The Legend of Mickey Tussler

by Nappi, Frank;

  Murph remembered that conversation with Pee Wee, and the tear on his cheek. He was a kid who knew what it meant to struggle. Knew what it meant to be the underdog. He was just what Mickey needed.

  BORCHERT FIELD—MAY

  In the cool blue twilight, with the distant lamps of the tiny town glowing like the tattered ends of lit cigars, Mickey sat down on Arthur Murphy’s front porch—squeezed himself into a rickety, white rocker that protested loudly under the burly boy’s weight—and fumbled nervously through the team’s media guide. Murph lived just a few miles from the ballpark, a twenty-minute scamper down the narrow dirt road all the locals referred to affectionately as Diamond Drive. His place was small, a modest gray dwelling that looked as though it had been dropped indiscriminately in the middle of a pale grass field flanked by clusters of big dead trees and restless tumbleweeds. The windows, clouded casements that winced uncomfortably at the barren acreage just outside, allowed only glints of light to pass through, obscurely illuminating the austere furnishings inside. It wasn’t much to speak of, but it was home and would now provide Mickey with a haven from which Murph could watch him for as long as he was with the team.

  “Your picture will be on one of those pages next year,” Murph said with alacrity, dragging a bench alongside the rocker. “How does that grab you, Mickey?”

  The boy nodded absently, his eyes affixed to the publication.

  “You know, Mick, I was planning on using you in tomorrow’s game—if the time is right. You’ve practiced enough. Now I kind of want you to get your feet wet. Sound okay to you?”

  The boy nodded again, continuing to nourish a daydream of limitless expansion seemingly tied to the pictures before him. Murph smiled at Mickey’s innocence.

  “Mickey,” Murph repeated louder. “Do you want to play baseball tomorrow? In the game?”

  Mickey lifted his head. “Yeah. Baseball.” Mickey’s eyes darted wildly from side to side, like two marbles rattling around inside a glass jar. “Got any pigs here?”

  “How’s that?”

  “Have you got any pigs? Mickey loves pigs. Got me my own back home. Name’s Oscar. Oscar’s my pig.” Mickey jerked his head irregularly and looked all about out of haggard and homesick eyes. He blinked erratically, with great purpose, as if the fluttering of his lids would somehow clear the lenses and bring into focus the orphic surroundings.

  “I tell you what, Mick,” Murph said, ever mindful of the boy’s emotional state. “I don’t have any pigs. But if you throw for me a little tomorrow, I can sure as heck try to get my hands on one.”

  Mickey looked down glumly at his feet and nodded. Without a word, Murph dragged the bench even closer to Mickey, engendering a quick look from the pensive boy.

  “That’s a pretty serious scar you got there, Mick.” Murph traced with a steady eye the jagged line of raised skin on Mickey’s forehead. “How’d it happen?”

  Mickey sat quietly, staring blankly ahead into the approaching darkness, while unwittingly running his thick finger over the damaged area and scowling, as if the mention of the injury had brought to his idle mind a flood of memory.

  Mickey spoke slowly but did not say much of anything, selecting his words carefully as if he were feeling for stones to step on to cross a rushing stream. He could still hear Clarence roaring and was unable to articulate the terror that had seized him now, all over again.

  “You fucking moron! Of all the harebrain, bone-headed things to do. How could you leave my good work gloves outside? Huh? How do ya suppose I wear ’em now, all soaking wet from the goddamned rain last night?”

  Mickey was paralyzed. He just stood before Clarence, head down, his voice reduced to nothing but a series of spasmodic whimpers.

  “ ‘One by one the casements catch, her beams beneath the silvery thatch—’”

  “I’m talking to you, boy!” Clarence wailed. “Enough of that sissy shit. Look at yer daddy when he’s talking to you.”

  Mickey shuddered beneath the blasts of alcoholic breath, raising his eyes ever so slightly.

  “Well, dimwit. What have ya got to say fer yerself?”

  “I, well, I—”

  “Spit it out for Christ sakes!” Clarence demanded, raising an opaque glass bottle to his lips and gulping some of its contents. “I want a goddamned answer, boy!”

  “I, uh, Mickey don’t really know.” He began to cry. “I guess I forgot.”

