Sophomore Campaign (15 page)

Rosco's indifference angered and frustrated Murph, but it sent Molly into orbit. All of the doubt and insecurity she had previously nourished about her son's welfare had risen once again to the surface. She thought about all of the beatings he'd taken at the hands of his tyrannical father, and about the attack he suffered last season outside The Bucket. She had not come this far, and sacrificed this much, to let Mickey play the victim once again.

“I told you, Arthur, from the very beginning, that the minute I don't like the looks of things, that's it.” She slammed the pot she had just finished cleaning hard on the kitchen counter top. “He's done. Mickey is done.”

He saw her, laboring beneath the weight of all things mountainous, her breath forced and audible, like a furious cloud of steam. “Relax, Molly. I'm upset too. But Mickey is in no danger. The issue is with Lester, and Rosco knows all about it. Look, it's unpleasant, sure. But Mickey is thriving, Molly. He's doing really well. He and Lester are the talk of the town. Besides, you said it was up to him. Remember? The boy hasn't said anything about quitting.”

“Not in any danger? Unpleasant? Are you out of your mind? You are not thinking. We are
all
vulnerable now, Arthur. This time
it was a cross. Next time maybe it will be a brick, or maybe bullets. You know what these people are like. Look, I like Lester, you know I do, but you have placed all of us in harm's way by bringing him into this house. And for what? To win a few lousy baseball games?”

They had never really fought before. It was not because Murph possessed some exaggerated sense of chivalry or obsequious compunction, but because he was mindful, at every turn, of the tumultuous marriage she and Clarence had had and never wanted to stir any of the old feelings. Most often, it was easy enough to acquiesce to her wishes, regardless of what his desires were. But his immediate fate, his very livelihood, were now tied to her latest request.

“Baseball games? Is that all you think this is? Sure, that's what started all of this. And it has worked out real fine. We are better than we have ever been. But do you know, Molly, what this opportunity has done for Lester? As a man? Do you know the hardship this boy has seen? Do you even have a clue as to how this sort of break through could change the beliefs and sensibilities of folks everywhere? And open doors for Lester and colored folks across the board? Now you tell me how that qualifies as not thinking. You tell me how that can be wrong.”

“I'll tell you that, when you can tell
me
how I am supposed to explain to my son about racism, and lynchings, and bigotry and all of the other horrors I try to shield him from every day. Do you know what that feels like? Huh? Do you even have a clue about that? I feel for the colored folks too, Arthur. You know I do. But, Jesus, I have to worry about my boy. My charity must begin at home. I have to look out for my son. Because if I don't, nobody else will.”

A sudden moodiness came over him. He sighed, and dug his hands into his hips.

“Nobody else, huh? Is that what you believe? Really? Is that what's been going on here the last year or so? I have opened my
home to both you and Mickey. And you are welcome to stay as long as you like. Why? Cause I care. It's also the reason why last week, I made a phone call to Whitey Buzzo about Mickey. About the big club in Boston giving the kid a serious look. Listen, Molly. I know this ain't easy. I do. But baseball is all a kid like Mickey's got. This could be a home for him. Playing. Maybe coaching some day. Who knows. Baseball takes care of its own. So if you're worried about his future, you best think twice about taking from him the only thing he really has.”

Molly stood stunned by Murph's pointed tone. Though she grasped what he was trying to impart, she remained, for the most part, crouched beneath the pall of the moment.

“I don't know, Arthur,” she said tearfully. “It just doesn't feel right. I hear what you're saying. I do. Part of me knows you are probably right. God knows, you have been so far. But I'm tired of worrying. Tired, you hear? I just want to rest. I don't know if I can do this again.”

He moved close to her, so that he could feel her hot breath against his face, then pulled her still closer, so that the furious rebellion of her heart beat against his own. He kissed her forehead, then took her trembling hand until, after some quivering, at last lay warm and inert in his.

“Please trust me, Molly,” he whispered. “Trust me. Let things run their course. It will be okay.”

