The Southpaw (24 page)

We took 2 out of 3 from Atlanta. I pitched the full 9 the third night, the first of the pitchers to go the route, and we lost 3-2.

It was the night I beaned this kid name of Scooter Lane in the seventh inning. We was leading 2-0 when Scooter come up, a righthanded hitting outfielder that seemed to like outside fast balls. So we naturally throwed him curves, dose, that a smarter ballplayer might of expected, but he did not, and he leaned in, and the first pitch hooked and caught him full in the face, and it made a dull sound like if you was to drop a grapefruit on the sidewalk from 2 stories up, and he stood there looking at me, and it seemed a long time, and it seemed like he was smiling, and then his knees give way, and he leaned on his bat, and then he dropped.

When I reached him Red was bending over, and the umpire, and the crowd was still and silent, and then the doctor come, and the Atlanta trainer, and they stood the kid up. His face puffed up like a balloon, and he covered it with his hands, and they walked him off and out of the park.

Then I become terribly wobbly and give up 2 runs. Dutch give me a talking to between innings, saying “Forget it. Them things will happen.

Steady down and do not be a goddam gymnasium teacher,” and I steadied a bit in the eighth but got worse instead of better in the ninth, and the Crackers pushed across the winning run before I got a man out.

I showered and dressed quick and hustled out of there and over to the hospital. They had Scooter laying out in the hall on a stretcher, and his face was covered with wet towels, and I went in a little room and spoke with the doctor. The doctor said there was nothing broke. He said Scooter would be a little fatter down the left side of his head for a week or so, but otherwise nothing serious, and then we went out to where Scooter was, and the doctor took the towels off. “See,” said the doctor, “does not Scooter look good all blue like that?” and Scooter tried to smile, but he could only work his lips in a very sickly way, and he did not open his eyes, and I said, “Lane, this is me, Henry Wiggen, that conked you,” and he stuck up 1 hand, and I shook it.

“The doctor says you will be up and around in a week,” I said. I could hardly look at him, for his face was an awful mess. Yet I looked at him square, out of duty. “Scooter,” said I, “I have got a train to catch or I would keep you company awhile. I wish you would write me a letter and tell me how you do. I will be either with New York or Queen City.

You can watch the papers and see. No doubt you will soon be up there yourself.” This was a lie, and I knowed it, for he was not that good of a ballplayer. Yet I said it. “Scooter,” said I, “you may be a little blue now, but you will be red hot by opening day.” I thought that was fairly clever, and he gripped my hand again, and I loosened his shoes and took them off and carried them over to a basket and knocked the dirt out of the spikes and brung them back and laid them on the stretcher. Then I said “Goodby,” and I went. He never wrote me the letter. But I followed the Southern Association averages in “The Sporting News,” and Scooter done middling well, hitting about .260 on the year.

We whipped Philly 2 out of 3 in Knoxville. Swanee Wilks says once you are in Knoxville you are in the deep north. Sad Sam went the route the first night. That was his first full trick, and he set them down with 1 run on 5 hits, and Hams Carroll done as well the next, and Knuckles lost a close 1 the third night, and then we went over to Roanoke for a weekend pair with Philly, the last weekend but 1 of the spring. All we done most of the way over was play poker. There was a big game down in 1 corner, Sam and Goose and Knuckles and Bub and Ugly and that bunch, and another fairly big 1 somewheres in the middle of the car, Gil and Herb and Sid and the Caruccis and that crowd, and way down at the far end there was me and Perry and Coker and Canada and Squarehead and Lindon and Bruce playing a nickel limit. We played about 3 hours and Squarehead won a buck, and then he said this was too small potatoes for him, and he went up the line to where Sad Sam’s game was, and we all went up and watched.

Them boys played it for blood. They played 5-card stud 50 cents the limit and none of your circus games such as the rest of us played, 7-card and draw and spit in the ocean and such as that. If the betting got down to 2 players the sky was the limit if they both agreed. Sam always plays with a dead cigar in his mouth, and Knuckles always drinks water, and Ugly keeps clucking his lower teeth out over his uppers. If that ain’t disgusting! They never say a word except whose deal it is and what was bet.

Squarehead dropped 25 bucks in 15 minutes, going clean broke when Sad Sam Yale drawed a 4 of clubs and filled a straight that nobody figured him for, least of all Squarehead.

