Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  As he crossed the short distance from the small leaning three-room home to the even smaller barn, his mind drifted back to his time in North Africa. How he had missed Sesser while stationed there—especially early in the mornings and late at night. Now that he was back in Sesser, he keenly missed North Africa, baseball, and the camaraderie of his teammates. Had he really been there, playing ball during a war with some of the greatest friends he had ever known? Gene sighed. He had been home for more than two years. Baseball, North Africa, Camp Ruston—it seemed more like a dream than an experience.

  That particular morning, Gene was headed out to the south forty, a field just on the other side of the blacktop road leading to Rend City. John planted these forty acres in corn to feed the hogs. Gene was going to begin plowing.

  Although Gene hated plowing, Eleanor and Franklin were well suited to the task. Both were stocky draft horses that not just tolerated, but seemed to enjoy, pulling a plow through the rich black soil. It was good the beasts liked the work because Gene despised it. There was no sport in it at all. No challenge. It was just work.

  Gene stroked Franklin’s muscled neck and rubbed his soft muzzle. He was still in Sesser, still farming, and his baseball career had ended before it began. The Egyptians had asked him to play several times, but he had moved on. He had tasted the sport on a high level. Playing for the local team with no future to hope for would be more painful than not playing at all. At least, that’s how he rationalized it. His opportunity had come and gone. His life was now in Sesser, with his hands on a plow.

  He smiled at Franklin and slapped his neck playfully. “Come on, buddy. We’ve got work to do today.”

  Allie was at the kitchen sink cleaning a chicken for that night’s dinner when she heard a commotion on the front lawn, followed by a knock on the door. She wiped her hands on her apron and walked quickly for the door. She drew up short of the screen and stared. It seemed like half of Sesser was standing on her small front lawn but, after closer examination, she realized it was only Jack Cockrum, the mailman, and ten or twelve of the morning crowd from Bruno’s.

  “Where’s Gene?” one of them yelled.

  “He’s plowing across the blacktop in the south forty,” Allie replied. “What’s wrong? What’s he done?”

  “Nothing, Allie,” replied Jack as he held up an envelope in his hand. “He’s got a letter.”

  “Okay, leave it here, and I’ll see he gets it,” Allie replied.

  Jack winced. “Well, Allie …” It was obvious Jack didn’t want to leave the letter with her.

  “Mrs. Moore, will you open it and tell us what it says?” another man yelled from back by the street.

  “Of course not!” she said with contempt. “Gene is a grown man. Why would I open his mail?” Her eyes narrowed with suspicion. “What’s your business with this letter?”

  Jack handed the envelope over to Allie. She looked at it and smiled.

  Pittsburgh Baseball Club

  Forbes Field

  Pittsburgh, Penn.

  Mr. Gene Moore

  Matthew St.

  Sesser, Illinois

  “You boys are slipping,” Allie laughed. “You missed the first two.”

  “First two what?” Jack asked.

  “First two letters from the Pirates. They contacted Gene last winter, and he agreed to go down south somewhere to play, but when it came time to leave in March, he didn’t go.” Allie’s voice trailed off. She sounded sad.

  Allie handed the letter back to the stunned postman and said, “You know where he’s plowing. Why don’t you take it to him yourself? Maybe your encouragement is what he needs to play again.”

  The men delivering the mail formed the core group from Bruno’s. They had never gotten over the fact that Sesser’s “favorite son” was not going to play ball at Ebbets Field—or any professional ballpark. Like the rest of the town, they had few hopes left for their own future. If Gene succeeded, they could succeed through him. Gene had given up, but they had not yet given up on him. The fact that the Pittsburgh Pirates were sending letters to their native son inspired them to press on.

  The group moved down Mulberry and crossed the old blacktop highway, walking down the gravel road that led past the monument engraver’s shop, just before Huie Lumber. As they reached the crest of the hill, the Bruno’s dozen spotted Gene, his hands on the plow, walking behind Eleanor and Franklin.

  “Hey, Gene!” yelled Jack. “Gene!”

