by Gary Moore
“What will it be, boys?” the waitress asked as she walked up to their table.
“Martha?” Ray began the introduction. “This is Gene Moore. Gene and I played together during the war in the Navy.”
She studied him closely. “You’re that new catcher. What’s that thing you were doing with your left leg? I ain’t never seen a catcher do that before.”
“Hi, Martha,” smiled Gene sweetly. “It’s nice to meet you, too.”
“Gene’s a trendsetter, Martha. I bet within the year, all the catchers will be doing it,” Ray said with a serious look on his face.
Martha looked at Steve, who nodded in support of Ray’s statement. She squinted her eyes at Ray. “You pull my leg all the time, so I don’t believe half of what comes out of your mouth, Ray Laws.” She pretended to pout for a few seconds before asking, “Really?”
Gene shook his head as Ray and Steve burst out laughing. “Martha, I broke my ankle in a game in 1945. Bolts hold everything together. My ankle doesn’t bend in a way that allows me to squat on both legs, so I have to stick my left leg out to the side.”
“Oh, sorry to hear that,” the waitress replied. “You related to that other Gene Moore?”
“No, not that I know of, but everyone asks.”
Martha looked at Steve and asked, “What can I get you boys?”
“We’ll have three beers,” Steve ordered, “and three burgers.”
“Make that two beers,” Gene chimed in. “I’ll have an RC Cola with my burger.”
“Ray?” Martha asked.
“I’ll take the beer, and have Gene’s, too!”
Gene, Ray, and Steve spent the next few hours eating, drinking cola and beer, and talking baseball. Before thirty minutes had expired the whole team had gathered around their booth. Ray began by telling stories about their time in the Navy, but soon enough it was clear that Gene was the life of the party. He told several hilarious jokes, shared Navy baseball stories with the guys, and laughed like he had not laughed in years. Ray couldn’t help but notice how captivated the players were: Gene held them in the palm of his hand. He had seen it before in Africa and Louisiana.
As the evening wore on, and the alcohol continued to flow, Steve suggested to Ray that they call it a night. “We have a game tomorrow. You’re not pitching, but Gene and these kids are playing, and I’m afraid they’ve all had a little too much to drink—except Gene, here,” said Steve as he patted the catcher on the shoulder. “If Skip walked in here right now, he’d have all of our heads.”
“Good idea,” Gene said. “Ray, I’m staying with you. I need to soak this ankle and get some sleep. Ready to call it a night?”
“What?” Ray asked. “Have you forgotten how to have a good time, Gene? What have you been doing in that little hick town back in Illinois, anyway? We’re just getting started!”
“Ray, I can’t afford to show up not ready to play. I’ve already tried that. I don’t have your magic pitch and Skip isn’t going to cut me any more slack. I have to be ready to play.”
Ray nodded in agreement. “Alright, okay,” he replied, reaching over to hug Gene and spilling the last inch of beer in Steve’s mug. “I’m just so happy to see you, Gene. A little celebration was in order. I’m ready to go now. Besides, you’re starting to sound like a cross between my mother and Skip—and that’s one ugly combination!”
As the players slowly made their way out the front door, Steve pulled Ray to one side. “Gene’s only been here twelve hours, and these kids love him. Man, he knows every subtlety of this game, that’s for sure.”
“The guy has it, Steve. Ballplayers are drawn to him because they know he knows everything about baseball. It was that way in the Navy. But it’s not just kids. In North Africa, many of the officers took their lead from Gene and even looked to him for approval. It was weird, frankly. Age didn’t matter then and it doesn’t now, either. Anyone who spends time with Gene loves him. What do they call it?”
“Charisma?” answered Steve. “What we need is a catcher who can catch your pitch and show up to the field each day ready to play. I like Gene a lot, but I’m not sure he is up to it any longer. I guess we will know tomorrow.”
Ray’s face suddenly grew serious. “Gene will show up ready to play. He didn’t have a drink tonight—did you notice that?”
“Ray, you knew him four years ago. Things change. Skip was right. I don’t know if he was drunk when he showed up today, but he sure smelled like it.”
