The boy awoke in a crumpled heap that morning when the sun’s fingers poked mercilessly at his eyes and the metal trash-can cover had become too painful to remain underneath his head. His clothes were torn and smelled bad. His stomach hurt and his mouth was dry, as if he had stuffed inside his cheeks too many spoonfuls of his aunt Marcy’s homemade sponge cake. And his right hand really hurt. But worse than all of that was why. Why? That bothered him most, until the word where popped into his head. Where was he? He recalled very little. He vaguely remembered a girl named Laney. Where was she now? And little glasses. He remembered little glasses—fourteen in all—with dark liquid that burned his stomach. He sat up, with some difficulty, and looked down at his hand. It was bloody. And the fingers did not line up the way they always had. His heart thumped loudly. He began to think that he was reading about someone else—that all of this “jumble” as he sometimes called it was not happening to him. He had all but convinced himself when his hand really started to hurt. Then he knew it wasn’t someone else; it was him.
He looked hard at everything around him. He was not sure that he had ever seen his current surroundings, much less belonged in them, and feared that he would continue for an unnamed time in a state in which he was simply a solitary puzzle piece, wayward, discarded, in an unknown, hostile geography.
His thoughts began to boil over. Where was Laney? Baseball practice starts at eight. Why are my fingers all twisted? Oscar needs to be fed. The smell of my clothes is burning my nose. There is garbage everywhere. Where am I? The thoughts just kept coming, wave after wave, and filled his head until he could no longer house all of them at once. He pulled his knees in close to his chest and began to rock.
“ ‘Slowly, silently, now the moon, walks the night in her silver shoon … ’ ”
Miles away, life on the Tussler farm kept moving forward in laborious ritual. Molly had lulled herself into a tired, dreamlike numbness, in which she felt nothing but the tiny wisps of grass stirring restlessly at her ankles. Emptying the slop buckets, her mind floated vaguely on the unfulfilled adage that good things come to those who wait. How much longer would it be? And would it arrive before death? She felt the bewildering sensation that somehow she had already died. Her body, though, as cruel as it seemed, was forced to live on. She ate, what little she could, and slept, some nights better than others. And of course, she rose each morning to face yet another day of toiling on the farm. This “life” of hers just went on. But despite the living, she felt this prevailing sense of disassociation, connected to nothing but feelings of exposure and alarm. The only thing that came close to bending her scowl into a smile was the thought of Mickey, free from the stifling world behind their wooden fences. It was as if a part of her had broken free, which is why when she received the call from Murph and thought that she had lost the only thing in her life that mattered, she prayed that death would be swift and reward her for her patience.
“Please, Molly, please do not panic,” he said, trying to console her. “Don’t talk crazy. Mickey needs you. I know we’ll find him. It’s nothing. Really. I just thought you should know.”
When the sun rose that day, the same searing yellow disk that had poked at Mickey only an hour before, Murph awoke at last from his fitful sleep. His eyes opened and surveyed from his bed the oblong splashes pressed against the wall, but his vision remained locked inside. For a fleeting moment, he thought that it had perhaps all been some hellish dream, that Mickey would be sitting at the breakfast table as usual, fully dressed, spikes and all, eating apple buttermilk coffee cake with a grapefruit spoon. The idea germinated only briefly, then died with the unmistakable sounds outside his window— reverberations of a new day, one without Mickey.
He suddenly felt an emptiness in his stomach. This longing grew from deep within him, an unremitting craving, like the need of a famished man for food and drink.
He rose from his bed and stumbled to the bathroom, dragging his feet across a floor already warm with a seasonal August heat. The water in the shower was cool but somehow bothersome, beating hard against his skin like tiny hammers chipping away at a crumbling edifice. He rolled his shoulders in mild protest, then adjusted the temperature and stood there, languishing now in a rising cloud of steam, wondering what the hell he was going to do.
