Meanwhile, Ryan trotted up the first baseline, admiring his handiwork, waiting for the ball to touch down somewhere in the outfield and for the subsequent celebration. Ozmore was watching, too, suspended somewhere between second and third base, just waiting for his cue to jog the one hundred eighty feet, carrying with him the game-winning run and Boston’s ticket of admission to the greatest show on Earth.
Ashburn, however, had other ideas. His legs pumped like two pistons, carrying him closer and closer to Ryan’s blast until he was at last close enough to leap, glove extended, and snare what should have been the final blow in what many were already calling a game for the ages. The improbable catch deflated the forty-five thousand strong that had already begun celebrating and sent Ryan into an unhinged fit that included throwing his hat and cursing the heavens and all that lay beneath. The only person in the stadium who managed to parlay something positive from the disappointment was Ozmore, who, despite the unforeseen turn of events, had gone back to the second base bag and tagged up so that he stood ninety feet closer to home plate.
When the dust had finally settled and the reality of what had just transpired had sunk in, there was a discernible change in the Bee Hive. It was more than just the momentum shift that occurred the instant Ashburn snatched his team from a crushing defeat. There was something ominous in the air now—noxious, invisible fumes that floated on the winds that had suddenly shifted course. The Braves were still in a position to steal a victory, but with two outs and their best opportunity now just a painful memory, all anyone who bled for Boston could muster was a strained optimism when Sam Jethroe stepped in to hit.
Jethroe had only one thing on his mind—put the ball in play. Ozmore was just ninety feet away. Ninety feet. All that was needed was contact. That winning run could score on a hit or a bad bounce or a miscue by one of the Phillies’ fielders. “Put it in play,” Murph always said, “and good things will happen.” It was Murph’s mantra that had now become Jethroe’s sole reason for existence.
Johnson was entertaining his own thoughts. He was just one out away from getting his team off the field and in a position to go back on the offensive. His focus was sharp and pointed and resulted in a fastball that painted the outside corner for a called strike one. Jethroe bristled at the call and stepped out to demonstrate more clearly his protest. The crowd voiced its displeasure as well, raining down torrents of boos over the umpire’s poor judgment. Murph, who couldn’t really see from his angle, took his cue from the others and joined in the emotional disparagement.
“Don’t take the bat out of our hands now!” he called. “Jesus. You missed that one. Come on now! You’ve been here the whole game. Let’s not fall asleep now.”
The umpire glanced over at the Braves’ dugout, but said nothing. It was so loud inside the stadium that nobody was even sure what he actually heard. But it appeared that the man calling balls and strikes had all at once developed a bad case of rabbit ears, for the next two calls went the Braves’ way—something that had Sawyer on the top step of his dugout screaming bloody murder.
“Are you kiddin’ me!” he bawled. “You call the game, not them! Shit, grow a set behind there!”
The umpire turned his head in Sawyer’s direction, paused momentarily to let the Phillies’ skipper know that he did not appreciate his commentary, then turned back to face front, pointed to the mound, and called for play to resume. Johnson, who felt as though he had been squeezed on the last two pitches, took his time rubbing up the baseball before getting back on the rubber. Then he checked Ozmore at third, took his sign, came set, and fired a four-seam fastball that rode up on Jethroe at the last second so that all he could be was fouled—the ball out of play. He would do the same thing with the next four pitches he saw, fighting to stay alive until he could get something he could handle.
Johnson, feeling frustrated and a bit irritated by the escalating noise that had come about due to Jethroe’s at bat at this most critical juncture in the game, decided to alter his approach. Five consecutive fastballs had produced five consecutive foul balls, so it was time to toss in a wrinkle. It was actually the perfect time. He knew that Jethroe would be wondering just how many more fastballs he would throw, but without any real way of knowing, the seed of doubt would be enough to catch him off guard.
