by Colby Cox
He took it all in. Thanks to the hot streak that the Bomber’s were currently riding and the fact that their three-game series was split one and one, Poe Park was already packed. He heard that it sat fifteen thousand fans and it was shaping up to be a sell-out crowd.
The Bomber’s black and orange banners hung from all three tiers of the horseshoe shaped seating. Men stripped off their jackets and were rolling up their cuffs thanks to the early day heat. Straw boaters were in abundance and Sarge could see women making little fans out of their programs. The entire crowd seemed to sway with their movement. Vendors ran through the aisles selling sausages wrapped in rolls and bottles of Coca-Cola.
In that moment Sarge forgot about Simon Says. He left behind his father’s death, the falling out with his brother Mycroft, the death of Tanner, the War. They meant nothing to him when he hit the field. Some people thanked God for their blessings, but Sarge thanked Captain Robert Astor for making all of it possible and allowing him to be a part of something that made him human again.
Sarge heard the familiar sound of Savoy Special’s pistons fire off. He looked over towards third base and saw Doctor Bismark tinkering with the robot. The doctor was a short guy, a little over five feet tall, so he had to use a step ladder to reach Savoy’s chest. Its iron body plate hung wide open and the exposed whirling gears and springs shot little sparks onto the grass. A mad rush of kids surged forward to get a better look. They all wore smiles and looks of wonder. They pointed at the mechanical left fielder as he hummed to life. A black cloud of smoke shot out of the vent at the top of its head and as soon as Bismark closed up Savoy’s chest, the mechanical man took off and jogged around the bases.
A few hisses rose from the crowd, but they were drowned out by a wave of laughs and applause. No matter where the Whispers played, everyone seemed to love and marvel over Savoy Special and Wonderboy, the only robots currently in the Carnival Ball League. Sarge watched Bismark, who stood with the step ladder folded under his arm, beam at his creation. The little German scientist was another of Clyde’s recruits, lured to Carny Ball with the promise of citizenship in America and a laboratory of his own thanks to Mark DuCane. Sarge liked Dr. Bismark and got a kick out of his wild white hair and walrus mustache. He would never forget the time he saw the doctor late one night in their hometown club room.
Sarge had forgotten his wallet after a game and went back to retrieve it from his locker. He heard Bismark talking and when he peeped around the corner, he saw the Doc standing in front of his two robots. Wonderboy and Savoy Special were seated on the bench and were turned off. Their arms dangled next to them and they were hunched over. The Doctor was telling them how proud he was of them and how much he loved his two boys. The scene made Sarge’s heart hurt and he quietly slipped away without his bill fold. He never told anyone about it, not even Delilah.
The coach walked over to Bismark and he put his giant hand on the scientist’s shoulder.
“Savoy sure looks good, Doc. How is Wonderboy?”
Bismark waved his hand in the air and in a thick German accent said, ”Bah. He’ll be fine. After today’s baseball contest I will have more time to get him back up. I expect no more than two days, three days at the most.”
Sarge patted him on the back and thanked him for all of his hard work. Sarge knew full well that without Bismark and his fancy iron baseball players, the Whispers would not be holding the second place spot of the North Division.
Sarge spied Russ McNatt, Baltimore’s head skipper ambling over to the scorekeeper area with his lineup. Sarge trotted over to meet him.
“Hey, Russ. How’s Tricks?”
The short and pudgy coach pulled out a tobacco plug, bit off a piece and offered it to Sarge, who declined. He decided it was going to get too hot for chew.
“Say hey, Sarge. I don’t know about you and your crew, but my boys are plum tired. This series took it out of ‘em.”
Sarge always got along with Russ. The Baltimore coach was a straight shooter and, with the exception of Hooligan Pete, Coach McNatt would not tolerate any shenanigans from his players.
“Yeah. I know what you mean, Russ. Mink’s out running around town looking for our witch doctor. He took a powder and that can mean trouble.”
McNatt spat a big line of tobacco juice out of one side of his mouth and let a howl out of the other. Sarge noticed a permanent brown stain next to the “s” in “Bombers” on his uniform.
“How did two eggs like us end up in this line of work, Sarge?”
Sarge chuckled and squinted at the sun.
