by Gary Moore
Frank watched as Gene shifted his gaze and locked his eyes somewhere in the distance. “I don’t think I feel well, Mr. Boudreau.”
“Son, you can forget all these people and even forget I’m a scout. I’ve already made up my mind to sign you—no matter how you play today. Just go out there and play like you have nothing to lose and give these good people of Sesser a game they won’t soon forget.”
“Mr. Boudreau, it’s not the people. I’ve played in front of lots of people before.”
“Then what’s the problem?” Frank followed Gene’s gaze, which had settled on someone standing near the street. It was John Moore.
“Your father is very proud of you, son. He doesn’t understand your love of this game, but he loves you. He tells me he has never seen you play before. Go show him what his son is made of.”
Gene knelt down by his gear and looked up at Frank. A smile had replaced his look of concern. The catcher pulled the bill of his cap down over his eyes and took off for the bench. The crowd exploded with enthusiastic applause when their Egyptians took the field a few minutes later. Their opponent was the Mississippi Mudcats, another semi-pro team out of Cairo, Illinois.
Despite Gene’s best effort, pitcher Tim Duggan’s warm-up was a disaster. His pitches came in too high, too low, and way too slow—everywhere but across the plate. Like nearly everyone else on the field that afternoon, the tall and lanky left-hander with the jet black hair had never played in front of such a large and rowdy crowd. And Gene had never seen such a bad case of nerves.
“Coming down!” shouted Gene. He took Duggan’s last warm-up pitch—a high hanging duck anyone could have knocked over the fence—and shot the ball down to second base. The umpire called for the ball, took his place behind the plate, and yelled out two words every baseball player and fan loves to hear: “PLAY BALL!”
The entire crowd stood as one and cheered.
Todd Blake, the Mudcats’ first batter, looked down to the third base coach, took the sign, and stepped up to the plate. Duggan looked at Gene for the sign. He was usually a very methodical pitcher with a great slider and a knack for hitting the outside corner, but he rarely threw with much speed. Gene dropped two fingers for a slider, but Duggan shrugged off the first sign. Gene repeated the sign. Another shake of the head. Gene changed the call and Duggan shrugged a third time. With a sigh, Gene gave in and called for the fastball.
Duggan wound up and threw the ball with everything he had … right between the shoulder blades of the batter, who was unable to avoid the pitch. Blake winced in pain and threw his bat down in disgust and anger, straightening up a few seconds later to glare at Duggan.
“Take your base!” yelled the umpire. Blake took a few steps toward the mound before thinking better of it and trotted down to first.
The next Mudcat batter, Bobby Robbins, was twenty-five and bitter about his Major League career, which had never quite materialized. Bobby was on a nine-game hitting streak. After watching Duggan’s slow pitches during warm-up, he was anxious to rip one into the outfield. Bobby took the call, took a pair of practice swings, and stepped into the batter’s box. He eyed Duggan and inched his way forward, crowding the plate.
Gene dropped his fingers and called for a slider. Tim shrugged him off. Gene shook his head. “Time!” he called out, jogging to the mound.
“Don’t like my pitch selection today, Tim?”
“Gotta lot of nervous energy, Gene. I wanna throw hard,” answered the pitcher through clenched teeth as he looked down at the mound, moving dirt around with his spikes.
“Well, we’ll check number seven’s back after the game, and see how hard you’re actually throwing,” Gene chuckled, “but if I were nervous, I’d want to throw my best stuff. Tim, this guy can’t hit your slider. Throw it for me.”
“Okay, Gene, whatever you want.”
Gene gave him a wink and trotted back behind the plate. As he squatted he looked up at Bobby and said, “I don’t think I’d get that close to the plate. He’s wild today.”
“Yeah, right,” Bobby shot back. He stepped out and took another swing before crowding the plate once more. When his eyes caught sight of Blake at first base, reaching behind himself to rub his aching back, Bobby thought better of Gene’s warning and eased a few inches away from the plate.
“Smart move,” Gene said through his mask. Bobby ignored him.
