Playing with the Enemy

by Gary Moore

  “Heinrich? Heinrich Mueller?” Gene jumped from his stool and knocked it to the floor in his hurry to get up and greet the German. Both men stood for several awkward seconds, unsure of how they should greet one another. They shook hands, leaned this way and then that way, and finally embraced in a heartfelt hug.

  “What in the world are you doing in Bradley, Illinois?” asked Gene as he stepped back and looked at a man he had not seen in fourteen years, and never thought he would see again. “How did you get here? How did you find me?”

  Heinrich sighed and used his hands when he talked, as he always had. “Well, you see, there are many reasons for my visit. I wanted to come back to America, only this time as a friend and not a prisoner,” he laughed. “I also wanted to see my old friend, Gene Moore.”

  Gene motioned for Heinrich to sit down “Let me buy you a drink. Judy won’t believe this. You have to meet her.” Gene looked at the German and shook his head. He was as dumbfounded by the man’s sudden appearance as he had been when Frank Boudreau stepped into Bruno’s ten years earlier.

  “What are you drinking?” asked Heinrich as he sat down next to Gene.

  “I’m watching baseball, so I’m drinking RC,” Gene laughed. “Old habit, I guess. I never drink when watching baseball. Would you like a beer?”

  Heinrich shook his head. “No, I find American beer, well, I’ll have what you’re having.”

  Skinny had not missed a word of the conversation, so when Heinrich finished speaking he left and returned with an RC Cola, which he deposited on the bar in front of Heinrich, along with a glass of ice. Skinny eyed the stranger suspiciously. He had never seen anyone who had fought for the Germans in World War II.

  Heinrich nodded his thanks to Skinny and turned back to Gene. “It is a day for surprises. Judy and I have already met. I left Julia, my wife, and our son at your house with Judy. We have been visiting there for two hours now, waiting for you to finish working. Judy dropped me off here, but said I should come inside alone.”

  Gene chuckled and shook his head. “You’re kidding! You’ve been at my house with Judy?”

  “And Gary Warren and Debra Jean,” Heinrich said. “You have a fine family, my friend. We both have much to be thankful for.” Heinrich raised his glass of soda and Gene did likewise.

  “How did you get to my house?” Gene asked.

  “We have time, yes?” Heinrich asked. Gene nodded. “My old boat, the 505, is now on display at your Museum of Science and Industry in Chicago. You can’t imagine our surprise—or our embarrassment—when we learned after the war you Americans actually captured it! We were sure it had sunk. Now we understand why we were kept away from everyone else and were not allowed to send letters home.”

  “We didn’t know much, either,” Gene replied.

  Heinrich nodded and continued. “When we received news the boat was saved and put on display, we made plans and traveled from Germany to see it. It was hard decision—harder than I thought it might be. She looks good. But the memories, the pain of that day—ah, well, it is the past,” Heinrich said, clapping his hands once in front of him and wiping his palms against one another several times as if washing them.

  “But how did you find me?” asked Gene.

  “The world is a much small place today,” he continued. “You told me where you lived several times—Sesser, Illinois—and that it was ‘close to Chicago.’ I never forgot that. I explained to the staff at the museum about you, and they helped me find your telephone number. I called and spoke with Judy. She invited us to your home. She thought it would be a good surprise.”

  Gene just shook his head in amazement. “It is a wonderful surprise,” he replied. “I think of you often, of course, but when I read they were moving your boat to Chicago—what was it, four or five years ago now?—I began to hope somehow we would meet again. Last year, I met another old friend. His name is Buck Nelson. He was my coach in the Navy. He was on one of the destroyers that captured U-505. He visited the sub and called me when he was in town. He’s doing great, owns an insurance agency in Indianapolis.” Gene lifted his glass, drained what was left, and asked Skinny to bring another bottle of cola. He turned back to his friend. “I’m sure glad they saved that old U-boat!”

  Heinrich lifted his glass. “I will drink to that!” Gene lifted his glass of ice, and together they clinked glasses.

  “Are you still playing football?” Gene asked.

