by Gary Moore
A loud clap of thunder interrupted Gene’s outburst. The lights at Bruno’s flickered off. “Ah, damn. I knew it,” Bruno sighed. “Every time it storms.” The bartender grabbed Gene’s matches and began lighting the candles he had pulled out just for this contingency. The weak light they provided was just enough for Gene to make out the silhouette of a man standing at the other end of the bar. No one had seen him come in.
“If I’m not interrupting anything, I’ll have a beer,” the stranger asked in an accent no one could quite place. “Whatever you are pouring on tap is fine.”
Gene squinted to get a better look at him. He was soaked from the rain, wearing a gray flannel suit and white shirt and tie, which had been loosened around the neck.
“You know, I was in this town years ago, before the war,” the man continued, wiping the rain from his shoulders. “I don’t remember seeing any dancing bears,” he chuckled. “But there was a kid here. I do remember him. That kid, he could hit like Babe Ruth—knock a ball a country mile. He was a joy to watch. You knew you were seeing the purest form of baseball in that youngster.”
Bruno handed the man his glass of beer. He was speechless. So was Gene.
“When that kid hit the ball,” continued the man, “the crack was so sharp and loud you could feel it in your bones. The ball soared like it had been shot out of a cannon. And he could throw the fastest guy out at second base from his knees—the ball sizzled through the air, almost like it was on fire. Any time I saw the second baseman catch it, I expected to see smoke rising from his glove.”
Gene tried to get a glimpse of the man’s face, but he could not make it out in the semi-darkness. He had heard the voice before.
The stranger took a long pull from the glass of beer and sat down on a stool. “That kid, he controlled the game like no one I have ever seen, before or since. It was truly magical. Watching him play was poetry behind the plate.”
“What happened to that kid?” Bruno jerked his head around and looked at Gene. The former catcher was wide awake now, but his question was barely louder than a whisper.
The stranger sighed. “From time to time, I wondered what happened to him. I hear he went off to war—in the Navy, I think—suffered some sort of injury, and then ran home with his tail between his legs. Rumor has it he sits every night drinking himself into oblivion. Self-pity, I guess. Now, I don’t believe everything that I hear, so I thought I would come back to the ‘home of the Egyptians’ and see for myself.”
The stranger picked up his glass, eased his stool back, and walked toward Gene. Three steps later the familiar face of Frank Boudreau, the man who scouted and signed him for the Dodgers, was bathed in the light of several candles.
Gene’s heart pounded. He didn’t know what to feel when he saw him. Happiness? Anger? Gratitude? “Well, you seem to know everything, Frank. What do you see?” Gene asked sarcastically. Bruno groaned.
The scout took the stool next to Gene. “I see the best damned ballplayer I have ever known in my entire life, sitting alone in a bar. He looks a little older,” Frank smiled. “He probably shouldn’t be smoking, and I guess he could lose a few pounds. But you know, I think there’s still a ballplayer in there. That’s what I see, Gene Moore.” Bruno nodded his head in vigorous agreement.
“Ha!” Gene barked. “Look again, Frank. I’ll tell you what you see. You see a small-town farmer who had a shot at greatness and blew it. You see a guy who, instead of defending his country, played his way through a war that everyone else fought on his behalf. You see a guy whose brother was shot three times on two different occasions, while his kid brother you’re talking about was playing a game instead of fighting. And at the end of it, it was all for nothing. He let everyone down.”
Frank smiled into his beer. “Hmm. That kid—you know, the one we’re talking about? Maybe he’s not here anymore. He never would have said anything like that. You see, this kid, he had a wonderful, outgoing and friendly personality. He was unique. He didn’t recognize failure. He only saw opportunities to play. He knew that this game he played—it is something special. And when he walked onto that field …” Frank paused and looked away, lost in the image his mind was creating to keep up with the word picture he was painting aloud. “When he walked out there, he honored the game.” Gene just turned away and lit another cigarette.
“Gene Moore!” Frank Boudreau barked out. “Get up off your sorry ass and look at me like a man! Sitting on that bar stool is not the way I want to see you. You’re talking like a damn loser, and you’re starting to look the part.”
