Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  Gene shook his hand, smiled, took one more practice swing, and stepped into the box. “This feels good,” Gene said under his breath. “Maybe it’s not over. Maybe I can still do this.”

  The pitcher wound up and delivered it hard, low and outside.

  “Ball one!” the umpire yelled.

  Gene stepped out and tapped his cleats with his bat, took another swing, and stepped back in. The pitcher wound up and threw. It was low and away a second time.

  “Ball two!”

  Gene stepped out and looked back at the catcher. “He throws hard.”

  “Yeah, he does,” agreed the catcher.

  Gene glanced into the bleachers behind home plate. The crowd was still on its feet. “They don’t want a walk, you know.”

  The catcher chuckled. “That’s for sure.”

  “Get him to pitch me something decent. He’s not afraid of me, is he?” chided Gene.

  “Nah. No way,” spat the catcher. “Let me see what I can do for you. Bet you a buck if he throws a strike, you won’t hit him.”

  “You’re on.” Gene responded.

  The pitcher stared down at his catcher, shook his head, shook his head a second time, and then nodded and smiled. He began his slow and deliberate wind up and let it fly. The ball looked outside, but curved right across the center of home plate, just above the knees.

  Crack!

  “My God!” shouted the catcher as he jumped up and flipped off his mask. The pitcher did not even turn around to watch the ball as it sailed over the Huie Lumber sign. But everyone else at The Lumberyard did. Willy jumped up and pumped his arms in the air, but when he looked for Gene he was nowhere to be found. The crowd gasped and grew quiet. Willy looked back at the plate. Gene was lying across the plate.

  “Gene!” Willy ran to his prostrate friend. The catcher and umpire were helping him to his feet. “Are you okay? What happened?”

  “It’s my ankle, Willy,” Gene spat through clenched teeth. “It gave out.” Gene tried to stand on his own, but the pain was too sharp. Willy and the catcher set him gently onto the ground.

  The umpire turned to Willy. “Someone needs to run the bases if you want this run.”

  Willy waved a couple of the players over. “Give me a hand,” he said. “I told Gene at his house that if he couldn’t get around the bases, we would carry him. He didn’t want to play, but like a fool I talked him into it.” Willy looked over at the other Egyptians standing around Gene and nodded. “Help me carry Gene around the bases.”

  Gene looked up in embarrassment. “No, Willy, just help me get out of here,” he said. “This is damn humiliating.”

  “Did you hit that ball out of this park?” Willy asked with a smile, mixed now with eyes rimmed in red.

  “Yeah, but …”

  “But nothing! No one is running these bases without you.”

  The bench emptied, the Egyptians hoisted Gene onto their shoulders, and they carried him around the diamond. When they crossed home, half of Sesser was there to meet him. There was not a dry eye in the house.

  Gene Moore was home from the war.

  Chapter 27

  Reality

  John Moore was as happy as his wife to see his son home again. He let Gene take a few weeks to get settled in and figure out what he was going to do with the rest of his life. He had come late to the realization of the gift for baseball Gene had, and knew the ankle injury had taken a lot out of his boy—and not just physically. Pop Moore was fond of saying that life was tough, and whatever cards a man was dealt, he had to get on with his life. As the days passed, he didn’t like what he was seeing, and he hoped this period of Gene’s life would be short-lived.

  After moping around the house for the first week or so, Gene began spending his evenings drinking at Bruno’s, where customers bought him beers in exchange for stories about the war and baseball. He spent his mornings sleeping in late. Each day began with a bad hangover, an unshaven face, and bloodshot eyes. Once he managed to shake himself awake, Gene would down a few cups of coffee, snack on whatever his mom had cooked for breakfast, and hang around the house for hours before even washing his face or dressing. The rest of the day he wasted sitting quietly on the front porch, smoking cigarettes and rocking on the swing, thinking thoughts he refused to share with anyone. When the late afternoon slipped into early evening, he would head back to Bruno’s and the process repeated itself.

  Gene Moore was on a downward spiral and the bottom was still a long way away.

  Allie and John “Pop” Moore during their later years (1966), sitting on a swing in their yard in Sesser.