So when Phillies’ backstop Andy Seminick put down one finger, Johnson shook him off. Seminick repeated the request, this time altering the location, but Johnson shook his head again. Feeling certain that Jethroe would not be expecting another fastball, Seminick tried a third time, showing just one finger, but Johnson would not agree. He shook again, his eyes hardened by the frustration he was battling and only softened when Seminick capitulated reluctantly and flashed an extra finger. Johnson nodded. Curveball it would be.
But the hype was short-lived. The second he released the ball, he knew it was off. His arm lagged behind a bit and his left foot turned to one side when he landed. The ball spun helplessly like a crippled ’copter, destined to crash into the dirt in front of home plate. Jethroe remained still and held his swing, but Seminick was in pure panic mode, lurching forward with arms and legs extended in a desperate attempt to smother the wild pitch. He dropped to both knees, plugged the hole between his legs with his glove, and squared himself to the ball. His back, which had been slightly curved, was now perfectly straight. Then, behaving more like a hockey goalie than a catcher, Seminick leaned into the ball and extended his chest while rolling his shoulders forward. The errant toss struck the dirt first, glanced off his right shoulder, and kicked off to the side. Seminick was like a boxer who had just absorbed a blow to the jaw. He was dazed and confused, and for a second or two could not locate the ball.
Jethroe, who had taken the customary lead with the delivery, kept his eye on the ball the entire time and broke from third base instantly. He put his head down and ran, ran with the urgency of one whose very life depended on the safe completion of his course. He was efficient and swift, eating up the dirt with every step he took. He was moving so deftly that it appeared to most as though he were running on the air just above the ground.
Seminick, in his frantic attempt to locate the ball, could not see him coming but could hear the desperate cries of Johnson, who had run to cover the plate, and a few of the others who were pointing at the ball and imploring him to grab and toss it before it was too late. It was only when the harried catcher had actually retrieved the ball and looked up to make the desperate throw to Johnson that he saw Jethroe, now only steps away from safety.
The throw was rushed and executed from his knees, but Seminick managed to deliver a perfect pitch to Johnson, who caught the ball and swung his glove across the plate all in one motion. The sweeping tag clipped the sliding Jethroe on the left cleat, prompting the crowd to gasp in unison as the umpire made a fist and threw it forward in a punching motion. An ominous stillness fell across the entire ballpark, a death-like silence that suffocated everything in its wake until the dust cleared just enough to reveal the aftermath of the development. There was Johnson, head hung, glove empty. Not too far from him lay the ball, whose sudden escape from its leather tomb engendered an emphatic reversal of the umpire’s call.
“Safe! Safe! Safe!” he called, arms outstretched on either side.
The stands erupted, the walls overrun by an inexorable flow of fans that spilled out onto the field toward their hometown heroes—heroes who had also been swept away by the reversal of fortune, storming the area around home plate to join Jethroe in the impromptu celebration. The delightful melee went on for several minutes, a fevered intimacy that saw strangers and ballplayers and their fans joined in the perfect ending to an incredible season. And when it was all said and done and everyone who had witnessed the breathless excitement that transpired that evening returned to the practical sensibility of their everyday lives, there was still one thought that remained foremost in all of their minds: Murph and his Braves were going to the World Series.
FALL CLASSIC
The early October sun shone like a gold coin in a pale blue, cloudless sky. It had only been a few hours since Murph’s finest moment, and as he stood by the window gazing out at a city that was just now resting from the previous night’s merriment, his own weariness had him briefly wondering with some degree of panic whether he had only dreamed about the events that had his imagination all aglow. But before his anxiety had time to settle in, Molly put her hand on his shoulder and made it all real once again.
“Hey there, manager of the year,” she said, slipping her arms around his waist. “Too excited to sleep?”
Murph closed his eyes and filled his lungs with the cool morning air slipping through the window.
“I don’t know about manager of the year,” he said, turning to face her. “But excited? Yeah, I’d say that covers it. Oh, and maybe throw a little scared to death in there as well.”
“Scared? Of what? Isn’t this what you’ve waited for your whole life? Isn’t that what you’ve always said?”
