Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  “Middleton. Jim Middleton.” The man behind the desk finally raised his eyes to look at Gene. The stub of a well-chewed cigar was hanging from his lips. It wasn’t hard to read the surprise that crossed his face, if only for an instant. “Call me Skip. Everyone else does. Now, get out of my office and get dressed.”

  Gene walked back into the locker room. Ray had heard the whole thing. He laughed. “Turn around.”

  “Why?”

  “I want to see if your butt’s still attached, or if he chewed it clean off.” The pitcher grabbed Gene around the shoulders and squeezed him hard. “Man, am I glad you’re here!”

  Gene found locker number 26, dressed quickly in the uniform of the Greenville Pirates, and stood for a few moments in front of a full-length mirror. It was the first time he had ever seen how he looked from head to toe in a professional uniform. The feeling was almost overwhelming. It felt good to be back.

  “You ready to warm me up?” Ray asked.

  “Well, you may have to warm me up first.”

  “No problem, boss,” Ray responded. It had been years since he had heard that. Gene just smiled in reply. “Let’s go see if you can still catch a ball.”

  Gene and Ray walked through the door out of the locker room leading to the dugout, then up the stairs to the field. Besides being nervous, the beer and onion were working hard inside Gene. After five minutes in the sun, he started to get dizzy.

  The friends were playing catch, and Ray spotted it right away. “Hey, Gene. You okay?”

  Gene nodded, then shook his head and fell down on his knees, vomiting into the grass.

  Ray trotted to him and knelt on one knee. “Holy shit, Gene. Are you sick? You got a fever or something?”

  “Yeah, I think I do,” he replied, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “And I’m nervous as all get out.” Gene climbed back to his feet, and the two resumed playing catch. Another player had seen him vomiting and took a large cup of water out to him. The gesture did a lot to steady Gene’s nerves and settle his stomach.

  “Hey, Gene, let’s make for the plate,” suggested Ray. “And no offense, but you smell really bad. For the rest of the day, I want you to stay at least sixty feet, six inches away from me!”

  Gene waved him off with his hand and walked toward the plate. He strapped on his gear and pulled his mask over his face. His ankle was already stiff and sore. When he tried to squat down, the stiffness only increased. He tried again, slowly. This time there was stiffness and pain. He stood back up again.

  “Ray, I can’t squat down,” he admitted, jerking his mask off. “My ankle won’t bend that way.” Gene looked scared. He had only caught a handful of pitches in the past four years, all of them within the last two weeks. Each squat had been painful. Today, of all days, was the worst.

  Ray nibbled his lower lip, as he always did when he was thinking about something. “Well, Gene, you can’t stand up, because the batter’s gonna take your head off,” Ray replied. “How are you gonna squat if you can’t bend your ankle?”

  “I have an idea,” the catcher answered. Gene squatted down on his right leg and extended his left leg straight out to his left side for balance. “I’ve tried this a few times. I think it might actually work.”

  Rays looked unconvinced. “Can your right leg take all that pressure? Nine innings of that?”

  Gene shrugged. “We’ll see. If not, Bob can take me back to the train this afternoon. Let me take a few pitches, and we’ll see how it goes.”

  Ray turned around and climbed the mound, shaking his head all the way to the rubber. When he got there he turned around. When he saw his old friend behind the plate he could not help but smile.

  Gene lifted the mask and smiled back. “Ray, no matter what happens, I want you to know that seeing you again from behind the plate is something I never expected to see again. It feels really good.”

  “Likewise, boss,” answered the pitcher. “Here’s something easy to begin with.” Ray wound up and sent a smooth medium speed pitch across the plate. The ball popped into the mitt. It felt good—really good. Gene took it out and looked at it, rolling it around slowly in his fingers as though he had never seen a baseball before.

  It was June 30, 1949. Ray Laws’ pitch was the first ball he had caught behind a plate since August of 1945.

  Chapter 33

  The Second Shot

  “I’ve never let balls past me before like this,” Gene grumbled to himself after the game. “Nothing for the record books, that’s for sure.”

