Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  Frank laughed, “Well, Gene, I think my boss, Branch Rickey, the General Manager of the Dodgers, might take issue with you about exactly whose Brooklyn Dodgers they are, but, yes, one and the same.” A brief but uncomfortable silence followed before Frank decided to take control of the situation. “Come on, Gene.” He put his hand on Gene’s shoulder and squeezed it gently. “Let’s go meet your mom and dad. We can take my car.”

  As they walked off the field, Frank noticed for the first time the awkwardness of this young boy. Gene was like a Great Dane puppy that had reached adult size, but didn’t know exactly what to do with his long legs and giant paws. Off the field, Gene seemed to be a kid in a grown-up body. It was easy to forget while watching him play that he was really only a small-town boy.

  Gene’s eyes widened when Frank stopped next to a shiny blue 1938 Buick. The catcher had never seen a fancy car like that before. Frank opened the passenger door and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the top. “Why do you love to catch so much, Gene?”

  Gene didn’t even hesitate in his answer. “Because I love baseball, and I’m the only guy on the field who can watch the whole game.” His voice grew louder and more passionate as the words tumbled from his lips. “Mr. Boudreau, squatting behind the plate, I have the best seat in the house! I hope I can do it forever.”

  Gene turned to look back at The Lumberyard, as if suddenly mindful that once he climbed into the stranger’s car, his life would change forever.

  “I love to catch.”

  Chapter 3

  The Corner of Matthew and Mulberry

  Frank’s car stood out in Sesser like a Roman chariot at a rodeo. There weren’t many new things in town, so the Buick Century Coupe, with its bright chrome air vents and wide whitewall tires, quickly caught everyone’s eye on Main Street. Everyone stopped whatever they were doing, young and old alike, to stare at the freshly-waxed automobile. They also stopped to talk. Like every small town, anything out of the ordinary is a fresh topic of conversation.

  “Is it someone from the Mine Workers Union?” asked Billy Kirkpatrick.

  “No,” another onlooker answered. “Probably a man from the Federal Government.”

  “You think? Then why is Gene Moore riding in that fancy new car?” asked Raymond Lowe, shading his eyes against the sun as he watched the Buick slowly cruise its way down Main.

  “He’s probably in some kind of trouble,” replied Puny Eubanks.

  “Gene Moore in trouble? I can’t see that boy doing anything serious enough to land him in a car like that!” chimed in Billy. “But you never know. The driver looks like he could be a Hoover man, you know, FBI.”

  The one-car parade turned off Main and onto Mulberry before pulling up to the corner. Gene’s house was a small single-story three room house with a slight tilt to it. Obviously old, it was covered in a tar wrap that simulated brick. Next to the house was a small barn desperate for a coat of paint. Several pigs behind a four-board flaking white fence rooted in the dirt or lay on their sides, twitching their large ears to keep the flies away. A dozen chickens and a strutting rooster milled about on the formless dirt path between the barn and the house. A pair of goats in another small pen nearby brayed softly as they scratched themselves against the rough boards that barely kept them enclosed.

  John Moore was sitting in his rocking chair on the front porch when the Buick carrying his son and a stranger rolled to a stop in front of the house.

  Gene snapped open the car door and jumped out of the Buick. “Hi Pop!” he shouted, bounding up the walkway and onto the porch. “Just listen before you say no!”

  Frank eased his way more slowly out of the car, shut the door firmly, and nodded in the direction of the elder Moore, who slowly stood up from his chair. John was a big man, about six-foot-one and close to 250 pounds. The resemblance between Gene and his father was easy to see, even at a distance. It was no mystery where the boy got his height. As Frank approached he saw the father was dressed in denim bib overalls that proudly displayed the tag “Osh Kosh B’Gosh.” Under his bibs was a burgundy and white plaid shirt. A silver watch chain ran from one of his brass buttons to his pocket. Hidden from view was the old pocket watch John used to keep track of his day.

  John took a long draw from a Lucky Strike and exhaled without glancing in the direction of his son, all the while wondering just what it was Gene had done to warrant a visit from an important looking stranger in a fancy new car.