Ray remained quiet for a moment, picking his next words carefully. “I know, Steve. He talked to me about it. He wasn’t expecting to play today. He’s embarrassed and he’s sorry. You give Gene Moore two weeks to find his game—just two weeks, regardless of what he does tomorrow or the day after that—and you’re gonna see what this guy’s made of.”
“I’ll talk with Skip.”
Ray smiled and slapped Steve on the back. “Boy, are you in for a show. Together, Gene and I are unstoppable.”
Gene was leaning against the lamp post on the corner when Ray caught up with him. “Ready to go, boss?” he asked.
“I heard what Steve had to say, Ray.”
“I wouldn’t worry about it,” Ray answered.
“I’m not, which is sort of surprising to me, but I don’t want you to worry, Ray. I want you to know you can count on me to give you whatever it is I have left. In truth, Steve’s right. I wasn’t ready to play today. You asked what I’ve been doing in that hick town for the last few years. I think you have a pretty good idea now.”
“Gene, forget it,” Ray said, slapping the air with his hand as if trying to wave away the truth.
“I’ve been drowning the pain of being out of baseball by drinking,” Gene continued. “Last night on the train, the thought of failing scared me near to death. I was so afraid I could hardly tie my shoes. So I had a few drinks. Then I had a few more.”
The conversation made Ray uncomfortable. “You’re here now, boss, and we’re gonna win some games together, just like old times.”
“I hope so, Ray—you have no idea how much I want that. But I need to finish telling you. I decided in Bob’s pickup, on the way from the train station to the stadium, not to have another drink until I’m back on track, and maybe not even then. I’m not gonna have another drink until we truly have something to celebrate. Please don’t ask me to drink with you, Ray. I never really liked it that much. I did it to deaden the pain. I need you to help keep me in check. Can you do that for me?”
Ray nodded and swallowed. “Gene, I would do anything for you, and you know it.”
“I do know it,” he answered. “I’ve got a second chance here. I know it is a ridiculous long shot, and I wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t pulled for me—you and Frank. I won’t let either of you down. And I can’t let my friends back home down. Everyone’s counting on me.”
“Sounds fair to me, boss. If ‘true confessions’ are over, can we go get some sleep?”
Chapter 35
I Heard You Was a Hitter
Three weeks had passed since Gene arrived in Mississippi. He was finally getting his game back. His team loved and respected him, both for his skill and his personality. Gene made them laugh, but most importantly, he inspired them to play harder and better than they thought possible. He had become the unofficial captain of the team—on and off the field. Gene still suffered intense pain in his ankle, but his focus was once again on the game of baseball. True to his word, he did not have a drop of alcohol in Mississippi.
Gene and the team celebrated hard, in victory and sometimes in defeat. Everyone enjoyed being with him after the game, having fun and talking baseball. Even his hard, crusty manager began to ease up on him. To everyone’s surprise, Skip began taking a real interest in each of his players, both professionally and personally. For the first time in a long time, he demonstrated a genuine concern for them as human beings, and not just ball players. Even more shocking was the discovery that Skip had a sense of humor. Sometimes, during p
ractice or on the bus, he would tell a joke or two. He even stopped by Burger & Stein once in a while to enjoy a celebratory beer with his team. As the relationship between the players and their manager improved, so did the team’s performance on the field.
And every Greenville Pirate knew who to thank. There was no doubt Gene’s influence had brought about this welcome change in Skip and the Greenville Pirates.
“Too damn bad about that ankle,” Skip said to Steve one afternoon as the coaches watched Gene practice behind the plate. “He plays so damn hard, but he can barely walk off the field after a game. His arm is still a rocket, though, and his bat is outstanding—what’s he batting? .378?” Skip shook his head. “This kid could have been one of the all time greats, but he wanted to teach the Krauts how to play ball. Can you believe that? Now that’s irony for you.”
Steve nodded in agreement. “That’s true, Skip, but the players love him and his coaching ability is invaluable. He has such a positive influence on them. He’s still got something.”