He laughed. “Yes, of course. Of course it is. But that’s just it. It’s been a lifetime for me, Molly. An entire lifetime. And now? Well, now it’s here.”
“So?”
“So, now that it is here, I’m a little worried. I may never get back. This is my chance. So, I want to do this right. It’s a one-shot deal. And when you have a one-shot deal, that shot had better be a good one.”
She glanced down a moment, her eyes caught momentarily in the play of the shadows on the floor.
“Look, Arthur, you’re here. It’s the World Series. Only two managers can say that. And you’re one of them. And in a few hours, you will be sitting at a press conference, and everyone will want to talk to you—to tell you how great the season was and to learn your thoughts about the next few days. Just enjoy it. Be in the moment. It’s wonderful. And win or lose, it will always be wonderful.”
He nodded, but all Murph understood at the moment was that Molly’s words, though heartfelt, expressed a reality that he could only wish were true.
“Yeah, I just hope it all plays out okay,” he said. “Not only for me, but for the guys, too. And Mickey. I hadn’t even really considered that piece of it until now. Christ, this may be a lot for the kid to handle. I’m glad that you’re here. You know, for support and all.”
She smiled. “Well, I have to say, I had some misgivings about Mickey’s world here. I mean, all of the new people he has met. I think you know what I’m talking about. But I have to be fair. It seems like Mickey has a lot of good people watching out for him. Supporting him and all. I think he’ll be fine. But I’m glad, too, that I’m here. Just in case he needs me. Just in case you need me.”
Murph laughed, put his arms around Molly and kissed her nose. “Well, the boy’s sleeping now, but as soon as the circus starts, I think we are both going to need you.”
Hours later, the media blitz that descended on both teams was not as bad as Murph had imagined, although he did find that his most private thoughts were drowned out by the flash of cameras and overzealous writers jockeying for position. They were all a little overwhelmed.
“So what’s it like?” one reporter asked Murph. “You know, rookie manager making it all the way to the series in the very first year.”
“It’s exactly like you would imagine,” he replied shortly, tiring of the same insipid questions.
“Tell us how you feel, Murph!” another shouted.
“How I feel?” he repeated. “It’s the World Series. How do you think I feel? I’m happy. Really happy.”
Murph stood for several minutes more. He was thrilled to be the object of their attention, but had grown tired and intolerant of what he felt were mindless inquiries and wanted out.
“I mean, did you ever think you’d be here, so soon?” the first reported persisted. “You’re new here, and did it with a lot of other rookies and inexperienced players as well. How’d they handle all the pressure?”
Murph folded his arms, stood up, and paced a bit before finally erupting. “Look, I have a lot of work to do here. You want to know about my guys, why don’t you ask for yourself?” he said, leaning his head toward Lester’s locker. “I’m out.”
“But, Murph, I just want to—”
“I’m done here, fellas. I am. Talk directly to the guys who you have questions about. And when you’re done over here, you can always talk to some of our more experienced guys too,” he continued, raising his eyebrows and pointing his finger in Spahn’s direction as the Braves ace stood tall in front of his locker. Murph could tell his suggestions gave the reporter pause. The man lingered a moment, then started toward Lester once Murph was gone. He was several steps but altered his course abruptly when he found Mickey, who had suddenly come into view. This was by far a more compelling story.
“Hey, Mickey, hey, can we talk for a little while?” the zealous newsman asked. “How ’bout it?”
Mickey wrinkled his nose and looked right into the man’s eyes. “We are talkin’ mister, on account of you asking me if we can talk for a little while. Even though Mr. Murphy says that I really oughn’t be talking to no more reporters after what happened last time.”
The man laughed uncomfortably. “Uh, yeah, I guess so,” he said, frowning a bit. “But still, I’d like to ask you some questions. You know, about the season and the series. That sort of stuff. Can I do that?”
Mickey nodded and sat down on the bench in front of his locker. His eyes wandered around the room, stopping here and there before finally settling on the stranger in a sports coat and fedora who was sitting in front of him.
