Two in the Field

by Darryl Brock

She looked some more, then apparently reached a decision. “Cora Dickey,” she announced in a no-nonsense tone. “Climb in. You’re acquainted with my menfolk—Mr. Dickey and our boy, Alex, who’s fixin’ to be somebody’s brother.”

  As I swung up into the wagon’s bed I glanced at the waist of her calico dress and saw that she was indeed pregnant. To Dickey’s “Geeyaa!” we set off with a lurch that nearly sent me overboard. After that, I held on to the board sides as we swerved and bounced along the ruts. At length the grasslands gave way to carpets of wildflowers. Cora Dickey pointed out pink-blossomed Sweet Williams that perfumed the air. My sinuses should have shut down by now. Instead, I seemed to be breathing easier.

  “Got an appetite?” she said, and opened a wicker basket. Soon we were sharing smoked ham and cornbread and sweet pickles and currant pie—all washed down with cream-thick milk.

  “Alex, get him some lick for that dodger,” Cora commanded.

  Huh?

  The boy passed me a jar of molasses.

  “All this from your farm?” I said.

  “Mostly,” she replied. “Mr. Dickey got the corn in early this year, which is why we’re making this special trip to town.”

  “What caused you to stop back there?”

  “I noticed this big bird circlin’ over the slough,” she said. “Somethin’ about it sparked my curiosity.”

  And brought them to me.

  “It’s peculiar that Maw wanted to stop,” Alex said. “She usually can’t wait to clean the general store outen soft goods.”

  “Lucky for me you did,” I said.

  “Oh, you could walk to town once the heat slackened,” Dickey offered. “Iffen you knew the way.”

  “Folks get lost easy on the prairie,” Cora said. “You can go weeks sometimes without seeing another soul.”

  I pointed to the northeast, the direction the bird had flown. “I think I’d have gone that way.”

  “You’d be in a fix,” Paw said. “Ain’t nothin’ that way.”

  Maybe not, but even as I pointed I felt an odd tingle.

  “Where do you come from, Mr. Fowler?” Cora asked.

  “San Francisco.”

  “Oh.” She gave her husband a long glance. I wondered if he’d told her his twister theory. If so, she must be thinking it was a hell of a long way to be blown.

  “Says he had his own car,” Alex said pointedly, “and crashed it in the slough.”

  Her eyebrows lifted. “But the Pacific Railroad don’t run anywhere near …”

  “There’s horse cars in town,” Dickey pointed out. “It was dark, after all, and Fowler ain’t sure what happened to him.”

  “Ain’t no car in that slough,” the boy said. “That’s fer dang sure!”

  Cora glared at him. “Alex, your mouth!”

  “What day’s today?” I asked, unable to wait any longer.

  “Saturday,” the boy said promptly. “Eighth of May.”

  I’d driven out of Keokuk on the sixth. So, just as before, a real-time correlation existed between the two eras. I’d been in the future two years. Which made this 1871. Cait and Andy and all the rest were alive again.

  I’d done it!

  We passed a limestone quarry and some farms. Town buildings appeared in the distance. From the wagon floor Alex produced a baseball bat that looked hand-hewn.

  “Don’t be a-wavin’ that,” his mother cautioned.

  “You play on a team?” I asked.

  “Naw, we’re too far from town,” he said. “Paw tosses corn cobs for me to wallop, though.” He looked at his father. “We’re still buyin’ me that Ryan?”

  Dickey nodded. “I promised it.”

  I smiled happily. Ryan was the leading manufacturer of post-Civil War baseballs.

  Alex fidgeted with his bat. “We gonna be in time for the match?”

  My ears pricked up. “What match is that?”

  “Me ’n Paw are goin’ to the ball grounds while Ma piles up our supplies,” he answered. “I been waitin’ weeks!”

  “Who’s playing?”

  “The Westerns.” He saw my puzzled look. “That’s the Keokuk nine. But my ideal plays for the enemy. Sweasy of the Reds.”

  “Sweasy?” I echoed. “How’d you know about him?”

  “Saw him star last summer when I visited my cousin in St. Louis.”

  Sweaze, you bastard! Picturing the Stockings’ chunky second baseman, I nearly let out a celebratory howl. We’d been antagonists, but now I felt a rush of affection.

