by Colby Cox
There were, however, drawbacks. The longest Chew-on would last in a game was about two innings. Any longer than that and the thing would suddenly drop on the field in a dried up mess. Its magic would only go for so long. Simon Says would have to run out onto the field, his hair flopping everywhere, and scoop Chew-on Man up like a kid would grab his puppy that was run over by an automobile. Then, like a fog that rolls into town at night, Sarge noticed some very strange things that involved their smallest player and its creator.
It started with Satchel Paige. The ace pitcher of the Negro League happened to be in Alabama the same time the Whispers were, so an exhibition game was set up. People came from far and wide to see the famous Paige pitch. Other than a Sarge homer at the top of eighth inning, no player could touch his stuff. At the end of the game, a photographer for the Birmingham Bugle asked for Satchel and Sarge to pose for a picture together (Sarge procured a copy and hung it in his house by the fireplace). While he stood with his arm around Paige and a crowd formed behind them, Sarge noticed Simon Says sneak through the wave of people and duck close behind the legendary pitcher. He secretly watched the witch doctor as he snatched a loose button that hung from the back pocket of Paige’s uniform. It was a small occurrence, and at first, Sarge wrote it off as Simon just grabbing a memento to commemorate the day. After all, it was Satchel Paige, probably the best anyone ever witnessed step on the mound. Sarge never let on that he had observed the theft, but for some reason, it bugged him. A little light went off in the back of his mind that something was askew.
Sure enough, five days later in Georgia, just before a game with the Savannah Plague, Simon Says ran up to him. The witch doctor was excited and kept motioning for Sarge to follow him. He pointed to the corner of the park towards left field where the Whispers pitchers warmed up. Sarge looked over to see that his pitching staff was all standing around the practice mound, watching someone throw to Biscuit Wagner. The small group prevented him from seeing who was on the mound, but he could tell by the pop of the catcher’s mitt that whoever it was could throw hard and fast.
Sarge followed Simon over to the corner of the field. He pushed his way to the front and, much to his surprise, found Chew-on Man. The tobacco figure was on the mound and held everyone’s full attention. It threw wicked curves and fastballs like there was no tomorrow. Haney Mane shouldered in next to Sarge.
“Damn, Sarge. I had no idea the little tobacco turd could pitch. Look at his little windup! Its a spittin’ image of Satchell Paige’s slow delivery.”
When the Duke compared Chew-on Man to Paige, something clicked in Sarge’s head. He closely inspected the living wad of snuff as it fired perfect strikes down to Biscuit. Sarge found what he was looking for. Tucked into the doll’s leg, just below where it raised it during its delivery, was a barely-visible button. He was certain it was the same one that Simon Says had stolen from Satchel Paige.
Once he knew what was happening, Sarge detected Simon’s larcenies in every town and city the team visited. He watched the witch doctor steal a bloody rag from Honus Wagner in Pittsburgh. He caught a glimpse of him steal a comb from a sleeping Hank Greenberg in Connecticut. It was Fingernail clippings from Lou Gehrig in Manhattan. There was an old toothbrush lifted from Walters Johnson in Washington and the dandruff of Rogers Hornsby was rubbed away from a wash cloth in Greensboro. Simon Says was creating his own Frankenstein out of parts heisted from the nation’s greatest baseball players and each addition made the Chew-on Man stronger. Soon, it was a tiny titan - but one that came with a major ego.
As Chew-on Man gained athletic prowess from its unsuspecting donors, it picked up their dirty habits as well. It drank booze. It brawled. It even touched women inappropriately. Simon Says would scold the thing, but they would quickly become comic relief as the witch doctor chased Chew-on around the field in vain attempts to catch it and put it away. Simon carried Chew-on with him in a leather suitcase and the tobacco doll would inevitably escape its confines and trash hotel rooms. One of its favorite hobbies was to beat up hoboes.
