The Legend of Mickey Tussler (27 page)

His first pitch was a strike, up and in. The next also found the zone, this time on the outer half. Then, after wasting one in the dirt, he followed up with a seed on the inside corner for a called third strike. It was just the kind of start he had hoped for. He was sharp, popping Boxcar's glove harder than he had all year. He stood on the mound like a man possessed, his confidence soaring even higher as he set down the Rangers in order.

Quinton arrived just in time to see his third-place hitter whiff on three straight curveballs. He never touched his seat—just stormed down to just outside the Ranger dugout.

“McNally, get your ass over here,” he ordered through clenched teeth. “What the hell is going on?”

“I don't know, sir,” he answered blankly.

“You told me, in very certain terms, not to worry. Remember? That he was under control. ‘Sore arm,' remember?”

“I know, I know.”

“Well, what the hell?”

“I said I don't know. Shit, I'm just as surprised as you are.”

Quinton and McNally continued to volley concerns, the owner gesticulating wildly with each objection he fired. He was hot across his neck and chest. McNally's cavalier attitude unhinged what little patience Quinton had left.

“You listen here, McNally, goddammit. We will talk about this after the game, regardless of the outcome. This is outlandish. Who does this fucking guy think he is, anyway? Something needs to be done. And I mean
now
. I do not take kindly to being made a fool of.”

The thought of Quinton's retribution unnerved McNally, climbed up his spine and settled like a swelling at the base of his skull. “Of course, sir. We'll meet right after the game.”

During the game, Mickey and Matheson shared the end of the bench, exchanging words that no one else cared to hear. Mickey was the only who would sit next to Matheson, for he was the only one able to block out the relentless prattle. Today was no different. The boy was swimming, lost in a flurry of varied thoughts that glazed his eyes, while the elderly coach's glib discourse revealed the ill effects of his dotage.

“Water don't run uphill, kid,” he said, staring blankly out at the sun-drenched diamond. “Know what I mean?”

Mickey sat idly, unresponsive.

“Yup, married me a pretty little filly years ago, on a day just like this. Sun shining. Sweet smell of honeysuckle in the air. Married her right on the ball field. Imagine? Right there. Married at twelve noon and then played a twin bill right after that. Won both ends too. God, she was pretty. Those were some mighty good days.” Matheson paused momentarily, shaking his head with burgeoning sadness. “You know, it's true what they say, kid. You never miss the water till the well runs dry.”

Mickey's head was still swimming.

“Bah, these young Turks can't tell their ass from a hole in the ground. “Look at 'em. They don't know what it takes to be
real
ballplayers. My uncle—now, there was a ballplayer. And a man. Yes, sir.”

Mickey reached for a baseball and began picking at the stitches.

The sententious old coot rolled his eyes skyward, then furrowed his brow, as though he had forgotten where he was. “Did I tell you how pretty my girl was? Yup. She was a beauty. Aw, but everything's changed. These guys don't know nothing. It's a goddamned country club. My uncle could build a shed in just two hours. Two hours. Can you imagine that? That was a man. Remember, kid. And never forget. You reap what you sow, and what goes up sure as shit comes right back down.”

Mickey dropped the ball and then busied himself with the dirt in his cleats, seemingly impervious to Matheson's delirium.

“Hey, boy,” the coach complained, jolting Mickey from his stupor with an unsympathetic hand on the shoulder. “You hearing me?”

“You know, we got a donkey fenced up right next to a big lilac bush,” Mickey said, looking up at Matheson while swatting at a ring of swirling mosquitoes. “We call him Homer.”

“What on earth—”

“Homer likes the smell. He sure does.”

Matheson leaned back, his confusion yielding to yet another of his desultory thoughts. “Homer, huh?” he reminisced. “Used to play with a fella from Oklahoma. Name was Homer Reddington. Kid could hit the fastball a country mile. Never seen anything like it. But the son of a bitch couldn't touch Uncle Charlie. Yeah, he didn't last very long.”

Mickey was bemused. “Did your uncle Charlie play ball too, Coach?”

“Did
who
do
what
?” Matheson fired back. “Damn, boy, you really did just fall off the turnip truck. Uncle Charlie ain't my uncle. His name was Fred. Uncle Charlie's what we here call a curveball. You know. Yellow hammer. Hook. Bender. Yacker.”

“I don't know nothing about hitting no curveball,” Mickey said. “Mickey can chop wood pretty good though. When my daddy lets me.”

“How's that?”

“Mickey's gotta ask to use tools. On account of me being slow. If I don't ask, I could catch a pretty good whupping.”

Matheson listened as Mickey detailed how Clarence had tied Mickey's hands behind his back with chicken wire until they bled the last time Mickey touched Clarence's ball-peen hammer without permission.

“How is that big paw of yours anyway?” Matheson asked, frowning in the direction of Mickey's right hand. “You almost ready, son?”

Mickey flexed the hand, curling his fingers into a fist as if to test the veracity of Matheson's idea. “Mickey reckons it should be good soon,” he said resolutely. “Yeah, good soon.”

The game unfolded in the Brewers' favor. After four innings, Murph's team had a 2–0 lead courtesy of back-to-back jacks off the bats of Finster and Boxcar. Murph couldn't help but smile, his first in days. He was thrilled by his team's sharp play, and by the way they had responded to his little reprimand in the locker room. He was so moved by the collective effort that he even felt a twinge of respect for Lefty, a seed of esteem that grew steadily that day until he heard Lefty spouting off in between innings.

