by Gary Moore
“Gene?”
He blinked a couple times, took a deep breath, and reached out for Ray’s shoulder. “God I love this game, Ray,” he said as he put his arm Gene and Ray around his friend and squeezed tightly. “And I love walking out onto the field with you. I just wanted you to know that.”
Ray smiled. “I love it too, boss.”
Only one of them knew they would never do it again.
After Ray’s final warm-up pitches, Gene walked out to the mound. “I want this to be a special day.”
Ray smiled. “It is a special day! The next time we talk on the mound, it will be as Pittsburgh Pirates!”
Gene nodded. “Yeah, you’re right. But let’s make this our best game together—ever.”
“Sure, boss. Think we’re leaving tonight or tomorrow?”
“Don’t know, but it’s my job to keep you focused on the here and now. Let’s close out this place with a great game today, Ray.”
“You know it, boss. My arm feels great.”
Gene turned to walk back to the plate, but Ray stopped him. “Gene? I want to say thank you. You’re a big part of the reason I’m moving up today.”
Gene frowned. “What do you mean? You’re a great pitcher. You deserve to be brought up.”
“Every great pitcher needs a great …”
“You don’t need me,” he cut his friend short. “You don’t need anyone, Ray. You’ll knock’ em dead with or without me. Focus on this guy and let’s play ball. Forget about me, Ray. Got it?”
Gene returned to the plate knowing it would be the last time he would ever begin a game. Getting into position, he looked over the field, pulled the mask down over his face. He held his breath and waited for the two words he loved the most.
“PLAY BALL!” yelled the umpire.
“God, I love this game,” he said aloud. “I love to catch!”
“If you love to catch so much, quit yapping and call for a pitch!” said the umpire. Gene smiled and punched his fist into his glove as the lead batter stepped into the box. Ray was just beaming. “Might as well call for his best pitch first,” Gene thought. He flashed two fingers: forkball. Ray nodded, wound up, and let it fly.
Ray was right. The ball sizzled through the air and popped into Gene’s mitt. Ray was also right about the extra padding. That one hurt. “The first pitch of the last game,” Gene said softly to himself.
The game progressed well and Ray was solid all night. Gene hit two homers, ground out to second, and popped out deep in centerfield. He also threw a man out attempting to steal third. By the bottom of the eighth inning Greenville was winning handily 7-2. Gene stepped up to bat with two outs. He took a couple of practice swings and stepped into the box.
“This is it,” he said under his breath. “This is how it all ends.”
The first three pitches were all low and away for balls. Gene stepped out, took a practice swing, and looked at Coach Steve down the third base line. He signaled no swing. With three balls and no strikes, players ordinarily keep their bat still and make the pitcher throw a strike or take a walk.
“The heck with this,” thought Gene, as he stepped back to the plate. He leveled his bat across the plate and looked at the pitcher. “Right here!” he yelled. “Come on! Here!” The Tuscaloosa pitcher glared at Gene, spit a shot of tobacco to one side, and went into his wind up.
To the end of his life, Gene thought the pitcher intended to come in high and walk him. Instead, the ball dropped several inches and crossed the plate at his shoulders—or would have if Gene had not come around on it and given it a deep ride into left-center. The ball sailed all the way to the fence. He ran as hard as he could, but by this time in the game his ankle was so swollen and sore he was nearly hopping on one foot. “Come on, come on, come on!” he puffed as he rounded first and headed for second, the first base coach waving him on. The ball had gotten past the center-fielder, so a double looked easily accomplished. The fielder picked it up and fired it to the shortstop, who was acting as the cutoff man. Coach Steve put up his palms and signaled to Gene to stay put. Instead, Gene rounded second and kept running—or limping fast—toward third base.
“What’s he doing?” Ray yelled, jumping up from the bench. “Hold him up! Hold him up!” he yelled at the coach.
The third baseman was in position and waiting for the throw. Gene laid back and hit the dirt with his good leg down and slid toward third, but was easily tagged out.
“You’re out!” yelled the umpire, flashing the familiar pumping fist signal. But Gene didn’t get up. Instead, he rolled over in the dirt holding his bad ankle and screaming in agony. The umpire waved for Skip to come onto the field. Skip and Steve both ran out to third, but Ray beat them there.
“What in the hell were you thinking Gene?” Ray yelled at him. “You take a slide, are you nuts or something?” Gene didn’t answer. With his eyes screwed shut he rolled over, bared his teeth, and continued holding his ankle. Ray noticed the tears in Gene’s eyes and knew it had to be bad if he was crying—especially if Gene was not cracking some sort of joke about it. Ray and Steve helped him to his feet and carried Gene into the locker room.
“The doc’s on his way,” Skip said as Ray and Steve helped Gene stretch out on the bench. “Ray and Steve, what the hell are you clowns doing in here? Get back to the dugout!” Ordered the manager. “There’s a game still being played! You think I trust that bastard Gambini to not try and buy off an umpire or pull some sort of underhanded shenanigans while we’re in here!”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Ray protested. “I’m staying right here until the doc arrives.”