The spell of the storm had broken. She was tired, and did not want to fight anymore. “I will try, Arthur,” she said, sighing before wiping her eyes. “As best I can. I will try.” She wiped her eyes again with the frayed end of her sleeve and stared into his eyes. “I promise. I will. Really. I mean it. But it is a lot to ask.”

Later that day, Murph found himself defending his actions in a similar manner. There he was, once again, in Dennison's
lightstarved lair, staring across a littered desk at that churlish face that assumed all sorts of lurid implications in the artificial twilight cast by the two frosted bowls of Victorian glass hanging on the wall. Dennison was his typical petulant self, puffing on his cigar with such intense animation that it looked as though his head would explode.

“So you won the game, Mr. Murphy,” he said, unrolling his newspaper before laying it flat on his desk “That's true. And an interesting game it was. But at what cost?”

“Come again?”

“The cost, Arthur. For the victory. Reduced attendance. All the unrest in the stands amongst those who actually came. The hate mail I am getting. The burning cross. Get my meaning?”

“Come on, Warren. Obviously you saw the paper this morning. Quite a headline:
Mickey and Negro Newbie Hammer Rangers
He's news, Warren. What's bad about that?”

A cloud of brooding anger hung on the owner's brow.

“Maybe you did not understand our first conversation, Arthur. Yes, you won. I love that. But I do not want all the bull that goes with it. Get me? I said that from the beginning.”

“It will all pass, Warren. I told you that. Mickey's back, better than ever. Danvers is hot. The rest of the guys are playing well too. And, I'm telling you, dollars to donuts, this kid will win them over. Just give it time. Half the season, remember?”

An air of strained formality passed before them. Dennison glanced down at the headline once more and saw profitable visions lighted by Murph's plea.

“Look, I have another meeting this morning. I don't have time for this now. But you better hope you're right, Arthur,” he said ominously before showing Murph to the door. “I'm not as patient as I used to be.”

During the next two weeks, Mickey, Lester, and the rest of the Brew Crew made quite a compelling argument for Murph's future employment as manager. Lester continued his torrid hitting, putting up home runs at a dizzying pace. He jacked another against the Colts, crushed a pair of dingers against the Sidewinders and Giants, and buried the Spartans with three mammoth blasts that landed, each one of them, on the sidewalk outside the ballpark. It seemed to matter little to him that there were still those who refused to accept a black man in a white man's league. Some of the hateful signs remained, and he received his fair share of heckling and harassment. But he played on, and began to win people over, including the local papers who, with the exception of when Mickey pitched, placed him in the morning headlines every day. Even Woody Danvers, who continued to lead the league in hitting with a .387 average and plenty of power of his own, could not crack the back page.

Perhaps it was journalism of the sensationalized variety. It
was
quite a story. Maybe it was just another chapter in the public's long standing love affair with the long ball. Or it just could have been the catchy moniker— (Sledge) Hammer inspired by the young man's last name. Whatever it was, Lester Sledge's name was in bold print every day and was becoming household conversation.

H
AMMER
N
AILS
C
OLTS
B
REW
C
REW
H
AMMER
P
OUNDS
G
IANTS
H
AMMER
B
ANGS
T
HREE
M
ORE
A
S
B
REWERS
C
RUSH
S
PARTANS

The headlines kept coming, and the talk continued to vibrate throughout the town. First it was the Baby Bazooka. Now the Hammer. Never before had Brewer baseball possessed such fervor and sex appeal. The baseball Gods sure seemed to be smiling on Borchert Field.

Not everything, however, was copasetic in Brewer Land. With the notable exception of Mickey, the pitching was really struggling.
Gabby Hooper, Rube Winkler and Butch Sanders all got pounded in consecutive starts. It was only the potent Brewer offensive attack, led by Lester, Danvers and a recently hot Clem Finster, that allowed the Brew Crew to actually win most of those games and open up a healthy lead in the standings. Murph, however, was not pleased with the pattern that had emerged.