“Charisma,” Skip replied. “Moore’s got charisma. One of those infectious personalities that are as important in the locker room as they are on the field.” Skip sighed and looked up at the clouds gathering in the western sky. “I love this game, Steve, but there are parts of it I really hate.”
“I know.”
“I don’t think he’s got much of a future left in baseball. That … damn … ankle.”
“Maybe he’ll end up with your job,” Steve said while doing nothing to try and hide his wide grin.
“I sure hope he ends up with something,” Skip replied. “It’s hard not to love this guy. He plays with such passion. Some of these kids whine about a sore finger or sore muscle or sore this or that. This guy plays every play in pain—and loves it! Go figure.”
Skip pulled his wet cigar from his mouth and turned to face Steve. “I’ve seen ballplayers who enjoy this game, but this guy, he’s different. I think you come across a ballplayer like Gene Moore maybe once in a decade, maybe not that often. Thirty years in this game and I can count ‘em on one hand. One!” And then he proceeded to do just that.
The next day, the Greenville Pirates took their rickety fifteen-year-old bus up to Tuscaloosa for a three-game series with the Tuscaloosa Braves. Tuscaloosa was the best team in the league, and had a comfortable four-game lead over their nearest rival. Leo “The Mouth” Gambini managed the Tuscaloosa organization. Leo and Skip were arch rivals. The Pirates’ manager could think of nothing sweeter than to sweep Leo off his home field with three wins in a row. Skip liked his chances. Roger “Frog” Roussell was pitching that afternoon, and Ray was starting the next day.
The door to the locker room was slightly ajar, and Skip smiled when he heard laughter pouring out of it. Inside was a team whose players were beginning to believe they could win, often and big. He was about to enter when he heard a familiar voice behind him. “The Mouth” was approaching. Skip reached out and closed the door. The sound of his enthusiastic team was replaced by the voice of a man he disliked more than anyone he had ever known.
“Well, if it’s not Jim Middleton,” Leo said, extending one hand in the air while the other held a smoking cigar. “The Mouth” refused to use Skip’s nickname.
“Hello, Leo,” Skip responded with a fake smile, returning the handshake.
“How’s the team, Jim? I hear you’ve got a peg-leg catcher and a bunch of kids!” Leo laughed, continuing to hold onto Skip’s hand.
“Yeah, that about sums it up, I guess,” replied the Pirates’ manager out of the corner of his mouth. He shifted his own cigar to the right side of his mouth with his tongue. “We aren’t much to look at, Leo, but we hold our own.” Skip looked Leo right in the eye, tightened his grip slightly, and pulled the opposing manager in close. “I don’t think we’ll embarrass ourselves today.” Skip let go of the hand like it had the plague.
Leo stuck his cigar in his mouth and began puffing up a storm. “No, I’m sure you won’t. You take your teams to respectability, even if you can’t win the games that matter.”
Skip folded his arms and leaned against the locker room door. He could still hear the laughter of his team from within. “Leo, do you need something? If not, I think I’ll just head into the locker room and get ready for the game.”
“Hey, Jim. No offense. I didn’t mean you weren’t a good manager. You just haven’t had the talent on your team to put together a run at a pennant.”
“No offense taken, Leo,” the manager lied as he opened the door and moved to step inside. He hesitated and then turned around. “We’re different, you and me. See, I save my energy for the game. You waste yours talking about it before it even happens. I guess that’s where you get your nickname.” Skip slammed the door hard in the face of “The Mouth.”
“Alright, guys, gather round and sit down!” Skip hollered. The players did as he asked.
“You know, I’ve been around this game for a long time,” he began, his voice soft and almost gentle.” I’ve seen it all, and done most of it myself. Some of it, I shouldn’t have done. But believe it or not, I’ve mellowed with age.” The room filled with laughter as elbows dug into rib cages. “But one thing I’ll never get used to is listening to that fat son-of-a-bitch”—Skip pulled out his cigar and pointed it behind him, over his shoulder—“sit on his butt on the other side of the field and run his mouth off!”
