The Legend of Mickey Tussler

by Nappi, Frank;

  Mickey’s feet struggled to find their spot on the rubber. He looked like a baby deer who had just gotten its legs. He was awkward, spastic, and his clumsiness only fueled further the derision coming from the Ranger dugout.

  “Why me?” Murph whispered to himself. “Why?”

  The frazzled hurler faced the third batter of the inning. Ozzy Newcomb was the ninth-place hitter—an offensive threat by no means. But Mickey looked wild, and Newcomb was up there to work a walk. He set his feet in the batter’s box, crouched, and cut the air with a few practice hacks, mostly for effect. Mickey rolled his arms, reared back, and let fly a fastball, up and away.

  “Ball one!”

  “Attaboy, Oz!” McNally yelled from the bench. “Walk’s a hit.”

  Mickey regrouped. He sighed heavily and peered in at Boxcar. The catcher was smiling through his mask as he traced with his right forefinger the outline of an apple in the pocket of his glove.

  “Come on now, big Mick,” he called. “Come on now. Toss that apple!”

  Mickey looked lost, confused by Boxcar’s zany antics. He squinted and scrunched his nose, trying unsuccessfully to ascertain some hidden meaning behind his catcher’s behavior. But somehow, either the phantom picture or the mere mention of the word apple refocused the young phenom, and like the lightning that had just split the stormy sky, he was back. He rolled, reared, and fired a blazing fastball dead center. The pop of the glove was deafening.

  “Steeerike one!”

  The cry was followed by a distant clap of thunder and two more flashes of white light. Mickey got right back on the rubber and delivered again.

  “Twooo!”

  McNally scratched his head and cursed the sky. Through the inclement air came the weary groan of the crowd, a song of discontent that struck a chord that vibrated deep within him. All of these flurried failures and eliminations made his mind a barren, echoing place where the voices of detractors resonated with an unrelenting fury. Losing was such a tough nut to swallow. Always was.

  He could still remember the very first sting of defeat. He was only eight. It came at the hands of Roger Forester while they sat around a dusty marble ring etched in the schoolyard dirt. Young McNally was the marble champion. Nobody at Thomas Jefferson Elementary was better. Except on that day. On that day, Forester could not miss. One by one, he sent every one of McNally’s marbles—green ones, red ones, yellow ones—careening out of the circle.

  “Oh my God, Chip!” his friends ridiculed. “How could you lose to Forester?”

  He felt so naked, so vulnerable. And all he could think was to run and hide. That’s just what he did. But that luxury had yielded with the passage of time. Now he had to face the music.

  Through the intermittent lightning and thin veil of rain, Mickey looked ghostlike and menacing. His prodigious presence was never more pronounced than at that moment when his arms rolled and fired one final time, a blurred, gleaming line of white rocketing through the misty air past a sagging stick and into Boxcar’s glove for strike three.

  Within seconds of the umpire’s call, the Brewers’ bench erupted onto the field, each player, including Danvers and the other dissenters, loping frantically to join the celebration on the mound. There were hugs and handshakes and slaps on the behind for everyone. It was only one game, and they still had quite a stretch of schedule to navigate, but as Murph said while watching the team hoist Mickey on their shoulders and carry him around the field victoriously, it was “the start of something really special.”

  He lingered and watched, savoring the taste of sweet victory. It was glorious. The perfect ending to a perfect day. He held his breath and let the feeling wash over him. His thoughts were varied, ranging from his early days as a rookie to just minutes ago, when McNally tried to sabotage his glory. Then they took a capricious turn, wandering inexplicably to Molly and the farm. It felt weird at first—just snuck up on him and hung on the air for a moment before dissolving into an aura of something warm and familiar. He wondered what Molly was doing, if she was okay, and wished that somehow she could be here to share the moment with them.

  But as special as the scene was, Murph could not help but notice that Lefty’s contributions to the celebration were perfunctory. He was less than enthusiastic, with forced smiles and contrived exultation. He fooled most of them, but Murph continued to watch. Believing he was free from public scrutiny, Lefty finally abandoned the façade. His mouth morphed into a grimace and his lids blinked maliciously. Murph, preparing to welcome each of his players back into the dugout, thought it was one of the ugliest things he had ever seen.