  “You forgot! You forgot? Is that what you said?” Clarence clenched his teeth.

  “Mickey forgot,” the quivering boy said through surging tears. “Mickey forgot. I’m sorry.”

  “Of all the stupid things to say! You forgot. Holy Christ. Are you kidding me?”

  Mickey withered before the tyrannical farmer, his eyes shut, ears covered while he continued to utter, “I’m sorry,” over and over.

  Clarence’s anger boiled over. “Look at me boy!” he barked. “Look at me now!”

  Mickey opened his eyes and brought his hands down away from his ears. Clarence lowered his hands as well and sank into a momentary silence. The fit appeared to have abated, and Mickey had just started to breathe a little easier when Clarence whipped the bottle out from behind his back and struck him just above the eye, shattering the bottle and splitting open the boy’s forehead. Sitting there with Murph, Mickey could still feel the sting of alcohol and dirt mixing with his blood. He could feel it just the same, but was powerless to share the horror.

  “Your daddy isn’t a nice man, Mickey, is he?”

  Mickey’s emotions formed a labyrinth out of the lines on his face. “I make him mad. Very mad. On account of me being a retard.”

  “Is that what he calls you?”

  “Yes, sir, Mr. Murphy. He gets awful sore. Mad. He’s always pitching a fit about something. It’s why Oscar and me get on so well. I love all my animals. They can’t talk, so I reckon they can’t hurt you none neither.”

  “Yup, sure seems that way. But not all people call you names, Mick. There are some good ones. And as far as hitting you?”

  “I ain’t much good at anything.”

  “Does he get angry at your mom too?” Murph persisted. “You know, like he does with you?”

  “Mama cries a lot.”

  Murph, feeling oddly shaken, placed his hand on Mickey’s shoulder. “You’re here now, Mickey,” he said reassuringly. “It’s okay. Things will be different.”

  They sat there a while longer, talking and looking out through the shroud of dusk at the countryside as it slipped away from them in irregular waves, an almost ghostlike series of slopes that crawled quietly toward the wasted expanse of land that lay just before the distant town. Murph wondered again silently, as he engaged the boy in small talk about this and that, if he had indeed made a mistake—if maybe he was asking too much. “He’s a babe in the woods, Artie,” Matheson warned him after meeting Mickey for the first time. “The jackals will tear him apart.” Somehow, those words meant more to him now than before. In between his colloquial exchanges with this naïve boy, Murph listened to the wind, high in the trees, and thought for a moment that he could hear whispers of disapproval. Mickey, lost in thoughts of home, heard different sounds—the screams of his maniacal father, the sobbing of Molly, and the safe, playful grunting of the pink-and-black porker he called Oscar.

  The next afternoon, wisps of cottonlike clouds stretched across the azure canvas of a high sky. The sun showered the manicured diamond at Borchert Field with cascading rays of golden yellow, and the redolence of spring danced gleefully on a warm breeze. It was a beautiful day for baseball.

  The Brewers faced off against the Rangers of Spokane. The game was not fraught with intense rivalry rooted in previous battles, nor did a single game played this early in the season have any real postseason implications. But the skipper of the Rangers—a haunting demon from Murph’s past—altered the daily face of things and made Murph want this game just a little more than usual.

  Chip McNally was such a smug, surly son of a bitch.
Always was. The only thing that had changed since their playing days together was the hint of gray around his temples.

  “So, Murph,” he said sarcastically as he limped awkwardly up to home plate to exchange lineup cards, “I see you guys are really ripping it up these days, eh?” He flashed a toothy grin, then discharged a thin stream of tobacco juice just in front of Murph’s feet.

  “Don’t wet your Skivvies, gimpy,” Murph fired back. “You just worry about yourself.”

  The game was a real barn burner. The Rangers put up six runs in the top of the first inning, only to see the Brewers answer with five of their own, highlighted by a prodigious grand slam off the bat of Woody Danvers. The next few innings followed a similar pattern, with both teams exchanging runs in the third, fourth, fifth, and sixth frames. The capacity crowd was getting its money’s worth.

