Carnival Baseball

by Colby Cox

  Of course, Sarge had his own kind of pressure to deal with in the humid, Baltimore summer. By the end of the eighth inning, there was still no word from Mink or Lil Boner. To make matters worse, Pete Hooligan had been hell-bent to bean him with fastballs at his next two at-bats. Sarge took one in the shoulder and it knotted up on him, keeping his glove arm tight and numb. He was able to dodge a few his next at-bat and then surprised Hooligan again when he jumped back from an inside pitch and somehow pulled it down the third baseline for a two-bagger. It infuriated the Bomber’s star pitcher to no end and he mowed down the Whispers next three again. Hooligan stared at Sarge hard between each pitch. Safran spat and stared back. The anger between the two was palpable to the fans. They stomped their feet and proudly chanted for their star player.

  “Hooooooooooooooooolllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggggggaaaaaaaaannn!”

  It remained a Wilmington one-nothing game going into the end of the ninth. The home team Bombers only had one more chance. All fifteen thousand fans were glued to their seats. Shirt collars were unbuttoned and people wetted down handkerchiefs with cool water. They slung them across their necks. It was a rare occasion when stars of the Carnival League like Hooligan Pete and Sarge Safran battled it out, and everyone was excited to see the conclusion.

  Rube stepped on the mound and hunched his shoulders. Sweat dripped off of the brim of his cap. The crowd moaned when Rand Jeter popped up to Wilmington’s short stop, Dane Dugas.

  One out.

  Sarge pounded his fist into his mitt and readied himself for the mountain of the man that stepped up to the plate, Pie McBride.

  A left-handed rookie with Baltimore, Pie reminded Sarge of a younger version of himself. They both were giants who lived in a world that was too small for them. They both were southpaws and played first base, and although Sarge never talked to the man, he overheard Pie’s heavy drawl enough to know that he hailed from Louisiana, just like Sarge.

  Pie’s mouth was filled with a giant wad of chewing tobacco. His jaw looked swollen. He eyeballed Rube and spat through his teeth. Sarge knew the young Bomber was due for a hit, and sure enough, with a two and one count, Pie McBride caught all of Rube’s fourth offering. Pie pulled a screaming line drive towards right field. The way the ball was traveling there was little doubt it would have bounced off of the plywood fence in right. McBride would have then stood on second base, a duck on the pond for the mighty Hooligan.

  The only thing that stopped it from occurring, however, was Sarge’s glove. With a grace people sometimes forgot that the big coach possessed, Sarge dove to his right and stabbed the ball out of the air. He fell prone between first and second base, covered in red Baltimore clay from his chin to the tips of his spikes. Inside his cow-hide mitt rested the baseball and the death of an extra base hit.

  The second base paller threw a thumb high into the air.

  Two outs.

  One more, and Wilmington could head north with another win.

  Sarge picked himself off of the ground as Ralph Sankey smacked him on the back with a glove.

  “Hell of a grab, old man.”

  “I ain’t as old as I let on, Sank.”

  Sarge walked over to the mound and placed the ball in Rube’s mitt. He readied himself for what came next. “Hooooooooooooolllllllllllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiiiggggggggaaaaaaannnn!”

  The fans called out with one voice as the man of the hour strode to the plate armed with a baseball bat. He grinned wide. Sarge moved in close to Robinson’s ear so the kid could could hear him over the wall of noise.

  “Listen, Rube. You pitched one hell of a game. I can send in Haney to finish it up. Your call.”

  Rube squinted sweat out of his eyes and took a long, deep breath.

  “All the same to you, Sarge, I sure would like to strike this clown out and take the next week off back home.”

  The rookie’s reply made his coach smile. Carnival ballplayers never ceased to amaze Sarge. They spent lifetimes being ridiculed back in their hometowns as freaks of nature, teased incessantly by classmates and fellow workers. Somehow, instead of caving in to it, instead of letting it make them weak, it made them tougher than crocodiles. These men were the strongest Sarge Safran ever crossed paths with. He was proud to be a part of their fraternity.

  “All right, kid. Show him your stuff.”