  “Mr. Moore?” Frank inquired as he neared the porch. “My name is Frank Boudreau. I’m with the Brooklyn Dodgers professional baseball club. If you don’t mind, I would like to talk to you about your son Gene.”

  John looked down at Frank for a moment before turning his eyes to stare at Gene. A puzzled look crossed his face. “Talk about what? What has he done?”

  Frank smiled and glanced over at Gene, who was beginning to squirm under the scrutiny of his father’s withering stare. “He hasn’t done anything wrong, Mr. Moore,” Frank chuckled softly. “In fact, he does everything right—on a ball diamond. Your son is quite an athlete.” Frank waited, expecting to see a smile and hear a laugh. Instead, John shifted his eyes back to the man in front of him and said nothing. Frank shot a glance toward Gene, cleared his throat, and continued. “As I said, Mr. Moore, I represent the Brooklyn Dodgers, and I want to talk to you about making Gene part of our organization.”

  A small scowl lined the older man’s face. “Gene is only 15,” John answered firmly. “He left school to help me on the farm. Playing games is for kids. I need Gene to be a man and help his family here at home.”

  Frank could see the effect of John’s response on Gene, whose shoulders began to sag under the weight of disappointment. “Mr. Moore, I completely understand,” answered the baseball scout. “May I please come up and sit down?”

  John shrugged and tilted his head toward the small wooden stool sitting against the wall. “Gene, go see your mom. She needs help inside.”

  Gene winced at the order. “But Pop! Can I please stay and …”

  Frank interrupted before Gene could finish his sentence. “Gene, I need to speak with your father alone.” Outnumbered, Gene mumbled his understanding, opened the screen door, and stepped into the little house. He let the door slam shut behind him.

  Frank waited until John sat back in his rocking chair before leaning on the railing of the porch next to him. “Mr. Moore, your son has a gift. I’m sure you know how well he plays baseball. At 15, the way he plays against these men … well, he’s an amazing young athlete. I don’t see raw talent like his very often. In fact, I rarely see it.”

  “I’m sorry, what did you say your name was? Baker?”

  “No sir, Boudreau, Frank Boudreau.” The scout dug into his shirt pocket and handed John his business card. The elder Moore did not even glance at what was printed on it. “Please call me Frank. May I call you John?”

  John shrugged again. “Mr. Boudreau, I don’t play games. I don’t watch games. I got laid off from the mine seven years ago back in’33. Since then, I’ve raised pigs, hauled garbage, and shoveled manure at the Livestock Auction Barn. I don’t have time to do anything but provide for my family. I hear things, sure. People ‘round town tell me Gene can play ball pretty good, but I don’t know if he’s good, and I don’t know anything about baseball. I do know Gene is a good boy—he could work a little harder around here instead of throwing a ball around a field with other men who should be out providing for their families—but he’s still learning to be a man.”

  “John,” Frank interrupted. “What if I told you Gene could make good money playing ball?”

  “Who would pay him to play a game?” John asked with a skeptical look on his face.

  “Well, some people might well do just that. Your son, if he keeps progressing, could be one of the most exciting young ballplayers in the Major Leagues. A few very rich men around the country own these baseball franchises, and they pay players more than you can imagine to play this game.”
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br />   John looked off toward the pig pen when one of the sows let out a long low squeal and shook his head in disbelief. “I find that hard to believe, Mr. Boudreau. But, I can imagine a lot.”

  Gene was inside the house, pressing himself flat against the fading yellow wallpaper near the screen door in an effort to remain hidden from the men outside discussing his future. He wanted to hear every word, but the men spoke in low tones and only snippets of their conversation were audible. His shirt was soaking wet from sweat, a combination of the anxiety of the moment and the sticky hot summer day. After fifteen agonizingly long minutes laughter suddenly erupted from the porch. Gene flinched at the unexpected outburst, and then flinched a second time when John yelled through the screen door just a foot away, “Mom! Frank and I are going downtown for a bit.”

