by Gary Moore
Gene was up next, with a man on first and second and no outs. As he started for the plate, Steve Burgner hollered down from the third-base coaching box, “Is this the peg-legged catcher I’ve heard about? I heard he was a hitter in the Navy. Show us how it’s done, Gene!”
The Sesser native took a couple practice swings and stepped into the batter’s box. The Braves pitcher, Robby Helling, wound up and sent a fastball high and inside. Gene swung and missed. The next two were low and away for balls. The count was now 2-1. Helling shook his head twice at the catcher, checked his runners, and delivered another fastball high and inside—the exact pitch he had first given Gene. With lightening speed, Gene turned on the ball and swung hard.
“Crack!”
Everyone knew it was gone from the sound alone. The centerfield fence was four hundred ten feet, and the scoreboard was easily another forty feet beyond and above the fence. Gene’s ball hit the scoreboard—hard. No one had ever hit the scoreboard in Tuscaloosa before. Gene laughed out loud and raised his fists in the air when he spotted Leo throw his cigar into the dirt and stamp on it with his foot.
It took awhile and it hurt a lot, but when he rounded third Steve was there to slap him on the butt. “Way to go, slugger!” When he crossed the plate, the two men he had knocked in were waiting to shake his hands and congratulate him. Ray ran all the way over from the bullpen and lifted him off the ground with a bear hug. “Holy shit, Gene. Way to go!”
Gene limped his way toward the dugout. The old feeling of elation mixed with total excitement had grabbed his soul again. Skip met him before he could sit down. “Gene, in my entire career, I have never coached a player who hit a ball that hard, and that far. If it weren’t for that damned scoreboard, I think it would still be going!” Skip walked back to his seat. “Peg-legged catcher! Is that what you called him?” he yelled toward Leo’s Tuscaloosa Braves. “Let’s see you run your mouth off about that!”
The Pirates held on to win 3-0.
Chapter 36
The Perfect Day
Game two of the three-game series against the Braves was played on a hot and sunny afternoon—a day made for baseball. The Braves always drew a crowd. The local buzz about Gene’s home run the day before had made the rounds, so the crowd for the second game was larger than normal.
Ray Laws was on fire beginning with the first pitch. He retired the Braves in order through the first four innings. Other than a few foul balls, no one was able to connect. By the bottom of the fifth inning, Gene knew he was watching history in the making. He had never seen Ray this focused, this perfect. He wasn’t speaking, he wasn’t even smiling. He just stared off the mound at Gene, got his sign, concentrated on Gene’s glove, and sent the ball sailing. Even though he was used to guiding and even controlling the game, Gene was not about to interrupt Ray’s rhythm. Three up, three down. Ray walked off the field, cold as ice and simply unhittable.
There was one problem, however, and it was beginning to tick Ray off. It was now the top of the sixth, and the Pirates had yet to score a run. Ray was pitching a no-hitter, but the game was still tied at 0. Gene knew Ray had pitched several nearly-flawless games in his career, and had lost most of them because of poor defense and quiet bats. Not today, Gene decided. He wasn’t going to let that happen to Ray again.
The bottom of the sixth closed like the first five: three strike outs in a row. Leo “The Mouth” had puffed on, thrown down, and stamped out half a dozen cigars, and looked to be at his wit’s end. He was nearly thrown from the game when a low pitch was called as the third strike against his best batter. Even Gene thought it was a ball. “The Mouth” ran onto the field and nearly mugged the plate umpire. If he was in any other park, Leo would have been sent to the showers. Turnabout was fair play, however, and the Braves quickly retired the Pirates in the top of the seventh.
Two strikeouts into the bottom of the seventh, Ray’s heart skipped a beat when the third batter, shortstop Don Warren, hit a long fly ball into deep left. It looked to be gone, but the outfielder caught it on the warning track and somehow managed to hang on when he slammed into the wall. Ray glanced at Gene, wiped the sweat from his brow, and walked off the mound. The score was still 0-0.