  Gene’s greatest source of pride as a catcher was that almost nothing got past him. But today, in the first inning, two pitches slipped through. Unfortunately, the second one scored a run. A big run. The Pirates ended up losing 4-3 against a team from Birmingham, Alabama.

  Gene batted three times. He struck out the first two attempts, but connected well on his third. The ball sailed into deep left field, and for a moment Gene was sure he had tagged a home run. The ball, however, dropped twenty feet shy of the wall, where the outfielder pinched it into his glove for the out. Although discouraged by his inability to hit the ball, he was most disappointed in his two errors—his passed balls. One was outside and sailed over his glove. It wasn’t that high or wide, but Gene completely missed it. The second was in the dirt between his legs.

  As Gene walked off the field he recalled the first time he met Ray Laws. Ray was worried then because he pitched so well that no one could catch him. In the Navy, Ray had relied on Gene, and Gene had made Ray look great. “Ray needed me today, and I let him down,” was all Gene could think about as he did the best he could to hide his throbbing lower leg from onlookers as he walked toward the dugout.

  Gene was standing at his locker after showering when Ray walked over to him. Only a few players were still in the room. “Well, boss. Tomorrow’s another day, and another game.”

  “Maybe for you, but if I was Skip, I’d send me home,” Gene said with disgust as he threw his mitt to the bottom of his locker.

  “You didn’t have your best day—so what? You haven’t played a game in almost four years, and you really connected with that last ball. There are guys who start who wish they could hit it that deep. Besides, it’s the first bad day you’ve had in almost four years! No one else here can say that.” Ray laughed, but Gene didn’t see the humor in his performance.

  “I’ll tell you what happened today, Ray. It’s never happened before, and if Skip keeps me for another day, it will never happen again.” Gene looked around and moved closer to Ray. “I was just not ready to play.”

  Ray shrugged. “Yeah, well, it’s not like you haven’t been through a lot, you know? Tim Milner used to call you ‘Mr. I Wake Up Thinking About The Game,’ do you remember?”

  The long-forgotten nickname finally brought a small smile to his face. “Where is Tim, do you know?”

  Ray shook his head. “We lost touch after the Dodgers’ traded him.”

  “I had no idea I would start as soon as I got off the train,” Gene continued, needing to discuss his poor performance. “I figured last night was my last night to have a few drinks. I really don’t know why. I’ve had enough over the last few years to last a lifetime, but I did. When Bob picked me up from the train and told me I was starting, I almost jumped out of his truck!”

  “Yeah, well Skip is like that.”

  “Moore! Come see me!” Skip bellowed from his office.

  Gene sighed and looked at Ray, who didn’t acknowledge hearing Skip. No one else in the locker room did, either. Everyone knew, or thought they knew, what it meant. Gene put his hand on Ray’s shoulder. “I stunk, but you know what? It was a good day anyway. I got to play baseball again.”

  “Yes, Skip?” Gene said quietly when he stepped into the manager’s office.

  This time Skip looked up when Gene arrived. “You played in the Navy with Ray, right?”

  “I did.”

  “Baseball?” Skip asked sarcastically.

  Gene’s heart skipped a beat. �
��Yes, Skip. Baseball.”

  “You were a catcher?”

  Gene hung his head. “I know I didn’t play well today, and I’m sorry.”

  “When was the last time you caught a game?” Skip asked.

  “You don’t want to know,” Gene responded.

  “Damn it, Moore! Don’t you tell me what I want to know. I asked you a direct question!”

  Gene raised his head and looked at the manager. “About four years ago, give or take.”

  “Give or take, you say?” mumbled Skip as he rummaged through a drawer, found a cigar, and stuck it into his mouth. “That explains why you forgot how to squat behind a plate,” he said, speaking out of the side of his mouth, throwing up his arms at the same time.

  “No, I didn’t forget anything. I have two steel bolts attaching my ankle to my leg. That explains the stance.” Gene replied, a bit more boldly and proudly than he felt. “It’s the only way I can get down, Skip. My ankle doesn’t bend any more. I was injured playing in the Navy.”