He thought of Molly, and how the news had seized her. He marveled at how he could feel her anguish so many miles away. She was so beaten, seemingly beyond repair, and expressed not only this acute desperation but a pressing fear should Clarence find out. As she conveyed this feeling to him, she realized herself that she wasn’t sure what frightened her more—Clarence’s wrath, which she knew all too well could take many forms, or his likely indifference. Her words echoed in Murph’s ears and bounced off the tiled walls as if they had just been spoken. He knew he had to see her as soon as possible.
The day was miserable. The field looked to be sick, frying under the oppressive sun. Murph blundered across the diamond, which seemed now to be starkly barren, and into the clubhouse, where he took refuge in his office. On the shelf behind his desk was a picture of him from his playing days, yellow and dog-eared, sandwiched between several books. He picked up the photograph, smiling faintly at some of the more pleasant reminiscences—Rookie of the Year, 1924—Batting Title, 1925—pennant-clinching home run that same year. God, things were good. He could still hear the crowd. He ran through every other memorable thing that had happened to him and actually began to feel a little relief, until McNally and the bitter specter of how it all ended slipped into his consciousness and dashed the nostalgic jaunt.
He had half hoped that he would arrive at the ballpark to discover that Boxcar or Pee Wee or one of the other guys had found Mickey, or that the sheriff had pulled some strings and uncovered where he was. No luck. He was to be alone with his thoughts, with only the faint sound of Matheson puttering around in the equipment closet for company. Murph stared around the room out of strange, black eyes, trying to fill the daunting minutes.
He busied himself with all the usual game-day duties—pitching charts, lineup cards, game balls—but he struggled as this impregnable emptiness pursued him. Behind a cluttered desk that matched the disorder of his thoughts, he tried to picture what Mickey was doing— if he was hurt, or lost, or God forbid worse. The boy was so pure, so simple. How could he ever survive?
And then, like a bolt from the blue, the ordeal was over. Sheriff Rosco shuffled in, Mickey by his side, and everything was right again. The boy was worn. His eyes were barely open and his breathing was quiet. His left arm dangled lifelessly by his side, and the other was crumpled at a right angle, pressed tightly against his chest.
“Found him in an alley, just off to the side of the road, ’bout three miles from The Bucket. He was just sitting there, talking to himself. The same thing, over and over. Not quite sure what it all means. But it looks as though he took a pretty good beating.”
Murph stood dumbfounded, his eyes blinking randomly. “Did you catch the guys who did it? I mean, what the hell happened?”
“Don’t reckon I know,” Rosco said. “He won’t say nothing I can make sense of.”
Murph walked over toward Mickey. His spirits, which had risen dramatically with Mickey’s appearance, fell markedly when Murph noticed the boy’s right hand, bloodied and mangled.
“Oh, Mickey,” Murph gasped. “I’m sorry. Jesus, boy, what happened to you?”
Mickey just stood there absently. Under the steadying influence of Murph’s hand on his shoulder, Mickey struggled to form words that would just not come. He stood, inanimate as the big, moldy poles in the locker room, his eyes clouded windows to some peculiar expression, silent and far away, before he finally spoke.
“ ‘And moveless fish in the water gleam, by silver reeds in a silver stream.’”
Murph got up and paced nervously, sat back down, got up again, then sat once more.
“We’ve got to get him to a doctor, Sheriff,” Murph said. “I want him looked at.”
Matheson, who had been observing the entire scene quietly, said suddenly, “I’ll go with the kid Murph. You stay. Without you here, the rest of the guys don’t have a row to hoe.”
With Mickey on his way, Murph’s thoughts turned to more pressing issues. The Giants, he thought to himself. How are we going to play the Giants today? He put his hands on the great stacks of papers towering across his desk and shuffled through, not in search of anything in particular, but just to satisfy his nervous appetite. He had just decided to check to see if Larry had outfitted the lockers the day before when Boxcar came in.
Murph hardly recognized him. He was standing in the doorway with his palm to his head, his glassy eyes fixed on a spot on the floor in front of him. His hair was messed, and he looked like only half of the previous night’s inebriation had worn off.
“He’s back, Box.” A nervous chill climbed Murph’s body.
“Mickey? He’s back? When? How?”
Murph blew his nose and discarded the tissue basketball-style in the wastebasket just across the way. “Pull up a chair. I’ll tell you what I know.”