  By the time the seventh-inning stretch rolled around, and each spectator had stood up, yawned, and sung a few bars of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” the teams had together used eight pitchers. The Rangers were content to let their fourth hurler, Billy “Rubber Arm” Bradley, go the rest of the way. He was the Ranger workhorse. The guys always joked about the resiliency of Bradley’s arm. He could throw one hundred plus pitches in a game, then pitch horseshoes with the guys, split a cord of wood, pick at his banjo, and be good to go the next day if needed.

  “Man, I don’t know what your secret is, Billy,” the Ranger catcher always joked, looking down just beyond his waist. “But whatever it is, I got to get me some of that for my little slugger.”

  The Brewers, however, did not have that luxury. Butch Sanders was spent. He had been laboring since the middle of the fifth inning. And to make matters worse, the bullpen was short on arms. Packey Reynolds was sidelined with turf toe, and Hobie Miller was back home in Connecticut attending the funeral for his grandfather. That left Murph with just two possibilities—Lefty, who had never made a relief appearance and was scheduled to start tomorrow’s contest, and Mickey, who was sitting on the top step of the dugout, poking his finger in and out of a series of anthills that had formed around the lip of the concrete platform. Murph sighed. He took off his cap, bowed his head, and ran his palm roughly across his scalp.

  Some unforeseen hope came, however, in the bottom of the eighth frame. Pee Wee lead off the inning with a four-pitch walk. Jimmy Llama’s Baltimore chop eluded the bare hand of the Rangers’ third baseman, who had miscalculated the ball’s topspin, and another walk to Woody Danvers loaded the bases. Down 15–13, Murph realized that a well struck ball would not only tie the game but would in all likelihood give them the lead.

  But the tiny sparkle of optimism that danced wildly in Murph’s eyes began to wane, suffocated by the all-too-familiar doldrums of unfulfilled expectation. Buck Faber took three pipe strikes, and Clem Finster ran the count to 3–2, fouled off the next five offerings, but ultimately went down, swinging wildly at a pitch in the dirt. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Murph said, firing his cap hard against the dugout wall. “Swinging at a goddamned fifty-five-footer? What the hell do I have to do to catch a goddamned break?”

  Boxcar was next. Ordinarily, this would have been heaven-sent. Your best player at the dish with the game on the line. But the Brewers’ leader was mired in a 1-for-26 slump, including three situations just like this one. Murph folded his arms and sighed. “Perfect,” he muttered bitterly. “Just perfect.”

  The Brewer catcher strode to the plate, serenaded by a frenzy of yelling and clapping and stamping of feet that washed across the ballpark like a tidal wave. Slump or not, he was their guy.

  “Boxcar! Boxcar!” the raucous crowd roared.

  He tapped each cleat with the shaved knob of his bat three times, in customary fashion. A subtle tip of his helmet and two practice swings that cut the air like an airplane propeller signaled he was ready.

  He dug his back foot in the soft earth. For a moment, his eyes found a black-and-white placard in the centerfield bleachers: BOXCAR IS GOD.

  It was nice to see. They had not forgotten. He smiled, but only for a fleeting moment, the glimmer of glory in his mind’s eye dimming quietly beneath the haze of the impending confrontation.

  “You’re only as good as your last at bat,” he reminded himself.

  The first delivery was a fastball, high and inside. Most definitely a purpose pitch. Everyone knew that Boxcar loved to extend his arms. His biceps were thirty inches of chiseled marble, two Herculean specimens bristling with raw power, rage, and fury. The only way to neutralize that power was to tie him up. The scouting report was clear and simple: hard stuff inside, junk away. He knew the routine. Shit, he was a catcher himself. It was all part of the dance—a classic game of cat and mouse.

  The next offering was significantly slower and fluttered across the outside corner of home plate for a called strike. He grumbled a bit. Inside—outside. Inside—outside. He stepped out of the box and adjusted his helmet. His breath was hot.

  “Come on, Boxcar,” Murph yelled from the dugout, no longer able to sit still. “A little bingo. Come on now!”

  The sound of his manager’s voice quieted some of his frustration. He glared out at the pitcher, stepped back in, but backed out once more when an explosion of pigeons passed in front of the sun. They circled high overhead with a flutter and frenzy, casting a cold shadow that extended halfway across the diamond. Boxcar remained on the periphery of the chalk-lined rectangle alongside home plate, banging his cleats again. The pitcher shivered a little and pounded his glove while continuing to toe the rubber with an awkward restlessness. He released a venomous spray of tobacco juice in the batter’s direction and cocked his head invitingly. Boxcar laughed. “Relax, Sporty,” Boxcar said, staring playfully out at the tiny hill that lay some sixty feet in front of him. “I’ll be your huckleberry.”