Then there was the difficulties that came with Simon Says himself. Simon became obsessed with stealing more and more items for his creation. He desired Chew-on to have a piece of every great baseball player. There were only two among the living that had successfully eluded him. The first was Babe Ruth, who was such a celebrity at that time that he was almost untouchable to the likes of Simon. The second was the one that the Tanzanian craved the most - the Georgia Peach, Tyrus Cobb.
Ty Cobb retired from the game in 1926, so Simon Says could not rely on the baseball circuits to cross his path. The witch doctor would spend hour upon hour in a trance-like state searching for the legend spiritually, seeking any avenue to get close to him. Sarge caught Simon on at least a half-dozen occasions burning photos of Cobb while chanting his name over and over. Green smoke would pour out of Simon’s nostrils and his eyes would roll into the back of his head. Generally speaking, it was not a good scene.
In an attempt to keep his mind off of Cobb, Sarge had Mink show Simon the drag bunt, and to their amazement, he became the best bunter they ever saw. Sarge would put him in to pinch hit every once and a while and the witch doctor would get to first base nine times out of ten. Simon refused to wear pants, though, so he would play in a uniform shirt, cap, bare feet, and a grass skirt. Sarge saw a new enthusiasm in Simon’s eyes when the Tanzanian became an integral part of the team without his little tobacco man. The coach thought he had cured him of his addiction to Chew-on and all things Cobb.
He was wrong.
7. Springing Simon
“Dammit, Mink. I thought we broke him of this stuff.”
Mink watched the streets of Baltimore pass them by from the taxi’s window.
“Sarge, you can take the man out the jungle, but you can not take the jungle out of the man. If we knew Cobb was in town, maybe we could have done something. I imagine, though, Simon’s hocus-pocus bells and whistles were going off something fierce. He can’t help himself. It’s who he is.”
Sarge went silent and thought over his best friend’s words. They rang true to him. Once a man found his niche and found what he was, it was nonsense to try and mold him into something he was not.
The two were let out on Ashland Avenue in front of an ominous, squat brick building. An iron sign outside of the doors displayed “Northeastern Station House.” The pair entered to find a Baltimore police sergeant seated at an enormous wooden desk. His uniform was impeccably clean and sharp. The policeman laughed loudly at something whispered to him by a gentleman that leaned against his perch.
The joke teller smiled at the cop’s reaction and caught sight of Mink and Sarge as they walked into the building. He immediately pushed himself away from the mahogany desk and closed the gap between him and the Wilmington ball players.
“Gentlemen. I’m Aaron. Aaron Haverslack.”
The lawyer firmly shook hands with them both.
“I would say congratulations on the win today, but I had a sawbuck on the Bombers. Nonetheless, I heard it was quite a finish.”
Haverslack was heavier, but he carried it well. Sarge pegged the attorney somewhere in his late thirties, about the same age as him. He was that rare individual who did not seem fazed by Sarge’s size. He gave off confidence and both men were relieved to be met by a friend of Mark DuCane in the station’s lobby. Without hesitation, Haverslack took charge.
“Let’s go in the back. They have a room for attorneys where we can talk. I’ll get you gentlemen caught up.”
With those words, He turned and walked past the sergeant’s desk. He opened a door to the back of the station and motioned for Mink and Sarge to follow. He then stretched over to shake hands with the three-striper.
“Good to see you, O’Malley. Say hello to Karen for me.”
Haverslack guided them through a maze of offices and a booking area until he sat them in a small room towards the back. The attorney threw his straw boater onto the table, fussed with his hair a bit, lo
osened the knot of his tie, and leaned in toward Sarge and Mink.
“This complaint against Simon Says would not normally be a problem. He has been booked for trespassing, which personally, I think was kind of Baltimore’s finest considering he was found in another man’s room with a pair of scissors in his hand.”
Sarge and Mink exchanged glances.
“Anyone else I would have already had out of here with a five dollar fine and a promise not to do it again. This, however, became a sticky wicket due to two factors. First, your man Simon is black. Second, the person whose room he snuck into was Ty Cobb, one of the greatest baseball ever to live and, as I have personally learned, a royal pain in the ass. Gentlemen, I’ll consider us lucky if we can keep your witch doctor out of the electric chair.”