  Heinrich shook his head. “Football is over for me. As you can imagine, my country was in shambles, and there was no organized league when I returned. And no time to play games. The British would not let me, a German, play. I got a position teaching English at what you would call high school here, and I coach football there. But I no longer play, and that is fine. I have Julia and our new son. Many times aboard U-boats I was sure I was dead, but I managed to jump off the devil’s shovel over and over again. Life is good for old lucky Heinrich!” Both men laughed. Gene stopped first and became suddenly pensive.

  “Heinrich, I’m sorry. I know football was your life—at least that’s what you told me in Louisiana.”

  Heinrich shot Gene a puzzled glance. “No, football was not my life,” he said slowly as he shook his head. “It was something I did. I enjoyed playing football, very much. I was good at it. But it was never who I was. I did not define myself by a game. Now, my life is Julia and my son. They are all that is important to me now. Football,” he shrugged, “it is a game. So I kick the ball into the net. What does it prove? What does it mean? Does it put food on my plate? Does it raise my son? Does it rebuild the country I love and erase the terrible mistakes we made? Now, I teach Gene to kick the ball into the net.”

  Now it was Gene’s turn to shoot Heinrich a look of bewilderment. “Thank you, but I can’t play baseball anymore because of my ankle. So I’m sure I can’t kick a ball.”

  Heinrich laughed. “I don’t mean you, Gene. I mean my son, my little Gene! I named my son after you. I name him after the great Gene Moore! His name is Warren Eugene Mueller and we call him Gene.”

  Gene was nearly speechless. “I don’t know what to say, Heinrich, other than how honored that makes me feel. I can’t wait to meet your family.”

  “May we leave soon, then, and go to your home?” Heinrich said. “There we will all meet.”

  Gene nodded. “Yes, but tell me first how can you can say football was not important to you? From our long conversations on the ball diamond, I got the impression it was all you cared about—all you wanted to do.”

  Heinrich paused and thought carefully before answering. “Let me say it this way, Gene. Today, I miss football but care more about my family and the present. I told your wife, Judy, that I was there when you broke your ankle. She told me how sad you are about not playing baseball, that you think about it every day, all day and that it is eating you up inside. I understand this feeling, Gene. But think for a moment,” he continued, placing a forefinger against his temple and tapping it several times. “If you were playing baseball on the radio or television right now, you would not have met Judy. You would not have your three children and a fourth on the way. You cannot know what else might have happened to you—maybe something worse than what did happen, yes? This makes sense to you?”

  Gene listened to each word before tilting his head back to look at the ceiling. He sighed and faced his friend. “I know. I know what you are saying is logical and true. But Heinrich, you don’t fully understand. Baseball was my destiny. It is what I was supposed to do. It was the only thing I could do.”

  Heinrich lifted his shoulders and held them in a high shrug for several seconds. “So now, be a good father and a good husband. Judy loves you because of who you are, not because of what you once could do. Baseball used you for your talent, and once it was used up, it did not need you anymore. Your family will always need you, Gene. I learned from you while I was your prisoner. You think you taught me how to play American baseball. But you—and even Ray Laws—taught me much more. Now, maybe
I can teach you something. Baseball was not your life and it never was. I don’t believe a game was ever your destiny or you would be playing it today. Your game was only a path that led you to your destiny, which is your life with your family.”

  Gene listened and knew every word was true, but accepting reality had always been difficult. “Heinrich, you don’t fully understand what I had in the palm of my hand.”

  “Gene, hear me,” Heinrich said putting out a hand gently holding his friend’s upper arm. “After all that happens on this earth, our lives are only about who we love, who loves us, and what we build together. You have confused baseball with life and love it too much, and so you are only a bitter man, sitting alone in a bar. Love your family, and you build something for the ages.”

  Heinrich drained the last swallow of RC from his glass and continued. “Gene, you have something priceless. You have a wife who picked you up when you were down. She told me the whole story. She gave you strength to stand up again. She loves you and does not care if you catch or hit a ball. You have adopted Judy’s youngest son. You are going to give him a wonderful life.”