As the eighth inning began, Gene decided it was about time to break his silence. “Alright guys,” Gene said, clapping his hands together and moving through the dugout. “Ray’s been doing all the work. It’s time we joined him!”
“This one’s for you, Ray,” Big Jerome Kuntz announced as he headed for the batter’s box. “Big Jerome” was the first baseman. He stood two inches taller than six feet, weighed twenty pounds more than two hundred, and was as strong as an ox. But that wasn’t the only reason his teammates called the farm boy from Missouri “Big.” He could usually be counted on to smack the long ball, and his bat was desperately needed today. “Big Jerome” had fouled out twice, both times deep along the left field line. This time he connected with the first pitch and sent it over the left field fence. Although the next three batters went down in succession, the Pirates took the field for the bottom of the eighth up by one.
Ray Laws continued to pitch as though it was the first inning. His arm was loose, his shoulder still felt good, and his fastball had not lost a thing. His forkball was dropping down so well that not a single batter had touched it—even to foul it away. Like the previous innings, the bottom of the eighth was another exercise in flawless pitching. Big Jerome’s home run had motivated the team and given Ray enough of a second wind to continue his success. Three up, three down.
The same was not true for Gene. His ankle throbbed as he limped to the dugout. It had been bothering him since the fourth inning. By the eighth, the pain had become excruciating. No matter how he held his leg, the sharp stabbing agony was affecting his game play. Gene gritted his teeth and sat down on the bench to catch his breath. He willed himself to stay focused and hang in there for Ray. He had to finish what they had begun together. Ray had put down twenty-four batters. All he had to do was retire the next three, and his perfect game would be one for the books.
Gene led off the top of the ninth. He shuffled near the plate and took a practice swing. The pain from the easy twist soared up his leg and into his brain. He dropped his bat top down into the dirt and leaned on it to keep from falling over.
Skip saw what was going on and took a few steps toward his catcher. “Moore, you alright?”
Gene waved him off with a nod of his head and stepped into the batter’s box. So far he had struck out, flied out, and walked. Ray was having the career-best game Skip had demanded from each of them, but Gene was not, at least not with his bat. To make matters worse, his ankle was so swollen he could barely walk on it. He knew he would have to send the ball deep into the outfield just to get on base.
The pitch came in across the letters. Gene swung hard and missed. The pain was making it difficult to concentrate. He took the second pitch low and away for a ball.
“Damn!” Gene muttered under his breath when he fouled away the third pitch.
Steve, coaching as usual behind third base, clapped his hands and shouted, “Gene, that scoreboard is a bit too close! Can you move it back a bit?” Gene did not even step out to check Steve’s signal or acknowledge his joke.
The next pitch was high and away. Ball two. The count was now 2-2.
“Ball three,” the umpire yelled when the next pitch came in high and inside. The count was now full: three balls and two strikes.
Gene stepped out of the box and took a breath. He was rarely nervous at the plate, but this time was different. Ray had a perfect game going, and there was no room for error. All he could think about was giving him another run before going into the bottom of the ninth—and last—inning. He stepped back in and focused his eyes on the pitcher, worried that if he took a practice swing he might hurt something.
The Braves’ lefthander wound up and threw hard. The final pitch came in high and away and Gene should not have swung at it, but he did. The crisp crack
of the bat hitting the ball brought every player on both sides to his feet. Every eye in the stadium watched the ball sail high over the first baseman’s head into right field. The ball dropped about ten feet short of right-fielder Paul Milano. It should have been an easy base hit, and for anyone else it would have been. Milano knew Gene was hurting, and when he saw him limping up the first base line, he scooped up the ball and fired it to the first baseman.
“You’re out!” the umpire yelled, pumping his fist to the side. It wasn’t even close.
Gene limped back to the dugout, humiliated and ashamed. Never in all his years as a ballplayer had he ever seen someone thrown out at first base by a right fielder with a ball hit that deep. Ray met him at the entrance to the dugout with a big smile and a pat on the back. “Thanks, Gene. I’m grateful.”
“Grateful for what?” groaned Gene as he moved inside and sat down hard on the bench. “I just made an ass of myself! What makes you grateful?”