Shouts and jeers filled the room. Skip let it continue for a few seconds before waving them into silence. “My mother always taught me to not speak ill of others, and so I won’t tell you exactly what I think of him,” Skip continued, his words prompting laughter once again. He lifted his palms to ask for quiet. “You know I don’t like to lose,” he began again. His voice was almost soothing. “Sometimes you do, and that’s that. You play hard, ball takes a bad hop now and again, some two-bit umpire makes a bad call because his eyes were closed—and that’s that.” Skip looked at each of his players in turn as he spoke. “But losing to that lousy son-of-a-bitch is intolerable to me!” he yelled out, kicking a trash can across the room with his foot. “I don’t care if you like me, but I do demand that you play hard for me. I want to sweep that rotund mouthy bum and his team out of here over the next three days. If we do that, we will gain three full games on them and put ourselves right back in this race. That is exactly what a championship team—I said a championship team!—does. Can you do that for me?” Every player jumped to his feet and shouted with enthusiasm.
The manager waited until they had nearly shouted themselves hoarse. “You should also do it for yourselves,” Skip added. “Can anyone tell me why?”
“Because that’s what champions do?” asked one of the younger players.
“Now this boy has something upstairs.” Skip sighed, removed his cap, and rubbed his head. “Let’s face it. The Pittsburgh Pirates are the worst team in the National League. Hell, they have not won a pennant in years. They’re looking hard at their farm teams to see who they can find to bolster their line up. They’re looking for winners … for champions. They’re trying to build a pennant winner, but are missing a few pieces of the puzzle. I would like to think those pieces are right here in this room.” Skip took a long look around before adding, “Let’s go get ‘em.”
Gene grabbed his gear and looked around for “The Frog.” He was standing in the back, tucking in his jersey. “Hey, Frog, you heard the man. We gonna win today?”
Frog smiled and nodded. “You keep me calm and focused, and I’ll take care of the first win.”
“That’s fair enough. We’ll call that a deal,” smiled the catcher. “Just keep ‘em low and away from these guys. Make them reach for the ball. Keep them off balance. You got a great team behind you that will play good defense, so don’t get too troubled if they hit you. Follow my mitt, and we’ll deliver a win for Skip.”
“You got it, Gene.”
By the time Gene and Frog walked out, the rest of the team was throwing balls. Gene squatted with his left
leg extended, and Frog began warming up. After about a dozen pitches he began to throw harder. The problem was he was all over the place. “This should be interesting,” Gene thought. He took a few more pitches, stood, and winked at Frog. “Calm down, Frog. We’ll be fine. Low and away, low … and … away.”
Gene and Frog were sitting in the dugout when Skip stepped in. “How you feeling, Frog?” he asked.
“Feeling good, Skip.”
“Okay, we need you at your best. Can’t let that son-of-a …”
“I know, Skip. I know,” Frog cut in.
“I mean … can you hear him?” Skip asked as he got up and began pacing up and down the dugout. He turned to face the team. “Are you listening to him?” Skip yelled, pointing his unlighted cigar toward the opposing dugout. “He runs his mouth all day, all night, never stops. You know what he said to me outside in the hallway? Huh? Do you know?” No one said a word. “He said this team had a peg-legged catcher and was nothing but a bunch of snot-nosed kids and geriatrics.” He turned to Gene, and asked, “What do you think of that Gene?”
Gene’s jaw tightened as he stood and faced the rest of the team. He cleared his throat as though he was about to give a speech. Then he broke out in a toothy grin. “Sounds like a pretty good description of our team to me, Skip.” The entire dugout hooted and hollered at the unexpected answer. Two of the players were laughing so hard they fell off the bench. Gene looked over at Skip. He was nodding without smiling. The catcher sat down.
“Fine,” Skip replied, doing his best to hide a smile. “He’s about to get his ass beat by a peg-legged catcher and a bunch of know-nothing yahoos. Damn it, now. Don’t let me down!”
Greenville shortstop Mike Kick opened the game at the plate. He swung on the first pitch of the game and hit a looping fly ball over the second baseman’s head for a base hit. “Now that’s how I like to start my games!” thundered Skip, who had threatened to light his cigar if they didn’t win the game. The second batter, Bernie Thompson, took four straight balls and trotted down to first base.