Mudville (13 page)

I get my signed baseball from Adam in the mail, and it comes with a letter of explanation.

“Well, Roy,” it begins, “I really wanted to get you a signed ball. I brought three baseballs to the game with me, knowing we'd get to hang out in the dugout before the game. I had one for me, one for my little brother, and one for you.

“As you know, the Royals have a catcher named John Buck, and he's no great shakes, but I thought he'd sign your ball. I couldn't find him, though, so I asked this bench coach, ‘Hey, where's John Buck?’ and he said, ‘He's in the bullpen warming up the pitcher.’ So I handed the guy your ball and asked him if he could go get Buck to sign it. I didn't care as much if he signed mine, since I had basically no room left for signatures after Graffanino and Grudzielanek and Mientkiewicz all signed it. Roy, when those guys turn a double play, the announcers usually take a commercial break in the middle of the call.”

I snicker as I flip the page over to read the back. I realize I miss Adam's sense of humor.

“Anyway, I gave the ball to the bench coach, and he gave it to a batboy, and that kid ran off to the clubhouse, even though John Buck was right over in the bullpen warming up Mike Wood (who stank to the tune of eight earned runs in four-plus innings, by the way).

“We weren't allowed to hang out in the dugout much
longer. They had good seats for us, but not on the bench, so I needed to get your ball back quick. So I asked another bat-boy about it, and he ran off to find the first batboy. Just as we were getting herded up and made to leave, the second kid ran back and handed me the ball.

“I glanced at it and it looked wrong, so I asked him what was up, and he said, ‘It's signed by Buck liked you asked for,’ but it said ‘John “Buck” O'Neil,’ not ‘John Buck.’ We were shuttled off to our seats before I could get an explanation.”

I shake my head in embarrassment, because Adam doesn't know who Buck O'Neil was, and keep reading.

“All during the top half of the first inning, I just turned that ball over and over, looking at it. My coach saw it, and his jaw dropped open.

“‘Don't you know who that is?’ he asked me.

“‘Nope,’ I told him.

“So he told me that Buck O'Neil played for the Kansas City Monarchs, and that he was the Negro Leagues’ batting champion a couple of times, and that he managed the team for years, and knew Jackie Robinson and signed Ernie Banks, and wound up being the first black coach in baseball. Buck's a local legend, he said, and one of the finest men ever to wear a baseball uniform. You can bet I looked him up later on the Web, and, wow, that was some misunderstanding the batboy made. You had a gem of a ball waiting for you, Roy.

“The only problem was, the coach was all choked up, talking about Buck O'Neil and the KC Monarchs and everything. He went on to tell me about how his grandfather
played in the Negro Leagues and everything Buck O'Neil has done to celebrate the history of those leagues and promote the Negro Leagues HOF. Mr. Daniels is a good guy, Roy. He's a barber most of the time, but he's also a pretty good coach.

“Long story short, I told Coach to keep that baseball, and I got another ball signed for you.

“Best wishes, Adam.

“P.S. The Royals were playing the Cards. I got Pujols to sign a ball for my bro. He just about exploded. My brother, I mean. Pujols didn't explode.”

My ball is signed by Montgomery Daniels, full-time barber and part-time baseball coach. I'm pretty happy with it and place it among my trophies and memorabilia.

After a dinner of spinach surprise (the surprise part is Vienna sausages), Sturgis wants to practice his pitching.

“Teach me that junkball again,” he says.

“I thought you didn't like it.”

“A couple of you guys nearly got decent hits,” he says. “I need to be better.”

We go out in the yard and toss the ball back and forth. I show him how to hold the ball again, with the extra finger to slow it down.

He tries a few. They're slow enough, but they don't look much like fastballs.

“That's all?” he says. “Anyone can do that.”

“You're not doing it,” I tell him. “You step off the wrong
way and throw differently. I can see it coming a mile off. It has to be the same as your fastball or it's no good.”

“I am doing it the same,” he protests.