  It was late afternoon, and the entire field was now bathed in long, dark, stormy shadows. Murph greeted each of his boys with warm, appreciative hands.

  Lefty was the last one off. His walk from the field back to the dugout was interminable. With narrow eyes that looked past Murph’s and strayed momentarily to the Ranger dugout, Lefty watched the sinking sun, dying in a purple sky, ensconced in a halo of ignominy.

  MIDSEASON

  In a dark office with a picture of Shoeless Joe Jackson over the fireplace and rows of books in leather covers of varying shades of brown tucked neatly in mahogany cases, several men sat around, smoking and talking in hushed tones. There was Scotty, a stocky, muscle-bound, impatient man in his late thirties who looked like an amateur boxer; Quinton, a polished gentleman with a waxed mustache and an expensive suit, and two other men wearing baseball caps and of dire expressions.

  “This freak show is killing me,” the first of the two men muttered from beneath his cap. “I can’t have it anymore. I can not—I will not lose to Arthur Murphy again.”

  Quinton sat with a rigid back suggesting some correlation between physical and moral probity. Stiff and robotic, he altered his posture only briefly to jot something down in a folder next to him. Then he inhaled deeply several times through flared nostrils.

  “You better not,” he responded curtly, tapping the end of his pipe on his chin. “Have you seen the standings today? You’ve dropped six straight since the Brewer debacle. Seven games is a lot of ground to make up in six weeks. You don’t get paid to finish second.”

  The attacked man sat up straight and cleared his throat. “That’s why I wanted to meet,” he said nervously. “So that we’d all be on the same page here.” He hesitated a moment longer, then looked in the direction of the second man, receiving only an obligatory nod.

  “Say, let’s lay da cawds on da table,” Scotty ejaculated, running his fingertips across a slip of paper as if he were reading by touch. “It says here that you mugs want a little help with settin’ up a little—uh, what we in the business refer to as an unfortunate event. Am I right?”

  “Well, we don’t want anything too drastic,” the first man said cautiously. “We just want to put a little scare into him. Nothing fullblown. It should be easy. My friend here even has some people who are willing to assist us in carrying out the plan.”

  Scotty’s full, chinless face contorted into something fierce and menacing. “Well, then why you guys wastin’ my time here?” he barked. “I’m a busy guy.”

  The hardness in Scotty’s voice sent a faint chill of doubt over all of them.

  “What he means to say,” Quinton interjected, “is that we would like you—need you—to assist us in the particulars. More specifically, to provide the muscle to go along with the method.”

  The stocky man stomped around the room, his short, burly legs rattling the trinkets and decorative objects that adorned the furniture pieces that somehow kept getting in his way.

  “This is not my usual gig,” he said peremptorily. “It’s kinda small potatoes. But, I’ll tell you what I’m gonna do.” He scribbled a crude drawing on a cocktail napkin he pulled from his pocket. “This is the bar—this mark is me. This other one is your boy.” Then he drew a series of lines and slashes until the napkin was filled with ink. “That’s how it will work. See?”

  Quinton and the two other men surveyed the rudiment
ary drawing. It appeared to their liking, although Quinton pressed the first man for approval. “Well,” he said, poking the man’s shoulder with his index finger. “What do you think?”

  “I don’t know,” he answered, saddled with overwhelming responsibility. “I’ve never done this sort of thing before.”

  They all just stared at each other blankly, paralyzed by a cloud of indecision.

  “All right, I’ve heard enough. This meeting is over.” Scotty reached for his drawing and had it halfway into his pocket when the second man made his move.

  He turned, looked at all of them anxiously, then approached Scotty with yielding, catlike steps. “No, it’s fine. Don’t leave. Really. The plan is perfect. We’ll take it. I know just what to do. It will work out just fine.”

  Scotty’s anger melted momentarily. He plunged both hands into his pockets and jingled the coins inside. The other two men nodded to each other, and the glimmer of optimism widened. Scotty turned toward the group, his face now expressionless. “Okay now, fellas,” he said with a half-closed mouth. “Let’s talk turkey.”

