Hanging Curve (4 page)

I fervently wished the game would end soon, and didn’t care whether we won or lost.

 

It finally did end, with the Cubs taking a 9—5 victory. There was only polite applause from their fans; too much celebrating might anger the side with the guns. As it was, some in the white crowd hurled bottles and rocks at the departing Cubs.

I grabbed my street clothes from under the bench and ran to the men’s toilet, where I hurriedly changed clothes. All I wanted was to find Margie and get us safely out of East St. Louis as quickly as possible.

At the Elcars’ bench, I gave Ed Moss back the uniform. And he gave me a few sharp words about how useless I’d been to his team.

“At least I played for free,” I said as I left.

“Yeah, and we sure got our money’s worth!” he called after me.

Margie was standing near the ticket booth gnawing on her lower lip. The two of us ran hand in hand for the tracks and squeezed aboard an already full streetcar.

As the packed trolley began to crawl west, I looked back at the ballpark, at the thousands of people still milling about, and at the shotguns and rifles conspicuously targeting some of them.

Ugly as the events of the day had been, I thought, we’d been lucky. One spark could have set off a riot. What was supposed to be an exhibition of the National Pastime could easily have turned into another episode in a national tragedy.

T
hree days and three hundred miles later, I was in another ballpark—one that seemed a world away from East St. Louis. Home plate had the same five-sided shape, and the bases were still ninety feet apart, but otherwise there was little similarity between the semipro field where the Cubs and Elcars had battled and majestic Comiskey Park, home of the Chicago White Sox.

The modern, steel-and-concrete stadium was dressed up for the start of the new season, swathed in red-white-and-blue bunting, with flags and streamers flapping in the wind. The grass was neatly manicured and the dirt dragged as smooth as a billiard cloth. Even the flattened water hoses that served as foul lines wore fresh coats of bright white paint.

An overflow crowd of almost thirty thousand was also in holiday dress for Opening Day, the men wearing suits and derbies, and the women in bonnets and pastel frocks. Around the perimeter of the field were blue-uniformed patrolmen—but unlike the officers in East St. Louis, these were on hand as part of the pageantry, not because of any anticipated violence.

My attire for the occasion was the gray-flannel road uniform of the St. Louis Browns. I stood with my teammates, lined up in front of the visitors’ dugout, as a military brass band thundered its way through “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Holding the brown-billed cap over my heart, I kept my eyes on the American flag in center field, and began once again to feel the pride that comes with being a major-league baseball player. Millions of men all over the country played this game, but only a lucky four hundred got to compete in a big-league ballpark. And I was among them. I might not get to play often, but when I did, it was on diamonds like this one.

By the time White Sox owner Charles Comiskey threw out the ceremonial first pitch, I was starting to think that even if this season turned out to be no different from the ones before, it would still be special. Every day as a major-league ballplayer was something to relish.

That’s what I kept telling myself as I picked a spot on the bench to spend the next nine innings.

Marty McManus, our starting second baseman, sat down next to me. The tall, skinny youngster was the main reason the Browns had acquired me. I was supposed to teach him what I knew about playing in the big leagues, and in return I’d get to spell him in the lineup every now and then.

McManus was a former bookkeeper who’d been drafted during the Great War and somehow ended up serving in Panama instead of France. He was also a “prospect,” which meant he was being groomed to be a “star.” He’d done well enough last year as a rookie, but had some rough patches in the early months; the Browns were counting on me to help him get off to a good start this season. He was a likable enough kid, but served as a constant reminder that I had never been a prospect—nor a star. In ten years, I’d progressed only from utility infielder to veteran utility infielder.

Chicago hurler Red Faber toed the rubber to face the top of our order—an unenviable task, for the Browns had the hardest-hitting lineup in baseball. All three outfielders—Ken Williams, Baby Doll Jacobson, and Johnny Tobin—posted .350 batting averages last year, first baseman George Sisler had once hit over .400 to break Ty Cobb’s string of batting championships, and catcher Hank Severeid was coming off a .324 season.

Faber shut down our hitters in the first, though, and McManus picked up his glove before running out to second base.

“Don’t forget to check the ground,” I reminded him.

“Why? It looks fine.”

The kid was supposed to take my advice, not question it. But I explained, “This park is built on a city dump—and they didn’t clear it too good before making it a baseball field. Junk works its way up from the ground sometimes. Check it out.”