  Allie Moore knew “going downtown” meant a trip to Bruno’s for a cold beer. A God-fearing woman of Irish descent, she did not approve of drinking alcohol, but after years of protesting she had given up that battle. There were too many others to fight, and she was too tired to wage them all. Wiping her hands on a towel she walked toward the door and nodded her understanding. Gene eased himself away from the wall and exchanged glances with his father. Without offering so much as a word John turned and walked away, the porch creaking under the weight of his footsteps.

  Frank handed John the keys. “Would you like to drive?” he asked as they walked toward the Buick, slapping John on the back as if they had been friends for years.

  John reached for the keys as a smile broke across his face. “Well, sure. I’d love to!”

  Gene ran to the window and watched the shiny blue Buick drive off with his Pop behind the wheel. He was pushing the door open when Allie brought his plans to a halt. “Not so fast!” Gene stopped dead in his tracks and turned to look at his mother. He slowly let the door shut behind him. “Who was that man?” she asked.

  “He says he’s with the Brooklyn Dodgers,” Gene answered.

  “Who?” Allie asked.

  “You know, mom. The Dodgers. The baseball team.”

  “Where’s Brooklyn?” she asked.

  “It’s near New York City … I think.”

  “Hmm. He’s a long way from home,” replied Allie as she lifted her towel to wipe the dust from a small table near the door. “Why is he talking to your father?”

  “He says he wants me to play ball for the Dodgers.”

  “Oh,” was Allie’s only response.

  Gene headed for the door a second time but Allie stopped him again. “Wait!” Gene groaned aloud and stopped with the door open and his body half outside. “If they wanted you in their conversation, they would have asked you to come, don’t you think? Besides, Bruno’s is no place for a young man, and I need your help in the kitchen. Go wash your hands.”

  “Yes, mam.” Gene never argued with his mom.

  An hour passed quickly as Gene finished his chores in the kitchen. Another hour was consumed with work in the barn and feeding the animals. “Where was Pop and what was he talking to Frank about for this long?” wondered Gene as he wrestled with the idea of disobeying his mother and striking out for Bruno’s. Instead, he settled himself on the porch swing and promptly fell fast asleep. He awoke with a start thirty minutes later when he heard a pair of car doors slam shut, one after the other. The big blue Buick and the two men had finally returned to Mulberry Street.

  Gene jumped up off the swing and bounded down the steps, but by the time he reached the street the Buick was already pulling away from the curb. He turned to ask his father a question, but the elder Moore was already halfway up the porch stairs.

  Gene trotted after him. “Well?” he asked as he reached his side.

  The two men—one young, enthusiastic, and strong, the other older, subdued, and tired—stood facing one another on the porch. It was the first time the father realized his son could look him directly in the eye.

  “Well what?” John asked. “You should be in bed. Tomorrow’s your morning to feed the hogs.”

  The smell of beer lingered in the air between them. “Pop! What did you talk about? Where did Mr. Boudreau go?” Gene asked as a sinking feeling of despair washed over him. His father had turned the scout down. His dream of playing in the Major Leagues was over.

  “Where did he go? I don’t know. I didn’t ask him.”

  Gene felt his heart skip a beat as his father reached for the screen door handle and pulled the rickety affair open. He stopped at the threshold and turned back to look at his son. “Oh, Frank said to tell you he’d see you at the game tomorrow afternoon.” A small smile broke across John’s face.

  “Tomorrow? Tomorrow! At the game?” Gene closed his eyes and let out a shout of joy. “He’s coming back to watch me play again!”

  John nibbled at his upper lip, his front teeth scratching the two-day stubble that had taken root there. “Gene,” he said softly, looking his boy squarely in the eye. “I may come see this baseball game tomorrow. Frank said he couldn’t believe I’ve never seen you play. Made me feel like a bad father. I think I’ll come see what this baseball’s all about. I just don’t understand why someone would pay anyone, anywhere, to play a damn game!”

  Gene felt a lump in his throat and tried to swallow it away. “Pop, it would be great if you could come and watch. I’d really like that.”

  “Get to bed, boy. You have a long day tomorrow and it starts before sunup.” He stepped into the house and let the door clatter shut behind him.