  When Rube wound up, he threw Hooligan the best slider he had ever thrown in his life. He even made the ball disappear as soon as it left his long, narrow fingers. Rube gave it everything, and a trickle of blood spewed out of his nose and down past his lips to his chin.

  Hooligan Pete was two hundred and forty pounds of pure tenacity. The man would not relent. He would not lay down. Hooligan’s bat whipped around and stung the invisible ball perfectly. It reappeared on its way to the right field corner where Biscuit Wagner chased it down.

  The crowd roared. Straw hats filled the air and all eyes stayed on the massive Hooligan as he sped around first on his way to second. The baseball game instantly transformed into a foot race. Hooligan never looked back. Like a man possessed, Baltimore’s best barreled through the turn and steamed towards third.

  Out in right field, Biscuit heard Sarge yelling at him to throw it to third. He blindly complied. The ball left his hand like a rocket, and scorched the air as it shot towards the infield. Wagner’s given name was David, but his teammates called him Biscuit because a ball thrown by him went so fast and hard that it would be steaming when it found its mark.

  Fortunately for Wilmington’s third baseman Erv Bream, Biscuit’s hurl was off mark. Old Erv had to move away from the bag to catch the ball, and that cleared the the pathway for Hooligan. If the throw was a little better, Hooligan would have knocked Bream’s head off. The big Bomber safely reached third and Poe Park erupted with joy.

  Sarge called time and trotted over to the mound. Wilmington’s catcher, No Legs, joined him. The double amputee was soaked in sweat and pulled a handkerchief out of his back pocket to mop his face. Both Sarge and Robinson squatted down to meet him at his level.

  Rube bowed his head and apologized to Sarge. The coach cut him short.

  “Shut your pie hole, kid. This thing ain’t over. I got a plan to fix our friend Hooligan. Fellas, I got a plan to fix him but good.”

  Sarge looked Robinson in the eyes and asked the young man if he still had one more pitch left in him.

  “Yes, Sir.”

  “All right then. No Legs, a lot of this is going to depend on you and your acting ability. Rube, wipe your damn nose clean of blood and don’t die on me. Your Mama would kill me.”

  The rookie barked out a quick laugh and grabbed the handkerchief offered to him by his catcher. No Legs grabbed him by the front of his shirt, pulled the boy down lower, and rubbed the top of his head.

  When Sarge and No Legs left the mound and their talk with Robinson, they both jogged back to their positions. No Legs threw his catcher’s mask over his face and stood behind the plate. Sarge went back to first and pounded his mitt. Robinson stepped on the mound and faced Baltimore’s left fielder, Smoke Peterson.

  All three conspirators knew there would be only one chance to perform Sarge’s plan. They had to make it count. The home plate paller pointed towards Rube to begin play.

  Not a single person in the crowd sat. Programs were tightly clenched in fists and people fidgeted with suspense. With only one pitch left to throw, Rube tried to make it perfect. He started from the stretch, went into his windup, and let the ball fly.

  The ball sailed low and it hit the dirt in front of home plate. Smoke Peterson jumped out of the batter’s box and No Legs dove to his left to block the ball. Immediately, the catcher rolled himself back up, threw off his mask and took off running towards the backstop.

  From Hooligan’s vantage point down the third baseline, he witnessed a wild pitch that got past. He smelled blood in the water and instinctively reacted. Hooligan took off for home plate. The crowd cheered.

&nbs
p; Hooligan Pete was 165 years old. He was the only person alive who knew his actual age. During that time, Hooligan learned many things about life, and as he reached half way to home plate, Hooligan learned that he had been duped like an A-1 sucker. There had been no wild pitch. Rube Robinson had thrown the ball low and No Legs had caught it in his mitt. Rube then used his special power and made it invisible. No Legs simply acted as if the now invisible ball got by him, but it was safely tucked in his glove. As soon as the catcher saw Hooligan had fallen for the ruse, he planted and threw towards home plate where Sarge Safran now stood. Sarge caught the ball, turned, and readied himself for certain impact.