When Gene stood up his stool fell over and clattered on the floor. The few patrons left inside Bruno’s were also standing now, well away from the bar. “Well, Frank, if you know so damned much, tell me why you didn’t make it in the majors as a player? Why is it you’ve been making your living off the talents of others?”
Frank shook his head at the pathetic question. “Gene, you really have changed. You are determined to tear down your life and make yourself feel better by swiping at me.” The scout leaned forward. “Let me tell you how I see my life and what I do. I have spent my time in baseball helping kids make their dreams come true. Some have the heart to overcome the obstacles standing between them and the ‘bigs,’ and go on to live their dream. Some do not. I can find them, and I can sign them. But I can’t play the game for them. And frankly, I’m proud of my career in baseball.” Frank took another sip from his beer. “What about you, Gene? Are you proud of what you’ve become?”
Gene turned away and hung his head, reaching for his empty beer bottle that Bruno had already picked up. “Bruno, get me another bottle.”
“No,” answered the bartender. “You’ve had enough.”
Frank’s voice softened and warmed at the same time. “Listen to me, son. That kid I was talking about earlier? You remember—that boy who loved to catch? I want to tell him something.” Frank paused. “If you see him, can you give him a message from Frank Boudreau?”
The words touched Gene deeply, unlike anything had for months—perhaps years. He smiled for the first time in a long while. “Yeah,” he replied, nodding his head. “If I see him, I’ll tell him. What do you want him to know, Mr. Boudreau?”
“Tell him the Brooklyn Dodgers fired me the same day they released him. And tell him that I, too, was hurt. Tell him the Pittsburgh Pirates hired me, and they want me to help them build a World Championship team. Tell him he is the first person I came to see. You tell him, if you see him, that I’m staying at the Hotel Benton, over on the square. You tell him I have a train ticket for him to Greenville, Mississippi, and a potential career with the Pittsburgh Pirates. Will you give him that message?”
Gene looked up, barely able to contain his emotions. He had never been so embarrassed in his life. “Yes, Frank. If I can find him, I’ll give him the message. I’ll look real hard for him too, but he may be gone.”
“He’s not gone!” whispered Bruno between clenched teeth. “He’s not gone!” No one heard him.
“I think this kid’s worth looking for. If you find him, tell him Frank Boudreau passes along his regards, and that even with a bad ankle, he might still be one of the game’s greats. You tell him that for me, okay?”
“Hey, bartender,” Frank called out.
“Yes?” Bruno responded.
“Where’s the best place in town to have breakfast?” Frank asked.
“Around the corner, across from the Custard Stand and about two blocks down, a little white-washed concrete-block building called Heavy Turner’s Café,” Bruno replied without having to think about it.
“I’ll have breakfast there tomorrow morning, say nine o’clock—just in case anyone wants to see me before I leave.” Frank winked at Bruno and glanced over at Gene, who was unable to meet his gaze.
The scout threw a dollar bill on the bar, knocked on the bar with his knuckles twice, looked at Gene for one more long moment, and then turned and walked out the door into the night.
Chap
ter 31
Resurrection
Heavy Turner’s Café was exactly as Bruno described it. Everyone who ate there passed through a rickety screen door with a rusty metal sign advertising “Bunny Bread.” Frank was originally from the Midwest, and so was not unfamiliar with small-town America. But Sesser was so small, so different. Heavy’s was just one more reminder of that fact.
At 8:45 a.m., Frank walked through the door and could not help but smile. Behind the counter was a man who stood five-feet-nothing, but weighed well over three hundred pounds.
“Let me guess,” Frank laughed. “You must be Heavy?”
“And you must be Albert Einstein,” answered Heavy.
“Right,” Frank replied, slightly embarrassed. “I deserved that.”
“Yup,” nodded the fat man. Frank couldn’t help but notice that the entire top half of his body shook as his head bobbed up and down.
Heavy’s had a breakfast counter, a concrete floor, and a set of mismatched tables and chairs. It was not the kind of eating establishment Frank was accustomed to, but this was Sesser, Illinois, and the Southern Illinois town had a personality distinctly its own.
