by Gary Moore
Frank started walking toward the door, but paused with his hand on the doorknob. Without turning, he said, “Mr. Rickey, I love this team, this organization.” He let go of the knob and turned to look directly into the general manager’s eyes. “Permit me to say that I believe you have made two big mistakes. First, you let Gene Moore go, and second, you let me go. I think we just might make you sorry on both counts. As for me, well, I have had a wonderful career in baseball, and I know it’s not over yet. I’ll get another job with a good organization—it’s not like I don’t get offers as it is. But, Mr. Rickey, that kid is the best I have ever seen. Someone else is going to get him.”
“Maybe, Frank,” Rickey replied, “but I don’t think so. Moore’s through.” Frank walked out through the big cherry door, shutting it harder than he otherwise would have under different circumstances.
Frank caught a cab outside the business gate at Ebbets Field. “Brooklyn VA Hospital,” he said as he took a seat in the back. Numb and confused, he leaned against the uncomfortable seat and closed his eyes. He knew scouts came and scouts went. Same thing with players. Heck it was common. Frank Boudreau just never thought he would be one of them. When a horn blew loudly outside his window he opened his eyes and took in the passing buildings as they raced by. He was not really all that concerned about his plight. He had enjoyed a great career, had money saved up, and was still employable. It was Gene Moore who Frank was worried about.
The cab pulled up to the hospital at the base of the Verrazano Bridge. Frank paid the driver and walked through the doors. The elevator was full, so he walked up the seven flights of stairs. Motor Mechanics Mate Third Class, Warren E. Moore, was in room 702, bed number 7.
Frank hesitated at the door, forced a small smile on his face, and stepped inside. His smile vanished. Bed 7 had been stripped down to the bare blue and white pinstriped mattress. Two pillows were stacked at the foot of the bed.
“Can I help you, sir?” asked a young nurse.
“Yes, I’m looking for Gene Moore. He’s a sailor. He was here with a broken ankle.”
“Oh, Gene. Sure, he’s a nice fellow. He went home this morning. Indiana? I think that’s where he’s from.”
“Illinois,” corrected the scout. “He’s from Sesser, Illinois.” His words came out more sharply than he intended.
“Okay …” she answered. “It was Illinois. My mistake.”
“How was he when he left?”
The nurse’s eyes narrowed as she studied the stranger. “Who are you?”
Frank produced a card—the same one he had shown Gene six years earlier. As he handed it to her, he realized it was no longer legit. He no longer worked for Branch Rickey. “I’m a baseball scout. I’ve known Gene since he was fifteen.”
The nurse nodded her approval. “Mr. Boudreau,” she began, looking up from his card. “To be honest, yes and no. Gene left much better than when he got here. He’s still on crutches, of course. He was the funniest guy in the building. He was always laughing about something, and trying to make everyone else laugh, too. Something changed a few days ago. I heard he got a letter, and he was never the same. He didn’t even say goodbye to us when he left. Probably a ‘Dear John’ letter, I guess. Lots of the guys get them. Did Gene have a sweetie?”
Frank sighed. “Yeah, his one and only true love.”
The nurse looked sad. “That’s a shame. What was her name?”
“Baseball.”
Chapter 26
Home, Again
The war in Europe ended in May 1945, but the war in the Pacific continued without respite. The bloody battles on Iwo Jima, fought in February and March of 1945, were followed by even more gruesome fighting on Okinawa from April to early July. Nearly 12,000 Americans lost their lives during the assault on the latter island stronghold. Another 34,000 were wounded. Japanese losses were several times higher.
By July 1945, Japan’s once mighty empire was gone. Only the home islands remained, and neither side looked forward to the invasion both believed was inevitable. Allied troops from Europe were transferred to the Pacific to prepare for the final showdown. A pair of atomic bombs, one over Hiroshima and the other over Nagasaki, broke the will of the Japanese and compelled their capitulation. The bombs prevented an even bloodier battle for the Japanese mainland. V-J Day—Victory over Japan—was proclaimed when Japan surrendered on August 15, 1945.
