Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  Gene slowly stood. “I don’t know, Heavy. That’s a tough call to make on the spot. I’ll think about it and get back to you.” Heavy started laughing, and Gene joined him. He started moving to the door but stopped before he reached it. “A career as a drunk probably doesn’t pay that much, does it?”

  “No, Gene, I suppose it doesn’t,” Heavy replied.

  “Thanks, Heavy.” Gene took a deep breath and walked through the screen to find a crowd of almost 100 people gathered to encourage him to take full advantage of his second opportunity.

  Frank held up his hand, and the crowd fell silent. “What will it be, son? Can the good people of Sesser count on you to be the best you can be, regardless of the outcome?”

  Gene dug his hands into his pants pockets, pulled them out again, and then awkwardly stuck them in again. He looked shy, but happy. He looked more like the 15-year-old Frank had first seen eight years earlier at The Lumberyard hitting the ball a country mile.

  “Where is Greenville, Mississippi, anyway, Frank?”

  “Yes!” screamed Jack as everyone erupted in thunderous applause. People crowded in to hug Gene and show their appreciation. Each in his own way wanted to make some connection to the ballplayer. It was at that moment Frank realized he was witnessing a resurrection. Heavy’s little restaurant had been like a tomb, Frank’s offer from the Pirates had rolled away the stone, and the townspeople had called Gene out.

  Sesser, Illinois, had been brought back to life.

  Chapter 32

  Reporting to Greenville

  Gene spent the next two weeks working out. He stayed away from Bruno’s, got off the alcohol, and slept normal hours. Most of each day was spent throwing a baseball again, and lightly swinging a bat. When he tried squatting behind the plate, however, his ankle refused to cooperate.

  Gene massaged it every hour and did his best to stretch his muscles, but getting into a traditional catcher’s stance just wasn’t going to happen. He tried to convince himself that a few more days of training, a few more stretches, and a few more attempts would make it better. His inability to throw as hard as he once had saddened him, but he remained hopeful he could carry his own, the pain would diminish, and some of his mobility would return.

  When the day arrived, Gene packed a bag, said his goodbyes, kissed his mom and sisters, and caught a ride to the Carbondale train station. As he was standing on the ramp waiting for the x1train, he remembered how, seven years earlier, a younger and much more innocent Gene Moore had left the same station to begin his hitch in the United States Navy. He was just a kid then—a kid who loved to play baseball more than drink beer from a bottle. He had been almost unaware of the war that deposited him in the Navy, seventeen, and in the best shape of his life. Now the man standing on the same platform was smoking a cigarette and walking with a slight limp. The changes were more than just physical.

  The last time he caught the train from Carbondale, Gene was convinced no one in the world could play the game like he could. It was not his skill alone that gave him that confidence. It was his absolute and unconditional love of baseball. But he was a different man now. The game had broken first his ankle, then his heart, before tossing him aside for someone younger and faster. The game had almost forgotten about him, but he never forgot about the game.

  Gene now had a second chance, but he was skeptical and apprehensive. His confidence was gone—or nearly so. He knew his sprint to first base was far from what it needed to be, and he knew again firsthand that getting in and out of his catcher’s stance was painful. Once quick and agile, Gene was now slow and clumsy. Several times over the last half hour he had nearly convinced himself to leave the train platform and walk across to the Station Street Bar. Somehow he resisted the urge, but he knew if the train did not arrive soon, the bar would be a place of comfort. It was calling out his name.

  Gene knew he liked to drink too much, but he denied in his mind what he knew in his heart. “I am not an alcoholic,” he thought. I don’t have to have a drink. I drink because I like it, not because I need it. I can quit anytime. “Heck,” he thought, “I have only had three beers in the past two weeks.” Gene decided to walk across the street and have just one beer, but as he turned and started to walk down the ramp someone yelled out, “Here she comes!” The train to Greenville was rounding the bend, slowing down as it prepared to stop in Carbondale.

  Gene boarded and found his seat. It only took him a few minutes to discover that the train had a bar, so he headed for it. The pressure to succeed was immense. Frank, the whole town—everyone was pulling for him. He knew the last thing he needed was a drink, but he also knew the alcohol helped deaden the pain.