  After several weeks John and Allie Moore had seen enough. It was time to sit down with their son and have a heart-to-heart talk about what he was expecting from life, and how he was going to get it.

  “Gene,” began his mom one afternoon after his hangover had faded away, “We got a letter from Ward yesterday. He’s doing fine. Homesick, of course, but doing fine.” She sat down on the porch swing and offered her boy a big smile and a hug.

  Gene hugged her back and smiled. “Last time I saw Ward, we were in North Africa, and he told me he was heading for Berlin.”

  “According to his letters, he didn’t get there,” Allie continued. “They stopped along the way and ended up making their headquarters in the home Hitler was born in—Austria, for heaven’s sake. That Hitler, that man was pure evil, and I guess not even German! That’s what happens to you when you start believing you have the right to do just about anything. Start a war that sucks in the world and kills millions of people. I guess Ward just marched right in with his buddies and took over his house! Sounds like your brother, doesn’t it?” she laughed.

  “Yeah,” Gene chuckled, lost again in his thoughts. “I can believe Ward would do that.” He turned away and looked into the distance.

  “I told you about how Ward saved John Brown, didn’t I?”

  Gene was silent for a few moments. He slowly turned back, as if he had just realized what she was asking. “Yeah, you told me. Pop told me. Erma told me, too. In fact, I hear about it every night down at Bruno’s,” he replied. There was jealousy in his voice, and bitterness, too. “Ward is quite the hero around here now.”

  “John’s sister told Erma that John is back in the States and will be home next week,” Allie continued, trying to ignore the tone she was hearing from her younger son. “I can’t wait for Ward to come home, too. Our family is so blessed. He was shot twice, both times in the back, but never seriously. God was watching out for him.”

  “I guess he was watching out—for Ward.”

  The screen door squeaked open and John Moore stepped onto the porch. He had been listening to the conversation from inside the kitchen. “They gave him the Bronze Star for bravery,” he proudly chimed in. “You are right, Allie. Lots of families in Sesser and Franklin County whose boys aren’t coming home.”

  “I sat with Margaret Neville when she got the news that her Bobby was killed in the Pacific,” Allie said. “Even though he was lost at sea …”

  “He went down on the USS Indianapolis,” John interrupted. “Did you hear about that?” he asked his son. Gene nodded but didn’t speak.

  “Anyway,” Allie continued, “they put a stone up at Maple Hill Cemetery and had a service at the church, just like his body was there. It was so sad, Gene. Such a loss. But Ward is coming home, you’re home, and you both have your lives ahead of you. We are truly blessed.”

  Gene tilted his head back and looked up at the peeling paint on the ceiling of the porch. “I’m not feeling very blessed, mom,” he answered. “My ankle’s a mess. I can’t play ball. I walk like I’m seventy years old and I’m not yet twenty-two. I don’t think I’ll ever be able to play again—even for fun.”

  Allie pulled out a hanky and dabbed her eyes. “You’re alive, Gene. Your brother is alive. Both my boys survived the war. That’s all your father and I care about.” Gene looked away again. Allie gave her husband a nod, the signal that it was h
is turn to join the conversation.

  “So, Gene, you’ve been home three weeks now,” began the older Moore. “What do you think your next step should be?”

  “I don’t know, Pop,” the younger Moore replied. “This is all new to me.”

  “What’s new to you?”

  “Not playing baseball,” he shot back. “I never gave a thought to what I would do if I didn’t play ball.” Gene paused while looking down at his hands. He rubbed them before using one to run his fingers through his uncombed and unwashed hair. “I don’t know what to do.”

  John raised his eyebrows as he looked at his wife. “Well, you’ll just have to give it some thought. You’re a man now,” he continued. “You need to make a life for yourself. Baseball was much better to you than nearly everyone who ever picked up a glove. But it’s just a game, son, and you had fun playing. And you did a lot of good for a lot of people.”

  John hesitated and cleared his throat. Allie held her breath. Gene turned to look into his father’s eyes. “If it’s over, it’s over,” John finally said. “You just have to accept it. I’m sorry things didn’t turn out for you, but I agree with your mom. We are very lucky. Some of your friends came back from the war none the worse off, some are much worse off than you, and a lot of ‘em aren’t ever coming home, and there wasn’t enough left of ‘em to bury.”