“I know who you really are,” Heavy said. “You’re that baseball scout.” Frank nodded. “You gonna get Gene to play ball?”
Frank shrugged. “I came here thinking that baseball needs him. Now, after seeing him, I think he needs baseball more.”
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” Heavy replied. “But I’ll tell you, we need him to play more than Gene or the Pirates need each other. Maybe you haven’t noticed, but this town has nothing going for it. We have been stripped of our pride, our dignity, there’s no reason to come to Sesser, and no reason to stay.” Heavy reached over and wiped the sticky counter in front of Frank and handed him a menu. It was greasy and stained with coffee. “Gene gave us something to look forward to,” he continued, “something to hope for. Now, well, we watch him sit on a bar stool and drink his life away.”
Ezra “Heavy” Turner, his wife Edith, and an unidentified visitor inside Heavy Turner’s Café in 1951.
Frank sighed. “I know. I saw that last night.”
Heavy seemed lost in thought for a moment. “You know, I guess he’s become one of us, when we were hoping he would make us like him.”
Frank’s trip to Sesser began to seem more like a mission than a scouting assignment. Gene needs baseball, Sesser needs Gene, Ray Laws needs Gene, and the Pirates need Ray. Frank realized there was much at stake here. It was a mission that had to succeed.
“Absorbing the ambiance, Frank?” Gene asked, as he walked in through Heavy’s screen door.
The scout answered without turning to look at Gene. “Well, I’ll tell you. Heavy and I have been just sitting here talking about life.”
“Be careful,” Gene replied. “Heavy’s the town philosopher. He’ll make you think—hard. Around here, that sort of thing can only get you in trouble.” Gene smiled at the man behind the counter. “Morning, Heavy.”
“Morning, Gene. You know, this is the first time I’ve seen you smile since before you left for the war.” Gene ignored the observation and joined Frank at a table.
Each man studied the other for several seconds. It had been several years since Gene had seen Frank. His hair had more gray, it had receded a tad in front, and his forehead was no longer wrinkle-free. Otherwise, the ball scout had not changed that much. Frank was thinking something quite different about the young man sitting across from him. The morning light revealed just how much Gene had changed in such a short time. It wasn’t just the additional weight. He looked several years older than twenty-four. Dark circles pulled at his once-youthful eyes, which were sunken and bloodshot. Even his hands looked old.
Gene looked at the scout, his voice barely above a whisper. “You never came, Frank.”
For a moment Frank was unsure what he meant. And then it dawned on him. “Gene—I did. I got to the hospital the same day you left. It was the day I was called into Branch Rickey’s office and let go. I didn’t know until that meeting they had released you. I told Mr. Rickey as I was walking out that he had made two mistakes. The biggest was releasing you, and the second, well, without sounding prideful, was releasing me.”
“I never knew you came,” answered Gene. “I thought you had forgotten about me. I guess that explains a lot.” Heavy set down two mugs of steaming black coffee. He stood there to listen in on the conversation, but a look from Gene sent him back behind the counter. “I’m sorry you lost your job.”
Frank smiled. “Well, we have a new lease on life, you and I. I have been hired by the Pittsburgh Pirates, and they want me to help them build a world championship team.”
“Congratulations, Frank. That’s great,” Gene said. He meant it.
“And it’s a very small world, Gene. The Pirates have an outstanding pitching prospect who is languishing in the minors, partly because no one can catch him. Have you ever heard of such a thing?”
Gene sipped from his mug and nodded, wiping his chin with a napkin. “Yeah, I have.”
“Have you ever caught a forkball? Frank asked.
Gene smiled. “You know I have. Ray Laws throws it better than anyone, or at least he used to.”
“He still does. Ray is in Greenville, Mississippi, and he is in desperate need of a good catcher. Ray needs you, Gene.”
In desperate need of a good catcher. Ray needs you, Gene. The words echoed in his mind as his thoughts slipped back to his time in the Navy, when he wanted nothing more than to squat behind the plate and catch Ray’s forkball. Gene sighed wistfully. How he missed those days.