Skip put his beefy hands on his hips and glared at his pitcher. “Ray, this is your last game with us, and you need to finish it. Don’t make me have someone come in here and carry you out!” he shouted. “I am still your manager, and I am telling you to get your prima donna butt back into that dugout!”
Gene grimaced and nodded his agreement. “Go, Ray,” he uttered through clenched teeth. “I’ll be here when you come back.”
“Sure, boss, whatever you say, but no dancing, okay? We’re headed for Pittsburgh.”
“Yeah, no dancing. Now get back to the game.”
Once Ray was gone, Gene sat up and looked at Skip. “He’ll go. We just have to tell him my ankle is now completely shot. Then he’ll have no choice.”
Skip pulled out his cigar and threw it across the room, where it hit the far wall and disintegrated into several pieces. “Ah, damn it! That was one of the expensive ones!” Skip turned his eyes back to Gene. “Are you telling me you’re not hurt and this was all a stunt?”
“Does it matter, Skip?” asked Gene, a small smile forming around the corners of his mouth. “I’m gonna pack my seabag and get out of here before Ray comes back. As luck would have it, there’s a train heading north in just over one hour. I can still catch it. You just tell him … tell him I went to the hospital and I’ll catch up to him later in Pittsburgh. Okay?”
For once in his life, Jim “Skip” Middleton could not think of a single word to say. He just stood there and nodded, overcome with emotion.
Gene quickly changed into his street clothes and closed his locker with a slow push until it clicked shut. He stood there for a few seconds, transfixed. While one hand lightly caressed locker #26, the other wiped the corner of an eye. He sighed softly and patted the outside twice and limped out the door to go back to his boarding room, pack up his few belongings, and catch the train out of Greenville. He didn’t try to tell anyone else goodbye because he knew he would not be able to get the words out.
Skip, Steve, and Ray never saw Gene Moore again.
Chapter 40
Is That the Story You Expected to Hear?
A long silence settled across our table when my dad stopped speaking. I wiped my eyes for the umpteenth time that evening as I stared past my father into the bustling restaurant beyond, completely lost in his past. It took me several moments to regain my focus and remember it was May 12,1
983, and I was inside the George Diamond Steak House with my dad. It was dark outside. He had been speaking for hours.
“Gary,” my father whispered. I lifted my eyes to meet his. They were wet, too. My dad let out a long, slow sigh. “I guess that was the long answer to your question of whether I reported to Greenville.”
All I could do was nod. After all these years, I finally understood my father.
“Baseball broke my heart, and I was afraid you would follow in my footsteps. I didn’t want you to run the risk of being hurt, so I did everything I could to steer you away from baseball. The Pirates,” he shrugged his shoulders, “they gave me a fair shot. I could have, I would have, made it. But life is so strange. It’s shaped by brief and unexpected moments that spin you in a different direction. An instant,” he snapped his fingers, “can change everything. The Friendship Game with the German sailors … what would have happened if I just had stopped at third and not slid at home to score in a game that was meaningless?”
Dad stared down at the table, lost in his own thoughts for several seconds. “But had I done so we would have lost the game. If I had a chance to score and win, and didn’t take it—well, I just could not have done that. It isn’t in me. So instead, my life was forever altered. It was one of those brief moments that changed everything, forever.”
I nodded again, but did not say a word. I wanted to hear more, and I sensed he still had more to explain to me. Maybe more to explain to himself.
“I served my purpose, though,” dad continued. “I got Ray Laws to the majors.” Those seven words brought a wide smile to Gene’s face. “They had no choice but to let me go. I know it today. I knew it then. But that didn’t make it any easier when it happened, and it didn’t get any easier as the years passed.” His eyes filled with tears that finally, after all these years, began to run down his cheeks. He looked up and smiled. “So yes, I reported to Greenville. And now you know.”
I exhaled and leaned back in my chair. It felt as though I had been holding my breath for hours. My head was spinning.
What shocked me was that my dad, the once-great Gene Moore, was embarrassed by his past. At the same time I was struck by both the integrity of the man, and the burden he had been carrying for all these decades.
“Does mom know all of this?” I finally managed to ask.
“Of course she does,” he replied. “She knows everything about me.”
“How did you meet her?” It was only at that instant, when the words slipped from my mouth, that I realized I didn’t even know how my parents had met.
He pursed his lips for a second or two and said, “Well, again, it was one of those brief moments that change your life.” He looked up and caught the waitress’ attention. “May we get one more cup of coffee, please? Gary?”
“Yes, please.”
“I didn’t return to Sesser,” my father continued, picking up the story where he had left off. “I walked out of the locker room in Greenville and wandered around the South for a bit, doing odd jobs, mostly bartending and such. It took me more than a year to slowly work my way back home. At that time I felt like I had no purpose for my life. Really, I didn’t care if I lived or died. I started drinking again—a lot. By the time I got as far as Salem, Illinois, I was in terrible, terrible shape.” He paused and thought for a few seconds, as if wondering whether or not to share some slice of his past with me.
Judy (Jenkins) Moore in 1945. She spent the war years as a welder at the naval shipyard in Oakland, California.