  Henry Analore, a local baker, sat behind the Bomber’s dugout with his son. In 1929, he had been strolling through Baltimore’s financial district on Black Friday, the day the stock market crashed. He watched a businessman leap to his death from an office building on Charles Street. The sound the man made hitting the pavement was the same sound he heard when Hooligan Pete collided with Sarge Safran.

  Both ballplayers hit the baseline in a heap. The home plate paller looked inside Sarge’s hand and saw the now visible baseball tightly wrapped in his grasp.

  Programs, hats, and peanut shells rained onto the field as fifteen thousand Baltimore fans felt compelled to show their displeasure. They felt cheated. They felt robbed.

  Hooligan Pete was called out.

  Both he and Sarge were out cold.

  5. Enter Scratch

  Sarge awoke from the final play of the game to a basset hound licking the left side of his face. The right side was squashed against the cool of a marble floor. Although it was sideways from his point of view, Sarge saw a large expanse of stairs spiraling up to a second floor landing. A statue stood on his right and a giant chandelier hung over him. Paintings framed in golden leaf decorated the wall. They were country scenes, picturesque views that looked as if he could walk into them. The big man had no idea where he was, but it certainly was not Poe Park anymore. Everything around him, except for the overly-friendly hound, smelled of money.

  Sarge gently pushed the dog away from his face and readied himself for the pain that would hit when he tried to stand. He estimated a concussion at the least and a couple of cracked ribs at most. However, when Sarge finally pushed his huge frame from the floor, he was amazed to find that there was no pain at all. He flexed his hands. They opened and closed. Sarge felt refreshed. He felt invigorated. The exhaustion that nine innings of ball can extoll on a man was gone.

  Upon further inspection of his condition, the coach was shocked. He no longer wore his uniform. Instead, he sported freshly pressed shirt and slacks. He glanced down at his feet. His old pair of baseball spikes were replaced by the comfortable leather of highly polished brown capped-toes. He looked around for a moment, paused, and then took it all in. Sarge then said his next thought out loud. He chuckled to himself and shook his head slightly.

  “Sarge, you finally did it. You checked out and died.”

  His voice echoed against the marble and into what he surmised to be the grandiose foyer of a mansion. A man’s voice replied to his words. Sarge could not say that he was surprised to hear it. He knew it was coming for the last eleven years.

  “Died? Gosh no, Sarge. You’re fine.”

  He glanced up and saw a familiar face. It was Aldous Scratch, and he stood where a moment ago no one had. Scratch casually leaned over the wooden railing at the top of the stairs. He smiled down at the Whispers head coach.

  Scratch was tan and extremely handsome. His hair was a perfect sand color and it looked freshly cut. Mr. Scratch was slightly taller than most and had the physique of an athlete, but not the type that played Carnival Baseball. The man was tennis. He was golf. Scratch was the breast stroke and polo and all sports that gentlemen of wealth could afford. He was the manifestation of the ads found in Vanity Fair and the New Yorker. He was charm personified. Scratch looked like the man that every man wanted to be.

  Except Mr. Scratch was no man at all.

  Aldous Scratch nonchalantly knocked on the stair bannister with a knuckle and skipped down the stairs towards Sarge. He wore a pair of linen slacks with loafers and no socks. The collar of his shirt was upturned and the sleeves were rolled to his elbows. Scratch met Sarge at the base of the stairs and smiled with perfect white teeth. He extended his young and strong hand.

  “Hello, Sarge. It has been quite a long time.”

  “Say hey, Scratch.”

  Mr. Scratch put his hands in his pockets and looked into Sarge’s face for a few moments.

  “Come on. Let’s go sit down outside. It’s a beautiful day.”

  Sarge followed the man through room after room of understated splendor. The house made even Mark DuCane’s place look plain. They walked through an entire wall of glass that led outside. It overlooked a vast, manicured garden, complete with a maze made of shrubbery. It was exquisite. Sarge looked across the fields and saw a group of smartly dressed women playing croquet. Their giggles were carried to him by the wind and their scarves and hat brims blew in the breeze.

  “Please, sit down, Sarge. Have something to drink. You must be thirsty.”

