Someone shouted, “Play ball!” and the crowd moved toward the backstop. The Methodists were coached by Mr. Duffy Lewis, a farmer out west of town and, according to Pappy, a man of limited baseball intelligence. But after four losses in a row, Pappy’s low opinion of Mr. Lewis had become almost muted. The umpires called the two coaches to a meeting behind home plate, and for a long time they discussed Black Oak’s version of the rules of baseball. They pointed to fences and poles and limbs overhanging the field—each had its own rules and its own history. Pappy disagreed with most of what the umpires said, and the haggling went on and on.
The Baptists had been the home team the year before, so we hit first. The Methodist pitcher was Buck Prescott, son of Mr. Sap Prescott, one of the largest landowners in Craighead County. Buck was in his early twenties and had attended Arkansas State for two years, something that was quite rare. He had tried to pitch in college, but there had been some problems with the coach. He was left-handed, threw nothing but
curveballs, and had beaten us the year before, nine to two. When he walked out to the mound, I knew we were in for a long day. His first pitch was a slow, looping curveball that was high and outside but called a strike anyway, and Pappy was already yapping at the umpire. Buck walked the first two batters, struck out the next two, then retired my father on a fly ball to center field.
Our pitcher was Duke Ridley, a young farmer with seven kids and a fastball even I could hit. He claimed he once pitched in Alaska during the war, but this had not been verified. Pappy thought it was a lie, and after watching him get shelled the year before, I had serious doubts, too. He walked the first three batters while throwing only one strike, and I thought Pappy might charge the mound and maim him. Their cleanup batter popped up to the catcher. The next guy flied out to shallow left. We got lucky when their number-six batter, Mr. Lester Hurdle, at age fifty-two the oldest player on either roster, hit a long fly ball to right, where our fielder, Bennie Jenkins, gloveless and shoeless, caught it with his bare hands.
The game settled into a pitcher’s duel, not necessarily because the pitching was sharp, but more because neither team could hit. We drifted back to the ice cream, where the last melting remnants were being dished out. By the third inning the ladies of both denominations had grouped into small clusters of conversation and, for them, the game was of lesser importance. Somewhere not far away, a car radio was on, and I could hear Harry Caray. The Cardinals were playing the Cubs in the final game of the season.
As Dewayne and I retreated from the dessert table with our last cups of ice cream, we walked behind a quilt where half a dozen young women were resting and talking. “Well, how old is Libby?” I heard one of them say.
I stopped, took a bite, and looked beyond them at the game as if I weren’t the least bit interested in what they were saying.
“She’s just fifteen,” another said.
“She’s a Latcher. She’ll have another one soon.”
“Is it a boy or a girl?”
“Boy’s what I heard.”
“And the daddy?”
“Not a clue. She won’t tell anybody.”
“Come on,” Dewayne said, hitting me with his elbow. We moved away and walked to the first-base dugout. I wasn’t sure if I was relieved or scared. Word was out that the Latcher baby had arrived, but its father had not been identified.
It wouldn’t be long, I thought. And we’d be ruined. I’d have a cousin who was a Latcher, and everybody would know it.
The tight pitching duel ended in the fifth inning when both teams erupted for six runs. For thirty minutes baseballs were flying everywhere—line drives, wild throws, balls in the outfield gaps. We changed pitchers twice, and I knew we were in trouble when Pappy went to the mound and pointed at my father. He was not a pitcher, but at that point there was no one left. He kept his pitches low, though, and we were soon out of the inning.
“Musial’s pitching!” someone yelled. It was either a
joke or a mistake. Stan Musial was a lot of things, but he’d never pitched before. We ran behind the bleachers to where the cars were parked. A small crowd was closing in on a ’48 Dodge owned by Mr. Rafe Henry. Its radio was at full volume, and Harry Caray was wild—Stan the Man was indeed on the mound, pitching against the Cubs, against Frankie Baumholtz, the man he’d battled all year for the hitting title. The crowd at Sportsman’s Park was delirious. Harry was yelling into the microphone. We were shocked at the thought of Musial on the mound.