  “Yes, I love him as if he were my own,” Gene said. He could feel his eyes tearing up.

  “Yes, of course a man like you would. You are their provider, their teacher, and the living example they have of how a man should live his life. That is more important than any game or any team. Your family is now your team, yes?”

  Gene nodded his head. “Yes, I guess so.”

  “Good,” replied Heinrich. “Then you must teach and lead your family the same way you taught and led your baseball team.”

  To Gene, the realization of what Heinrich told him felt like a punch in the gut. He didn’t know how to respond, and did not trust himself to make eye contact with Heinrich.

  “Let me ask you a question, Gene,” Heinrich asked. “Do you love Judy?”

  Gene slowly turned his head and looked at Heinrich. “Of course I do.”

  “Do you love David, Gary, and Debra Jean?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “If you had not broken your ankle, where would you be today?”

  Gene thought for a moment. “I would probably be catching for the Dodgers, or with some other professional team in the majors.”

  “Yes,” Heinrich said. “I suppose you would be, given how good you were.” Heinrich was beginning to wonder if Gene would ever fully understand what he was trying to tell him.

  “Gene Moore, if you had to make a choice right now, a choice between playing baseball or having your family—this very family that you have—which would you choose?”

  The question caught Gene off guard. “I don’t have to make that choice,” he slowly replied. “If I did, my choice would be to have both my baseball career and my family.”

  “But that is not an option, Gene. The loss of your career led you to this wife and family. Yes, you could have your career without your broken ankle and you may have had a family, but not this family. Judy told me how you met. Do you not see the hand of God at work here, bringing you together? It sounds like Judy may have saved your life. You were brought together at a time when you needed her. But she also needed you at the very same time. Do you believe that it was chance?” Heinrich leaned closer and looked Gene firmly in the eye. “It was not an accidental meeting. It was meant to be. So I ask you again, which would you choose?”

  Gene’s eyes slowly filled with tears, but this time he did not turn away. “I wouldn’t trade this family for anything. Not for money, not for fame and … and not for baseball.”

  Heinrich smiled and patted his arm. “You now have exactly what you want in life, and know it is more important than any game.”

  “Thank you,” Gene whispered.

  “There is nothing for you to thank. I still owe you more than you can ever know.” Heinrich looked at his watch. “Ah, it is getting late. Come and meet my son and wife.”

  Gene nodded and pushed back from the bar. “I can’t think of a better idea.”

  The Cubs game had ended and Skinny clicked on the radio as they were walking out. Billy Grammer’s hit song was playing: “… wanna see my baby … want to see her bad … she’s the best girl, this poor boy ever had …”

  A few minutes later, Gene and Heinrich pulled up in front of a small little yellow house on the corner of Crestwood and Longwood Drive. Judy met them at the door holding their baby girl in her arms. She was six months pregnant with their next child. Gene put his arms around her and pulled her close. It was as if he had not seen her in months.

  She pushed him back and laughed, “What’s gotten into you?”

  Gene just smiled at Heinrich and replied, “This is a great day.”

  My dad stopped talking and looked at me. He didn’t have to say anything else. I knew exactly what he meant.

  Chapter 42

  Death of the Boy Who Loved to Catch

  Gene Moore spent the rest of his life devoted to his friends and family. He drove a bread delivery truck from 1954 through 1973. He had no love or passion for such mundane work. It was just a job, something he did to make a living to support all of us. And then, in 1973, his life changed again.

  Exactly how it happened I am not sure, but Gene took a job selling vacuum cleaners with Filter Queen, a direct-selling company. He loved it. For the first time since being cut from the game of baseball, Gene was passionate about his work. He loved to sell, and he was very good at it. After less than a year he was the number one Filter Queen salesperson in the nation.

  In 1974, Gene and Judy Moore started their own Filter Queen distributorship. They worked hard and well together, night and day, to make their little venture succeed. And it did. The whole family helped in the business. When I graduated from college in 1976, I began working with my mom and father full-time. Together, we built a successful selling operation with more than 50 employees.

