally in sync and she had at long last conquered her demons. And then Murph got the call to the show, and like a dandelion seed caught in a stiff breeze, her new life was gone—just like that. The feeling of just how much she missed it all was never as strong as when Murph, Mickey, and Lester arrived.
“Hey, just in time,” she said, smiling behind a tray of warm chocolate chip cookies. “You boys must be starving.”
Mickey was the first to greet her. He grabbed a cookie, put the whole thing in his mouth, then struggled to say how much he missed her as he draped his arms over her shoulders.
“Whoa, Mick,” Lester said, coming up quickly behind him. “Mrs. Murphy, lemme grab that tray before all these beautiful cookies hit the floor.”
“Why thank you, Lester,” she said from underneath Mickey’s enveloping hug.
“My pleasure, ma’am,” he replied. “It’s the least I can do.”
With the cookies now secure, Molly was able to return her boy’s embrace. “Oh, I missed you too,” she whispered in his ear. “I know it hasn’t been that long, but still.”
Murph’s heart filled as he observed the heartfelt reunion. It was good to see her, especially here, where she had blossomed before his eyes from a hopeless shadow into this radiant being. It had been far too long since he had seen her smile the way she was smiling now.
“Hey, you know I haven’t seen you in a few days too,” he teased. “What about me?”
Molly squeezed Mickey one more time, kissed his cheek softly, then reached for the tray that Lester had set on the table just inside the door. “Here, sweetheart,” she said to Mickey. “Why don’t you take these into the kitchen and you and Lester can grab some milk, maybe sit down at the table.”
The boy took the tray and bounded through the foyer and into the kitchen with an amused Lester trailing close behind, leaving Molly and Murph to themselves. She took a deep breath and smiled, stretching out her arms as if to say Well, here I am. What else could he do but smile back—and of course move in closer so that both of them were now locked in an embrace.
It was warm and familiar and just what she had been missing. It was right. She closed her eyes like a little girl and wished with every fiber of her being that this feeling would last beyond the three days they had planned. She kept them shut tight, mindful that the minute she opened them again, the light of a world she still refused to accept would eradicate the sweet vision.
“Hey,” he said, pulling away from her just far enough so that he could see her face. “Place looks great.”
“Thank you,” she said, opening her eyes reluctantly. “Just like we never left, right?”
“Yup, this place sure is a sight for sore eyes.”
They talked for a while, first about the team and how he felt about the first half of the season. He spoke with modest enthusiasm but was clearly pleased with what he had accomplished in a fairly short time under less than ideal circumstances. She listened and was even happy that he was so encouraged and feeling good about himself and the way things were going. She knew how much it meant to him. But she was still troubled by where she fit in the equation and what she was to do with her feelings. Despite her attempt to be nothing less than excited and supportive, her eyes told the true story. He read her concern with relative ease.
“Hey, what’s bothering you?” he asked, stroking her hair. “Why the long face?”
“It’s nothing,” she said. “I’m okay. Just overwhelmed a little I guess.”
“Are you sure, Molly? You don’t look right.”
“Yeah, yeah, it’s nothing, Arthur. Really. It’ll pass.”
She looked away and moved the conversation to Mickey, looking for insight into the boy’s present condition, a midyear report of sorts. Part of her was hoping that the promotion was not working out so well and that he would be back down with Brewers again. She had secretly hoped the same thing for Murph as well.
Murph had told her all about the difficulties he was having with some of the players and the pressures of managing a big league club. It was more than he had expected. But he was also careful to share with her the recent success that both he and Mickey had experienced, and how he felt that both of them were doing better than most had initially thought. He also revealed that Mickey was making friends off the field, but left the whole Jolene situation for another time.
“Well, that’s great,” she said. “
I guess you are getting everything that you wanted.” Her last few words were spoken with a slight, yet discernible, tremor.
“Molly, talk to me,” he said. “What is going on? Are you still—”
She felt as though she might cry. “Later, not now,” she said.
“Listen if you are—”
“Come on,” she interrupted, taking his hand. “Let me show you what I did in the other rooms.”
Out back, the sun bathed the yard in a brilliant gold that highlighted all of Molly’s recent efforts. She had removed a good deal of the dead underbrush and had begun replacing it with flowers and a few stone sculptures she had found at an antique store. She had even found a new cover for the rabbit cages, which Mickey noticed instantly. It was there he and Lester stood, poking celery stalks through the holes in the cages while having a conversation of their own.
“Happy to be home, Mick?” Lester asked.
“Mickey loves Duncan and Daphney,” he said. “My mama takes good care of them. And when she can’t, on account of Boston, Mr. Bailey just up the road comes over and checks up on them. But they love me best. See? They’re smiling at me.”
“I know, Mick,” Lester said laughing. “They sure do.”
“Animals is the best sort of friend, Lester,” Mickey continued. “Best sort. They are never mean to you. Never hurt you. I just told—”
“Yeah, Mick, but you can’t only survive with just animals you know. A person needs other people too. You know that, Mick, right?”
Mickey didn’t answer. Instead he leaned down a bit and pushed his face up against the cage so that his nose was now touching the tiny twitching black one just across from his.
“You know, there’s some good folks that you’ve met before.” Lester went on. “Remember Pee Wee? He’s a swell fella. And what about Farley? Remember old man Matheson? The way he used to help you out whenever you needed something? And of course Murph? Ain’t nobody better than Murph, right? And hey. Ole Lester likes you too. So you see, ain’t all people bad news, Mick.”
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