Two in the Field (31 page)

“That’s our spot, boys!” Donaldson pulled hard to release gas. We began to sink, but too slowly without the sandbags. He knotted a line to the grappling hook and threw it overboard. It didn’t seem to have any effect. “On impact,” he commanded, grabbing the red line he’d warned us not to pull on, “try to roll forward and clear of the gondola.”

On impact
, I thought. In a damn tree?

“Sam …” Tim was shaking with fear.

I put my arm around him. “We’ll make it,” I said, doubting it.

Donaldson yanked the red line. The earth rushed up. I said a prayer and tried to concentrate on rolling forward. Fat chance. The gondola tilted back at the last second, and we sprawled on our butts as the wicker hit with a jolting thud, bounced, went airborne briefly, hit again and slid along the ground. Tim and I spilled out ignominiously, head over ass. I came to a stop against a boulder and saw Donaldson still gripping the suspension hoop
with both hands, then with a nimble move come vaulting over the basket to land on his feet beside me.

“Well done, gentlemen.” He stepped clear of the bag as it sagged over us. “The ripping panel’s a marvel, don’t you agree?”

We crawled out from under the fabric, our clothes covered with dirt and burrs.

“That’s
your idea of a landing?” I demanded.

“Every set-down is a controlled accident,” he said, grinning. “Adds zest to the adventure.”

Zest, my ass. I walked over to the nearest tree and peed, a nervous reaction—it always used to happen before boxing matches—and became aware of Tim standing beside me, doing likewise.

“I thought we were done for,” he said huskily.

“Me too.” I buttoned my pants, aware that I
was
feeling a sort of high. Nothing better than good old solid ground. “Damn good to be alive isn’t it?”

His response surprised me. “Andy will want me to stay with him, won’t he?”

“Sure.” Fine time to be wondering that, I thought. “I imagine he’ll be tickled.”

Tim nodded, as if wanting to believe it, and said he hoped that would be the case.

I’d never seen him quite like this. Maybe our brush with mortality had reminded him of certain basic things in his life.

Like his mother.

 EIGHTEEN 

The near-constant din of chuffing locomotives and groaning cars on opposite sides of Boston’s South End Grounds put me in mind of Shea Stadium’s thundering air traffic. Beyond the ballpark rose smoke-stained mills and factories, their chimneys belching black clouds. The double-deck wooden grandstand was all square angles, ornamented only with SODA and REFRESHMENTS signs. Worst of all, the fences were topped by barbed wire. The stuff was very new, not yet much in evidence even on the plains, where it would become invaluable as fencing. The effect it produced here was about as friendly as that of a prison camp.

To Tim, though, it might have been the palace and gardens at Versailles. After convincing the gate man that he was Andy Leonard’s nephew, he practically dragged me to the clubhouse, which was spacious but spare in amenities: long board benches; nails on the walls for clothes and uniforms; a single zinc bathtub near the entrance.

Andy sat at the far end, rubbing his eyes. He liked to show up for games before anybody else, and he’d told us to meet him here.

Tim strode forward eagerly. “Uncle Andy!”

Startled, he stood and hugged the boy, then greeted me, blinking, his eyes red-rimmed and swollen. “You’ve grown, lad.” He looked beyond us. “Where’s your ma?”

There was an awkward pause. I’d wired from Hartford only that we were coming. He must not have not picked up on the fact that Cait wasn’t mentioned.

“Is something wrong?”

I shook my head. “Cait asked me to bring Tim here for a while.”

He frowned, trying to process it. “Why’d she ask it?”

“I want to be a ballist!” Tim exclaimed.

I gave Andy a glance that said there was more to it, and handed him Cait’s letter. “You’ve come to live with us, then?” he said, looking up at Tim. “You’ll be welcome, I’m sure.” His tone was subdued. “But first I’ll need to talk to Alice … Mrs. Leonard.”

Another awkward moment as we digested that.

“Look,” I began, seeing Tim’s face fall, “if this isn’t going to—”

Andy put his hand on my arm. “We lost our son,” he said softly. “Just a few days ago.”

“Oh, Jesus, Andy,” I said, “I’m so sorry.”

We stood unmoving for a moment. A train’s distant rumble seemed to sharpen the room’s silence.

“Having Tim stay with us will be fine,” he said at length. “In fact, I think it’ll help take our minds off … the other. But I have to tell Alice first, you see?”

“Of course,” I said. “We’ll get a room tonight.”

The Red Stockings hosted Chicago that day, and Andy asked if we were staying for the match.

“You bet,” Tim said, his eagerness briefly brightening Andy’s taut face as he bent to pull scarlet stockings over his spike-scarred calves.

“You reckon we shouldn’t have come?” Tim said as we neared the door.

“He’s preoccupied, that’s all.”