  Gene Moore had found a renewed sense of purpose and direction in his life. To him, conducting business was a game—a challenge. It was something to go to bed thinking about, and something to look forward to doing again the next morning.

  Gene and Judy Moore at their 25th wedding anniversary in 1978. Gene is holding his grandson, Toby, while Judy is cradling grandson Brandon Scott.

  Friday, May 13, 1983, started like any other day. Gene climbed out of bed about 7:00 a.m., took a shower, and enjoyed a cup of coffee with Judy while watching Good Morning America. He arrived at work about 9:00 a.m., placed a few phone calls, joked with and motivated some of his employees, and then drove to Chicago Heights for a luncheon meeting with me. During lunch, dad made an uncharacteristic statement. “Well, today is Friday the thirteenth,” he told me. “This is the first of three Friday the thirteenths this year. If I make it through this day, I think I’ll be okay.” His observation struck me as odd because Gene was not a superstitious guy. Maybe he was just joking around, but it did not sound like it. To this day, I don’t know why he said it.

  After lunch, Gene drove to another appointment in the western suburbs of Chicago and had dinner with Chuck Smith, a business associate. Dad left for home about 6:30 p.m. and arrived two hours later after fighting his way through rush hour traffic. He was pale and exhausted when Judy met him at the door. Dad had already removed his sport coat and loosened his tie. When Judy saw him, he was holding his left arm. His watch, which he wore on his left wrist, was later found on the floor of his car.

  Judy hugged him and helped him into the house, where he collapsed on the floor. He died there, with Judy by his side. Gene Moore left Judy’s life while lying on the floor—the same place he had entered it.

  He was just 57 years old.

  Judy was the only person who knew the intimate details about Gene’s remarkable life story until my dad opened up and bared his soul to me just twenty-four short hours before he died. It was Judy who had shared his secret, his burden, his inner turmoil. She provided the strength Gene needed to carry on.

  My mom never remarried. She lived
in Indianapolis, Indiana, until her death on January 3, 2004. She told everyone until the end of her life that the only man she ever really loved was Gene, and that was enough for her.

  Looking back now, decades later, I realize just how little I really knew about my parents when I was growing up. A few memorable incidents from the shadowy past of my youth only make sense now. The passage of time has a way of clarifying what was once confusing.

  When I was about twelve years old, I was shopping with mom and dad at Montgomery Wards. Dad wandered off and I followed him into the sporting goods department. He stopped in front of a rack of baseball bats on an aisle end cap. I had no idea what was going on in his head, but I could tell his mind was somewhere else. He slowly reached for a bat and slid it carefully out of the rack. He took it in his hands lovingly, as if he was holding something he adored. I stood next to him and heard him say slowly and softly, “You know, there are no two of these in the world that are exactly alike.” I didn’t say anything because it was obvious he was not talking to me. “Every one is different,” he continued, “slightly different in weight.” As he held the bat in his left hand, he began running the index finger of his right hand carefully and deliberately along the grain. “The balance and feel, the grain patterns from different cuts of the same tree or a different tree altogether, make each bat unique. The bat has to match the personality of the batter or they are unequally yoked. But when you find the perfect match, it is as if magic happens. Every bat has its own personality and temperament.” He sighed. “No, there are no two bats alike anywhere.”

  I was just a young kid, and so had no idea what he was talking about. What I do remember is how much it bothered me because it did not sound anything like the dad I knew. I had never heard him talk that way before about anything—especially baseball.

  As we both stood there, staring at the same object but seeing two entirely different things, my mom walked up behind us, put her hand on Gene’s shoulder, and slowly turned him to face her. The bat he was holding slowly dropped to my dad’s side, where it hung loosely gripped in his left hand. He took a deep breath, sighed deeply, reached out his right arm, and pulled her close. They embraced for what seemed to me an eternity. Looking back, I understand now he was transferring the emotion that holding the bat churned inside him into his wife—the only person in the world who could truly understand what he was thinking and feeling at that moment.