Even now I seldom see a 4 of clubs but I think of Squarehead Flynn and Sad Sam Yale and the whole of that spring from Aqua Clara north, the singing, the bus ride, the trains, Patricia Moors and Scooter Lane, day games, night games, laughing and crying, Patricia crying in Aqua Clara, mostly a happy time, for it was a good club, maybe even a great and immortal club, and that was the best spring of my life, the spring when the dream come true.

Chapter 22

We finished it up in Philly the Sunday before the Opener, Sad Sam Yale letting them down with 5 hits. I suppose I should of seen the handwriting in the cards right then and there, for Dutch must of already been planning to start me when the season got under way Tuesday.

Else why would he of worked Sam Sunday? But I was so busy watching Sam I wasn’t thinking ahead much. It was really beautiful. I sat betwixt Coker and Perry in the dugout, and we watched, and it was beautiful. It was the third straight time Sam went the full 9, and all in all it was the neatest, cleanest job anybody turned in all spring. The minute the game was over I ducked back through the dugout and in the clubhouse. Then in come the rest, all hilarious. Here is what it was like: In comes Sad Sam Yale, and he says, “Mick McKinney, you Irish bastard, come here and give my arm a rub.”

“Coming, pal,” says Mick. Sam whips off his shirt and Mick goes to work.

In comes Goose Williams. “Nice game, Sam,” says Goose.

“Goose,” says Sam, “what in the hell did you do with my 9-inch raping tool?”

“I never seen it,” says Goose.

“You lie, you bastard, for I loaned it to you in Aqua Clara.”

“That is right,” says Goose. “So you did. Sam, I must of lost it.”

“Damn it,” says Sam, “ain’t that the way? You loan a thing to a fellow and you never get it back.”

“Maybe Ugly will loan you his,” says Mick.

“Ugly, you ugly bastard,” shouts Sam. “Loan me your 9-inch raping tool. I will give it back to you in New York Tuesday.”

Ugly never gets a chance to answer. In comes Bradley Lord. “Men,” says he, as loud as he can, “nobody must get dressed, for Miss Moors wishes to come in and say a word or 2.” He sits on a bench far from the rest.

“Get your ass off that bench,” says Knuckles Johnson. “That is my bench.”

“Your bench?” says Bradley Lord.

“That is Knuckleses bench,” says Swanee Wilks.

Bradley Lord gets up and stands by the water cooler. In comes Red Traphagen. He sits down where Bradley Lord was, and he begins to shed his harness. He unstraps his protector and slips it off. He unstraps his shin guards. He reaches down in his pants and yanks out his cup.

He looks across at Sad Sam Yale. “Nice game, Sam,” says Red.

“Thank you, friend,” says Sam. That is the longest conversation Sam and Red have had in years. Mick goes over to Red. He tapes Red’s finger where a nail is broke and bloody. In comes Dutch. He is smiling.

He goes to the trough.

“Miss Moors is coming,” says Bradley Lord.

“She will have to wait until I am done pissing,” says Dutch. “Nice game, Sam.”

We all sit on the benches, talking quiet. Sam Yale speaks out above all the rest. “Dutch,” says he, “Goose borrowed my 9-inch raping tool in Aqua Clara and never give it back. Could you loan me yours?”

Dutch stands there buttoning his pants. “I use mine yet,” says he. “Joe Jaros never uses his. Borrow Joe’s.”

Everybody looks at Joe. He is sitting on a bench. He takes off his cap.

He is old, yet there is not a gray hair on his head. He bends his head forward. “For every hair on my head I will use my 9-inch raping tool 1 more time,” says he. “The same goes for Egg.” There is a great laugh, for Egg is as bald as a baseball. Egg spits out a squirt of water from the cooler, and it lands on Joe. Sunny Jim Trotter goes to the trough.

“Miss Moors is about to come,” says Bradley Lord. Sunny Jim looks at Bradley Lord, but don’t stop what he’s doing. A great laugh goes up.

Sunny Jim finishes and goes back and sits beside Scotty. They talk together in a low voice.

“I will be damned if I was out at first that time,” says Lucky Judkins.

“Things was getting called bad all day,” says Pasquale.

“Toft is getting old,” says Clint Strap, meaning Dale Toft, the well-known umpire.

“Was that Toft umpiring at first?” says Canada.

“Yes it was,” says Clint.

“Pasquale,” says Sam, “loan me your goddam 9-inch raping tool.”

“Pasquale never needs it,” says Hams Carroll. “He might as well loan it to you.”

“I will need it in the winter in Frisco,” says Pasquale.