“Alright, fellas,” he said at a meeting of the staff after one of the games got away from them. “What the hell is going on?” The group just looked at one another, no one wanting to be the first to speak. “Well,” Murph continued. “What is it? Enough of this bull. Let's hear it.”

Sanders reddened under Murph's stare, but managed to fire the first shot. “We ain't so comfortable, Murph,” he said. “You know, since Boxcar left and all.”

Murph took off his cap and ran his hand through the thinning strands on top of his head. “Are you kidding me!” he thundered. “Is that what this is all about? Lester?”

Winkler spoke next. “I think what Sandy is trying to say is that we're all just used to Boxcar. You know, the way he calls the game, talks to us, all that crap.”

Murph's blood raged and hammered at his temples. “And Lester is incapable of doing those things? Calling a game? Talking? He's of no use to you? Hell, the way I see it, with the damned carousel of runners you guys have been entertaining lately, you oughta thank your lucky stars he's back there. Seems to me he's bailed out all your asses on more than one occasion.”

The pace of the conversation quickened with every comment. “What happens when Boxcar comes back, Murph?” Hopper asked next. “And what about Baker? He's been stuck on that bench, waiting for his opportunity. Honestly, the way I see it, we could all use a break from all the black/white bull we've had to put up with.”

“So let me get this straight,” Murph replied. “You want me to sit the best homerun hitter in the league. Bench him. Is that right? The same guy who has thrown out all but two base runners. The same guy who just happens to be one of the major reasons why we are in first place. All because you girl scouts are all tired of a little inconvenience. Is that what I'm hearing? Well, you know what? You know what I say to that? You go screw yourselves. All of you. You hear? Especially you, Sanders. You can't get a goddamned out if your mama's life depended on it. Bunch of pampered candy asses. I will only say this one more time. Boxcar is not coming back. I'll make it official at our next team meeting. And Baker? Baker ain't fit to carry Lester's jock. Lester is our catcher. Period. He will be behind the plate tomorrow, and the next day, and the day after that. He will be behind that plate until I say he's not. And when that happens,
I'll
be the one who decides who takes his place. You get that through your thick skulls. Now, I have work to do. That's it. If you still feel like crying about this, I suggest all of you talk to Mickey, and see how it is that he has no problem throwing to a black man.”

In a different part of town, tensions were also high. Quinton Harrington was upset as well. And Chip McNally was feeling the brunt of his wrath. The bar stool Harrington occupied at Wally's Tavern became a pulpit from which he espoused his displeasure over McNally's current struggles.

“You realize that you trail the Brewers by four games, Chip,” he said, slapping a rolled up newspaper in his open palm. “Four games. To a team led by a retard and a jungle bunny.” McNally's thoughts were killing him. Couldn't get away from them. Sure it was eating him alive that Murph was getting the better of him. But what was he to do?

“I know we ain't off to the kind of start you had hoped for, Mr.
Harrington, but we ain't playing that bad. Take away those two close ones we dropped to Murph and we're right in it.”

“Those two you dropped to Murph are the ones that bother me most, Chip. And I should think you'd feel the same way.”

“I want to win just as bad as you do sir,” he continued. “Especially against that rat bastard Murph.”

“Well, what do you plan to do about it?”

“I don't reckon anything different from what I've been doing. We will start winning games. I know we will. We deserve better than our results show. A lot better. Lefty has been fantastic. The defense is solid. We are not playing that bad. We just need to get the sticks going. That's all. No worries, boss.”

Quinton hesitated only a fraction of a moment, then licked his lips and smiled. “I am not worried, Chip,” he said, nodding his head thoughtfully. “Why should I be worried? But you? Now there's a different story. Yes, sir. If I were you, with the way things are going, I'd be pissing myself.”

Some weeks passed, but not much changed. Mickey was still brilliant, posting a staggering 11–1 record, and Lester continued his assault on the pitcher's in the league, racking up twenty-two homeruns by the midway point. Despite the improved play of the Rangers, who had won twenty-one of their last twenty-five games, the Brewers still had a two-game lead in the early race for the pennant.