  “Oh, what the heck,” he mumbled to himself. “It’s a long ride, and I’ll just have a few to make the trip go faster. I won’t drink again till the season ends.”

  Gene Moore headed for the bar, leaving the 15-year-old catcher behind.

  “Next stop, Greenville, Mississippi!” the conductor bellowed as he walked through Gene’s car.

  Gene sat up. His head was throbbing. He was about to reach for his cigarettes when he realized he had smoked his last one a few hours earlier. How had he gotten back to his seat from the bar?

  The train rocked back and forth and gradually slowed as it entered the Greenville station. Gene said a quick and silent prayer that he would not have to play ball that afternoon. The irony of the situation did not escape him. It was the first time in his life he actually hoped he would not have to play the game he loved so much.

  When the train creaked its way to a complete stop, Gene tossed his old Navy seabag off the train and jumped down beside it. He cringed when he hit the ground. His ankle was killing him.

  The station looked like it was a century old, small, and more in need of a paint job than The Lumberyard or Pop’s barn. It appeared deserted.

  “Gene Moore?” asked an older man as he stepped from the shadows. Gene nodded and smiled. The man looked at him more closely and called out his name again.

  “I’m Gene Moore!”

  “You’re Gene Moore?” asked the man with surprise.

  “Yes, I’m Gene Moore!”

  The man stood with his hands on his hips. “You’re Gene Moore, huh?” He looked Gene up and down, and said, “Hmm. You don’t look like a ballplayer to me, but if you say you’re Gene Moore, you must be.” The man’s accent was so heavy that at times Gene could barely make out some of his words.

  “What do you mean I don’t look like a ballplayer?” asked Gene, surprised by the stranger’s arrogance.

  “I work for the team part-time,” he answered. “I’m retired from the brick factory. You know, we made the bricks our old stadium is made of. I do the running for the team now, picking up new players, taking those who are moving up or washing out to the train, just general runnin’ round stuff.”

  Gene shook his head. “Well, that doesn’t answer my question. Why do you say I don’t look like a ballplayer?”

  The man frowned. “Well, look at you. You look older than most of those who are here. You don’t look like you’re in shape. And if you don’t mind me saying so, most people are ending their careers when they look like you, not startin one!” He smiled. “But what do I know, right? My name is Robert, but you can call me Bob. Nice to meet you.”

  Bob stuck out his hand, but it remained alone, hanging between them. “I’m not feeling like it has been that damn nice, Bob,” Gene shot back.

  “Moore, I call ‘em as I see ‘em. Don’t like what I have to say, you can walk to the field. But if you do walk, you’ll be late to the game, and they tell me you’re startin’ today. You’re here to try out as catcher, right?”

  Gene calmed down a few notches. Everything the man said was true, and he knew it. Could he smell the booze, too? “Yeah, I’m the catcher,” he replied. “I used to be, anyway,” Gene mumbled.

  “Now see what I mean?” asked Bob. “Talk that way, I’ll be taking you back to the train tonight.” Bob stuck his h
and out again, and this time Gene reached out and shook it. The Mississippi stranger who had retired from the brick factory loaded Gene’s seabag into the back of his pickup truck and Gene climbed in the passenger side.

  “You know, there was a Gene Moore used to play for the Pirates,” Bob announced as he pulled out of the gravel lot next to the station. “Did you know that?”

  “Yes, I do know that,” Gene answered. “He came up through the Reds organization, then was traded to the Dodgers. I’m not sure how he ended up with Pittsburgh, but I know he was there. He was pretty good, I hear.”

  “Are you?” Bob asked.

  “Am I what?”

  “Don’t play games with me, son. Are you any good?”

  “Bob, I was raised not to brag. I guess you’ll just have to see for yourself,” Gene replied honestly, looking out the window as the truck bounced along the unpaved road to the field.

  “Can I give you some advice?” asked Bob.

  “I don’t think I could stop you if I said no, could I?” Gene laughed. Bob didn’t.