  “You’ve heard of Cap’n Sweasy?”

  Captain? Alex had that wrong. Harry Wright would always be the Stockings’ captain. It didn’t matter. The team was here! Just as before, I’d come back to meet them.

  “I played with Sweasy.”

  That brought incredulous looks from all of them.

  “On what nine?” Alex said suspiciously.

  “The Red Stockings. Two years ago I was a sub.”

  “Ever make a home run?”

  “Once.” I pictured the ball soaring out of the Union Grounds. Being congratulated by Andy and the others at home plate. A sweet memory.

  “Honor bright?” he pressed.

  I solemnly crossed my heart. “Honor bright.”

  “If you truly know him, will you take me up to him?”

  “I’ll introduce you to the whole team.”

  “Dang!” the boy exclaimed, tugging his cap lower on his head. “That’ll be the beatinest! I’ll lord it all over Jed Brewer!”

  “Don’t you get biggety, Alex,” his mother cautioned.

  On Keokuk’s outskirts we passed modest frame houses whose unpainted, weathered exteriors little resembled the beautiful restorations I’d seen. No phone or power lines overhead. No roof antennas or satellite dishes. No traffic lights.

  It all looked beautiful.

  Cora Dickey waved to somebody in front of the Female Seminary as we turned onto Main, the busiest street. My eyes feasted on the citizenry, most of whom were farmers like the Dickeys; among them were a scattering of clerks wearing high paper collars, several gents with fancy-handled canes, and a pair of women in heavy panniered dresses puffed out at the hips. The women busily worked their fans in the thick heat. Around us, carriages and carts moved to an accompanying thud of hooves and cracking of whips. Odors of dirt and leather and animal waste worked the air. High plank sidewalks were fitted with carriage steps and hitching rings.

  Gas streetlamps … yes!

  I felt alive.

  Opposite the imposing brick “Athenaeum”—I gathered it was an art school—we pulled up in front of the three-story Mercantile Emporium, a shoppers’ paradise.

  “Grateful for your help,” I said, helping Cora down. Into her palm I slipped a ten-dollar gold piece I’d pried from my money belt. Previously, I’d arrived in this century with worthless currency and credit cards. This time I’d brought a Victorian travel kit. In my belt were nineteen more gold eagles I’d picked up from coin dealers, none dated after 1869.

  She looked as startled as if I’d snatched it from the air. Filthy and addled I might be, and likely a tramp—but with astonishing resources. After some argument she insisted that I accompany her into the store and get change. She would accept fifty cents, no more.

  Inside, I bought a new shirt and discarded my running shoe for a pair of low-heeled boots. I couldn’t find pants long enough to fit me. Cora handed the half-dollar to Alex, who emerged from the Emporium with a new white baseball.

  The boy could scarcely contain himself as we left her behind to shop and drove north from Keokuk’s center. On our right the Mississippi shone like a burnished mirror, its surface rippled from shallow rapids above; dredging was underway there to allow steamboats upriver. The Chicago, Burlington and Quincy depot sat next to the Gas Works, whose classical arched windows seemed out of keeping with its smoke-blackened chimneys. I wondered if the Stockings would be departing by river or by rail. Either way, I intended to go with them.

  “Wh
ere’s the ballpark?” I asked. “The grounds, I mean.”

  “Walte’s Pasture,” said Dickey, pointing ahead.

  “It’s called Perry Park now,” Alex protested.

  “By any name,” Paw retorted, “it’s a turned-under cornfield.”

  He had it about right. There were wooden bleachers, a shack for the players to suit up in, an outhouse, and that was it. A rising breeze funneled dust spouts on the pebbly diamond. A cow hollow graced center field. As I watched, a Keokuk player nearly took a dip chasing a windblown fly.

  The crowd was sparse, only a few hundred. Hard to imagine Harry Wright bringing his club all the way out here and scarcely making expenses. I bought a penny scorecard and stub pencil for Alex.

  “Cap’n Sweasy!” he exclaimed. “Over there!”

  Sure enough, the stocky figure of Sweasy stood outside the dressing shack. Same pugnacious thrust of chest and jaw. My pulse speeded. Andy would be inside.

  “C’mon!” Alex said.