  The manager removed his cigar, studied it a few seconds, and threw it against the wall. The pencil behind his left ear clattered onto the desk.

  “Damn it, Steve! Get in here!” he yelled. “Are you listening to this? We released another catcher for this guy?” Steve Burgner was Skip’s third base coach. He was outside speaking to one of the players when the manager demanded his presence.

  “What’s wrong, Skip?” Steve asked, poking his head into the office. When he saw Gene, he looked away.

  “What’s wrong?” answered the manager. “I’ll tell you what’s wrong! Frank Boudreau’s prize catch hasn’t caught a ball in almost four years! Count ‘em, one-two-three-FOUR!” As he ticked off each year, Skip unfurled a finger on his right hand. When he hit four, he turned his hand palm out and stuck it in Steve’s face.

  Steve looked at Gene. “Is that right? Four years?” Gene nodded.

  “Where the hell’s my cigar?” asked the manager. When he spotted it in the corner, Skip walked over, picked it up, and stuck it back in his mouth. He had removed his jersey, and the muscle T-shirt he had on beneath it was soaked in sweat. “He can’t squat behind a plate. He’s out of shape, and while we are on the subject, he smells like he has beer and onions sweating out of his pores!”

  “I’m sorry I wasted your time,” said Gene, finally breaking his silence. “I didn’t really wanna come here, anyway.” He turned and walked out of Skip’s door and back to his locker.

  Burgner followed him out. “Moore, hold up!”

  “Listen, coach. I don’t need this crap,” Gene said. “I broke my ankle in the last game I played, in 1945. I have two bolts holding it together. I was great once—maybe the best. That’s what others told me. I’m not anymore. It’s about as simple as that.” He grabbed a towel and wiped the sweat from his face. “I didn’t ask to come here. I got a letter saying you needed me. Frank Boudreau came and got me!” Gene turned and threw his towel into his locker.

  “Forget Skip!” Ray interjected. “He’s just a grouchy old man. I do need you, Gene. If you can get yourself back together, who cares about your stance? We can win some games. Maybe have some fun, and who knows, I think we can be playing in Pittsburgh before we know it.”

  Burgner nodded and offered a half smile. “Moore, shake it off. The old man is just trying to get your goat and motivate you. I think he sees something in you, kid.”

  “Well, tell him thanks. I feel all warm and fuzzy inside,” Gene shot back. There was a long uncomfortable silence. Gene broke it by asking the obvious question. “So what now? Am I staying, or should I head back to the train station?”

  Burgner laughed. “Where do you think you are? The train only stops in Greenville twice a week, so you’re stuck here until day after tomorrow, which gives you two more shots at keeping your job. Come on guys, let’s go grab a beer and a sandwich.”

  A wave of relief swept over Gene. “No beer for me, but I’d love that sandwich.”

  Gene, Ray, and Steve were walking toward the door when Skip stepped out of his office. “Moore, hold on a minute. Gene, right?”

  “Yeah, it’s Gene.”

  Ray looked over at Steve and asked under his breath, “More motivation?”

  “You’re a veteran. I respect that,” Skip began. His voice was much kinder than it had been a couple minutes earlier. “I just got Frank Boudreau on the phone. He said I would be a damned old fool not to give you more than a single game’s chance. I told him I thought he was a damned old fool for sending you here, but you served your country, and I’m grateful to you for that. If the Pirates can’t give a veteran a fighting chance to make this team, well, we shouldn’t be in this game. The Pittsburgh Pirates may not be the most successful organization in baseball lately, but by God we are grateful to our veterans. You deserve a chance. So let’s see how you do tomorrow. You’ll be catching an easier pitcher.”

  Gene sighed with relief. “Thanks, Skip. I’m grateful. I won’t let you down.”

  “I have no tolerance for ballplayers who show up not ready to play. You show up again smelling like alcohol, and you are gone. Is that fair enough?”

  Gene shook his head, looking down at the floor, obviously embarrassed that Skip had to say it. “Yes, Skip, that’s more than fair.”