  “Whoa, Eleanor, Franklin. Whoa, now,” shouted Gene, bringing the plow to a fitful stop. Gene wiped the sweat from his brow and looked to see who was calling him. He saw Jack trotting toward him, waving something in his hand while the early morning gang from Bruno’s followed in his wake. “Now what could they possibly want that’s so important to stop us in the field,” he asked the horses as he patted Eleanor on the side and took a few steps toward Jack.

  “What can I do for you?” Gene shouted.

  “We have a letter for you!”

  “Yeah? When did you all go to work for the United States Postal Service?” Gene chuckled and slipped off his dirty work gloves. He wiped his brow a second time and waited for them to reach him.

  “We have deputized ourselves, and we want to know what exactly is in your letter!” said one of the patrons named Winfield.

  “Deputized? Let’s see the badges?” The group erupted in laughter as Gene reached for the envelope. When he saw who it was from, his expression did not change at all.

  “The Pirates must be a hell of a lot smarter than those snooty boys from Brooklyn, Gene!” Jack offered. Everyone voiced their agreement. Gene looked at the letter a second time.

  “Please open it, Gene!” begged Winfield. “We walked all the way down here to find out what it says!”

  Gene was unsure what to tell them. “Look guys, hear me out. You know how much I appreciate your support. Really, I do. But my baseball career is over. I still limp, my ankle hurts every day, and I don’t want to go through all that again. It’s over for me. My time has come and gone.”

  “Fine,” Jack said. “We heard you out. Now open the damn letter and tell us when you leave for spring training!” Everyone erupted in laughter again, slapping one another on the back.

  Gene sighed and reluctantly opened the letter.

  Dear Gene,

  We were sorry that you decided not to report to spring training with our Greenville team. We are still very interested in giving you the opportunity to build a career with our organization. If you will reconsider, please let me know at your earliest opportunity and we will make arrangements to receive you in Greenville.

  Sincerely,

  Ted McGrew

  Gene handed the letter back to Jack. “Here, now you can read it for yourself.” He turned back to the plow. “I have work to do.”

  Jack excitedly read the short letter to the group. “Gene, what are you going to tell the Pirates?” asked Winfield.

  “Thanks, but no thanks,” he replied, pulling his gloves back on his hands.

  “What?” another man cried out. “Gene, you can’t really mean that! They don’t send those letters out every day!”

  Gene put his hands on the plow. The old familiar feeling of anxiety mixed with self pity was rearing its ugly head again and tearing at his insides. He looked down at the ground and kicked the dirt beneath his feet.

  “Gene, what is there to think about?” Jack offered. “You are the best damn baseball player ever, and you’re from Sesser! Pack your bags and get going. The Pirates want you!”

  Without looking up, Gene began speaking. “Look, I know you mean well. I know you’re concerned about me and want me to play ball. I’m grateful—I am. But what you don’t understand is that my ankle is shot. I have a couple of steel bolts holding my leg bone together. I feel them every time I take a step. I can’t run like a major leaguer needs to run. The Pirates contacted me in January, and in the excitement of the moment I agreed to report. A Navy friend of mine is there. He pitche
s for them.”

  “So why didn’t you go?” inquired Jack.

  “Because wishing won’t make it so. Reality set in. Why waste their time and mine? If I had two good ankles, I would be there. But the truth is I just can’t do it. The old heart’s willing, but the flesh … that’s another story.”

  Jack sighed and nodded, as if he just realized, after all this time, that Gene could no longer play the game.

  “You don’t know what I’ve been through. I was in a bed in the VA hospital in Brooklyn while they put those bolts in my leg. I was there with men who had been injured in the war—I mean really injured. Some had lost their arm or leg … one guy lost both arms and a leg! These guys gave more for their country than you can imagine. You know what I was doing during the war?”

  “What?” asked Jack.