Duggan was about halfway through his wind up when Blake took off for second base. Bobby swung hard at the slider that came in straight across the plate, but missed. Gene caught the ball and, without getting up out of his crouch, whipped it toward second—straight across the mound to the shortstop moving to cover the steal. Duggan fell to the ground as the ball hissed its way through the hot and heavy July air, missing his right ear by inches. The throw was just about textbook perfect, six inches off the ground and about two feet in front of second base. Blake slid into the tag.
“You’re out!” yelled the umpire, pumping his right arm along his side, his hand clenched in a fist. The fans jumped to their feet and roared themselves hoarse with enthusiasm.
Frank, who was seated directly behind the Egyptians’ bench next to John Moore, stood with his mouth open but did not make a sound. He had never seen an arm like that on a kid that young. “He never got up,” the scout shouted as he turned toward John. Frank had to look down to see the father, who was still seated on the bleacher. “Gene is a complete ballplayer. He can do it all!” Frank thought to himself. John, meanwhile, stood slowly and clapped with the rest of the crowd, amazed at their admiration for his son.
The first inning ended quickly when Bobby grounded out to third and the last batter popped up to left field. The game was tight for several innings, but the Egyptians came to play, and play they did. Gene had one of his best days at and behind the plate. No one else tried to steal a base for the balance of the game. Gene just wouldn’t allow it.
Although he struck out once, he smacked a hard single into left and sailed a long sacrifice fly to score a run. In the bottom of the ninth with one out he took his turn at bat for a fourth time that Sunday afternoon. The count was two and two and the pitch was a high fast ball. Gene swung with everything he had and connected, driving the ball deep into center field. Five hundred people stood as one and watched the ball sail over the Huie Lumber sign and disappear into the grove of Locust trees. The noise was deafening. Gene raised his arms in triumph as he trotted toward second base. His home run sealed the win 5-4.
The win was important, but the only thing that truly mattered to Gene was that his Pop saw him play baseball for the first time.
Through it all John Moore sat next to Frank, watching the scout with one eye and the crowd with the other. Now he understood why everyone in town was talking about his son. He wasn’t just another ballplayer. He was special.
John didn’t remember the walk home that afternoon, but he remembered to the day he died the pride he felt knowing his son had a gift few others were blessed with.
Chapter 5
Monday, August 6, 1941
Gene walked outside and stood on the porch.
Two weeks had passed since Frank Boudreau left Sesser, and no one had heard a word. He was beginning to think the scout had second thoughts about signing a 15-year-old kid. “Maybe I’m not as good as everyone thinks I am,” thought Gene. “Maybe Frank knows that now.”
Who was he kidding? The Dodgers—the Brooklyn Dodgers—were seriously interested in having him play in their organization? He sighed with disappointment and shook his head as he walked toward the barn. How could he have been so naïve? How would he explain it to his friends?
It was noon in Sesser and, as usual, it was hot. Ward, Gene’s older brother, was in the barn unloading coal from Pop’s wagon with a shovel.
“What’s in your hand?” Ward asked when Gene entered the barn, stopping to lean on his shovel. He had been unloading the coal for nearly thirty minutes and he needed a break.
“A bucket,” answered Gen
e.
Ward twisted his face in disgust. “Not that hand,” he said nodding toward the bucket. “The other hand.”
“Baseball cards,” Gene answered with enthusiasm. He dropped the bucket and spread the cards out on the top of a barrel. “Look! Enos Slaughter, Joe DiMaggio, Ted Williams, Dizzy Dean … and look at this one, the rookie, Pee Wee Reese!”
“Why do they call him Pee Wee?” asked Ward.
“I don’t know,” Gene said with a shrug. “He’s small I guess. But he sure plays big … and that’s what I love about baseball. When you step onto that field, the size of the man is determined by his heart, not his height.”
Ward furrowed his brow and shook his head. He had never gotten into baseball like his brother. “Why are you so crazy about that baseball? You’re 15. You’re almost a man, Gene. I don’t understand why you are so taken by that stupid game.”
“Ward, baseball is America’s game,” Gene shot back defensively. “All true Americans love baseball. It’s a game that only belongs to us. No one else in the world plays it.”