  “Son, you got beer on your breath. Don’t think I would show up my first day on the job with beer on my breath. But, I’m from the old school, I guess. You say you weren’t raised to brag. Well, I was raised that you show up on the job ready to do your best everyday—especially your first day. But that’s just me. You don’t brag, I don’t show up with beer on my breath, guess that makes us different.”

  Gene was caught off-guard by Bob’s frankness. It was obvious he was right, and it was equally clear he couldn’t show up to meet his new manager and teammates smelling like a brewery.

  “Bob, you’re right,” conceded Gene. “I guess I had a couple too many on the train last night. I was bored, excited, and couldn’t sleep.” Gene paused and cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, Bob. I know I have made a terrible first impression. What would you suggest I do?”

  Bob nodded but kept his eyes on the road. “Now, that’s more like it, son. It smells like more than just a couple too many, and more recent than last night. But I have an idea.” He pulled his old truck in front of the Greenville Produce Market, a ramshackle affair with large boxes of fruit, vegetables, and old junk littering the front on both sides of the door. “Wait here,” he told Gene. He jumped back in the truck two minutes later holding a big white onion.

  “Take a bite, slugger.” Bob said, handing it to Gene.

  “An onion?” Gene replied with a look of shock on his face. “A raw onion?”

  “Yeah,” Bob responded with a nod. “I know the guy who runs this team, Moore. You show up with beer on your breath, and you will be standing back on the platform six hours from now waiting for the ride home!”

  Gene stared at the onion he was holding. “Okay, okay. I’ll eat the onion,” Gene said. He swallowed once and took a big bite. He grimaced as he chewed a few times before turning his head to spit a mouthful of white mash out the window.

  “Shit, Bob! This is awful!” Gene gagged.

  “No one will smell the beer now. If you are gonna keep drinking, you better get used to the taste of Mississippi white onions.” Bob replied with a smile. “They’s strong, huh?”

  Gene nodded in agreement, and nibbled a few more times at the onion. Things had to change. By the time Bob pulled his pickup back onto the highway, Gene had made up his mind that his drinking days were done. Bob was right. He had to be ready to do his best. If he didn’t make it with the Pirates, it would be because of his ankle, not his drinking.

  Bob Allen, the man who picked up Gene at the station and handed him an onion ten minutes later, was a Greenville Pirates fan. He loved his team, and he loved doing small jobs to help out whenever and wherever he could. It provided a few extra bucks in his retirement, and gave him an excuse to hang out at the field.

  “Bob, you said I’m starting today? Do you know that for a fact?”

  “Ray Laws is pitching today and, from what I’m told, none of the other catchers want to be near the plate when he’s on the mound. That forkball of his is something else. No one can catch it consistently. It doesn’t matter if they can’t hit it if our own guys can’t catch it. Laws pitched a no-hitter three weeks ago, and we lost 1-0.”

  “Dropped third strikes and passed balls, huh?” Gene guessed.

  Bob looked him over for a few seconds before putting his eyes back on the road. “You do know the game.” He shook his head. “That poor guy’s been crying for a catcher since the season started. Can you really catch that thing?”

  “Yeah, I think so,” Gene replied. “I used to be able to catch anything Ray could throw.”

  “There you go again, Moore. Talk that way and I’ll be takin’ you back to the train before you get unpacked. Either you can catch it or you can’t. If you think you can or think you can’t, either way you’re right. So which is it?”

  “Are you the manager, Bob?”

  He laughed. “No, but I should be!”

  The pickup rolled to a stop and Bob jumped out to grab the seabag. Gene followed him and the two stood next to each other. Bob looked the player straight in the eye. “Every American kid would give his eyeteeth to stand where you’re standing right now, Moore.” Gene nodded as Bob handed him the bag. “You’re up now, son. And I don’t smell anything but Mississippi white onion.”

  Veteran’s Field was an older stadium, but Gene saw immediately that it was going to be the best-kept field he had ever played on. A red brick wall ran around the park, framing perfectly cut thick green grass. The infield was finely manicured, and a groundskeeper was laying down a chalk line between home and first base. Outside of Ebbets Field in Brooklyn, it was the prettiest ballpark he’d ever seen.