  “Pissing away my time playing a game. While real men were killing the enemy and having their limbs removed with saws in towns with names they could not pronounce and could never find on a map. I had my heart torn out by a letter. For … me,” Gene hesitated as his voice began to waver. He took a moment, regained his composure, and continued. “For me, the pain was more than I ever want to bear again.”

  No one said a word. Gene chuckled softly. The sound surprised the assembly. Winfield asked, “What are you laughing about, Gene. This ain’t funny. I nearly cry every time I think about it.”

  “What do you mean ‘nearly cry,’” shot back Jack. “I do.”

  Gene offered a grim smile. “I guess, in some ironic sort of way, I deserved what I got. I sort of felt sorry for the German sailors standing inside the prison wire, and went to a lot of trouble to get permission to teach them how to play baseball. And I broke my ankle doing it. Had I just done as ordered and guarded them, I’d be playing in Brooklyn right now instead of plowing this damn field. My best friend is in Nashville, living his dream. I know some of my old teammates are playing professional ball in the big leagues because they send me letters once in a while. Most are married, starting families, and have a long career in front of them. Me? I have less than when I started. I’m back where I was, living with my parents and working on the farm. Only I can’t even play well enough to keep up with the boys on the local team.” Gene suddenly looked embarrassed, as if he had said too much. Without another word he dropped the letter onto the ground, slapped the horses on the backs with the reins, and resumed plowing.

  Jack and the rest of the men just stood there as he slowly moved away from them. No one said a word. Jack reached down and picked up the letter as everyone began walking back toward town.

  “Damn shame,” he said to himself as he set the letter on the Moore front porch.

  A few seconds later, a light breeze picked it up and carried the letter into the front yard. Like Gene’s baseball career, an invisible hand skipped it easily down the road before blowing it into the ditch.

  Chapter 30

  Dark Night of the Soul

  Gene walked into Bruno’s and wiped the raindrops from his face. The drizzle began falling a few minutes before he arrived. When the door closed behind him, a flash of lightning lighted the sky through the window, followed a few seconds later by a loud clap of thunder. The walls shook and rain began to pour. Gene had made it inside just in time.

  “It’s really coming down,” Bruno said as he glanced up at his ceiling, listening while the driving rain pounded the roof of the old building.

  Gene nodded as he walked past the regulars gathered at the bar to the stool at the far end and took his seat. This was now ‘his stool’ since returning home from the war.

  Several years had passed since the war ended, with hardly a change in routine. It was not the life he had imagined as a kid, and not at all what the townspeople of Sesser had believed he would become. The topic of baseball was no longer popular at Bruno’s, and hadn’t been for some time now.

  Bruno still felt sorry for Gene. Every night he showed up to drink, smoke, and sulk until he could barely hold his head up. He had become little more than the barstool he sat on, a lifeless fixture.

  “Gene, you just don’t talk much anymore,” Bruno observed as he set his first bottle of beer down on the bar.

  “I can go down to Marlo’s if you don’t want me here,” Gene answered sharply, looking Bruno in the eye as he took his first gulp of beer.

  Gene Moore at the end of the bar in Bruno’s, beginning another night of heavy drinking. Behind him is Willy Kerbovac, a former teammate from Gene’s days with the Sesser Egyptians.

  “No, Gene,” Bruno smiled, and then said in a softer, warmer voice, “I love having you here. I’m not complaining. I just wish …” Bruno paused.

  “Wish what?”

  “I don’t know, Gene. I wish for something better for you. That you had come back from the war different, that’s all.”

  “I guess I am different. I left a ballplayer and came home a … well, I don’t know what I came back as.” Gene paused and emptied his bottle with a few large swallows. “A pig farmer, I guess. Everything I ever wanted—everything I ever worked for—is now gone. Hell, Bruno, it’s been gone a long time. Why do we keep having this conversation?”

  “I’m sorry,” Bruno muttered. “I’ll try to never mention it again.”

  Gene lit a Camel straight and glanced up at the empty space on the wall where his uniform once hung. He had only recently taken up smoking. Bruno walked away and returned with another bottle of beer. Gene nodded his thanks. “You remember when you used to tell me that baseball wasn’t something I did, but was something I was?” he asked. “What and who am I now, Bruno? I don’t know the answer to that question.”