“So what? Maybe there’s a reason no one else plays it. Ever think about that?” Ward replied with equal vigor, edging closer and tensing up as he glared at his little brother.
Gene sighed. The last thing he wanted was a fight. “Baseball is more than a game, Ward—at least to me it is. I don’t know how to explain it. You either get it or you don’t. I think it brings out the best in us.” He paused and watched Ward relax a bit. “Do you know what I mean?
“No.”
Gene slipped the baseball cards into his back pocket, lifted off the Egyptians baseball cap he wore each day, and ran his fingers through his thick mane of hair. “You want to know something about a man, just play ball with him. You’ll learn everything you need to know about him. Who he is, what he believes … it’s all revealed as the game unfolds. You just have to be open and watch what he does—feel what he does. You’ll see if he reacts or responds to the challenges.” When he saw the perplexed look on Ward’s face, Gene continued in an effort to explain it to him. “There’s a difference, you know. If he reacts, you have him beat. If he responds, you have a formidable opponent. Besides, baseball defines us as a country. It’s a game that is purely American. That’s why I said all Americans love baseball, Ward. I’m no different.”
There was no doubting Ward and Gene were brothers—the coal black hair and dark eyes were a dead giveaway. But that is where the similarities ended. Almost four years older than Gene, Ward rarely complimented his little brother and paid even less attention to him. Although he did not verbalize it, Ward knew Gene was different somehow. When Gene was in the barn or around the house, he was just Ward’s kid brother. But when Gene picked up a bat or put a catcher’s mitt on his hand, he had no equal in Sesser. And since the Brooklyn Dodgers’ scout had come to town, the men in town had talked about nothing else except Gene and the Major Leagues. Now everyone referred to Ward as “Gene’s older brother” and Ward didn’t like it one bit. The fact that Gene was also a couple inches taller than Ward didn’t help matters.
Ward was the oldest Moore boy, and he took life far more seriously than any of his siblings. Pop’s expectations for him were high, and at times he seemed to stumble under the weight. His sense of responsibility and the additional pressures of being the oldest during the worst depression the country had ever witnessed made him feel that Gene was wasting his time and getting off easy when he could have been working more to put food on the table.
Ward listened to his brother try to explain the game he so loved, but when Gene stopped talking he just shook his head and sighed. “When are you gonna grow up, Gene? You’re not gonna be a big league baseball player. Where is this Brooklyn big shot? He drives up in his fancy car and fills your head with a bunch of lies, gets your hopes up, and then drives out of our world and back into his own. Rich and famous people are all alike, Gene. They don’t care about you and I one whit.”
The words stung Gene deeply because he was already half convinced Ward was right. He leaned back against the barrel, folded his arms across his chest, and lowered his eyes so his brother would not see the tears aching to run down his cheeks.
“You know what you’re gonna be?” continued Ward. “A coal miner or a pig farmer. That’s what we do here in Franklin County. That’s what all Sesser men do. We mine or we farm. What else is there? What else can we do? You might as well just get used to the idea.” Ward leaned his shovel against the wagon and wiped the coal dust on his pants. “You know, it’s not just baseball that comes outta that radio. If you’d listen to the news reports or read a newspaper, you might find out that you and I—heck, probably most of the boys here in Sesser—are gonna be soldiers soon. The Germans are all over Europe, Gene! Do you think they’re gonna stop there? When our country calls, we have to answer!”
Gene lifted his eyes and looked at his brother. “Soldiers?” He shook his head. “I’m not going to be a soldier. I couldn’t shoot anybody.” In control of his emotions once again, Gene straightened himself up and shifted the cap on his head. “I am going to play baseball, and I am going to get better than I am today, and someday I’m going to play in the Major Leagues. You, big brother, will be listening to me play on the radio.” Gene picked up a corncob and pretended it was a microphone. He cleared his throat and deepened his voice. “Batting clean-up and catching for the St. Louis Cardinals, Gene Moore!”
Ward shook his head but could not hold back a small chuckle. Without thinking he reached over and tried to pluck the corncob out of Gene’s hand, but his brother’s reflexes were too quick and he pulled it back out of reach.