“I guess it was luck, Russ.”
McNatt smiled.
“Yeah. I reckon’ you’re right.”
Both coaches were waved over to home plate by the head umpire, Gus Sawchenko. He stood there with the other three men that made up the field officials. Carnival Baseball umpires wore black blazers, gray slacks, a black ascot and large stovepipe hats. Players and fans assigned them the nickname “pallers” because they looked so much like pallbearers from a lost era.
Sawchenko was tall and lanky. He shaved away what little hair he still kept and underneath the Lincoln-like top, he was completely bald. He was very pale, so much so that when he was out of ear shot, he was called “Professor Powder.” If a coach or player were in the mood to get tossed from a game by Sawchenko, calling him Prof Powder would have gotten the job done. Once Sarge and McNatt joined the pallers, Sawchenko emphasized the golden seventh day rule.
“Gentlemen. As you know, this is Sunday, and as such, there will be no spiritual powers utilized on the field. Is that understood?”
Coach McNatt turned his head and spat.
“Yes, Sir. Only player on our lineup with that kind of juice is Mo Chin.”
Russ threw a thumb behind his back and Sarge’s eyes followed it towards the stone statue of an ancient Chinese soldier standing at attention next to the Bomber’s dugout. Sarge was glad that Chin would not be playing. He had knocked a couple of No Legs’s teeth loose during a close play at the plate the day before. A couple of kids were climbing all over the now lifeless sculpture. They were goofing off.
Sarge chimed in.
“Sir, our only spirit guy, Simon Says, isn’t even here today. You won’t have any problems from us.”
Sawchenko smiled.
“At any rate, Umpire Finberg is in the centerfield tower, making certain. Gentlemen, let’s play some Carnival Ball.”
Sarge and Russ shook hands and they both walked to their dugouts. The stadium began a round of applause as the Bombers’ starting players took to the field, and they went positively wild when Hooligan Pete strutted up to the mound and began to throw warmup pitches. Wilmington’s two rookie pitchers seated in the bullpen felt a pang of trepidation when the dreaded Hooligan chant from the Baltimore crowd reached their ears. They had heard nothing like it.
“Hoooooooolllllllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiggggggaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnn!”
Every club in the league had their special ways and traditions. When the Hooligan hit the field, Bombers fans loved to express theirs.
Hooran “Hooligan” Pete was one of Carnival Ball’s true greats and was a huge draw for the sport. He was one of the only players in the history of the game that crossed over from the “true” professional major leagues into Carnival League, although it was not by his choosing. As an outfielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates, he had a respectable career and played alongside Honus Wagner when that baseball club won the nation’s title in 1909.
Pete’s career difficulties in the major leagues arose when people took notice that he never seemed to age. Five, ten, then fifteen years went by and Pete could still be found playing and looking like a young rookie. Suspicions led to inquiries into his past as reporters of the steel town dug around for any information on Hooligan’s life before professional baseball. What they unearthed made no sense whatsoever.
Although none was ever able to discover a birth certificate or archival records of Hooligan’s childhood, they did find
papers, letters, and even photographs of Hooligan fighting for the 20th Maine under Joshua Chamberlain during the Civil War. This struck everyone odd since that would mean that Hooligan was at least eighty years old, yet he did not look a day over twenty-nine. The reporters found unmistakable proof though, that it was the same man. A photograph taken at Gettysburg on the third day of that tragic battle clearly showed Hooligan standing with a group of Union soldiers, his trademark mustache freshly waxed, his hair parted down the middle, and the scar across his left cheek shining brightly in the sun. One old and yellowed photo also showed him standing in the background of a Union encampment as Abraham Lincoln shook hands with a now forgotten United States Senator. It was definitely Hooligan, his feet crossed, leaning on a baseball bat and smirking at the camera.
As soon as he was confronted with the evidence, Hooligan disappeared from Pittsburgh like jobs after Black Friday. No one saw hide nor hair of him until twenty years later. The Baltimore Bombers of the North Division announced to the Carny Ball world that Hooligan Pete was returning to the game. By that time, Hooligan was a mythical lore. He was a supernatural tale told to children before bed.