The groundskeepers had done a good job, but I wanted McManus to get used to looking for himself whenever he played in Comiskey. More than one infielder had been victimized by a bad hop from a half-buried piece of nineteenth-century trash.

I then settled back to watch Urban Shocker, ace of the Browns’ pitching staff, take the mound against the White Sox. He and Faber were among only a dozen or so veteran pitchers permitted to use the recently banned spitball for the remainder of their careers. Shocker was a true master of the wet pitch; his spitter had helped him lead the league in wins with twenty-seven last year. Hopes were high that this season he would use it to lead St. Louis to a pennant.

Many savvy baseball people favored the Browns to win the championship, in part because the teams most likely to challenge us were hurting. The White Sox, once the league’s powerhouse, had been decimated after the 1919 World Series scandal resulted in eight of their players, including Shoeless Joe Jackson, being expelled from baseball. Although a few of the untainted stars—Faber, Eddie Collins, Ray Schalk—remained, Chicago was no longer a pennant threat. The defending champion New York Yankees were expected to be our main competition, but here, too, we had an advantage. The Yankees, opening today in Washington, with President Harding throwing out the traditional first pitch, were temporarily without the services of Babe Ruth and Bob Meusel. Commissioner Landis had suspended them for the first month of the season because they’d gone on a barnstorming tour after last year’s World Series.

In my view, the Browns didn’t have to rely on weakened opposition. They were one of the best clubs I’d ever seen, strong enough in every area to take on any challenger and prevail.

I looked around the field, at my teammates in their positions. They might be the players who would take me to my first World Series. For a chance to play in the Fall Classic, I would willingly spend the regular season playing second string to Marty McManus. Besides, teaching the youngster might be good preparation for the coaching and managing I hoped to do when my playing days were over.

After Shocker retired the White Sox in order, McManus trotted into the dugout and sat down next to me again. He nodded toward the mound, and asked, “What’s the best way to hit Faber?”

“First off,” I said, “what do you smell?”

“Huh?”

“What’s the air smell like?”

He lifted his head and inhaled deeply. A sour expression wrinkled his young face. “Like a latrine.”

“That’s the stockyards,” I said. The infamous Union Stockyards were only a few blocks from Comiskey Park. “They’re behind home plate, so that means the wind is blowing out.”

“Good. Means a fly ball will carry.”

“You’ll get some more distance, yeah. But this is a big ballpark—you try hitting home runs here, and you’ll just fly out. It’s the
pitcher
who has the advantage when you smell the stockyards. Breaking balls will break sharper when he throws them against the wind.”

“Huh.” McManus rubbed his nose. “So what do I do with Faber?”

“Well, his best pitch is a spitter, and the wind will make it even better. He’s also got a helluva curve you got to watch for. I’d say hold up on the breaking stuff and wait for a fastball.”

“What if he don’t throw me a fastball?”

That had me stumped, but I wasn’t about to admit it to the kid. “Then close your eyes and swing, and hope the ball hits the bat.” Hell, if I really knew how to hit pitchers like Red Faber, I’d be in the starting lineup myself.

I cast a wistful glance at my bat lying on the ground in front of the Browns’ dugout. Then I picked up my mitt and began absently toying with it. One hundred and fifty-four games would be an awful lot to watch from the bench, even if it did eventually lead to a World Series appearance. I wanted to
use
my bat and glove, to hit and catch and throw. As troubling as the experience in East St. Louis had been, at least I’d gotten to play.

I looked to the pitcher’s mound, but Red Faber wasn’t the object of my attention. My thoughts kept drifting to little Cubs Park, and I imagined myself in the batter’s box, again facing Slip Crawford.

I had tried to shake off the memory of that game as soon as Margie and I crossed to the St. Louis side of Eads Bridge. With packing for the road trip, and then leaving for Chicago the next day, I’d pretty much succeeded. Until now.

What came to mind now was the fact that Crawford had beaten me every time I faced him. I’d gone 0-for-4, striking out three times. There had to be a way to hit him, I knew, but what the hell was it?

I pictured Crawford peering in for his sign, then going into that herky-jerky windup of his, and finally delivering the pitch—probably a dancing curveball.

Okay, I told myself, all that flailing about during the windup is a distraction—just as Crawford intends. So don’t look at his limbs. Keep your eye on the bill of his cap until he releases the ball.