  Gene sat down on his father’s rocking chair and began pumping his legs. His chest swelled with excitement and it took him a few moments to realize he was holding his breath. He exhaled noisily and said aloud, “The Brooklyn Dodgers know who I am!”

  Gene lay on his bed that night well past midnight, unable to fall asleep. Although the room was hot and mosquitoes buzzed around his ears in the darkness, all he could think about was Ebbets Field, the Dodgers’ ballpark in Brooklyn. It might as well have been in Rome or Paris—it seemed that far away from Sesser, Illinois, and the Egyptians. And now, without any advance warning, it was within the reach of a young farm boy’s dream. The Brooklyn Dodgers—with Mickey Owen behind the plate, big Dolph Camilli at first, Billy Herman at second, Cookie Lavagetto at third, and Pee Wee Reese at short. Gene whispered each name aloud. With his eyes squeezed shut he pictured himself walking onto the field for the first time. He thought of Dixie Walker and Pete Reiser and Joe Medwick roaming the outfield, and Kirby Higbe and Whitlow Wyatt leading the pitching staff.

  The last thing he remembered was drifting off to sleep looking out his window at the stars in the night sky, with Wyatt’s fastball snapping into his catcher’s mitt.

  Chapter 4

  Sunday, July 22, 1941

  Nothing said at Bruno’s ever stayed at Bruno’s. Within hours word that a baseball scout with the Brooklyn Dodgers was in town to sign Sesser’s Gene Moore was on everyone’s lips.

  The Egyptians always drew a respectable crowd on Sundays. Sometimes more than 100 people would turn out to see a game at The Lumberyard. It was a good way to forget the common problems everyone faced each day. This particular Sunday was different. The atmosphere felt more like a carnival—festive and alive with excitement. Old man Basso was there, selling beer out of an iced bucket for a nickel a bottle, and today he had plenty of takers.

  By the time the game was ready to begin more than 500 people were crowded around the dusty little diamond to see Gene Moore and the Egyptians play ball. The majority of the fans were from Sesser, but people from neighboring Valier, Pinckneyville, and Christopher were also there, determined not to miss the birth of a new Major League star. Cars full of people arrived from as far away as Mount Vernon and Marion, more than thirty miles as the crow flies. Some carried wooden buckets or boxes to sit on, while others brought wooden chairs, blankets, and stools. Those who were able climbed trees to catch a bird’s eye view of the spectacle about to unfold. Small children smiled with excitement while perched high on thei
r fathers’ shoulders, watching with breathless anticipation.

  An hour before the game, Gene left his house as usual for his walk to the field. He had barely reached the street when Puny Eubanks screeched his aging red Dodge pickup truck to a halt next to Gene. “Get in Gene! This truck’s headed for The Lumberyard! Can’t have you late for your big day!”

  “Thanks, Puny!” Gene laughed, tossing his gear in the bed and jumping in after it.

  Two minutes later Puny reached the field and yelled out his window to the gathering crowd, “Hey, everyone! I got Gene Moore in the back of my truck! The next starting catcher for the Brooklyn Dodgers!”

  Gene was used to attention, but nothing like this. Dozens of people, friends and strangers alike, surged toward him as he climbed out of the truck. Someone began shouting something Gene could not make out, and within seconds everyone was yelling words of encouragement. Even those who had never bothered to acknowledge him wanted to offer their best wishes, a pat on the back, or simply catch his eye. A dozen hands stretched toward him in an effort to shake his own. Gene was speechless.

  “Come on, Gene. Show them Sesser’s best!”

  “We love you, Gene!”

  “Send us a post card from Brooklyn!”

  Gene pasted a smile on his face, nodded in reply, and made his way to the bench. He dropped his gear on the ground and was reaching for his mitt when Frank walked up to greet him.

  When Gene saw the scout he could feel the blood rush into his face from embarrassment. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Boudreau. I didn’t tell anyone. I don’t know why they’re all here.”

  Frank laughed and shook hands with the young catcher. “I know why they’re here, Gene. This town seems to have endured more than its share of sorrow over the last ten years. They need something good to happen to Sesser, and they are here to root you on. They need this. I think they need you, Gene. This is what baseball is all about.”