The city of Baltimore closed all government offices the day Hooligan reappeared to sign with the Bombers. Thousands crowded the street in front of Poe Park. A hush fell across them as Pete addressed the masses. He had not aged a day since he left the Pittsburgh locker room back in 1910. His words were brief and to the point.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Baltimore, The Hooligan is back in baseball!”
With that statement, Pete pulled out of his back pocket his old Pirates cap and showed it to the crowd. The letter “P” for Pittsburgh displayed on its front had been transformed into a “B” for Baltimore thanks to a curve of orange stitching. The Gazette printed a giant photo of the baseball cap on the front page of its afternoon paper. Copies of it can still be found hanging in certain Baltimore pubs and restaurants.
Hooligan was not a bad man, but he could be a downright dirty ball player. Famous for ending the careers of at least four catchers, he refused to slide into bases. When it was going to be a close play at a bag or home plate, Hooligan would bear his huge shoulders down and run clean through members of the opposing team.
When a Baltimorean theorized that the immortal Hooligan Pete was one of the thieves crucified with Jesus, another quipped a reply.
“Nah. It couldn’t have been Hooligan. He would have knocked Christ off his cross to get the better position.”
He could hit. He could run. And the worst thing was, he could pitch. Hooligan did not have much junk, but he could rear back and throw heat all day long. Sarge watched him from the visitor’s dugout and knew that pulling off a Wilmington win in Baltimore with the Hooligan on the mound was not going to be an easy feat at all.
The lead-off hitter for Wilmington, Kid McCoy, stepped up to the plate to begin the game. Hooligan made quick work of him. McCoy fouled off two bunt attempts and then fanned at a scorching fastball. “Crazy Legs” McCoy was so fast that he could steal a base before a pitch hit the catcher’s glove. To accomplish that task, however, he had to reach first base. Instead, he was the first out. Erv Bream, the bruiser from Boston popped up to the Bomber’s first baseman and Dane Dugas struck out. When the sides changed and Whispers pitcher Rube Robinson began to throw his stuff, it became quite clear to everyone in attendance that the game was going to be a pitching duel.
Rube was young. He was only nineteen years old and was all height and no weight. Rube’s uniform hung on him like a burlap sack and his long blonde hair stuck out from under his cap. It seemed to cover his eyes like a sheep dog. Rube was a lefty with decent heat, but he possessed a skill set that made him almost untouchable. When young Rube concentrated, he could make things disappear. The effect would not last long, only a fraction of a second, but it was an invaluable trait.
It was a tough accomplishment to hit a baseball hurled at eighty-five miles an hour, but it was nearly impossible to hit one when it suddenly vanished as it made its way to the plate. Hitters found themselves watching his windup only to hear the smack of the catcher’s mitt behind them as the ball found its target. They wouldn’t even catch a glimpse of the thing.
Robinson could not make the ball vanish every pitch and if he did it too much, he would get nosebleeds. Sarge always kept an eye on his young ace to make certain the kid didn’t push himself too hard. The coach promised that much to the boy’s mother. If there was ever any sign of strain, Sarge pulled Rube off the mound with no excuses, but so far, the rookie was having an outstanding first season with six straight wins.
Rube mowed down Baltimore’s Ghost Wheeler and Rand Jeter. As he worked on big left-handed rookie, Pie McBride, Pete Hooligan called out from the Bomber’s dugout to Sarge. Sarge was, as always, playing first base.
“Hey, Safran!”
Sarge glanced over to see Hooligan sipping water from a metal ladle at the edge of Baltimore’s bench. He found Hooligan’s waxed mustache and parted hair strange. It was out of place, like Hooligan just stepped through time. Of course, the man technically had.
“Say Hey, Pete.”
“Looks like it’s going to be one those days, old timer.”
Sarge thought that line was rich coming from a guy who was probably a hundred years old.
“Yeah. It looks it.”
“I heard your jungle doctor man went splits-ville on you. Coach said Mink was out looking for him.”
Sarge was getting tired of the back and forth and was pretty certain Hooligan knew something he didn’t. The Whispers coach felt a punchline was coming.
Pete took a long pull from the water ladle. His mustache came up wet.
“Hey, Sarge. You don’t think it would have anything to do with Ty Cobb being in town would you?”