Baumholtz hit a ground ball to third, and they sent Musial back to center field. I ran to the first-base dugout and told Pappy that Stan the Man had actually pitched, but he didn’t believe me. I told my father, and he looked suspicious, too. The Methodists were up eight to six, in the bottom of the seventh, and the Baptist dugout was tense. A good flood would have caused less concern, at least at that moment.
It was at least ninety-five degrees. The players were soaked with sweat, their clean overalls and white Sunday shirts stuck to their skin. They were moving slower—paying the price for all that fried chicken and potato salad—and not hustling enough to suit Pappy.
Dewayne’s father wasn’t playing, so they left after a couple of hours. A few others drifted away. The Mexicans were still under their tree by the right-field foul pole, but they were sprawled out now and appeared to be sleeping. The ladies were even more involved with their shade-tree gossip; they could not have cared less who won the game.
I sat alone in the bleachers and watched the Methodists score three more in the eighth. I dreamed
of the day when I’d be out there, hitting home runs and making incredible plays in center field. Those wretched Methodists wouldn’t have a chance when I got big enough.
They won eleven to eight, and for the fifth year in a row Pappy had led the Baptists to defeat. The players shook hands and laughed when the game was over, then headed to the shade, where iced tea was waiting. Pappy didn’t smile or laugh, nor did he shake hands with anybody. He disappeared for a while, and I knew he would pout for a week.
The Cardinals lost, too, three to zero. They finished the season four games behind the Giants and eight games behind the Brooklyn Dodgers, who would face the Yankees in an all–New York World Series.
The leftovers were gathered and hauled back to the cars and trucks. The tables were cleaned, and the litter was picked up. I helped Mr. Duffy Lewis rake the mound and home plate, and when we finished, the field looked as good as ever. It took an hour to say good-bye to everyone. There were the usual threats from the losing team about what would happen next year, and the usual taunts from the winners. As far as I could tell, no one was upset but Pappy.
As we left town I thought about the end of the season. Baseball began in the spring, when we planted and when hopes were high. It sustained us through the summer, often our only diversion from the drudgery of the fields. We listened to each game, then talked about the plays and the players and the strategies until we listened to the next one. It was very much a part of our daily lives for six months, then it was gone. Just like the cotton.
I was sad by the time we arrived home. No games to listen to on the front porch. Six months without the voice of Harry Caray. Six months with no Stan Musial. I got my glove and went for a long walk down a field road, tossing the ball in the air, wondering what I would do until April.
For the first time in my life, baseball broke my heart.
Chapter 24
The heat broke in the first few days of October. The nights became cool, and the rides to the fields in the early morning were chilly. The stifling humidity was gone, and the sun lost its glare. By midday it was hot again, but not August-hot, and by dark the air was light. We waited, but the heat did not return. The seasons were changing; the days grew shorter.
Since the sun didn’t sap our strength as much, we worked harder and picked more. And, of course, the change in weather was all Pappy needed to embrace yet another level of concern. With winter just around the corner, he now remembered tales of staring at rows and rows of muddy, rotting, and unpicked cotton on Christmas Day.
After a month in the fields, I missed school. Classes would resume at the end of October, and I began thinking of how nice it would be to sit at a desk all day, surrounded by friends instead of cotton stalks, and with no Spruills to worry about. Now that baseball was over, I had to dream about something. It was a tribute to my desperation to be left with only school to long for.
My return to school would be glorious because I would be wearing my shiny new Cardinals baseball
jacket. Hidden inside my cigar box in the top drawer of my bureau was the grand sum of $14.50, the result of hard work and frugal spending. I was reluctantly tithing money to the church and investing wisely in Saturday movies and popcorn, but for the most part my wages were being tucked safely away next to my Stan Musial baseball card and the pearl-handled pocketknife that Ricky gave me the day he left for Korea.
I wanted to order the jacket from Sears, Roebuck, but my mother insisted I wait until the harvest was over. We were still negotiating this. Shipping took two weeks, and I was determined to return to class decked out in Cardinal red.
⋅ ⋅ ⋅
Stick Powers was waiting for us late one afternoon. I was with Gran and my mother, and we had left the fields a few minutes ahead of the others. As always, Stick was sitting under a tree, the one next to Pappy’s truck, and his sleepy eyes betrayed the fact that he’d been napping.