“Here’s the long and short of it, Gene,” Frank said, cutting to the chase. “Every kid dreams of getting his shot. For the few, the very few who get it, it’s usually their one chance at greatness. But it’s even rarer to get a second chance. Gene, you have a second chance.” He paused and locked his gaze on Gene’s bloodshot eyes. “Can you make it? I don’t know. You’re older, you’re certainly out of baseball shape, but the constant work on the farm has kept your muscles hard and strong. Sure, you have a couple of metal bolts in your ankle. But let’s face it, speed was never your forte.”
“I can’t argue with you there, Frank,” smiled Gene.
Frank smiled back, pleased his former and perhaps current prospect was still listening and interested. Perhaps he had worried for nothing. “Your arm is one of the best and if you were running the bases, well, you were usually trotting,” continued the scout. “But, besides all that, your true value is your understanding of the game—I guess I’d call it your baseball I.Q. Yours is high, very high. You are what the Pirates need, and quite frankly, you are exactly who Ray Laws needs.”
“Frank,” began Gene, “I know I was pretty good—better than good. Great, even. But I feel like such a failure, and I can’t seem to get over that feeling. It swamps my every waking hour.”
Frank shook his head. “Don’t say ‘was’ Gene, say ‘am.’ You are only twenty-four. Many men are just beginning their careers in the big leagues at your age. You still have plenty of time.”
Heavy made another appearance to take their order, but both men waved him away. When he left, Frank finally took a sip of his coffee. “Gene, I’m not here to compliment you, pad your ego, or make you feel good. I’m here on business, period. I’m here to sign you to an agreement and send you to Greenville. Once you’re there, you have to live or die by your abilities. Like I said last night, I can help start—or in your case, restart—your dream. But only you can live it.”
Gene’s back was to Heavy’s screen door, so he didn’t notice the people gathering outside the door looking in. A throng was growing by the minute. Frank had noticed the onlookers the moment they had moved from the counter to the table.
Gene nodded, exhaled loudly, and placed both palms flat on the table. “Frank. I would love to help Ray. You know I want to play.”
Frank raised his voice so those outside the door could hear and said, “Then, pl
ay Gene! Why not? What do you have to lose? I have the power to sign you right now. We can make this happen. The Pirates want you.”
The scout’s words were exactly what the curious of Sesser wanted to hear. When the cheers erupted outside, Gene spun around to see what all the excitement was about. When he realized what was going on he turned back to the scout with a sheepish grin on his face. Frank only laughed, pleased to see an almost boyish look on Gene’s face.
“These people love you, Gene. These people need you. They’re never going to leave this town. But with you in baseball, they can live their dreams through you. Gene, play ball. Do it for the people of Sesser.”
“What if I let them down again?” Gene asked.
“You only let them down if you say no. You go to Greenville and give it your best shot. Whether you make it or not, the people of this town will have had their time in professional baseball. You say no, well, everyone loses.” Frank finished his coffee and stood. He looked down at Gene and then out the screen door at the gathering crowd. “Let’s walk outside and see what they have to say.” Without waiting for a response, the scout walked to the screen door, pushed it open, and stepped outside. Gene was still sitting at the table.
The sun was shining brightly, the storm of the previous evening now a distant memory. Jack Cockrum, the mailman, and Eugene Basso were at the head of the crowd. “Well, Mr. Boudreau, is he gonna play ball or not?” Jack demanded.
“I don’t know,” Frank shrugged, looking back over his shoulder at the screen door. “Why don’t you call him out and we’ll ask him.”
Jack and Eugene looked at each other and nodded. “Gene!” they both yelled. No response. Jack waited a few seconds and shouted a second time. “Gene!”
Without any prompting, one person at a time joined in the chant. “Gene! Gene! Gene! Gene!”
The chant stunned Gene. It sounded as if the whole town was outside yelling his name. Heavy looked over the counter and smiled. “Hey, Gene, this is bad for business,” he said. “No one could get in here to eat if they wanted to. Are you ready yet to play ball, or is becoming the town drunk more appealing to you?” Heavy always had a way with words.