“Pasquale,” says Dutch, “get Mick to give you a new sunshade if you need 1.”

“Yes sir,” says Pasquale.

“Bradley Lord, when is she coming?” says Horse Byrd. “I wish to take a shower and get out of here.”

“Say,” says Sam, “we have forgot to congratulate Bradley Lord.”

“That is right,” says Swanee. “We have forgot.”

“Congratulations!” shouts out a number of the boys. Then there is a long time of silence. I wonder what Bradley Lord has done. Yet I am sure this is some kind of a gag, and I say nothing. Finally Squarehead speaks up. Poor Squarehead! “For what?” says he.

A great laugh goes up.

“He has stopped—,” says Sad Sam Yale.

“Why is everybody so down on Bradley Lord?” says I.

“Nobody is down on Bradley Lord,” says Sam. “There has always got to be a pimp in the crowd. He would rather be a pimp then a man.”

“He would rather be a pimp then a man,” says Bruce Pearson.

Bradley Lord just stands there like he does not hear a word.

“That is enough,” says Dutch.

“Vincent,” says Sam to Vince Carucci, “loan me your 9-inch raping tool. I will give it back to you in New York Tuesday.”

“Borrow Sid’s,” says Vince.

“Sid,” says Sam to Sid Goldman, “I would borrow your 9-inch raping tool except it is of a different sort and might not work so good.”

“Hell,” says Sid, “you would never know the difference. Mick, come over here and look at my foot. It got stepped on by Jay Pringle.” Mick goes over and looks at Sid’s foot. There is a little nick from a spike.

Mick cleans it and tapes it.

“Jay Pringle goes on and on,” says Dutch. “He must be 42 at least.

Yet year after year he looks like the year before. I honestly believe some men grow old fast and some slow. I never seen Pringle except that he was hustling. I admire that son of a bitch as much as I admire any man in the game today.”

In comes Patricia Moors and 2 of the workers from the park, all dressed in white. They are carrying 2 cases of beer and 2 of Coke.

They set the cases on the steamer trunk in the middle of the floor.

They take can openers and bottle openers out of their pocket. “Thank you, boys,” says Patricia. She gives them both a dollar.

Dutch opens the cases. He heaves a can of beer to whoever wants.

Most want beer. I take a Coke, but there ain’t an opener handy, and I go forwards and open the bottle in the lock of the steamer trunk.

“Wiggen, sit down,” says Dutch, “for Miss Moors wishes to speak.”

She leans against the trunk. “Pzzz, pzzz,” goes the beer cans. She waits until everybody is set. She lights a cigarette. “Up in New York everybody is talking about the Mammoths,” says she. “I wish to say how much that pleases me. My father calls me up from Detroit. He says, I see where the club beat Baltimore something awful last night. I said to him did you call me just to tell me that. Call me when we lose, for when we win it ain’t news. That is how everybody feels in New York. That is the way it ought to be, for this is as fine a club as was ever put together.”

Bradley Lord opens her a beer. “Is there a glass around?” says he.

“Give me the can,” says she, and she grabs it from him. “I mean every word I say,” she says. “There would be no sense in trying to fool you, for you know it yourself. I just seen Krazy Kress,” meaning Krazy Kress of “The Star-Press.” She opens her bag and fumbles inside.

“Krazy give me a copy of his column for opening day. I will read it,” she says, and she reads it. 

I will write it out in full at the end of this chapter.

The smoke pours out of her mouth while she reads, and every so often she stops and pulls on her beer. I keep looking at her and thinking how beautiful she is. My name is mentioned in the column, and I listen very dose. When she is done reading she gives it to Dutch.

“This is for your memory book, Dutch,” says she, “for this will be the year you will want to remember, the year and the club. That is all. I just wish to add that everybody knows where my offices are, both at the park and then again downtown. I am not there only to go with the furniture. I am there to be a help to anyone that needs it, as well as Dutch and the coaches and the doctors. Feel free to call on me.”

“I want my salary doubled,” says Knuckles. This gets a great laugh.

“There will be a salary or 2 doubled,” says she, “after we win the flag. I am anxious for you boys to see what we done with the park. We done wondrous things. There is a new scoreboard 135 feet in the air. There is all new grass and infield dirt. There is another Coke machine in the clubhouse and a coffee machine as well. There is 4 new towers of lights. Nobody in the league has got lights like us. Some of you boys complained about the beer sign in center field being too white. That sign is took down and the space painted green. The club comes first.