  Sarge and Scratch took seats at a small wrought iron table positioned on a square courtyard of cobble stone. Pillars surrounded the area and large pieces of sheer fabric canopied the top. It flowed in the wind and diffused the bright sun. The air was cool and pleasant.

  A man in a tuxedo appeared and set a glass in front of Safran. He placed ice chips into it from a bucket and then poured London Dry grape soda on top. The butler bowed slightly and walked back inside. Scratch watched the coach’s reaction.

  “I believe that is your favorite, is it not?”

  Sarge took a long pull from the glass, glanced past Scratch at the croquet players for a moment, and swished the drink around in the glass. He looked Scratch in the eyes.

  “Yeah. It’s my favorite. London Dry Grape Soda. Made right in downtown WIlmington, Delaware. Of course, you know that. As a matter of fact, Scratch, I imagine you know everything about me. So how about we cut to the chase. The way I got it figured I am either dead or dreaming and you got something to either say to me or do to me. So, let’s have it.”

  Scratch crossed his legs and smiled.

  “Well, Sarge, as I told you earlier you are not dead.”

  Mr. Scratch then cocked his head and leaned an ear out as if he was trying to hear something from very far away.

  “Right now, your team has carted you back into the visitor’s locker room and Dr. Bismark is trying to revive you. A lot of unhappy Baltimore fans are congregating at the back door. They plan to string you and your team up as soon as you try to leave. Mink is there, too, along with Lil Boner. They have found Simon Says and your path is about to cross with the infamous Ty Cobb. Mickey the midget is using the distraction to his advantage and is stealing the fourteen dollars out your wallet from the pants hanging in your locker. I do not have a lot of time before you will be on your way, so I will be brief.”

  Scratch uncrossed his legs and leaned over the table closer to Sarge Safran. He folded his hands together.

  “Sarge, it’s the the wager that you and I made over ten years ago. I am offering to forget about it. You no longer have an obligation to me. Consider it done. This is my gift to you.”

  He tried to look into Sarge’s eyes to emphasize his point, but the larger man was staring at his glass of grape soda. His huge hand squeezed its side. Sarge felt the coolness on his fingers. He finally looked up and spoke.

  “What about the boy? What about Charles Tanner’s son?”

  Scratch now took his turn to look away. He sighed.

  “He’s mine, Sarge. That was the deal with Tanner. Tanner sold his soul to me along with the soul of his first born. I am obligated to uphold the contract.”

  A shiver went through Sarge. It did not originate with fear, but with pure anger. It took everything he had to keep it from boiling over. He took another drink from the glass.
>
  “I guess we have a situation then, Mr. Scratch. Back home in Ascension Parish, we called it a pickle. You and I wagered a bet. I win, you lose the boy’s soul.”

  “Dammit, Sarge. Don’t you see? It is all coming to a head. Your time is almost up and this is going to end badly. I like you, Sarge. I truly do.”

  Scratch leaned back in his chair and folded his arms upon his chest. He tilted his seat back on its hind legs.

  “Sarge, you are a good man. You have sacrificed so much in life. You know nothing but pain. Our bet is not a contract. A gentlemen’s bet, nothing more. I can release you from it.”

  Sarge sat mute. He gave no hint of reaction to the words. Scratch seemed exasperated.

  “Do you think I enjoy what I do? Do you think I like dealing in the souls of the damned? I am Satan’s plaything. I do his bidding. The years slip by and I toil on.”

  He leaned forward again and the chair legs clicked against the stone.

  “Sarge, I can make things happen for you, if you forget about this, if you walk away. I can reunite you with your brother. I can give you untold wealth. Good God, man, I can hand over a Wilmington Whispers pennant. Forget about Charles Tanner’s son and our bet.”

  Sarge pulled his eyes from his drink and locked them into Scratch’s gaze. He could hear the knock of croquet mallets against wooden balls in the distance. He could smell the cologne on the man who was not a man across from him. Sarge raised his glass to his lips and drained the remainder of the grape soda. He put the glass down and chewed on ice chips.

  “Sorry, Scratch. No can do. Now if you’ll excuse me, I got a baseball club to run.”

  Scratch looked down and shook his head. He then quietly laughed.