“If I don’t blow it, in about ten minutes I will have pitched my first no-hitter.”
Gene had no idea what he was referring to. “Ray, what the hell are you jabbering on about?”
Ray motioned for one of the players to scoot down, and took a seat next to Gene. “Yesterday, when you almost knocked over the scoreboard, you gave these people something to talk about for years.” The smile suddenly left Ray’s face. “I’m grateful you didn’t do it again! I want them talking about me tonight, not you!”
Gene was still mystified when the entire dugout erupted into laughter. A split second later Gene caught on and joined them. A few players threw their gloves at Gene, joking it up and trying to lighten the mood. “Yes,” thought Gene, “this should be Ray’s day.” They were still up 1-0, and the odds were they would win the game. The next Pirates’ batters struck out to end the inning.
Gene was strapping on his gear for the bottom of the ninth when Skip walked over. “Have you looked at your ankle, Gene?”
“Nope,” answered the catcher without looking up. “Don’t have to, Skip. I can feel it.”
“The damn thing is blowing up like a balloon, Gene” Skip said. “Can you finish this inning? I don’t think you can—or should.”
“What? You think I’m gonna miss this? We’re watching a future Hall-of-Famer at work here, Skip! He’ll be in Pittsburgh soon, and we both know it.”
“Well, I think you should watch him from here. I can throw Larry behind the plate for the final inning.”
“No way, Skip. Behind that plate I have the best seat in the house. I’m watching history being made, and I am the history-maker’s catcher!” Gene smiled, winked at Skip, and hobbled out to the plate.
“Damn shame,” Skip said to no one in particular as he walked back to take his seat on the bench.
“What do you think, Skip?” Steve asked as he sat down next to the manager.
“What do I think?” he repeated as he pulled his cigar out of his mouth. “I think that if it wasn’t for Gene’s ankle, we would be watching two future Hall-of-Famers today instead of one.”
Gene crouched behind the plate into his unorthodox squat and waited for Ray to toss a few warm-up pitches. Instead, the pitcher just stood there, shaking his head. Gene lifted his mask. “You want to throw a couple, Ray?” he asked.
“Nope.” He turned away from the plate and began rubbing the shine off the new ball.
“Let’s go, gentlemen!” shouted the umpire. “We have one heck of a game to finish up here.”
Ray struck out the first two batters with eight pitches. The next batter was Paul Milano, the right-fielder who had thrown Gene out at first base.
Ray motioned for Gene to come to the mound, but met him before he had taken more than ten steps. Gene spoke first. “Ready to finish this one off, big guy? I’d consider it a personal favor if you would strike him out.”
“How’s your ankle, Gene?”
“Focus on this guy, and we’ll talk about my ankle after the game.”
“You nearly missed the last two pitches, Gene. Can you hang on for three more?”
“I can hang on, Ray. Take care of business.”
Ray looked up into the afternoon sky and smiled. “I’m actually going to miss playing here in the minors.”
The catcher from Sesser nodded slowly. “I’m gonna miss it too, Ray. But I hear they have even better fields where we’re heading.”
Gene returned to the plate and crouched down. For a reason he couldn’t explain then, and never could for the rest of his life, the throbbing in his ankle had subsided. The pain was once again manageable.
Ray’s first two pitches were perfect: low and away, and low and inside. Milano swung at both and missed. The next three, however, missed the plate. The count was three balls and two strikes, and the crowd was on its feet. The entire game had come down to this, a single final pitch.
Ray looked at Gene for the signal, and the catcher called for his money pitch—the forkball. Ray nodded and smiled for the first time on the mound the entire game.
Milano took a practice swing, stepped into the box, and geared back, wobbling his bat back and forth as if anxious to swing it. He was a good and dangerous hitter, and was long overdue for one of his trademark standup triples. Ray wound up and let it fly. The ball came in fast and dropped, hitting the dirt right behind the plate. Milano thought the pitch was coming in just above the knees and swung hard, but missed. Gene tried to scoop it up, but knocked the ball out in front of him beyond the plate. It was a dropped third strike, and Milano took off running for first base.