  I started to realize that something was wrong. Although Sweasy’s leggings were the familiar crimson, his cap and pants were gray instead of white. On his tan jersey, scripted in old English letters, was not the name of the city I expected to see, but rather St. Louis. My brain seemed to stop working as I glanced down at the scorecard I carried, and read, “Keokuk Westerns vs. St. Louis Red Stockings.”

  And the date: May 8, 1875.

  FOUR

  No recognition showed in Sweasy’s stony stare. He’d put on flab, and his nose showed a network of tiny broken vessels. I had no trouble believing that he’d aged six years to my two.

  “Sweaze,” I said. “Been a while.” I didn’t bother putting out my hand. We’d never been bosom pals.

  He studied my face and finally rasped, “Fowler.” He didn’t appear to be overcome with pleasure.

  Relief washed over me. A confirmation of sorts. At least he remembered. “Is Andy here?”

  Evidently it was the wrong question. Sweasy’s mouth tightened and he said nothing.

  “The boy admires you,” I said, aware of Alex shuffling his feet.

  “You’re my favorite,” Alex told him.

  Sweasy warmed a bit. I recalled that he’d had a soft spot for kids. “How about signing Alex’s new ball?”

  “Why?” Sweasy said suspiciously.

  I’d forgotten that autographs weren’t yet in vogue. “As a souvenir.”

  Ballpoints and Sharpies didn’t exist, of course, so I had to find a pencil. Sweasy grudgingly scratched his moniker. Alex, looking thrilled, took back his ball like a holy object and hustled off to show it to his dad.

  “Don’t mind doin’ it for him,” Sweasy said pointedly, staring at my mud-splotched Gap jeans. “That what they’re wearin’ at the county farm?”

  “What?” Only later, replaying it, would I get what he meant.

  “Why’d you show up?”

  It caught me off balance. Not why here. Not why now. Just why. I couldn’t think of a good answer and was spared further effort when Sweasy’s teammates began to troop from the clubhouse, their spikes clomping on the boards. They were young and sunburned and wore droopy mustaches reminiscent of the Oakland A’s of the 1970s. One or two reeked of liquor. As Sweasy turned to join them, I said, “Can’t you at least tell me where Andy is?”

  He twisted his head. “Likely with Harry Wright’s damn pack of pets.”

  I watched him walk away. What did that mean? Boston? I knew that Harry and George Wright had gone there after the Cincinnati club disbanded, and later Andy joined them. Was he still there?

  The scorecard vendor also sold newspapers. I bought the Daily Gate City and scanned the florid summaries of recent games. Several clubs had been “calcimined” (shut out) for lack of their hitters “applying the ashen poultice to the tosser’s swift pacers.” Certain fielders suffered “fits of muffing” while others “prettily took hot line balls.”

  Victorian sportswriting—an acquired taste.

  Boston hadn’t played, so I gleaned nothing about Andy. Yesterday, St. Louis’s Reds had lost their opener against the Westerns, 15-2. Scanty attendance. Maybe that accounted for Sweasy’s mood.

  His team looked lackadaisical during warmups, and Sweasy’s labored efforts at second were uncharacteristic of the smooth-fielding infielder I remembered. Witnessing it worried me. Six years had passed. Anything could have happened to Cait. For a moment the hot sunlight took on a hint of milkiness and again it seemed that something was tugging at me.

  “You feelin’ proper?” Dickey asked, leaning across Alex.

  I took a breath and nodded.

  On the diamond, things didn’t appear to have changed much since ’69. No gloves or protective equipment. Pitcher working underhand. Hitters calling “high” or “low” or “belt” to indicate where the ball should come. Catchers ten feet or more behind the plate, moving closer only with runners on. Foul bounds still outs.

  The biggest difference was pitching. Previously, the rules had prevented Brainard and his peers from delivering breaking balls; umps had scrutinized them for sneaky twists of fingers and wrists. But these pitchers worked more like submarine-style moundsmen of the future, with whipping motions that produced plenty of ball movement. No wonder the paper listed shutouts now.

  I pointed out to Alex the oddity that each team’s shortstop—Hallinan for Keokuk, Redmond for St. Louis—threw lefty. Two southpaw shortstops in the same contest.

  He looked at me as if to say, So?