“So,” the reporter began. “You had quite a season up here. What has that been like?”
“Mickey had a good time here,” he said.
The man smiled and scribbled something on his tiny pad.
“Good time,” he repeated out loud. “Yes, I’m sure. Got it. So I guess you are used to all the talk about you being the favorite to win Rookie of the Year honors. That’s gotta be nice too, huh?”
“Yes, Mickey thinks it’s nice. Lester, he is good, too, mister. He is. Very good.”
The man scribbled something else, his growing intrigue visible.
“Hey, that’s funny, the way you do that.”
“Do what, mister?” Mickey asked.
“You know, the whole ‘Mickey’ thing, like you’re talking about someone else. It’s different. Some may even say downright peculiar. But I like it.”
Mickey stared at him. His eyes narrowed and focused, as if trying to make out some faint writing scrawled on a wall somewhere off in the distance.
“So, is Mickey excited about pitching in the World Series?”
“It is exciting,” he answered. “My mama is here, to watch me play. Jolene, too. Lots of other people will come, too, to watch all of us play the Yankees. It will be loud.”
“Loud is not the word son. This is the show of shows. And this city is the ultimate stage. I know you’ve been here before but not in the fall. How you liking New York this time around? Do any sightseeing?”
“Mickey doesn’t really like the city,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek. “Too many cars, and horns, and people. Don’t like the way it smells neither. Smells like—”
“Hey, hold on there. Are you saying that you don’t like New York? Wow. Go on. Do you hate the Yankees too?”
“Mickey didn’t say that—”
“Is Boston so much better than New York, Mickey?’ he persisted. “Can you tell us why?”
“I, Mickey, well, it’s um, not so—”
“Do the other guys hate New York City, too, Mick? You know, Lester and Spahn? What have they said?”
The young man’s head began to spin. He was thinking way too many things at once.
“Mickey likes the farm,” he managed to say. He was rocking a bit now and looking left to right. “Trees, tall grass, and animals, sir. I reckon that—”
“How do you think the people of New York will feel about your comments on their city
?”
Mickey tried to focus on just one thing in the room, but his eyes began darting from one spot to another, one face to another. His legs were starting to hurt and he could feel the blood drumming at his temples. He wanted to explain what a day on the farm was like and how he missed it sometimes, but all that passed over his lips was his tongue.
“New Yorkers don’t take too kindly to folks, especially from Boston, knocking on their city. Rookie mistake there, my friend. Ain’t smart, no, siree. But I tell you what. Sure makes for a good story. Anything else you want to add? Got my pencil all ready.”
A swell of frustration washed over Mickey.
“No more talk!” he exploded. He was standing now and had grabbed the bag of clothes and equipment that was on the bench, holding it over his head. Lester, who had been busy fielding questions of his own, heard the commotion and rushed immediately to his friend’s aid.
“No more!” Mickey continued, his eyes wild with fear.
“Hey, hey, it’s okay, Mick,” Lester said, stepping in between Mickey and his assailant. “What’s the problem here?”
The reporter, who had been paralyzed by a true fear of his own, spoke freely now. “I’ll tell you what the problem is,” he complained. “Your friend here has got a few screws loose. I should have known after that other incident.”
The commotion was enough to draw the attention of everyone in the room.
“Look, why don’t you move on, mister, okay?” Lester asked. “There’s plenty of guys here who will answer whatever question you ask. Just move on. Leave us be.”
Murph, who had heard the disruption and rushed out to learn more, jumped in.
“Yeah, Lester’s right,” he added. “I know what you’re doing. It’s enough. You’re done here. Just move along now.” Then he put his arm around Mickey, closed his eyes, and sighed. “My fault, Mick,” he said. “I should have known better. Never should have left you here by yourself. Just not thinking, I guess. No worries though. All is good. It’s okay. From now on you stay with me.”
Welcome to the Show Page 25