  Bruno sighed. Gene complained about having the same conversation nearly every night, and yet nearly every night he asked Bruno that same question. Usually it came after his fourth of fifth beer. Tonight it had taken only one. “I don’t know Gene,” replied the bartender, “but I don’t think a man’s life is determined by what he does for a living.”

  “Bruno, can I get a house specialty—the fish sandwich?” asked Gene.

  Bruno nodded and walked toward the kitchen. Tonight was no different than all the others.

  Gene would drink a few beers, have something to eat, and then continue drinking until closing time, when he would stumble his way home. He had become an ordinary drunk.

  Three hours later Gene was slumped over a half-empty bottle. The dark circles under his eyes told everyone that this lifestyle was taking its toll. “What time is it, Bruno?” he mumbled as he rubbed his eyes.

  “Nine,” Bruno answered, wiping down part of the bar with a white rag. The bartender walked to the front of the bar and looked out the big window facing Main Street. “It’s really storming out there.” He looked back at Gene, who was yawning deeply. “Gene, when you came in a few hours ago, you said you used to be a ballplayer.”

  Gene glared at Bruno, fumbled for his pack of Camels lying on the bar, and lit one up.

  “Obviously, someone still thinks you are a ballplayer. How long are you going to sit on that letter from the Pirates? It’s been what—three weeks?” Bruno waited in silence. “No response, Gene?”

  He exhaled a cloud of smoke before accidentally dropping his cigarette on the floor. Another patron walking by picked it up and handed it to Gene. “Bruno, if I thought I could play ball, I would.” His words were slightly slurred, his demeanor argumentative. “I lived to play baseball. Did I ever tell you that sometimes at the end of the day, my ankle is so swollen I can barely get my sock off?”

  Bruno nodded. “Yeah, you told me that last night.”

  Gene squinted at the bartender through the smoke. “What position did I play?”

  “You played catcher, Gene.”

  “That’s right. Catcher.” He moved to snuff out his cigarette, missed the ashtray, and used the bar instead. “Have you ever crouched behind a plate. No? It’s tough, even in good shape. My ankle wouldn’t hold up an inning, let alone a game—or a season. Trust me, Bruno,” he concl
uded, “if there was any chance at all, I’d be playing ball.”

  Bruno leaned over the bar just a couple feet from Gene. “I appreciate your business. I love having you here … at least I used to, anyway … but I miss the old Gene Moore. I know war changes people and all, and I know you been through a lot. But it’s like one person left and a different one came back in your body. Everyone tiptoes around you. You don’t talk to anyone … no one talks to you anymore. Don’t you think it’s about time you snapped out of it?”

  “Ah, give me a break,” he shouted, waving his palm like he was swatting at a fly. “Yeah, everyone liked the old Gene because he could play ball. No one really ever cared for me for any other reason.”

  “That’s not true,” Bruno said defensively.

  “The hell it’s not!” Gene yelled as he slammed his fist on the bar, tipping over his now empty beer bottle. “I grew up over on the other side of the tracks, dirt poor. My dad shoveled shit at the sale stock barn just to feed us. He’s a good man, Bruno … better man than me, but no one in this town ever gave him the time of day. So why would anyone care about me … the son of a shit shoveler? I’ll tell you why. It was only because I could catch, throw, and hit. I could catch better than anyone who ever pulled a mask over his face. But looking back now, I was nothing more than entertainment for you people. Now that I can’t play anymore, why does anyone care if I talk or not?”

  “Because you aren’t talking. Seven beers are doing the talking for you. And what you just said ain’t true.”

  “It is true, Bruno! I was no more than a damn dancing bear.”

  “I’m sorry I brought it up, Gene, but you’re drunk. Again. Why don’t you go home and sober up?”

  “I’m not drunk, I’m right, and you just don’t wanna hear it. Nobody wants to hear it!”