  He dug in once more. The congregation of birds dispersed fearfully and the darkness lifted, the sun revealed once more, fresh in a clear blue sky. Boxcar was certain he knew what was coming next. The Rangers catcher was set up prematurely on the inside half of the plate. It was a transparent ruse, a feeble attempt at making Boxcar believe they were going to bust him in again.

  The pitcher took his sign. He placed his hands together and let them fall, slowly, methodically, until they came to rest momentarily at his waist. Then he lifted his leg and cocked his arm back behind his ear. Boxcar could hear the catcher shifting behind him to the outer half of the plate as the ball rolled effortlessly out of the pitcher’s hand. The sun caught the tiny sphere as it traveled to the catcher, laces spinning like a carnival pinwheel. It reminded Boxcar of the tiny white butterflies he used to observe from time to time as a kid, skittish but graceful. The ball orbited on the gentle breeze momentarily, suspended precariously like a wayward dandelion seed, before beginning its descent for its final destination. Boxcar’s eyes widened. The padded cowhide glove yawned patiently behind him, waiting to receive the tiny traveler. But Boxcar’s bat interrupted the artful choreography and caught the ball square as it floated across the plate, sending it screeching toward the gap in left center field.

  Murph was bent over the watercooler when he heard the thunderous explosion off Boxcar’s bat. He turned quickly, eyes wide but incredulous, and saw the ball rolling inexorably toward the wall and his beleaguered Brewers circling the bases. Pee Wee scored first, followed closely by Jimmy Llamas. Murph was on the top step of the dugout, alongside Mickey. His moribund spirit took flight.

  “Come on, Woody!” he screamed, arms flailing like a windmill, as Danvers rounded third base. “Get the goddamned piano off your back!”

  Danvers hit the inside corner of the bag in full stride. His face was strained—two hungry eyes and a clenched jaw fully visible with the loss of his cap. His chest heaved and his spikes whirled like two rotors, unearthing large clumps of clay in his wake. He was halfway down the third-base line when the shortstop, standing impatiently on the lip of the outfield grass, received the cutoff throw. The ball was in his glove for a mer
e second before he whirled and fired a bullet toward home plate.

  The crowd had worked itself into a dizzying fit of glorious expectation. Everyone was standing, willing Danvers to safety. The ball and the runner arrived at precisely the same time. The crowd gasped, then fell silent after a thunderous sound pierced the air. Both the catcher and Danvers crumpled helplessly to the ground, dazed and shaken by the violent collision. Danvers lay limp, balled up in a twisted heap stretched across home plate. His eyes glazed over and tiny beads of sweat and blood sat nervously on his dirtstained cheeks, quivering curiously beneath the penetrating stare of the yellow sun. The catcher rested some five to six feet beyond the circular dirt cutout where he usually sat, flat on his back, pinned beneath the weight of his gear and the disappointment of having let the ball roll from his fingers following the vicious collision.

  “Safe!” was the call, an exclamation that shattered the silence. The crowd exhaled, a collective wind that seemed to ruffle every flag in the ballpark. Everyone remained standing and roared with approval.

  The Brewers took that one-run lead into the ninth inning. Murph had hoped to plate one or two more insurance runs, but it was not to be. Arky Fries went down looking, ending the Brewer rally prematurely. So Murph crossed himself, sighed wearily, and handed the ball back to Butch Sanders.

  “Come on, Sandy,” he implored, patting the pitcher on the shoulder. “I need this one. Bad. Let’s sit ’em down, okay? One, two, three.”

  Sanders looked like a little boy who had just limped away from a street fight. His eyes, two fading stars, sank languidly into a face both red and awash with despair. He stumbled onto the field, shoulders rounded and dusty, and took his place on the hill. Tiny black flies flickered all about his cap, briny and askew, and a steady buzz from the crowd hopped on the frenetic air until finally settling directly above him. He exhaled. He knew he had nothing left.