Mink interrupted.
“Mr. Haverslack, this is all nothing but a simple misunderstanding. All Simon was trying to do was cut off a little of Cobb’s hair so he could put it in his tobacco doll and make it play better baseball when it comes to life.”
The lawyer stared at Mink for an uncomfortably long time before he spoke.
“Sir, when we are before the judge, please do me a huge favor and keep that to yourself. In no way, shape, or form, will it benefit our cause.”
Haverslack explained to Sarge and Mink that he had already spoken with the assistant district attorney assigned to the Northeastern Station House. Normally, minor misdemeanor cases like Simon’s went before a magistrate in-house at the station and were taken care of on sight without any problems. However, Ty Cobb arrived and threw a wrench in everyone’s plans as he tried to brow beat the prosecutor into requesting jail time.
Haverslack shook his head.
“I always heard Cobb was a good-for-nothing, but I figured it was sour grapes coming from envious players. Turns out I gave him too much credit. That guy is downright mean.”
A uniformed officer walked into the room and advised Haverslack that the magistrate was ready for him. The lawyer slapped his hands on the table’s surface and stood. He held the door for Sarge and Mink.
“Well, boys, its showtime. I took the liberty of trying to clean up Simon for his appearance before the judge.”
As he said the words, he slapped something into Mink’s hand. The Whispers pitcher glanced down and was appalled to find that it was Simon’s nose bone.
Mink and Sarge sat in the back of the small court room while Haverslack took at spot at the defense table. Another table opposite him was occupied by the assistant district attorney. Right behind the prosecutor was the legendary Ty Cobb. Cobb hung over the rail that divided the front tables from the gallery and hissed at the D.A. until the man finally relented and turned in his chair. Cobb demanded that Simon be shot at dawn. He tried to keep his voice down, but his anger would not allow it.
“This goddamn jungle man better hang from the highest tree, you understand me? I buy and sell men like you every day and I will have satisfaction. I am Ty Cobb. You listening to me, Mr. D.A.?”
The acting district attorney had migraine written all over his face. Sarge crossed his arms and chuckled. He could see that retirement had not changed Cobb one bit.
At about that time, a Baltimore police officer brought Simon through the back door. Upon entering the room, Simon honed in on Cobb and beamed a smile from ear to ear. His huge eyes looked as if they would pop out of his skull. Mink laughed when he saw that the witch doctor’s hair was slicked back under a thick coat of pomade.
“Jimminy Christmas, Sarge! I hardly recognized him.”
Cobb flew into another fit at the sight of Simon. He twisted around to rant some more, but his motions slowed as he finally noticed the presence of Mink and Sarge.
“Well, well, well. If it ain’t Sarge Safran and his sidekick, Mink Cosgrove. You two ain’t satisfied with just making a travesty out of baseball. Now you’re gonna make a travesty of this here courtroom. You wanna know something? You guys sicken me. I am Ty Cobb. It’s men like me who are baseball. That freak show you put on ain’t nothing but blasphemy.”
Cobb went three shades of red and tore into Sarge and Mink for a good ten minutes. Spittle flew from his mouth as he pointed and gesticulated every which way. He was so busy yelling and screaming at Sarge and Mink that he failed to notice the magistrate enter the room. He then failed to notice when the judge eyed his outlandish behavior and dismissed the charge against Simon Says. Cobb failed to notice Haverslack and the D.A. shake hands; he failed to notice the magistrate leave; he even failed to notice when the officer returned Simon Says’s property to him, including a leather suitcase that contained Chew-on Man.
The finest moment for Sarge and Mink to watch, however, was when the Georgia Peach, Tyrus Cobb, was so busy berating the two of them that he also failed to notice SImon sneak up behind him, reach around to the front of his coat, and quietly pluck a pocket square away from him.
Mink nearly lost control of his bladder he laughed so hard. Sarge simply sat with his arms crossed. His face wore a grin. When Cobb finally tired himself out and wound down, Sarge addressed him.