  In shadows cast by crystal lamps, a brown envelope exchanged hands. The sound of banter and light laughter was heard and the air thinned significantly. The troubles of the day, once grave and insurmountable, seemed to reconcile, arrange themselves in healing formation.

  The Brew Crew was riding high, basking in the glow of a seven-game lead over the second-place Rangers. The team was reveling in the uncharted waters of what appeared to be limitless success. They were, as Matheson said gleefully, “a well-oiled machine.” Any fractiousness spawned by the anxiety and ignorance linked to Mickey’s arrival had been quelled by the boy’s affable nature and his incalculable contributions to the team’s improbable rise to the baseball penthouse. Only Lefty remained bitter and critical.

  “Yo, Lefty, he ain’t so bad,” Danvers explained, trying to sway the belligerent pitcher. “Yeah, he’s a little off. But, shit, think about what he’s done for all of us—for this team.”

  “What he’s done for us?” Lefty asked. “What has he done for me? Except maybe become a gnawing, goddamned pain in my ass.”

  Danvers shook his head wearily. “You need to let it go, Rogers. Really. You still have an important role on this team. It don’t have to be you or him. There’s room for both of you.”

  “Don’t give me any more of your goddamned sentimental bullshit, Woody, okay? You’re full of it. If that fucking retard played the hot corner instead of pitcher, you’d be singing a different tune and you know it!”

  The team continued to win. And their confidence grew with every victory. The rest of the league watched enviously as this group of ragtag personalities blossomed into a brash, haughty juggernaut known for its overbearing back-patting and raucous on-field displays celebrating their newfound prowess.

  These on-field celebrations, which seemed to be happening more and more frequently, found their way into the clubhouse and frequently extended to after hours as well. There were card games, hunting trips, and drinking. Plenty of drinking. One night, this feelgood camaraderie carried them to The Bucket. They were all there, laughing and carousing, tying one on as if there were no tomorrow. And to everyone’s surprise, it was Lefty’s idea.

  “Come on now, guys,” he’d said earlier that day. “Let’s go get pieeyed—all of us. As a team. Best thing for comradeship. You know what they say—a team that chugs together, slugs together!”

  “Who says that?” Pee Wee questioned.

  “Don’t be such a pansy, McGinty!” Lefty chided. “Loosen up a little bit. Just ’cause you look like a schoolboy don’t mean you have to act like one. And bring Mickey. It’s about time the big fella got a little taste of the nightlife.”

  Murph was elated when he heard about Lefty’s reversal. He and Matheson had been discussing, with no luck, avenues to squelch the dissension emanating from every pore of the disgruntled pitcher. Murph was just about at the end of his rope when he caught wind of it. The news was heaven-sent—a direct response to his prayers. Lefty was finally embracing the new kid. It was just what he had hoped for. His mind floated vaguely on the awesome thought that his team was gelling at just the right time.

  “It sounds like exactly what we need,” Murph said. “Just do me a favor, Pee Wee. Mickey can stay at your place tonight. That would be fine. But don’t overdue it with him. He’s still kind of green. And be back at a reasonable hour. We have early BP tomorrow.”

  “No sweat, Murph,” Pee Wee said. “Sure you don’t want to join us? Not too often all the fellas are together like this.”

  “No thanks.” Murph’s mouth expanded into a full-blown yawn. “I think I’ll sit this one out. I got a date with a couple of tumblers of whiskey and Jack Benny tonight.”

  The Bucket was hopping with all sorts of personalities. Pee Wee and Mickey were the first to come in. Pee Wee’s plan was to arrive early and then make an equally early departure. They were instantly greeted by a raucous din and the smell of stale beer. Uncomfortable almost immediately, they made their way to the end of the bar, where they sat on rickety stools talking and watching through a smoke-filled haze these drunken silhouettes colliding with each other.

  “Ever been to a watering hole?” Pee Wee asked.

  Mickey was twisting a thin plastic straw between his massive fingers. “A what?”

  “A saloon. Bar. You know, where guys drink and horse around?”