They sat together in Murph’s office, talking casually between intermittent silences, trying to mend the fractured face of things.
“I should have been there, Murph,” Boxcar said, hanging his head in utter dejection. “I saw the whole thing happening—and should have known he was in over his head.”
“Don’t,” Murph said. “Don’t do that to yourself. All of us played a role, Box.”
“But I’m the captain, Murph. I was there. Shit, these guys rely on me. I know that sounds boastful, but it’s true.”
It was true, and Murph knew it too. He was so thankful for Boxcar. Boxcar was the closest thing he had to a real assistant coach. Sure, Matheson was a good baseball man. Nobody had been around the game longer. But age had stolen his effectiveness, leaving Murph to work essentially alone. So he really valued Boxcar’s passion, experience, and equanimity. On so many occasions, Murph had deferred to the veteran catcher when unforeseen circumstances had rattled his cage and clouded his vision. Boxcar just had a way about him. All the guys respected him. Sometimes, when the situation necessitated it, he sat them down and lectured; on other occasions, when rational discourse fell on deaf ears, he took a more physical approach, allowing them to feel what he was saying; he could even resolve some problems with nothing more than a stare. True, his skills had diminished some with age, and he was beginning to tire a bit, but Raymond “Boxcar” Miller was still a presence, and even though he knew it was asking a lot, Murph was going to need him now more than ever.
The Brewers took the field in front of a stunned crowd that had been devastated by the early-morning headline: “Baby Bazooka Beaten!” They sat, in languorous waiting, united in this circle of suffering. Most fans that afternoon wore the news like a black veil through which no words could be voiced. No ballpark had ever fallen this silent. Others articulated their horror in writing, on banners and placards professing their adoration for the missing hero: WE LOVE YOU, MICKEY—GET WELL SOON!
The players were also limp, mired in listlessness. They took the field, trotting out to their positions with a sense of heartless obligation. They shagged fly balls, fielded grounders, and, when the cry of “Play ball” went up, held up their chins and readied themselves for battle as best they could.
Gabby Hooper took the ball in Mickey’s stead. He was used by Murph almost exclusively as a mop-up guy, but with Lefty’s blister and a twin bill on the docket for the following day, they needed everyone to take his game to the next level.
The Giants’ leadoff batter opened the game with a sharp grounder to Danvers, but his backhand was tardy, and the ball deflected off the heel of his glove, kicking into foul territory and down the third-base line for a two-base error. The next batter took Hooper’s first pitch and sent a weak two-hopper to Fries, who corralled it, pumped twice, then sailed the throw into the first row of seats behind first base.
“Jesus Christ, Frenchy,” Finster screamed. “I’m standing right here!”
The third-, fourth-, and fifth-place hitters all singled hard to the outfield, scoring two runs and loading the bases while setting the table for what looked like a brutal inning. After a walk to the next batter, and a dying quail that fell between Pee Wee and Amos Ruffings, the eighth-place hitter turned on a fat, flat fastball, depositing the mistake deep into the Giant bullpen for a grand slam. Fifteen minutes into the game, the Brewers were reeling, facing an eight-run deficit.
Murph watched with weary, puzzled curiosity. Even in their worst slump, they had never played so poorly. Maybe it was to be expected. After all, they were embroiled in an ordeal. All around them floated this airy disquiet, something stale and deleterious hanging on the oppressive August air. It would take a little time, he thought, for them to shake the doldrums. He sat down on the end of the bench, palms set together and pressed gently to his lips, as if lost in thoughtful prayer.
The day grew hotter, with no breeze to cool the stifling humidity. The Brewers had allowed six more runs after the first-inning barrage and trailed now by fourteen. The Giants’ pitcher, Red Meadows, had hung up seven straight goose eggs, crippling the Brewers’ hitters with a knuckleball that was dancing like a moth around a hanging lantern. In the seventh, Arky Fries fouled out to the catcher, but Pee Wee and Jimmy Llamas reached consecutive bases on balls. Clem Finster ran his count full before swinging wildly at a ball in the dirt. With two outs, Woody drew the third walk of the inning, loading the bases for Boxcar.