  The manager yanked the unlighted cigar from his mouth and picked a piece of tobacco off his tongue. “And I know all about that damn onion trick Bob tries to pull on me once in a while,” he continued, pointing a calloused finger out the door toward the diamond. “You can tell that brick-making bastard I’m wise to him.”

  “Yes, sir,” was all Gene could think to say.

  Skip extended his hand to Gene. “I might have been born at night,” he said with a smile, “just not last night. The onion didn’t cover a thing. Are we agreed, then?” Skip looked around at Steve and Ray as if seeking agreement. He wasn’t. It would be as he demanded, or it would not be at all. He stuck the cigar back in his mouth. “That smells like an agreement,” he spat from the side of his mouth. “Now get the hell out of my locker room.”

  Once the door was slammed shut Ray turned to Gene and Steve, and began laughing. “Well, I’m certainly motivated! Let’s eat!”

  Chapter 34

  Back in the Game

  Gene, Ray, and Steve headed for Burger & Stein, the local hangout that all the ballplayers frequented. The place served up hamburgers—or gut bombs, as the guys called them—cooked on an open grill, and served ice-cold beer in tall frosted mugs, which was exactly what a ballplayer wanted after a hot day under the Mississippi sun. Unless your name was Gene Moore, in which case you settled for a bottle of RC Cola.

  Burger & Stein was a surprisingly cozy neighborhood bar on a quiet residential corner a few blocks from the field. “It’s not Bruno’s,” Gene thought as they walked in, but it looked good to him anyway. Most of the other players were already there.

  “So tell me about this team,” Gene said, as he, Ray, and Steve sat down in a corner booth.

  “Well, other than the coaches, we’re the oldest men on the team,” Ray laughed. “It seems strange, but most, if not all of the others, they’re not even old enough to have served at the end of the war. Can you believe that?”

  “There’s a load of talent here, though” Steve said, “but yes, they’re very young. They look at Ray as the old-timer, and he’s only twenty-six!”

  “Tell me a little about yourself, Gene,” Steve said. “Ray’s been telling us you’re the greatest catcher he has ever played with.”

  Gene smiled into his bottle of soda. “Well, Ray is a loyal friend, but maybe a bad judge of talent. We spent the war together, playing ball overseas, North Africa, the Azores, even Louisiana. I used to be pretty good, I guess.”

  “Used to be pretty good, he says,” Ray said. “This guy was the glue that held the Navy team together. He’s the best defensive catcher I’ve ever seen. He has an arm like a bazooka. I’m not so sure he doesn’t throw harder than me. At the plate, he�
��s Babe Ruth reincarnated,” continued Ray, “you know, a regular Baby Ruth! Don’t let him give you that ‘pretty good’ crap. Gene Moore is the best there is, period.”

  Steve looked over at Gene, who was actually turning red from the compliments. All three men knew the use of the present-tense description was no longer accurate. “And he’s modest too,” added Steve, tilting his head at the catcher.

  “No, not modest. Not really,” Gene paused, looking down at the table. “I just know it’s not all true anymore. I haven’t played for almost four years, and my ankle and foot are so swollen after today’s game, I could barely get my shoe on. I struck out today, twice. I just don’t want to get anyone’s expectations too far out of whack.”

  “Well, let’s see, Baby Ruth, arm like a bazooka, glue that held the team together,” Steve said, “We don’t expect too much! Besides, everyone strikes out, right?”

  Steve glanced back and forth between Ray and Gene. The smile vanished from his face. “What? What did I say?” Steve asked.

  “He’s never struck out twice in a row, so this day was especially hard to take,” Ray answered for his friend.

  Gene shrugged and added, “That’s no big deal, I guess, given everything else.”

  “What? That’s not possible,” Steve protested.

  “No, Steve, it’s a fact,” Ray insisted.

  “Well, it doesn’t matter. It will never happen again,” Gene declared.

  “Hey, Martha,” Ray hollered. “Can we get some service over here?”

  “Hold your horses, Ray,” the short squat woman in the apron said as she placed an order at the bar. “The way you guys played today, you’ll be lucky if I come to your table at all!”

  “Hey! Be nice!” Ray laughed. “Martha is our biggest fan—and our harshest critic.”