by Darryl Brock
I’d never seen him quite like this. Maybe our brush with mortality had reminded him of certain basic things in his life.
Like his mother.
EIGHTEEN
The near-constant din of chuffing locomotives and groaning cars on opposite sides of Boston’s South End Grounds put me in mind of Shea Stadium’s thundering air traffic. Beyond the ballpark rose smoke-stained mills and factories, their chimneys belching black clouds. The double-deck wooden grandstand was all square angles, ornamented only with SODA and REFRESHMENTS signs. Worst of all, the fences were topped by barbed wire. The stuff was very new, not yet much in evidence even on the plains, where it would become invaluable as fencing. The effect it produced here was about as friendly as that of a prison camp.
To Tim, though, it might have been the palace and gardens at Versailles. After convincing the gate man that he was Andy Leonard’s nephew, he practically dragged me to the clubhouse, which was spacious but spare in amenities: long board benches; nails on the walls for clothes and uniforms; a single zinc bathtub near the entrance.
Andy sat at the far end, rubbing his eyes. He liked to show up for games before anybody else, and he’d told us to meet him here.
Tim strode forward eagerly. “Uncle Andy!”
Startled, he stood and hugged the boy, then greeted me, blinking, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “You’ve grown, lad.” He looked beyond us. “Where’s your ma?”
There was an awkward pause. I’d wired from Hartford only that we were coming. He must not have not picked up on the fact that Cait wasn’t mentioned.
“Is something wrong?”
I shook my head. “Cait asked me to bring Tim here for a while.”
He frowned, trying to process it. “Why’d she ask it?”
“I want to be a ballist!” Tim exclaimed.
I gave Andy a glance that said there was more to it, and handed him Cait’s letter. “You’ve come to live with us, then?” he said, looking up at Tim. “You’ll be welcome, I’m sure.” His tone was subdued. “But first I’ll need to talk to Alice … Mrs. Leonard.”
Another awkward moment as we digested that.
“Look,” I began, seeing Tim’s face fall, “if this isn’t going to—”
Andy put his hand on my arm. “We lost our son,” he said softly. “Just a few days ago.”
“Oh, Jesus, Andy,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”
We stood unmoving for a moment. A train’s distant rumble seemed to sharpen the room’s silence.
“Having Tim stay with us will be fine,” he said at length. “In fact, I think it’ll help take our minds off … the other. But I have to tell Alice first, you see?”
“Of course,” I said. “We’ll get a room tonight.”
The Red Stockings hosted Chicago that day, and Andy asked if we were staying for the match.
“You bet,” Tim said, his eagerness briefly brightening Andy’s taut face as he bent to pull scarlet stockings over his spike-scarred calves.
“You reckon we shouldn’t have come?” Tim said as we neared the door.
“He’s preoccupied, that’s all.”
Outside we ran into Harry Wright, who boosted Tim’s spirits again by remembering him. Harry introduced a portly, balding man with muttonchop sidewhiskers and a forelock combed across his bald pate. I shook hands with Ivers Adams, the Red Stockings’ president, whose sharp, darting eyes flicked to the gate as he said that today’s crowd should be good-sized even with the temperature crowding a hundred degrees.
“Sit anywhere in the general seats,” Adams said expansively, as if giving us the key to the city. “No charge.”
Harry murmured something.
“Or you may sit in the covered stand,” Adams amended, “behind the regular club members.”
I thanked him and added, “That barbed wire’s quite a touch.”
“Fence armor,” Adams corrected, heedless of irony. “The latest thing. Keeps the street urchins from climbing over.”
Maybe so, but it was the worst ballpark feature I’d ever seen. I bought scoops of ice cream for us, and we settled in the grandstand. Tim’s misgivings evaporated in anticipation of a big-league game. The White Stockings were a so-so club given to unexpected exploits, but a month earlier they’d handed the Red Stockings their first defeat after opening the season 24-0. Such disparity was the Association’s biggest headache. Boston, currently 43-6, was so dominant that fans had fallen away. Still, today’s game held some interest. With new signees the Chicagos had lost narrowly, 8-7, to Boston only six days before, moved on to nip Hartford, 4-3, and now were back.