“Mr. Cobb, you have brought up some interesting points today that Mink and I just can’t top. We appreciate you sharing it all with us. It was certainly good seeing you again.”
With that, Mink and Sarge walked out of the court room and left Ty Cobb standing there alone. It took him a full two minutes to understand that he had just been suckered by a slick Baltimore attorney and a couple of Carny Ballplayers.
Mink and Sarge grabbed Simon Says, thanked Haverslack for his work, and jumped on the night train towards WIlmington, Delaware.
On the ride home, Mink and Simon fell asleep and left Sarge alone with his thoughts. He stared at the two men’s faces and watched them change from dark to light as a full moon ducked in and out of passing clouds. A shrunken head dangled from the witch doctor’s neck. Sarge’s body ached and sleep would not come. The movement of the train on the tracks had a trance-like effect on him and he did not seem at all surprised when Simon’s shrunken head trinket opened its eyes and spoke to him.
“The son arrives soon. The Devil’s Right Hand draws near. All has been foretold.”
Sarge watched as the head’s black eyes slowly closed again and left him with the drone of the tracks. The coach put his forehead against the cool window glass. He laughed at his own thoughts.
“Crazy shrunken head, if you’re gonna pipe up, the least you could have done was given me a good race tip on the ponies.”
When the shriveled head spoke again, Sarge did not turn his attention to it. He just stared at the moon and the shadows of trees that flew by.
“Dixie Showgirl to place in the fifth tomorrow.”
8. Wilmington and Delilah
Monday morning was beautiful. Sarge woke up in his small cottage to the sounds of horses playing in his backyard. He left his bed, opened the back door, and let the sun shine in as he watched the animals play in the pasture.
Ever since Sarge arrived in Wilmington, he rented the small craftsman home that sat squarely on one of Mark DuCane’s many farms. During the first few years, when the Carny season was over, Sarge could be found on the back porch, tilted on a rocking chair, drinking black coffee, smoking cigars, and watching DuCane’s young daughters take the horses through their workouts.
As time moved on, though, the DuCane girls became women and their visits to the horse farm grew fewer and less frequent as their interests turned to more womanly matters. Sarge still loved to watch the horses in the mornings, though, and the animals knew when he returned there would be cut apples and carrots to be eaten from his hands. He would laugh at them as they congregated at the edge of the split rail fence near his home and shove each other with their heads to jockey for position.
He loved the life that he had carved away from Carnival Baseball, even if it was only for a few days at a time during the spring and summer months. Fall always came soon, sometimes too soon, and he would have the pleasure to play house every day until t
he baseball season beckoned him again, and by that time, he grew tired of books and farm work. The itch would return and the year’s process would begin anew.
Sarge grabbed a handful of carrots from the ice box and fed the stable of horses until he heard the familiar rumble of a V8 engine. He smiled wide and threw the remaining vegetables over the fence.
“Sorry, everyone, but it sounds as if the guest of honor is arriving.”
He patted a dark red quarter horse named Poco between the eyes and walked to the front of the country house. There in the distance he could see a Ford convertible kick up dust along the dirt drive that led to his place. It was a beautiful tan roadster with white walls. It was a city car.
Sarge sat himself on the front porch and pulled his driving cap down low to shade his eyes. He was barefoot and wore a pair of trousers and a sleeveless T-shirt. Suspenders hung down from his waist to his sides. He swung his feet above the ground and the action made him suddenly think of home and his childhood, working with his father, noodling catfish with his brother. Louisiana. The Parish.
The car slowly rolled to a stop and Delilah Vann stepped out. She wore a stunning white summer dress and a wide brimmed cloche. A tight curl poked out from the side of her hat. Sarge looked at the beauty in front of him and thought that the average woman dabbled in fashion. Delilah, however, took it hostage and killed it. She was stunning.
She set a smirk on her face and walked over him. She held a bottle to her side. When she stood in front of him they were eye to eye. Sarge yearned to touch her smooth, dark skin.