  Allie nodded. “I can’t stop thinking of the poor Samples family. Billy stepped on a mine in Italy two days before the war ended. His younger brother Joe was killed a year earlier in France.” Gene’s mom choked up just repeating the story.

  John continued for her. “Two days after they got the telegram, the old man kissed his wife one morning, walked out into the barn, and shot himself between the eyes. Now that family has suffered. We haven’t.” John sighed and scratched his ear, waiting for a response from Gene. None was forthcoming.

  John took off his hat and turned it over in his hands, studying it as if he had never seen it before. “Get yourself together, son, and go on. I don’t see any other choice. Do you?”

  Gene nodded and turned away. “No sir, I know, Pop. I know.”

  John pulled his cap back on his head. “Gene, the damn depression is finally over and things are getting back to normal here in Sesser. It’s been a long, dry spell. If I could rent a few more acres, we could plant some corn and maybe pick up another fifteen or twenty pigs. We could work this farm together. It’s not much, I know, but it’s a living. It’s an honest living. Feeding people, farming, it’s a good high calling for your life. Something you can be proud of.”

  The last thing Gene wanted to do was spend the rest of his life farming and raising hogs. “Thanks, Pop,” he finally answered. “Sure. We can do that. I don’t know what else to do. The mine isn’t hiring, and I don’t really have any other skills. By the time I got out of the hospital, most of the other men were back and the good paying jobs were gone. Bruno said he might be able to use me tending bar at night.”

  “Oh Gene, no!” Allie said. “Nothing good ever happens at Bruno’s, or at any tavern. You’re spending too much time there now, and I am worried sick about you. Please don’t take a job there.”

  Gene looked over at his mom and smiled. “Okay, I won’t tend bar. I’ll find something else. For now, I can help Pop.” He leaned over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “I’ll be fine. Stop worrying.”

  Once his parents went into the house, Gene stood up and headed for Bruno’s.

  The Sesser folk loved Gene—even if he could no longer play baseball. Sesser was a small town and, like his parents, many people in it worried about how much time he spent drinking and feeling sorry for himself. They, too, had expected Gene Moore would lead a different life—a special life. They never imagined it would consist of drinking away his health in Sesser’s local tavern.

  The people of Sesser had always looked at Gene as their way out of a run-of-a-mill life—even if they only experienced it from afar. Everyone knew there was more to life outside Sesser and Franklin County, but few got the chance to experience it. Gene’s shot at professional baseball had given them all—young and old alike—something to look forward to. Gene Moore was going to put Sesser on the map. His strong legs, powerful arms, and unyielding spirit had always given them hope. His success had given them a genuine sense of pride.

  All of that was gone now. Like the good people of Sesser, Gene was back home for good.

  Chapter 28

  Return of the War Hero

  “Gene! Think fast!” The loud voice came from the doorway of the barn. Startled, Gene turned to see Sergeant Ward Moore, decked out in his dress uniform, finishing his wind up and hurling a corncob at him—hard and fast.

  “Ouch! Shit!” Gene yelled as Ward’s pitch hit him squarely in the nose.

  “What the … Gene! You missed!” Ward laughed as he trotted toward his little brother.

  Gene shook his head. “I guess I wasn’t ready,” he replied, leaning his head back and holding his bleeding nose.

  “I’m sorry—really. I am. You’ve never missed one of those before—ready or not!”

  “You boys didn’t get enough fighting during the war?” asked John Moore as he walked into the barn. “You’re back five minutes and you’re already punching each other?”

  “No, Pop! I didn’t punch him,” pleaded Ward. “I hit him with a corn cob—but I didn’t mean to.”

  Pop looked at Gene in surprise. “You missed?”

  Gene rolled his eyes and looked at his bloodstained fingers. The bleeding had nearly stopped. “Holy cow! Let’s not make a federal case of it,” shot back Gene. “Yeah, he caught me by surprise. I missed. So what? Just forget about it.” Gene wiped the remaining blood from his nose with his sleeve. And then it hit him: his brother was back from France. “Jeez, Ward! When did you get back?”