“Oh, yeah?” laughed Ward. “Try this.” He jumped to one side, picked up another cob, and threw it at his sibling. Gene’s right hand shot up and caught it. Ward stared openmouthed for a few seconds before both brothers erupted in laughter.
“Can’t get anything past me, Ward,” chuckled Gene. “I don’t let balls get past me just as a matter of principle. If it’s thrown to me, I’ll catch it. If I have a bat in my hand, I’ll hit it.”
“Gene? Gene! I need that coal!”
Gene gritted his teeth. “Oh, no! I forgot about mom!” He picked up his shovel and began filling a bucket with the coal his mother needed for the cook stove. “Everything in this world has a purpose, Ward,” continued Gene as he dumped another shovelful of the black rocks into the bucket. “A ball is meant to be hit or caught. It demands it of us. I was made to do both. That’s my purpose. It’s what I was built to do.”
Ward could not believe what he was hearing. “The ball demands it? You’ve lost it, little brother. Every kid likes baseball … but then they grow up. But not you. Now you’re talking to the ball? The ball makes demands? You think about the ball as though it has a life. You hear the ball giving you orders. ‘Catch me Gene! Hit me Gene!’ If you’re not careful, they’re gonna reserve a room for you at the Anna-Jonesboro Hospital!”
“Think what you want, Ward,” Gene said with a wide grin. “Someone has to feed the pigs and mine the coal while I’m playing baseball all over the country and you are trying to catch me on the radio!”
“Maybe you’ll be on the radio, maybe you won’t,” Ward conceded somewhat, “but one thing’s for sure. Pop will be out soon, and if we don’t get this coal unloaded and help him feed these pigs, we ain’t gonna live long enough to know for sure whether you could make it or not.”
“Gene!”
“Coming, mom!”
Gene turned to face Ward. “Okay, but give me your best shot,” he said as he stepped back a few yards and dropped into his catcher’s squat.
Ward looked at Gene and slowly smiled. “Okay little brother, but I’m warning you. It’s gonna hurt!” Ward picked up another corncob, but this time he broke it in half to make it easier to throw and harder to catch. He did his best to stare Gene down, began a slow and awkward wind-up, and was ready to let the cob fly when John Moore walked into the barn.
“What’s going on
in here?” he demanded.
“Nothing, Pop,” Ward laughed. “Gene was just telling me how he has conversations with a baseball.”
Pop looked from one son to another as if both had lost their minds. “Well, let’s go have a conversation with these pigs. They told me on my way into the barn they were hungry.”
Pop, Ward, and Gene were out slopping the pigs when a familiar blue Buick turned once again onto Mulberry Street. John saw it first.
“Tell me, Gene, did you really believe that scout would come back?” Pop asked.
Both sons shot a glance at their father. It was the first time he had mentioned the matter since Frank Boudreau left town. “No, I guess not,” answered Gene slowly, doing his best to hide his disappointment.
John nudged Ward and tilted his head toward the street, lifting a finger to his lips. Ward turned and spotted the Buick. His face failed to betray any emotion at the sight of the returned scout.
“Looks like someone’s here to see you,” John calmly announced.
“See who? Ward?” Gene asked without looking up.
“No, not Ward. You.” John motioned to the street, where Frank Boudreau was climbing out of his car. Gene felt Ward give him a light punch on the shoulder, but he felt as if someone had socked him in the chest. For a moment, he found it difficult to catch his breath.
“It’s hard to believe that something that produces a smell so bad can taste so good,” Frank called out as he walked toward the pigpen.
“Smells like a living to me,” John answered. This time he greeted the scout’s arrival with a smile instead of cold silence. He eased open the gate to step out and grab a bucket of slop. “Not all of us can get paid to play a game.”
“Well, I’m glad to say that at least one person here can.” A big smile spread across Frank’s face as he took a step through the open gate and came to a halt on a fresh pile of pig manure. “Oh, no!” Frank spat as he jumped backward out of the pen. He quickly saw the humor in the situation and broke into a laugh. John joined in. Gene was so excited to see the scout he just stood there, mouth open and unable to say a word.