  “Nope, never Pee Wee.” Mickey looked up suddenly and surveyed the place. “It is very loud. Why is it so loud?”

  Pee Wee laughed.

  Danvers, Arky Fries, Boxcar, and Jimmy Llamas arrived next. Danvers and Llamas had been arguing the whole way over and were still at it.

  “There is no way you have a better arm than me,” Llamas protested loudly. “You got a screw loose or something.”

  “Listen here, you ugly, liver-lipped mess,” Danvers shot back. “Not only do I have a better arm, I can drink your sorry ass under the table, puke my guts up, and still walk out of here with something better than the heifers you usually poke.”

  Boxcar rolled his eyes and stepped in between them. He had been listening to their inane bantering for almost an hour and could not stand another minute. “Hey, why don’t you two lovebirds do something useful with your mouths,” he commanded, ordering each of them a beer. Then he waved to Pee Wee and Mickey and sent two more down their way.

  Little by little, the rest of the team straggled in. They formed a tight circle around the bar and bullshitted about everything under the sun, including what Clem Finster liked to call the three “basic B’s”—baseball, boobs, and booze.

  Lefty was the last to arrive. He entered with a girl wearing bib overalls and a tight, white T-shirt against which large, round breasts strained. He whispered something to her, then he went one way, she the other.

  The girl was gap-toothed, buxom, and sociable. Her hair was a thin, platinum-blond, strands of flaxen wheat that framed cheeks both sunken and made-up. She walked through the bar on thin legs that seemed to protest beneath hips and a derrière better suited for a much larger girl.

  Lefty’s eyes combed the faces at the bar, resting at last on Pee Wee and Mickey. He announced his arrival to the others, then swaggered over to the end of the bar with a big, stupid grin.

  “Hey, the kindergarten’s here!” he joked, slapping both men on the back. “Glad you guys could make it.” Pee Wee felt something fracture in his chest. He really hated Lefty. Lefty was the only guy he had ever played with who refused to acknowledge his baseball prowess and his remarkable ascension to this level. And he just loved himself a little too much for Pee Wee’s taste.

  “Make it?” he answered quickly. “What are you spouting off about? We were the first ones here.”

  Lefty scowled. He checked his watch, then folded his arms as if to restrain himself. Then he pivoted oddly, frowning at the full glasses of beer sitting undisturbed in front of his two staid teammates and motioned to the bartender.<
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  “Barkeep,” he snapped. “Two whiskeys for my good friends here. The beer’s just not cutting it.”

  Pee Wee held his hands up defiantly. “What are you trying to pull, Lefty? You want to buy us drinks? Who am I, the village idiot? I don’t think so.”

  “Come on, McGinty, that really hurts. Can’t a guy say he’s sorry? Jesus, I’m just trying to bury the hatchet, that’s all. When did you get so goddamned cynical? I know I’ve been a little rough on some of you guys. Especially Mickey. But it was all in good fun. Really. Now I’m just trying to make amends.”

  The two men faced each other. Pee Wee looked at Lefty with myriad misgivings. Lefty was just a horse’s ass, incapable of anything even remotely altruistic. He had had too many experiences with the guy to think anything else was possible. But somewhere in the back of his head, Pee Wee heard Murph, and he was suddenly mindful of the manger’s contention that things with Lefty had turned the corner. Who was he to stand in the way?

  “Okay, Lefty,” he said begrudgingly, fingering the tiny glass that was placed in front of him. “We accept—but just know that I’ll be getting the next one.”

  “Hey, we’re all friends here, right?” Lefty went on. “My money, your money. What’s the difference, right?”

  Pee Wee forced a smile and the three of them toasted their new alliance. Pee Wee brought the glass to his lips, nodded to Mickey that it was okay, then poured the mordant elixir down his throat.

  “Yee ha!” Lefty cackled, juiced by the spirit of the moment.

  Things seemed to get even better with time. Three rounds of whiskey later, all of them were feeling pretty good. Danvers and Llamas had joined them and were delighting in showing the prudent Mickey the art of doing shots.

  “Hell’s bells!” Llamas screeched, watching as Mickey put down one cocktail after another. “This boy can really pound!”