  The general level of play was well below that of my old Stockings mates. The exception was Sweasy’s centerfielder, a sure-handed whippet with enormous range named Art Croft. In the fifth inning his territory expanded further when the Reds’ right-fielder crashed like a spouting whale into the water hollow and crawled out clutching his knee. Sweasy applied this era’s sports medicine by rubbing dirt on the injured spot, binding a wet tobacco chaw over it, and promising to find some arnica later. But the player couldn’t walk and the Reds, apparently unable to afford a substitute, had to continue with eight men.

  The Westerns took advantage by dumping several hits into the short-handed outfield. Sweasy waved his shortstop deeper and moved closer to second. He looked like a tactical genius when the next hitter powered a double-play grounder right at him. But the ball caromed off his shin and Keokuk led 1-0 as the lead runner scored.

  In the bleachers the heat was brutal. I realized I wasn’t the only one suffering when the Reds’ first baseman, one of the booze-reekers, toppled face-first to the turf. Sweasy watched, cold-eyed, as he was dragged into the shade of the stand. He conferred with the Western captain. Five innings had not been completed; if the game ended by forfeit, admission money would have to be refunded. Sweasy appeared to be pleading to continue with seven players. Alex said it was against league rules.

  Sweasy’s eyes swept over the stand and fastened on me.

  “He’s coming up here,” Alex marveled.

  So he was. Sweasy climbed up the bleachers and stood before me, face dripping. “Fowler,” he said, his tone almost cordial, “how ’bout standin’ in for us?”

  “Do it!” urged Alex.

  I smiled, part of me enjoying Sweasy’s predicament after the welcome I’d gotten. No way I’d run around on that broiling lot.

  “You wouldn’t have to do nothin’, just join in so the match is legal.”

  I shook my head.

  “I’m in a pinch, Fowler.” He sounded weary. “You helped out before …”

  His saying it brought to mind that the Stockings had taken me to Cait the first time. Maybe it was supposed to happen like this. Maybe baseball had to be part of it. “What do I get in return?”

  Alex stared at me, astonished that I’d quibble over the chance of a lifetime.

  “How ’bout a half share?”

  “I don’t want money.”

  “What, then?”

  “Where’s Cait?”

  His face clouded. “Okay, I’ll tell the little I know�
��but after we’re done.”

  Wondering what I’d let myself in for, I followed him to the dressing shack. The near comatose player, supine with a water-soaked towel over his face, barely reacted when we pulled off his jersey and pants. I managed to climb into them but could barely cram my feet into his spiked shoes. Forget trying to run, even if I were so inclined.

  “Don’t expect anything good,” I said.

  Out in right I could hear Alex yelling encouragement. The expanse to cover looked impossibly huge. Our pitcher was obviously trying to get the Westerns to hit away from me, and I was relieved when he managed it with the first hitters. The in-blowing breeze also helped hold fly balls up long enough for the ballhawking Croft to reach them.

  “Thank God you’re out here,” I told him after he sprinted far into my territory to pull down a liner.

  “You’ll do fine,” he assured me with a gap-toothed grin.

  Easy to think so when you’re twenty and all your parts work like oiled cogs.

  So far Sweasy’s hitters had scarcely touched the Western pitcher. Coming to bat in the sixth, my main hope was not to strike out with Alex watching. My timing was wretched, but I managed an infield popup. Sweasy didn’t look at me as I trudged back to the bench.

  “You’ll get him next time!” Croft piped up.

  I was starting to like this kid.

  In the seventh the Westerns’ solitary lefty poled a rising liner my way. I misjudged it, retreated too late, tripped and fell. By the time Croft retrieved the ball, the runner was on his way home. Four-base error. The Westerns went up 2-0.

  Sweasy turned and stared at me, hands on hips.

  I checked an urge to flip him off. Chalk one up for impulse control. Sjoberg would have been proud.

  With two outs in the ninth, our leadoff man walked and our second hitter reached base on an error. A passed ball moved them to second and third. Our next batter already had a couple of hits, and the Westerns didn’t look eager to pitch to him—especially since I was on deck and figured to be an easy out. While they discussed it, Croft came up to me.

  “I picked up something on their pitcher,” he whispered. “He bobs his head a tiny bit when he’s about to toss a curve.”

  “Don’t know if it matters,” I said. “I still gotta hit it.”