The little hairs on the back of Sarge’s neck stood at attention. His face went flush with heat.
“Well, I sure hope everything works out for you, Sarge. Good luck today.”
Sarge worked to keep his cool and his anger in check. Pete was trying to get a rise out of him and he knew it. He also knew, as well as Pete did, that if Ty Cobb was in Baltimore, there was no doubt Simon Says was out in the streets stalking him like an unstoppable lion.
Simon’s bizarre obsession with Cobb was due solely to the witch doctor’s most precious possession and the Whispers secret weapon: Chew-on Man.
Sarge’s mind raced over the possibilities and he almost missed the dribbler that that came off of the end of McBride’s bat. He tagged first for the third out of the inning and raced to the dugout. Sarge had to figure out a way to send word to Mink about how big of a pickle they were actually in.
When Sarge was safely out of the public eye, he yelled for Lil Boner, one of the the Whispers relief pitcher. Boner’s real name was Lilden Bonaparte, but it was quickly shortened after word from the Wilmington East Side brothels got back to his teammates about a certain physical endowment Lilden possessed. Boner was famous for his sidearm knuckleball that was so slow unsuspecting batters actually dislocated shoulders swinging at it.
“Boner! Get off your ass and go find Mink. Tell him that Ty Cobb is in town and find out where that son of a bitch is staying. Hopefully, Simon ain’t got to him yet.”
Lil gave Sarge a salute and trotted down the hallway through the locker room and out the back door, uniform, spikes, and all. Lil had no idea how to find Mink and he could make no sense out of anything his coach had just told him, but he knew that when Sarge ordered you to perform a task, you simply did it. The waif-like pitcher received all kinds of stares from the fans and vendors that lingered outside of the stadium as he jogged past them yelling at the top of his lung for Mink.
Sarge snatched a bat from the extended hands of Mickey the Midget and angrily stomped to the plate. He was the clean-up hitter for Wilmington. As mad as he was, all he wanted to do was hit something and hit it hard. The boos and hisses from Baltimore rang out when he passed the dugout’s shadow onto the field.
He paid them no mind. Sarge was now focused on Hooligan, who stood on the mound with his glove on his hip. Hooligan smiled, and Sarge was determined to wipe it clean off his face.
Hooligan Pete came at Sarge from a full windup and his hand almost scraped the ground as he delivered his pitch. Sarge knew Hooligan would try to jam him to the inside, so he shuffled away from the plate. Sarge slammed the incoming fastball with a vicious, tight-fisted swing. The baseball cleared right field in a hurry and sailed high over Rand Jeter’s head. It bounced off of an orange and black banner and dropped into the second tier of outfield bleachers. The second base paller raised his hand and twirled his finger. Poe Park went quiet as Sarge’s huge frame ran around the bases. No one had ever hit a home run like that in Baltimore, especially against the Hooligan. Sarge was not called the Babe Ruth of Carny Ball for nothing.
The coach touched home plate and immediately went over to Dr. Bismark who stood next to his robot, Savoy Special. Savoy was up to bat next.
“Hey, Doc. Be ready. Pete is going to throw at your man’s head.”
“I expected as much, Mr. Safran. Not to fear. Savoy can take it.”
The old scientist lovingly patted the mechanical player on the back as it whirred and clicked its way to the plate.
Savoy did take it - Right in its metal head. Hooligan was so angry about Sarge’s solo homer that his pitch struck the iron man’s noggin and actually knocked it back on its heels a little. The robot staggered slightly as it trotted towards first. A stream of black smoke followed him to the bag where it would stay the rest of the inning as Biscuit Wagner, Ralph Sankey, and No Legs watched Hooligan’s wrath blow by them. He struck them all out one, two, and three.
The rest of the afternoon was more of the same. Hooligan slammed a pair of doubles into the right field corner, but no other members of the Bombers Club were able to bring him around. Rube was able to shut them out through eight innings. The young, lanky pitcher found his groove and settled into it, using the disappearing ball act just enough to keep them on their toes and guessing. He was tiring by the end of the seventh, but Sarge watched him carefully and checked on him between innings. Wilmington’s coach was impressed with someone so young who was able to hold up under this type of crowd and pressure.