Outside we ran into Harry Wright, who boosted Tim’s spirits again by remembering him. Harry introduced a portly, balding man with muttonchop sidewhiskers and a forelock combed across his bald pate. I shook hands with Ivers Adams, the Red Stockings’ president, whose sharp, darting eyes flicked to the
gate as he said that today’s crowd should be good-sized even with the temperature crowding a hundred degrees.

“Sit anywhere in the general seats,” Adams said expansively, as if giving us the key to the city. “No charge.”

Harry murmured something.

“Or you may sit in the covered stand,” Adams amended, “behind the regular club members.”

I thanked him and added, “That barbed wire’s quite a touch.”

“Fence armor,” Adams corrected, heedless of irony. “The latest thing. Keeps the street urchins from climbing over.”

Maybe so, but it was the worst ballpark feature I’d ever seen. I bought scoops of ice cream for us, and we settled in the grandstand. Tim’s misgivings evaporated in anticipation of a big-league game. The White Stockings were a so-so club given to unexpected exploits, but a month earlier they’d handed the Red Stockings their first defeat after opening the season 24-0. Such disparity was the Association’s biggest headache. Boston, currently 43-6, was so dominant that fans had fallen away. Still, today’s game held some interest. With new signees the Chicagos had lost narrowly, 8-7, to Boston only six days before, moved on to nip Hartford, 4-3, and now were back.

“There’s Deacon Fred!” Tim said.

Sure enough, among the Chicago players warming up was my old teammate, Fred Waterman, now showing touches of gray at his temples, but still moving well.

“Yay, Andy!” Tim yelled, as the Red Stockings came on the field.

Maybe he was inspired by our presence. Maybe he was simply glad to be out here, where the rules were clearer than those determining life’s outcomes. Whatever the cause, Andy played a fine game, lining three hits off the White Stockings’ hurler, one George “The Charmer” Zettlein, and making difficult catches on drives to left. I pointed out to Tim how tricky the outfield was, with
fences at 250 in left, 225 in right, and shooting back dramatically to 440 in center. Andy handled his portion like a master.

Tim paid particular attention to shortstop George Wright, who looked spectacular as ever. In one dizzying sequence, with a man on first, a Chicago batter lined a tremendous shot at George that would have mangled his fingers if he’d tried to catch it. Instead of stepping aside in accepted fashion, George snagged the ball in his cap and promptly threw it to pitcher Spalding, who whipped it to second in time to force the dumbfounded runner and nearly nip the hitter at first.

“What happened?” Tim said.

“Beats me.”

We soon learned that although there was a rule against using caps as traps, the ball was back in play as soon as it returned to the pitcher. The Reds had doped out this loophole and used it to transform a run-scoring hit into an out. It was only one highlight in an afternoon that saw everything go Boston’s way. Sparkling team defense, Spalding’s pinpoint control, and well-placed hits resulted in a 6-0 win for the Reds. Tim grew quieter in the late innings, and I could sensed that he was intimidated. The pros’ smooth play was a galaxy apart from our Fourth of July game.

“Is there a junior club?” I asked a nearby fan.

He assured me there was and that it was a crack nine. He pointed to the Reds’ right fielder and said, “Manning came up from the Juniors. They’re playing here tomorrow.”

“Let’s see if Andy’ll come out with us,” Tim said, and ran down to his uncle as he walked off the diamond.

“Sure,” Andy told him. “See you here in the morning.”

Watching the players troop into the clubhouse, Tim said wistfully, “I want to be one of them, Sam.”

“I understand.”

“Gotcha!” he exclaimed. “Three in a row.”

My cheek smarted from where Tim had sneaked through with a right jab. The gloves I’d been able to buy were nowhere near as padded as modern ones; I’d stuffed newspapers in them, but it didn’t seem to make much difference.

“C’mon,” he said, and took his stance. “I’m going for four.”

I lunged at him the way a brawler might; that was our drill, to use an attacker’s movement against him and to find openings while not getting hit yourself. By now Tim’s footwork was excellent and his punches, even pulled, were very crisp. Most of all, he had extraordinary reflexes that I couldn’t match. But I still had cunning and experience.

“Hey!” he exclaimed, as I broke off from a clumsy swing, parried his left and crossed over with a right that popped him on the forehead. “No fair!”

“There’s always a chance the other guy can box, too,” I told him. “Besides, I don’t want you getting too cocky.” I pulled off my gloves and began unlacing his. “Speaking of which, I want to talk to you about how to use your skill. First, never pick a fight. Second, if you can’t avoid fighting, then do it to end the fight, not to hurt your opponent unnecessarily.”

“That’s not what you did against Dyson,” he said with a sly grin. “You were gonna kill him.”

He had a point. “I was wrong,” I said. “You and Cait were in danger, which made me crazy—but it was still wrong. I want your promise to follow those rules.”

“I promise.”

Okay, I thought. I’d given him something to carry into the world. When he ran up against toughs, in Boston or anywhere else, he wouldn’t have to feel powerless.