“No you're not,” I tell him. “I have another idea. Instead of using your finger to slow down the pitch, try just holding the ball further back in your hand.”

He looks at me strangely and then throws a perfectly good change-of-pace pitch at me.

“Like that?”

“Yes!”

“What's the big deal about that? That isn't hard.”

I just shake my head and make him throw some more. He's got it working, all right. He couldn't figure out the three-finger changeup, but he's got big hands that are perfect for the palmball.

“Let's call your fastest pitch a ten. Throw me a ten.”

He rears back and throws. The ball stings my hand.

“Now throw me that cookie.”

He does, and a pretty slow pitch pops into my glove. It looks okay, sort of like a fastball, but there's no zip on it.

“Try something right in between. Edge the ball back a bit in your hand.”

He throws the hard one, then the soft one, and can't seem to find anything in between. I can see he's getting annoyed.

“It just takes practice,” I tell him. I toss the ball back. He tries a few more, with different grips, until he can throw a nice in-betweener.

“We'll call that one a five. Throw it again.”

He finds that grip again a few pitches later and then throws three good ones, right in a row. He's a quick learner.

“Now throw the ten again.”

He rears back and throws wild.

“Darn it,” he says, punching his glove.

“That's what makes pitching hard.” I find the ball in a bunch of weeds that have all of a sudden sprung up near the back steps. “Being able to throw any pitch at any time. It just takes lots of practice.”

“Maybe we can practice every evening, after dinner?” he asks.

“Um, sure.” Day practices and evening drills are a lot of baseball, even for me, but I want Sturgis to master the changeup.

“My dad hated junkball pitching. If he knew I was throwing junkballs, he'd kill me.”

I shrug. “You can't get by on one pitch,” I tell him. “The fastball is only good for a few outs. Eventually, batters catch up to it and you're dead meat. You need another pitch.”

“That explains my dad's career, right there,” he says.

My dad gets the town to put up some money for materials for the ballpark, promising to match with in-kind contribution, which means his crew will do the work for free. His crew being Sturgis and me, for the most part.

He can't even help that much himself because he has a new job.

“Remember the home and garden store in Sutton?” he asks.

“Yeah, sure.”

“I'm the new manager in the lumber section. I start Mon-day.”

“Wow. That's cool, I guess.” It's hard to imagine my dad taking orders from someone else.

“Just until business picks up,” he says. “Hey, I also get an employee discount. That'll come in handy.”

Among the great ironies of all times, Moundville is now having a minor drought. Sturgis and I have to go out early every day to water and tend to the field. My dad pays Peter to mow every third day, spinning around on one of those riding mowers. Sometimes P.J. gets to ride it, but never me or Sturgis. We just do the grunt work.

When we see P.J., I ask him to take a few swings against Sturgis.

“I don't know,” he says. “I'm supposed to be helping my dad.”

“Just take a few swings,” I tell him, handing him a bat.

It's a dirty trick. I know that once he's got a bat in his hand, he's going to want to swing it. Sturgis serves him nothing but flame and smoke, and eventually P.J. always catches up to it. Once he does, it's all over. Every pitch is jolted into the outfield, some of them rattling the wire fence. It seems like it would be stuff for a good rivalry, but Sturgis just tips his hat whenever a pitch is walloped.

“We have to get him on our team,” he tells me.

“What do you think I'm trying to do?”

One Saturday, maybe two weeks after laying down the sod, we're back to shoveling. I didn't miss it one bit, but it's for a good cause, making way for a new diamond. We put down good infield dirt, real bases and a plate, and replace the backstop. We paint the white lines that mark off the baselines and install a pitcher's mound. With the three of us and the two Peters, we do it all in a day.

My dad has also bought about a half dozen bats, a bag of balls, and other supplies, and a surprise for Sturgis. He just tosses it to him, like it's nothing. It's a brand-new mitt, big enough for Sturgis's large hands. He slides his hand in and flexes it in the stiff new leather.