Gene leaped up and forward as best he could, grabbed the ball, and was moving his arm back to throw it when his ankle gave out. He released the ball toward first base as he fell to the ground.
It was as if time slowed to a crawl. Gene watched the ball and the batter, moving in slow motion, both racing toward first base. Gene hit the dirt before he could see which got there first.
The reaction of the hometown crowd answered that question when the spectators erupted in loud cheers. Gene was on his back, pounding the dirt with his left fist, in time with the throbbing of his painful ankle. He had blown Ray’s perfect game by dropping a ball he had caught hundreds of times—and on a third strike! Before he could look up, Ray joined him in the dirt, screaming as loud as he could. Gene didn’t blame him for being angry. How could he not be?
“You’re amazing! Damn, boss, how did you do that?”
Gene lifted his head and shook it as if he was not hearing Ray correctly. Within seconds the entire team was leaping on Ray and Gene, rolling around in the dirt but being careful to leave Gene’s legs exposed and untouched.
“I got him?” Gene asked incredulously. “I GOT HIM?”
Ray pushed his face next to his friend’s and hollered, “I knew it! I just knew it! I just threw a perfect game, and at the very last moment you figured out how to upstage me!”
It was not only the players who ran onto the field. Skip was there with the rest of his team, pulling the guys off Gene and Ray, chomping down on his cigar and barking out orders. The manager looked over toward the Braves’ bench and smiled when he saw Leo “The Mouth” glaring in his direction, his hands on his hips and his head shaking side to side.
“A peg-legged catcher?” he shouted out, pulling his cigar from his mouth and throwing it at the opposing manager. “Did you see what this peg-legged catcher and bunch of kids did to your ball club?” Leo lifted his middle finger, turned, and left the field. Skip turned back to the pile, which had fallen away to reveal a very happy pitcher and catcher. “Let’s get some ice on that thing, Gene. Not a bad throw. Put a little more of at least one leg into it next time!” Skip laughed at his own joke.
“Sure thing, coach,” Gene replied with a smile as “Big” Jerome Kuntz slowly helped him to his feet.
Skip turned his attention to Ray. “Ray Laws!” he yelled, reaching out to shake his hand. “Congratulations, son. That was the best-pitched game I’ve ever seen. It’s certainly one I w
ill never forget.”
The team carried Ray and Gene off the field on their shoulders. Ray would not have had it any other way.
Chapter 37
The Day After Perfection
“Gene! Where have you been?” Ray was beside himself.
“I overslept a bit, but I’m on time. What’s the big deal? Where’s the fire, chief?”
Ray shook his head. “Skip’s on the warpath. I’ve been waiting out here so I could warn you before you went in.”
“Warn me about what, Ray?”
“Skip is fit to be tied,” replied the pitcher. “A couple of the guys are sprawled out on the floor in the locker room, and a few others are sitting next to the toilet. We kept them out too late last night, and he is madder than a hornet. And this one’s stinging today.”
They were entering the locker room when Skip yelled out, “Someone go over and get Moore’s ass out of bed and into my office!”
“I’m here, Skip,” Gene replied calmly.
Skip spun around and stared at Gene, narrowing his eyes as he looked him over from head to toe. He pulled his cigar out and pointed it at the catcher. “I told you how much I hate that fat son-of-a-bitch Gambini! I told you I wanted to sweep him this weekend, didn’t I?”
“Yeah, Skip,” Gene said, “And we’ve played twice, and won both.”
“Those games are over with! History! All I care about is today, and you went out with these kids and kept them out all damn night! I’ll be damn lucky if I can find nine healthy ballplayers to take the field! Mike Kick’s in the shitter right now turning himself inside out! Bernie Thompson can’t stand for thirty seconds without getting dizzy!”
Gene frowned. “Skip, with all due respect, those kids have minds of their own. I didn’t keep ‘em out, and I’m certainly not their keeper.” Skip just glared at him. “And in case you are wondering, I had four RC colas last night, and that’s it.”