  “Like Pop said, about five minutes ago!” he laughed. The brothers exchanged a hug and slaps on the back. “Pop said you were out here feeding the horses and chickens, so I thought I’d come and surprise you.”

  “Well, you did that.”

  Ward took a step back and surveyed his brother. “Besides the bloody nose, you really look like crap! You been sick?” Ward asked.

  “No,” Gene replied, waving off Ward’s inquiry. “Hail to the conquering hero! The guys at Bruno’s have been talking about your exploits for a year. You’ll be a big hit once they realize you’re back in town.” Gene paused when he spotted the Bronze Star pinned to Ward’s uniform. “Is that it?”

  “Is that what?” Ward asked.

  “Is that the medal they gave you for saving John Brown from that trapped tank?”

  “Yeah,” Ward smiled. “That’s it. They made a big deal out of it, but it really wasn’t. That kind of thing took place all the time. Most guys never even get a mention, let alone a medal. You just do what you have to do, right?”

  For Ward, the casual manner in which he spoke of his bravery was out of the ordinary—at least, that’s how it struck Gene. “Saving the lives of three men trapped in a tank, under heavy fire and getting shot twice before you come home, I’d say that qualifies as a big deal,” Gene replied, nodding his head as if he had been evaluating military exploits all his life. He looked over at his dad and smiled, “Don’t you think, Pop?” John just nodded. He was proud, too.

  “Well, it’s about damn time another Moore got some attention in this town!” Ward waited for his Pop and brother to laugh, but only silence greeted his joke. Ward looked at them both and squinted. “So, is something wrong? Gene, you back playing ball yet? I am dying to see you play again. Ever since North Africa …”

  “Nope,” Gene answered, cutting him off and turning around to the grain bin.

  “Nope what?” Ward looked over at Pop. “What did I say?”

  “I’ll leave you two boys alone to get reacquainted,” was all John was willing to contribute to the uncomfortable situation. “Come up to the house when you’re done and we’ll have something to eat.”

&nb
sp; When John left Gene turned to Ward. “You did this last time we were home.”

  “I did what?” Ward asked.

  “Bloodied my nose.”

  Ward threw up his hands in disgust. “Gene, what’s going on?”

  “Nothing,” he replied, shrugging and turning away. “I’m feeding the chickens.”

  “You know what I mean. With baseball.” Ward waited for a response. Instead of answering, Gene turned and carried the bucket through the door and out into the chicken pen. Ward was following hard on his heels when he stopped in his tracks. Gene was limping. Ward let out a sigh and kicked his way past a squawking chicken as he hurried after his brother. “Gene, I didn’t get much news from home. All I heard was that you hurt your ankle—that’s it! I didn’t know it was serious. Damn it, tell me! What’s going on?”

  Gene stopped, set the bucket down, and turned back to face his brother. His face was angry, his lips trembling. “I did more than hurt it, Ward. I broke it, really bad. It’s really screwed up.” Gene bent down and began pulling handfuls of grain from the bucket and tossing it on the ground for the chickens, who gathered around to peck at the tiny yellow bits of ground corn.

  Ward swallowed hard. “I assumed it would’ve healed by now, but I guess it hasn’t,” was the best he could come up with.

  “Nope.”

  “What did the doctor tell you?”

  “They don’t know much, really. One kept telling me everything would be fine, but another told me I would never play ball again—at least not at the level I was used to playing at,” Gene replied, throwing more grain on the ground.

  Ward chewed his lower lip and exhaled through his nose. Loudly. “Gene, something else is going on. I haven’t been home for years. Just tell me.”

  “Alright, I will,” Gene shot back. “They had to put two steel bolts in it. The Dodgers released me, Ward. They released me. No one took the time to even visit with me. Some guy I had never heard of sent me a … letter.” Gene raised his arm to his face and pretended to wipe dried blood from his nose, but Ward could see he was really wiping away tears. “I came back home,” he continued after a few seconds. “That’s it. That’s all there is to tell.”