“There’s Deacon Fred!” Tim said.
Sure enough, among the Chicago players warming up was my old teammate, Fred Waterman, now showing touches of gray at his temples, but still moving well.
“Yay, Andy!” Tim yelled, as the Red Stockings came on the field.
Maybe he was inspired by our presence. Maybe he was simply glad to be out here, where the rules were clearer than those determining life’s outcomes. Whatever the cause, Andy played a fine game, lining three hits off the White Stockings’ hurler, one George “The Charmer” Zettlein, and making difficult catches on drives to left. I pointed out to Tim how tricky the outfield was, with fences at 250 in left, 225 in right, and shooting back dramatically to 440 in center. Andy handled his portion like a master.
Tim paid particular attention to shortstop George Wright, who looked spectacular as ever. In one dizzying sequence, with a man on first, a Chicago batter lined a tremendous shot at George that would have mangled his fingers if he’d tried to catch it. Instead of stepping aside in accepted fashion, George snagged the ball in his cap and promptly threw it to pitcher Spalding, who whipped it to second in time to force the dumbfounded runner and nearly nip the hitter at first.
“What happened?” Tim said.
“Beats me.”
We soon learned that although there was a rule against using caps as traps, the ball was back in play as soon as it returned to the pitcher. The Reds had doped out this loophole and used it to transform a run-scoring hit into an out. It was only one highlight in an afternoon that saw everything go Boston’s way. Sparkling team defense, Spalding’s pinpoint control, and well-placed hits resulted in a 6-0 win for the Reds. Tim grew quieter in the late innings, and I could sensed that he was intimidated. The pros’ smooth play was a galaxy apart from our Fourth of July game.
“Is there a junior club?” I asked a nearby fan.
He assured me there was and that it was a crack nine. He pointed to the Reds’ right fielder and said, “Manning came up from the Juniors. They’re playing here tomorrow.”
“Let’s see if Andy’ll come out with us,” Tim said, and ran down to his uncle as he walked off the diamond.
“Sure,” Andy told him. “See you here in the morning.”
Watching the players troop into the clubhouse, Tim said wistfully, “I want to be one of them, Sam.”
“I understand.”
“Gotcha!” he exclaimed. “Three in a row.”
My cheek smarted from where Tim had sneaked through with a right jab. The gloves I’d been able to buy were nowhere near as padded as modern ones; I’d stuffed newspapers in them, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.
“C’mon,” he said, and took his stance. “I’m going for four.”
I lunged at him the way a brawler might; that was our drill, to use an attacker’s movement against him and to find openings while not getting hit yourself. By now Tim’s footwork was excellent and his punches, even pulled, were very crisp. Most of all, he had extraordinary reflexes that I couldn’t match. But I still had cunning and experience.
“Hey!” he exclaimed, as I broke off from a clumsy swing, parried his left and crossed over with a right that popped him on the forehead. “No fair!”
“There’s always a chance the other guy can box, too,” I told him. “Besides, I don’t want you getting too cocky.” I pulled off my gloves and began unlacing
his. “Speaking of which, I want to talk to you about how to use your skill. First, never pick a fight. Second, if you can’t avoid fighting, then do it to end the fight, not to hurt your opponent unnecessarily.”
“That’s not what you did against Dyson,” he said with a sly grin. “You were gonna kill him.”
He had a point. “I was wrong,” I said. “You and Cait were in danger, which made me crazy—but it was still wrong. I want your promise to follow those rules.”
“I promise.”
Okay, I thought. I’d given him something to carry into the world. When he ran up against toughs, in Boston or anywhere else, he wouldn’t have to feel powerless.
To celebrate what promised to be our last night together, I splurged for a meal at the Parker House, an old, elegant Boston hotel near the Charles River famous for its butter rolls. We walked along the river afterward, watching the lamplighters set about their work as twilight thickened. My attention was caught by an artist working furiously in the fading light to capture the luminous river surface. He was preppy-looking, not much older than Tim; his clothes, even spotted with paint, looked expensive. His brush strokes suggested rather than defined the Charles and the background cityscape. Even unfinished the canvas had wonderful depths. He seemed oblivious of us until finally he set to cleaning his brush with a camphor-soaked rag.