He tipped his hat to my mother and Gran and said, “Afternoon, Ruth, Kathleen.”
“Hello, Stick,” Gran said. “What can we do for you?”
“Lookin’ for Eli or Jesse.”
“They’ll be along shortly. Somethin’ the matter?”
Stick chewed on the blade of grass protruding from his lips and took a long look at the fields as if he were burdened with heavy news that might or might not be suitable for women.
“What is it, Stick?” Gran asked. With a boy off in the war, every visit by a man in a uniform was frightening. In 1944 one of Stick’s predecessors had delivered the news that my father had been wounded at Anzio.
Stick looked at the women and decided they could be trusted. He said, “That eldest Sisco boy, Grady, the one in prison for killin’ a man over in Jonesboro, well, he escaped last week. They say he’s back in these parts.”
For a moment the women said nothing. Gran was relieved that the news wasn’t about Ricky. My mother was bored with the whole Sisco mess.
“You’d better tell Eli,” Gran said. “We need to fix supper.”
They excused themselves and went into the house. Stick watched them, no doubt thinking about supper.
“Who’d he kill?” I asked Stick as soon as the women were inside.
“I don’t know.”
“How’d he kill him?”
“Beat ’im with a shovel’s what I heard.”
“Wow, must’ve been some fight.”
“I guess.”
“You think he’s comin’ after Hank?”
“Look, I’d better go see Eli. Where exactly is he?”
I pointed to a spot deep in the fields. The cotton trailer was barely visible.
“That’s a far piece,” Stick mumbled. “Reckon I can drive down there?”
“Sure,” I said, already heading for the patrol car. We got in.
“Don’t touch anything,” Stick said when we were settled into the front seat. I gawked at the switches and radio, and of course Stick had to make the most of the moment. “This here’s the radio,” he said, picking up the mike. “This here flips on the siren, this the lights.” He grabbed a handle on the dash and said, “This here’s the spotlight.”
“Who do you talk to on the radio?” I asked.
“HQ mainly. That’s headquarters.”
“Where’s headquarters?”
“Over in Jonesboro.”
“Can you call ’em right now?”
Stick reluctantly grabbed the mike, stuck it to his mouth, cocked his head sideways, and, with a frown, said, “Unit four to base. Come in.” His voice was lower, and his words were faster, with much more importance.
We waited. When HQ didn’t respond, he cocked his head to the other side, pressed the button on the mike, and repeated, “Unit four to base. Come in.”
“You’re unit four?” I asked.
“That’s me.”
“How many units are there?”
“Depends.”
I stared at the radio and waited for HQ to acknowledge Stick. It seemed impossible to me that a person sitting in Jonesboro could talk directly to him, and that Stick could talk back.
In theory that was how it was supposed to work, but evidently HQ wasn’t too concerned with Stick’s whereabouts. For the third time he said into the mike, “Unit four to base. Come in.” His words had a little more bite to them now.
And for the third time HQ ignored him. After a few long seconds, he slapped the mike back onto the radio and said, “It’s probably ol’ Theodore, asleep again.”
“Who’s Theodore?” I asked.
“One of the dispatchers. He sleeps half the time.”
So do you, I thought to myself. “Can you turn on the siren?” I asked.
“Nope. It might scare your momma.”
“What about the lights?”
“Nope, they burn up the battery.” He reached for the ignition; the engine grunted and strained but wouldn’t turn over.
He tried again, and just before the engine quit completely, it turned over and started, sputtering and kicking. HQ had obviously given Stick the worst leftover of the fleet. Black Oak was not exactly a hotbed of criminal activity.
Before he could put it into gear, I saw the tractor moving slowly down the field road. “Here they come,” I said. He squinted and strained, then turned off the engine. We got out of the car and walked back to the tree.
“You think you wanna be a deputy?” Stick asked.
And drive a ragged patrol car, nap half the day, and deal with the likes of Hank Spruill and the Siscos? “I’m gonna play baseball,” I said.
“Where?”
“St. Louis.”
“Oh, I see,” he said with one of those funny smiles adults give to little kids who are dreaming. “Ever’ little boy wants to be a Cardinal.”