The Navy provided Gene with train fare from New York to Illinois. The ride was long and uncomfortable. Like so many other men on the train, Gene was returning from the war with metal in his body. Most carried shrapnel or bullets. His were metal bolts in his ankle. Everyone had a story to share, a dream to confide. Gene had not said more than a few words during the entire trip.
Feeling defeated and rejected, Gene crutched his way off the train when he arrived in Carbondale and hitchhiked back to Sesser. No one knew he was coming home. His mom had sent a couple letters when he was in the hospital, but none of his family had paid a visit. No one had the money to travel. He had spent years dreaming of his triumphant return to his hometown, the war behind him, and baseball waiting for him. Reality was a bit different. He was returning to Sesser on crutches, depressed and embarrassed. He had been cut from the Brooklyn Dodgers without having played a single game for the Major League team. The people of Sesser held him in high regard because they believed in his future success. Gene could only imagine what they would think of him now.
The farmer who had picked him up was passing within a few miles of Sesser, but was kind enough to drive him all the way home. The man’s son, a sergeant, had been killed in North Africa during the closing days of the campaign. As the prideful father recounted his son’s exploits, Gene recognized the soldier’s unit number. In all likelihood, he had watched Gene play baseball there. North Africa seemed like a lifetime ago.
“You don’t need to drive me all the way into town, sir,” Gene said.
“Least I can do for a crippled war hero,” he replied.
Gene mumbled his thanks and turned his head to look out the window lest the man see the tears welling up in his eyes. A few minutes later Gene pointed his finger and the pickup truck rolled to a stop. He thanked the stranger as he climbed out, picked up his seabag, threw it over his shoulder, and began limping his way up Mulberry Street. Nothing had changed. It was as though he was stepping back into time.
The first thing that struck him was the smell. After all those years away from Sesser, he had forgotten what a hog farm—even a small one—smelled like. The house looked the same, only a bit more run down than when he had left. The trim had yet to be painted. One of the first things he had planned on doing when he started making big money with the Dodgers was send his mom and dad away for a couple days on a vacation—something they had never done, even once—and have the barn and house trim painted while they were away. He sighed. It was just another dream that would never come to pass.
His younger sister Erma was sitting on the porch swing, talking with his youngest sister, Hilda. He set his seabag down and limped toward the stairs. Erma lifted her eyes and stared at him for several seconds, unsure who he was. When she finally realized it was the brother she had not seen in almost five years, she flew off the swing and bounded down the steps.
“Gene! Gene! You’re home! Momma! Gene’s home!” She squeezed him as tightly as she could and then pushed him back. “Why didn’t you let us know you were coming? I thought you were playing baseball in New York!”
Gene hugged her close again, and choked back words he had never spoken before: “I don’t play baseball anymore.” Erma pushed him away again and gave him a puzzled look, but Gene just smiled and made his way up the steps to the swing where Hilda was still sitting.
“Who are you, mister?” she asked innocently.
“Sweetie, I’m your brother Gene. You’re really growing up, Hilda. And real pretty.”
Her eyes grew wide as she took in the man who had required several seconds to kneel in front of the swing. “
You’re my brother? The big league baseball player?”
Gene nodded his head, shook it, then nodded again. “Well, sort of. I’m your brother. I just don’t play ball anymore.” He had been home less than a minute and baseball was on everyone’s lips.
Gene opened the screen door leading from the porch to the kitchen. His mother was in her apron, as she always was, standing at the kitchen sink cutting lemons for lemonade. It was as though he had stepped away five minutes earlier to get a newspaper, lived an entire year during each minute he was gone, and stepped back through the front door.
He took a long, slow breath and sighed. “Mom. I’m home.”
Allie stopped in mid-cut, the knife halfway through a lemon. She slowly turned toward the door, as if afraid of what she might see. Her eyes widened when she saw her son, now a grown man, standing in the doorway. “Gene!” she screamed, wiping her hands on the apron and running into his outstretched arms. “Oh, dear God, thank you for bringing my boy home to me.” And then she wept.