“Beautiful composition,” I told him.
He appraised us. “Thank you, sir.”
“Do you sell your work?”
“I have, on occasion, but I’m still a student.”
“What is your name?”
“Childe Hassam.”
In the future I’d seen his turn-of-the-century renderings of Boston and New York in an exhibition of American Impressionists. Wonderful works. Amazing to think that he hadn’t yet painted them.
“I hope to study in Paris,” he said.
I had an inspiration. “Would you consider a commission right now? Just a sketch, not a painting, of Tim here?” Cait would treasure it. “I’ll pay your price, within reason.”
“I’m no street painter,” he said archly. “Walker Smith is my mentor.” He said the name as if it should mean something to us.
“Well, my offer stands.”
“I can’t—” he began, then looked at Tim again. Then again, longer. “Very well,” he said abruptly, and rummaged through his box for charcoals. Motioning for Tim to sit on a low wall, the dark currents of the Charles behind him, he set to work.
I watched the sketch emerge from an initial oval that quickly took on Tim’s features. The young man had a magical talent. As Tim’s eyes darkened on the paper, a peculiar thing happened—suddenly I was seeing Colm’s eyes, different from Tim’s only in that some indefinable quality was enhanced and extended. I stared in wonder for a few seconds, then moved closer. Hassam worked intently.
“Do you see it?”
“What?” He followed my gaze to his sketch, where Colm looked out at us. I’d seen the dead father’s eyes only in steely photographs or shadowy images. Degrees of gray. Tim’s hair was sun-lightened, his face burnt by the prairie summer. But those hazel eyes were Colm’s.
Cait must think that every single day.
“He possesses something powerful,” Hassam said. “Very powerful. I want to make another.” He ripped the sheet from his pad and handed it to me. He refused to take money, so long as he could make another image. Tim shifted restlessly.
“Sit still,” we told him.
“Everything’s fine,” Andy said, taking a seat with us in the grandstand. His eyes looked better. “Alice looks forward to your coming.” He punched Tim’s shoulder. “You’ll not sleep in her parlor, though, but bunk in the rear pantry.”
Tim smiled but showed less enthusiasm than I thought the situation warranted.
“They’re on their game today,” Andy noted after a glance at the scoreboard, which showed the Boston Juniors leading the visiting Ipswich team by 13 runs. The players were at least three years older than Tim, some four or five, and I could tell that he was apprehensive.
“Will I have a chance?” he asked Andy.
“I’ll need to see you out on the diamond, but if you’ve got the makings, sure, you’ll be fit for the Juniors after a few years’ seasoning on school nines.”
Good, I thought; he was taking Cait’s letter to heart. School … I could sense it burning into Tim’s brain. The O’Neill colony didn’t yet have one, and he hadn’t reckoned on this.
“I’ll find paid work,” he said hastily.
“That too.” Andy patted his shoulder. “I’ve already talked to George. You’ll have a position at his sporting goods store so long as it doesn’t hurt your schooling.”
Tim clapped his hands at the prospect of working for the star shortstop. “Can I do it instead of school?”
“Not a chance,” Andy said firmly. “If something goes by the wayside, lad, it’ll be the job.”
Cal McVey was umping the Junior contest. Andy took Tim down to say hello between innings, and I tagged along. I remembered that Mac was interesting in boxing, and I’d heard that he sparred on occasion with the current champ and Boston’s darling: John L. Sullivan. McVey politely agreed to give Tim pointers on both boxing and baseball. He seemed a bit distant; in the past he’d been chummier toward me. Andy said he was married now and had an infant daughter.
“Mac’s one of the ones acting real curious,” he added.
“What do you mean?”
“Something’s brewing.” Andy lowered his voice. “Last week I spotted Spalding getting off a train right behind Mr. Hulbert, the White Stockings’ president. Spalding ducked back into the car just as I laid eyes on ’em.”