  Bob tilted his head and motioned Gene aside. “Follow me, and I’ll take you to the lockers.”

  Gene followed Bob into a freshly painted concrete-block locker room. Painted on the wall was the large Pirates logo. Gene stopped and stared at it for a few seconds. He wanted to pinch himself. Was he really standing there?

  “Gene! Gene Moore!” A clatter of cleats on concrete filled the room as Gene turned to see Ray Laws trotting toward him.

  “Ray!” Gene shouted back, moving to meet him.

  The pitcher wrapped his arms around his favorite catcher and lifted him off the ground. “Am I glad to see you, buddy. I can’t believe how long it’s been.”

  “I’ll leave you two to get reacquainted,” said Bob. “Ray will show you around.”

  When Ray finally set him down, Gene pushed him back and said, “I hear the catchers down here are more afraid of you than the opposing team batters!”

  Ray laughed. “That’s one hell of a situation, isn’t it? If I throw it so the batters can’t hit it, my own catchers can’t catch it, and I lose! If I throw it so my catcher can catch it, the batter sends it out of the park. Either way, I lose!” Both men laughed.

  “Let me see if I can help you there,” Gene offered. “Unless you’re throwing something new since Camp Ruston, I think I can at least stop it before it reaches the backstop.”

  “I thought you were coming down in March? What happened?” asked Ray.

  Gene sighed, then shrugged. “I don’t know, long story I guess. But I’m here now.”

  “Thank God!” Ray exclaimed. “But the bad news is you get to room with me.”

  “I’d reserve judgment before you give thanks, Ray,” smiled the catcher. “I’ve roomed with you before. Do you still snore?”

  “Yes, and still as loud,” he chuckled. “I’ll tell you, Gene, I’m not sure if any of these kids could have made the grade over there. I don’t know, maybe I’m just getting older and feel like I’m running out of time, but these young guys, I don’t know if they could play the game with Nazi artillery shells dancing in the distance. I never thought I’d ever say it, but I kind of miss those days in the Navy. At least I had a catcher then.”

  “Well, you’re stuck with the same one again, so let’s see if we can show these kids how a battery operates.” Gene br
iefly looked away and continued in a lower voice even though they were alone in the locker room. His voice was less confident and shaky. “Ray, last time I was behind the plate was the game where I broke my ankle. Except for the last two weeks, I haven’t caught a ball or swung a bat in more than four years.”

  Ray took a step backward. “What? What the hell have you been doing?”

  Gene licked his lips, which were dry. His mouth tasted heavily of onion. The thought of a cold beer was suddenly overwhelming. “Plowing, feeding hogs, and feeling sorry for myself.”

  Ray pushed his cap back on his head. “Now that doesn’t sound like the Gene Moore I know.”

  A grumpy voice, old but loud and strong, boomed forth from the office next to the locker room. “Do you understand what I am telling you?” he was yelling at someone. “Yeah? Well then do it. Otherwise, get the hell off my team!” A young player, tall and handsome, walked out of the office and out the door leading to the field. He looked as though he was ready to cry.

  Gene gulped. Ray laughed. “Go meet the old man. He’s a piece of work.”

  Gene nodded and was about to walk away when Ray stuck out his arm and stopped him. “Do you have any toothpaste or gum, Gene? Your breath really stinks.”

  Gene knocked softly on the door and cracked it open a few inches. “Sir, I’m Gene Moore.”

  The man behind the desk didn’t even look up. “Your gear’s right there, in the corner,” he pointed with a pencil. Two more were at the ready, one behind each ear. “You’ll be number twenty-six. Your locker is marked with your uniform number on it. Go get dressed and start warming up Laws. If you’re good, you can stay, if not, Bob will take you back to the train after the game. Any questions?”

  The manager spit out his machine gun bullet points without even a glance in his direction. “No, I guess not,” answered Gene. “I got that speech from Bob on the way over.” He hesitated, but decided to ask anyway. “Can I ask your name, sir?”