“Mom, don’t cry. I’m home and everything’s fine. You look good.”
Like Erma, his mom suddenly realized she had not been told of his pending arrival. “You didn’t tell us you were coming!” she scolded, pushing back and looking him in the eye. Something was wrong. She could sense it. “But I’m so glad to see you! Your father will be so happy. He is with Tommy Thompson looking at some new sows.”
It felt better to be home than he imagined it would. Even though he was now an adult and had been to places he had never heard of, there was something special about standing in your boyhood kitchen and embracing your mother that just seemed to melt his problems into the shadows of his consciousness.
“You must be starving! Sit down and let me make you something to eat.” No matter what the circumstance, everyone was always hungry, and food cured everything—at least that’s the way Allie looked at things. She made her son a cold meatloaf sandwich and glass of lemonade, and sat down to watch him eat. She never took her eyes off her son.
Between bites, Gene filled his mom in on everything—except for the baseball news. He was telling her about his reunion with Ward in North Africa when a voice from out front asked, “Is Gene in there?”
Gene recognized it immediately. He pushed away from the table and looked out to the porch to see Willy Kerbovac, a former teammate from the Sesser Egyptians. Gene walked to the door, doing his best to hide his limp from both his mom and Willy.
“Gene! Holy cow, it is you!” Willy pushed the screen door open and hustled inside, giving his old friend a hug and slap on the back. “Boy, you are a sight for sore eyes! When did you get home?”
“Willy, it’s great to see you too,” he answered. Gene looked out at his seabag that was still sitting on the front sidewalk. “A little while ago.”
“Grab your cleats and glove and let’s go,” Willy said, talking loud and fast. He was always excited before a game. “In thirty minutes we play Anna-Jonesboro. Last time they kicked our butts! Won’t they be shocked when they see the Great Gene Moore walk onto the diamond at The Lumberyard?”
Willy stopped to catch his breath and spotted the pitcher of fresh lemonade. Allie followed his eyes, smiled, and stepped to the counter to pour him a glass. “Half the town’s there already,” he continued. “When news spread you were home, old man Basso closed his store and ran next door into Bruno’s screaming, ‘Gene Moore’s home! Gene Moore’s home!’” Willy laughed out loud and slapped Gene on the shoulder. “What do you think Bruno did?”
Gene shrugged and shook his head. “What?”
“He pushed everyone out the door and closed up! Can you imagine Bruno ever closing that place up like that? Ever?” Without waiting for a response, he continued. “Everyone’s headed down to The Lumberyard, yelling, ‘Gene Moore’s back in town!’ Man everyone missed you here, buddy.” Willy looked at Allie and laughed, “You’d think General Eisenhower himself was in town. Actually, this is better. Ike can’t catch!” Willy winked at both Moores and laughed at his own joke.
Gene’s blood throbbed at his temples while his heart pounded in his chest, breaking a bit with each thump. He felt dizzy, torn between wanting to tie on his cleats and run to the field, and telling his friend and the entire town of Sesser that his ankle was shot and that his baseball days were over. He took a deep breath and began. “Willy, I just got home. I’m really tired. And my ankle, well, I don’t think … I don’t think I can play baseball anymore.”
“Oh bologna sausage!” Willy replied, waving his hand in the air. “We all know about your ankle, but I bet it’s all healed up by now. We’ll just stand you up at the plate and you can knock it out over the old Huie Lumber sign, Gene. Hell, I’ll run out and carry you around the bases.” Willy stopped when he saw the look in Gene’s eyes. Allie’s face had gone white. It was the first serious inkling she had that Gene’s ball playing days were over.
Gene shook his head. “It’s not like that, Willy. I don’t think I can play anymore.”
“Now, wait a minute,” began Willy. “What’s going on here? You’re Gene Moore, damn it! You were born to play baseball! Of course you can play!”