“It feels weird,” he says.

“You just have to break it in,” I tell him. “You need to oil it a bit and use it for a few weeks.”

“Yeah, I know.”

Sturgis goes out on the new mound and stamps around a bit and takes a few warm-up tosses. His new glove fits him perfectly. Like a glove, in fact.

“It's a lot better up there, isn't it?” I ask.

He just nods.

He looks at my dad. “Um,” he croaks. The words die before they can find their way out of his mouth. He just looks down at the new mound and punches the glove a couple of times.

“It's nothing,” says my dad.

My mom calls the same day, wondering if it's started raining yet. She sounds pretty sober, but rushed. In between flights or something. I tell her about the new infield.

“Dad made it all happen,” I tell her.

“He knows how to cut a deal,” she says. “Hey, how's Sturgis?”

“He's fine,” I tell her. “Hey, how do you know about Sturgis?” My dad hardly talks to her, and I don't remember mentioning it myself. She blathers about running into so-and-so on a flight she was working and catching up on the latest Moundville gossip.

“Does Sturgis play baseball, too?” she asks.

“Oh yeah. He's a pretty good pitcher.”

“Of course he is,” she says. “Like father, like son.”

“You know about his dad?”

“He was a big leaguer, Roy.”

“Yeah, I know. I guess I'm just surprised you knew about that.” I wonder if I like it better when she's a little drunk and nonsensical or cold sober and creepy and knowing.

“Tell him I said hi,” she says. We say we love each other, and she's off to fly to wherever she's going. I might find out when I get a postcard.

“My mom says hi,” I tell Sturgis later.

“That was nice of her,” he says.

We now have enough players to field a team, even though one is Miggy's kid brother. Tim can run down fly balls pretty well,
so I put him in right field. Rita is another story. She's terrible in the field. She can hit a ball okay, on account of her tennis experience, but she couldn't catch a cold. I figure I'll just have to use her as a pinch hitter—until she tosses me the ball. The ball comes right at my chest, then drops into the dirt.

“Sorry, Captain! I hurt my elbow once playing tennis. I've never been able to throw right since.”

“Do that again.” I toss the ball back to her. She throws it again, the same way. It's amazing. The ball soars straight at me, then just drops out of the air like a narcoleptic bird.

“Hey, Sturgis, watch. Throw it to him,” I tell Rita, tossing the ball back. She does, and Sturgis reaches out for it, just to have it die in front of his glove.

“Pretty good junkball,” he says respectfully.

“It's not a junkball, it's a backwards curveball,” I tell him. “It comes in on you instead of tailing away. It's called a screwball. Practically nobody can throw it. Rita throws it perfectly, though. It breaks hard.”

“Really?” she asks.

“I think you'll be pretty good out of the bullpen,” I tell her. I like the idea of having Sturgis throw heat, then having Rita come out with her screwball.

“Between the two of you, I think we can beat anyone.”

“Thanks, Captain!” she says. Did I mention it kills me when she calls me Captain?

Toward the end of practice, I look up and see PJ. kind of loitering by the margin of the field.

“Want to grab a bat and take a few swings?” I call over.

Usually I have to plead with him. This time he sprints over. Maybe watching us all flail at pitches has made him eager to show us how it's done.

He does, too. Sturgis throws a few hard fastballs, and P.J. sails them into the outfield. It's about time our outfielders got some practice.

“Let me try,” says Rita. She throws a few pitches, and P.J. swings right over them, turning himself around.

“You pitch good!” he says. Rita smiles, and her eyes twinkle a bit, and I resist an urge to take the bat from P.J. and knock him silly.

“Show me that screwball,” Sturgis asks that evening. We're in the yard, tossing the ball around.

“Let's just practice the changeup.”

He frowns and throws a couple of lazy off-speed pitches. “I get it now. I want to learn that screwball. Or at least a curveball.”

“Sturgis, you throw really hard. You work in a good changeup, nobody will be able to hit you. You don't need a curveball.”