I replayed the scenario a couple more times in my mind until I knew what to do about that darting curve of his: stay up in the batter’s box to hit the ball before it breaks. If he brushes me back, fine—it’s a called ball. And if he keeps doing it, eventually he’ll either walk me or have to put one over the plate. If he decides to simply plunk me with the pitch, that’s fine, too—it puts me on first base.

As Urban Shocker and Red Faber went on with their duel in Comiskey Park, I continued to think about playing against Slip Crawford and his teammates in East St. Louis. I wanted to face the colored pitcher again. I wanted to beat him.

Shocker got the win in this day’s game, 3—2, to get the Browns off to a good start on the season. Unfortunately, it was only a start. There were 153 games to go.

 

We never even got to suit up on Friday. Twenty-five Browns’ players, the manager, and coaching staff, all sat around the visitors’ clubhouse of Comiskey Park for nearly four hours, waiting for the weather to clear. Some read
The Sporting News
and local papers, others played gin rummy. I spent the time polishing my spikes, honing my bat, and oiling my glove, even though all of them were already in perfect condition. The intermittent rains of morning grew heavier and more frequent, until finally the third scheduled game with the White Sox was postponed. At least it meant we would remain undefeated in the new season.

When we returned to the Congress Hotel, I stopped at the front desk for my room key. The clerk reached into the pigeonhole behind him and handed me a note along with the key. It read:

The message didn’t say “urgent,” but it didn’t have to. I called Margie every day from the road, and she knew I’d phone again tonight. Something must have come up for her to call the hotel.

I used the lobby telephone, and while the long-distance operator made the connection, I thought maybe there wasn’t anything wrong; perhaps Margie was just eager to talk with me again. It had been difficult leaving for this road trip; after being apart all spring training, we’d been together for only a few days before I had to hit the road again.

Margie sounded surprised to hear from me so quickly. “Aren’t you at the game?” she asked.

“Rained out. Is everything okay?”

“Well ... no.” She promptly added, “I’m okay, don’t worry.” I heard her take a deep breath. “But something’s happened.”

“What?”

“The colored pitcher ... the one you played against in East St. Louis ...”

“Slip Crawford? What about him?”

“He’s dead.” Her voice cracked. “They hanged him.”

“What? Who
hanged him?”

“It looks like the Klan. Maybe because he beat a white team.”

“Nobody’s going to kill someone over a baseball game,” I said. As the words came out of my mouth, I knew I was saying them not out of confidence, but because I wanted to believe they were true.

Margie continued in little more than a whisper, “He was found hanging from the backstop in Cubs Park Tuesday morning.”

“Jeez.” I pictured the little ballpark where I’d played less than a week ago, and recoiled from the image of a body dangling above home plate. “Hey, you said Tuesday. It just made the papers now?”

“I didn’t see anything in the newspaper. Karl called this morning and told me.”

So my old friend Karl Landfors had heard about it in Boston. “How did he know Crawford was killed?”

“From somebody in St. Louis. Anyway, Karl’s going to tell you all about it himself. He’s coming for a visit.”

As much as I liked Karl, a visit from him was generally not something to look forward to. I turned back to the death of Slip Crawford. “Did they catch the guys who did it?”

Margie didn’t answer, and I realized there was no need to “catch” them. If this killing was anything like what had been going on in the South in recent years, the perpetrators would be bragging about it, not trying to hide. Dozens of Negro men and boys were lynched every year with impunity—because lynching wasn’t considered a crime.

“I’ll call you again tonight,” I said. “Are you going to be all right?”

“Yes.” She sniffled, then whispered, “Hurry back. I miss you.”

“Miss you, too.”

After hanging up, I walked in a stupor across the lobby and sank into an overstuffed wing chair.

Mental images jumped before me like a kaleidoscope. I pictured the living Slip Crawford going into his windup and throwing me one of his tricky curveballs. Then I saw him hanging dead in the same ballpark. And I thought of the hooded Klansmen who’d shown up at the game and imagined them standing around Crawford’s body as if they’d bagged a trophy. Then Karl Landfors came to mind, and I wondered what his interest in Crawford’s death could be.

 

It was the death of a different baseball player that had the attention of the Saturday crowd at Comiskey Park. The game was briefly delayed as tributes were paid to legendary slugger Cap Anson, who had died the day before at age seventy. Anson’s remarkable career had spanned most of nineteenth-century baseball, including twenty-two seasons with the National League Chicago White Stockings.