“Your mom—or the woman who would one day be your mom—found me lying on a barroom floor. I think I was closer to being dead than alive, and why in the world she did what she did, well, she has never fully explained to me. She nursed me back to health and got me back on my feet. Your mom saved my life. I don’t know what would have happened to me and where I would be now without her.”
“Tell me more,” I urged him. “Tell me more about you and mom.”
As it turned out, Judy Jenkins and Gene Moore had a lot in common. Both had come of age during the Great Depression, and both had endured their share of heartaches and setbacks. Judy had been married to a man who beat her. She left him and took their three boys, Kenneth, Carl Ray, and David, and got a job waiting tables in the bar and grill where she found dad one night passed out on the floor. Judy had a friend named Ed who owned the local hardware store. She convinced him to hire Gene as a deliveryman. Judy and Gene began relying on each other in many ways.
Mom suffered the loss of her middle son, my brother Carl Ray, to polio in 1952. It was Dad who helped her through her grief. Dad never got over the loss of his baseball career, and mom never got over the loss of Carl Ray to polio. Early in 1953, Gene moved to Kankakee, Illinois, to try and find a better paying job. When he was hired at the ammunition plant in Joliet, he sent for Judy and her kids. Their mutual dependency grew into a strong relationship. Late in November 1953, Judy broke the news to Gene that she was pregnant.
Warren Eugene “Gene” Moore and Elnora “Judy” Jenkins married on November 27, 1953, at the Kankakee County Courthouse in Kankakee, Illinois. Gene’s sister Erma and her husband Francis served as witnesses. Gene and Judy were now set to begin building their life together. Gene switched jobs shortly thereafter and began delivering bread. Gary Warren Moore was born on July 21, 1954.
As we left the restaurant, I could not shake a question that had been nagging at me for a while. If Dad had not broken his ankle, he never would have met mom, and the family I loved so much would never have come into existence.
Gene Moore, holding his infant son Gary, complete with a baseball cap, in 1955.
We climbed into the car, where we looked at one another without speaking. I finally turned the key and slowly pulled out of the parking lot. Dad noticed how quiet I was. For a while he did not say anything. After a long bout of silence, he said, “Something else is bothering you, Gary. Is there anything else you want to know?”
“Yes, there is,” I replied with some hesitation. Was I afraid of the answer? I think I was. “Do you wish your life had been different?” He knew what I meant and pondered my question for a while.
“Let me finish the story.”
Chapter 41
Old Friends
Bradley, Illinois, June 13, 1959
Gene hadn’t bothered changing out of the blue shirt and dark blue trousers, which was the uniform of a bakery delivery driver, before heading over to Skinny’s Tap in Bradley, Illinois. He always worked until 2:00 p.m. on Saturday, completing his rounds early. Tired, he sank into his barstool and sipped from his glass of RC Cola.
“Hear this song, Skinny?” Gene asked.
“Yeah. It’s ‘Gotta Travel On’ by Billy Grammer,” Skinny answered. “It’s a big hit. They play it on the radio all the time. What about it?”
“I grew up with Billy. He was my best friend when I was a kid, up until the war broke out. Then we lost contact.”
Skinny dropped his mouth open. “You don’t say! Are you kidding with me?”
Gene nodded. “He used to sit in the bleachers and play his guitar, and watch us play ball back at The Lumberyard in Sesser. He was great then, but now—he’s the best in country and western music. I always knew he’d make it big. And he did.” Gene paused and sighed. “Billy’s living his dream.”
Skinny still wasn’t convinced. “Come on, Gene. You know Billy Grammer?” he asked. “I’ve never met anyone who was famous.”
“Yeah. I knew Billy real well. We were good friends. And I’ve met someone famous,” continued Gene.
Skinny’s eyebrows shot up. “Who?”
“I used to play ball with Ray Laws.”
Skinny raised his hand and waved away what he believed to be an obvious lie, and then began to chuckle. “Ok, you had me going there for a second. Now you’re going to tell me you grew up with Ray Laws, and he married your sister? Ray’s one of the best relievers in baseball today. That forkball pitch of his!”
Gene studied his gl
ass of soda. When he answered, his voice was soft and low, but his eyes were raised and staring directly into Skinny’s. “No, I didn’t grow up with him. I was his catcher for almost four years in the Navy, and then for a season in the minors in Greenville, Mississippi. I helped him move from the minors to the Pirates. I caught his perfect game in Greenville.”
Skinny’s eyes narrowed as he listened to Gene’s answer. “Yeah, I heard from someone a while back you played some ball in the minors, but you never talk about it. I didn’t know you played with Ray, though,” replied the bartender and he shook his head and began washing a glass behind the bar. “That’s really something, Gene. Boy, there’s a story for your kids someday.”
Gene nodded without speaking. He was watching the Cubs play on the small black and white TV above the bar when another customer walked in and approached Skinny at the other end of the bar.
“Excuse me. I am looking for a Gene Moore. Do you know him?”
Skinny looked up from his work at the sink and eyed the man warily. His accent was heavy—foreign. And he was dressed in clothes that did not look local. Skinny slowly nodded in Gene’s direction. The familiar voice had already caught Gene’s ear, and he slowly turned to see a face he never thought he would see again.