“Finally,” Murph said to Lefty, who looked as if he was struggling to stay awake. “This is just what we need.”
The crowd, which had been silenced all day by the news about Mickey and the abysmal play of its team, recognized the possibilities too and began to stir.
Meadows had never had any luck against Boxcar, until that day. In his first two at bats, Boxcar had been retired on a weak comebacker and had struck out swinging. Meadows had been using knucklers all day to keep the Brewer catcher off-balance, so he decided to start him off with some good old-fashioned high cheese. Surprised by the selection, Boxcar took the pitch for a called strike one. It got him thinking, just enough so that when Meadows delivered again, Boxcar’s bat was way ahead of the ball as it danced across the plate. Now in the hole 0-2, he knew he had to shorten up his stroke to protect against any further chicanery. With his hands now two inches higher on the handle, he caught the next floater just before it drifted by him, serving the offering the other way into the gap. The ball split the outfielders cleanly and rolled all the way to the wall. The runners scampered around the bases with little difficulty. They were fleet of foot, each crossing home plate by the time Boxcar approached second base.
Boxcar was moving full tilt, as fast as his damaged knees could carry him. His face was tight and his thoughts were somewhere else, someplace only he knew. Despite the lopsided score, and the protestations coming from the bench and players alike, Boxcar hit the bag in full stride, put his head down, and rounded for third. He just kept running. The Giant right fielder scooped up the ball with his bare hand. Then, out of a crow hop so forceful it threw him right to the ground, he released a missile, a tracer that never got more than four feet off the ground, right to the third-base bag to peg Boxcar by a healthy margin.
“Oh, holy shit!” Danvers groaned. “Now I’ve seen everything.”
The little momentum that had begun to simmer vanished instantly like a rush of air expelled from a burst balloon.
The Giants capitalized on the sudden shift of momentum, pounding out eight more hits and plating seven more runs. When the massacre was complete, the stands resembled a ghost town, with only wrappers and peanut shells and other vague remnants of life riding on an unexpected wind, drifting carelessly by a scoreboard that marked the final damage: Giants 21, Brewers 3.
The next day featured a twi-night double dip against the Colt
s. Butch Sanders and Rube Winkler were awarded the pitching duties. Murph was optimistic that his team could put all of the distractions aside and go out and play the game as they had prior to the incident with Mickey.
The crowd was a good one, but many were still anxious about the ongoing saga surrounding Mickey and expressed that concern with more banners indicating their heartfelt uneasiness.
Sanders just didn’t have it. His fastball was flat and he was throwing helicopters for curveballs. The Colts pounded him early and hard, batting around twice in just the first four frames. The home team answered back with runs in three consecutive innings, but the Colt onslaught kept coming, pummeling Brewer pitching for twelve runs on seventeen hits to double up the beleaguered Brew Crew, 12–6.
The nightcap was a little better, but the result the same. The Brewers jumped out to an early 3–0 lead on Clem Finster’s long home run to left. Winkler, who hadn’t started a game in over a year, was doing a fine job, dancing through raindrops inning after inning. He had allowed two hits in each of the first five frames, but managed to pitch his way out each time. Even in the sixth, when he walked the first two hitters, he maintained his composure, getting the next two batters on called strikes. But then the wheels started coming off. It began with a ground ball to Finster that sneaked through the five hole. That was followed by a can of corn to Buck Faber in right that, for some inexplicable reason, landed three feet to his left.
“Come on, fellas,” Murph screamed from the bench. “Get your heads out of your asses!”
His plea did little to arrest the juggernaut of blunders. Pee Wee dropped a pop-up, Danvers booted a dribbler, and two runners scored when Boxcar’s pickoff attempt at second base landed somewhere between Jimmy Llamas and the center-field wall.
Murph placed his hand over his eyes and groaned. “It’s a circus,” he lamented. “A goddamned circus.”
The Brewers committed a staggering eight errors and ended the day on a sour note, a 13–5 humiliation.
The Legend of Mickey Tussler Page 15