Allie studied her son closely. She had known something was not quite right. Now she knew exactly what it was. When Gene looked at her, almost as if for guidance, she smiled and replied. “You go do whatever you think you can, Gene. Sit in the stands, play if you want. Supper will be ready when you get home. I’m making chicken and dumplings and I’ve got a banana cream pie for dessert.”
Gene cleared his throat. “Willy, I don’t even have a uniform.”
“Are you kidding? They’ve had your jersey hanging on the wall at Bruno’s since the day you left!” Willy laughed, “The old guys down at Bruno’s, they raise a toast and salute that damned thing every night! We’ll get Bruno to pull it off the wall!”
“Okay,” he sighed. “Let’s go play some ball—or at least try to.”
Allie followed Gene and Willy out onto the porch. She raised one of her hands to her mouth to stifle a gasp. His limping was noticeable now.
Gene and Willy pulled up in front of Bruno’s. “Damn, Gene, I forgot he closed up. I’ll find an open window and be right back,” Willy said, slamming the car door.
Gene reached down and was taking off his shoes when he heard glass breaking. A few minutes later Willy came running back to the car. “Had to break a window to get it!” he explained. “Just one pane. We’ll chip in and buy Bruno a new one.”
“Willy! It looks like half of Sesser is here,” groaned Gene as Willy turned into The Lumberyard.
“Yeah, and the other half’s gonna be real disappointed,” laughed Willy. “Did you really think anyone would miss your return?” Willy didn’t wait for Gene’s response. He was out the door and heading toward the field yelling, “Gene’s here! Gene’s here!”
“Oh, Lord,” Gene mumbled as he got out of the car, still only half-dressed and wondering what in the world he was doing. Seconds later a mob of people had gathered around him. Most were familiar faces, beaming with pride and trying to shake his hand to welcome him home. Many were complete strangers.
By the time they arrived the game was already underway. It was the bottom of the first inning, and the Egyptians were up to bat.
“Willy, I haven’t even swung a bat for months. This is just plain stupid.”
“Don’t worry about it. You’ll be fine, Gene.”
“Who’s managing the team now?” he asked.
Willy laughed and slapped Gene on the back. “I am!” he grinned.
Gene only recognized a few faces on the Egyptians as Willy introduced him to each player. The welcome was abruptly interrupted when the umpire stepped up. “Welcome back, Gene!” he said, shaking his hand and patting him on the back. Hope the ankle is alright. I hate to stop the party, but I have to get a batter up there. Willy, who’s up?”
“Are you kidding? Gene Moore’s up!”
“No way, Willy! I already told you I haven’t he
ld a bat in something like nine months!”
“Well, then you’re really overdue for a hit!”
Willy yelled for a bat and the bat boy handed Gene his favorite. “We’ve saved it for you, Mr. Moore,” he said nervously as he handed him the Louisville Slugger bat. “No one’s used it since your last hit.”
Gene held the bat tightly. It felt good, like he was shaking hands with a dear old friend. No two bats were exactly alike, and he had missed this one while he was gone. As he caressed the wood, Willy was pleading with the umpire for a few minutes’ delay so Gene could stretch out. “Okay, okay,” he replied. “This ain’t the usual situation, I guess.”
Gene stood to one side and began slowly swinging the bat stretching his arms and shoulders and loosening his muscles. Although he had not been on a ball diamond since the injury in Louisiana, he had done all he could to keep his muscles in shape and limber.
“How’s the pitcher?” he asked Willy.
“Fast. He’ll probably pitch you low and away. But if he makes a mistake and crosses the plate, it’s all yours.”
When he finally walked out toward the plate the fans in the weathered old bleachers—which had also not seen a coat of paint since he had left—exploded with applause. Gene’s heart swelled with pride as he watched several hundred people standing and cheering for him. He tipped his cap and the crowd yelled even louder.
Gene approached the batter’s box, but stopped short and took a couple of practice swings. “Are you Gene Moore?” asked the catcher from Anna-Jonesboro.
“Yeah, I’m Gene.”
The catcher extended his hand. “I’ve heard a lot about you. It’s good to meet you.”