“He tried to hide?”
“He did hide. Our Captain, sneaking around with the opponent! Since then, the other Western players—Mac, Barnes, White—have all been spotted around Hulbert’s hotel. It’s a sure sign he’s trying to sign them away from Harry.”
“He’ll do more than that,” I said, recalling the next significant chapter of baseball history. “He’ll launch a new organization called the National League.”
“What about the Association?”
“Washed up,” I said. “All the major teams will go over to the new league.”
“You sure?” He looked at me closely; I knew he meant, You know this from the future?
“Yup.”
“I’d better tell Harry.”
I nodded in agreement. If anti-tampering rules existed, it seemed clear they were being flouted.
After the game, Andy commandeered a couple of the Juniors to work out with his nephew. Tim looked self-conscious, but the older boys accepted him. I thought Tim performed well once he loosened up. But where I saw plusses, Andy saw limitations. “You’ll need a deal of work,” he said gravely. “Are you up to it?”
Sweating, Tim swallowed and nodded. Drilling in the stifling heat on this dusty diamond, I suspected, wasn’t so glorious as his big-league dreams.
At the front door of the small rented house, located a few blocks from the South End Grounds, Andy proudly introduced his Alice. Petite and pretty, she wasted no time in taking charge of Tim. “A fine, handsome lad, if grimy.” she said. “We’ll draw a bath straight away.”
I struggled to keep from laughing at Tim’s expression.
They invited me to stay for dinner, but an inner voice said my task was done and urged me to move on. As I gave Tim a farewell hug I whispered, “Remember, you can always come back.”
“Tell Ma I’ll be okay,” he said with a catch in his voice.
Alice marched him inside for his bath.
“I give him two months,” Andy said. “It’s plain as pudding he misses Cait.”
“I hope you won’t ride him too hard.”
“Not even as much as I talked. It’s Harry’s principle: tight at first, then slacken. Still, my guess is he’ll want to go back. If that’s the case, tell Cait I’ll bring him as soon as I can—for a visit if not more.”
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“After the season?”
“Hell, we’re so far ahead I could set off for wild Nebraska next time we’re in St. Louis. Alice would love to see some of the West—and by then we’ll probably be making more kids.”
The casualness of it brought home to me what a different time this was, with infant death common in most families.
We shook hands warmly.
“Cait needn’t think I’ll crow over this,” he said, “and see it as my way winning out over hers.”
I asked what he meant.
“She’s always held that playing ball has no meaning.” He waved toward the house. “But it’s made this possible, and it’s been every bit as hard to pull off as what she’s tried, though Cait won’t likely admit it.”
I thought I understood. He wanted some sort of validation from his older sister. And, despite his denial, Tim’s arrival probably represented that.
Next morning, July 20, two stories out of Chicago were reprinted in all the Boston papers. The first dealt with the disappearance of aeronaut W. H. Donaldson. Six days previously he’d lifted off in the P.T. Barnum for a 120-mile flight across Lake Michigan. A schooner last sighted the balloon a dozen miles offshore hovering so low that its gondola actually bumped the surface. The captain launched a rescue boat, but the balloon was carried away before it arrived. Subsequent storms had brought heavy winds, and fears were mounting for the daring pilot.
I pictured Donaldson with his jaunty grin, swinging down from the suspension hoop to land beside me after our crash. I hoped he would beat the odds once again. But I had a bad feeling.
The other piece was captioned “The Nine for Next Year” and presented the opening-day lineup for the 1876 White Stockings. Among the names: pitcher Spalding, catcher White, second baseman Barnes, and rightfielder McVey, all currently with Boston.
“Taking the field early,” the writer enthused, “Chicago’s managers have been able to engage a nine which is well nigh invincible.” They’d already signed contracts. The raid was complete.
I tried to assess what it might mean to Andy, but as I stepped onto the train at the Boston station, my thoughts began to shift back to my mission for Cait and the O’Neill colony, and thus toward Saratoga Springs and the rendezvous I sought with an old enemy: Red Jim McDermott.