Lefty believed, from the first pitch, that he would be able to conceal his selfish motives behind the admirable façade of teamwork and impassioned competition. He had done a pretty good job through the first part of the game, duping the guys into believing he had sacrificed his health to help the team avoid falling any further behind the Rangers. But his eye was forever in the stands, searching for the one man who was his ticket to the big time. He had yet to see him or hear of his whereabouts. The frustration of not knowing if the risk he had taken was worth it finally mastered him.

“Has anyone seen Whitey Buzzo?” he asked, pacing up and down the bench. “Buzzo? You know, the Braves' head scout? Wasn't he supposed to be here today?”

Everyone in the dugout just stopped and stared, eyes wide and appraising, as if someone had just thrown a light switch. So much for selflessness and team dedication. In this new light, Lefty's popularity waned. The ugliness was out there. It tossed about in the clear brightness of the changing air associated with early September, air that whispered the steady approach of fall, air that brought with it undercurrents of summer's longings and disappointments, as well as hints of new beginnings and fresh starts. It was the kind of air that pinched your cheeks and filled your lungs, malaise-awakening, senses-sharpening air.

“Does Buzzo's rumored appearance today have anything to do with your miraculous recovery?” Murph asked, walking over to Lefty with grim expectation.

There was suddenly something odd in Lefty's face. He just stood there with vacant eyes.

“Unbelievable,” Murph said, shaking his head. Then, standing beside Lefty in the thick gloom that had once again befallen them, Murph surrendered, threw up his hands, and walked away.

“What?” Lefty called after him. “I don't get it.”

Everyone stopped what they were doing. Conversations ended. Warm-ups ceased. Even the on-deck batter stepped out of the circle and stopped his pre-at-bat ritual. It was eerie, as if a cone of silence had been dropped across the entire scene, freezing everything for the moment. There was nothing but silent stares.

Lefty cowered a bit under the painful glare of all the others. “What's the big deal?” he called after Murph, who had just about disappeared from sight. “I mean, who cares? We're winning, ain't we?”

The next inning began with Danvers booting a routine grounder. That was followed by a blooper off the tip of Pee Wee's glove and a tailor-made double-play ball to Finster that slipped through the wickets into right field, loading the bases with nobody out. It was the ugliest baseball they had played in quite some time. Lefty just closed his eyes and hung his head.

The disparity in their play from the first four innings to the present was surreal. Each labored at his position, as if a wave of disillusionment had washed over them, carrying away with it all the energy, spirit, and momentum that had taken so long to muster.

Then the all-too-familiar pattern emerged. Lefty started to come undone, squirming and straining under the cloud of misplays. He glared at all of them with contemptuous eyes, as if they had all conspired against him in some twisted, elaborate plan. He was outraged, and as was usually the case, he lost his focus.

He walked the next batter on four straight pitches, forcing in a run. The next batter took a grooved fastball and lined it to left, plating two more Rangers. Lefty unraveled. No matter how hard he grit his teeth, the onslaught just kept coming, including four more singles, two walks, a hit batsman, another error, two stand-up triples, a ground-rule double, and two gopher balls. The entire ballpark was stunned, like a punch-drunk boxer. In just minutes, the Brewers were looking at a seventeen-run deficit.

Lefty was inconsolable, like a fretful, half-soothed child at bedtime. After each individual assault, he took the ball back and looked into the dugout at Murph with souring eyes, waiting for the manager to yank him. It was no matter to Murph; he just let him go.

On the other side of the field, McNally laughed sardonically. It was sweet justice; the proverbial two birds with one stone. His team had further reduced the play-off chances of his archrival's squad, and Lefty, whose overt disrespect and blatant lie had alienated Quinton, had shown his true hand for nothing. Things were looking good. McNally was sure that Quinton would go much easier on him now that it looked as though the Rangers would cruise to the pennant.

The Rangers tacked on five more runs before Murph finally decided that Lefty had had enough. Murph lingered on the top step of the dugout for a minute, motioned to Boxcar to meet him at the mound, then called time and stepped out onto the field. It was one of those long, dreadful walks, a painful jaunt through a firestorm of boos and second guesses. He knew how bad it looked. Nobody except the team would understand. God, he hated losing to McNally— especially this way. And the thought of being raked over the coals by the sportswriters and fans didn't sit too well either. But sometimes things order themselves by importance. Lefty Rogers was out of control and needed to be taught a lesson. And it just could not wait.

“What the hell are you thinking, Murph?” Lefty complained. He was angry, ashamed, humiliated, and for the first time in a long time, he felt the full ignominy of personal failure. “Shit, did you not see what the hell was going on out here? Jesus Christ, are you trying to ruin me or something?”

Murph and Boxcar shared a silent exchange. It was good, Murph thought, to have him out there. His fiery countenance fueled Murph's resolve.

“Give me the goddamned ball, Rogers,” he told him. “We've all seen enough.”

“Take your fucking ball. What a goddamned disgrace, I tell you. Your whole team threw this game. Rolled over and took it up the tailpipe. And what did you do? Big, tough manager with the dimea-dozen minor-league sob story? Nothing. That's what. You just sat there on your fat ass and watched the whole thing happen. Pathetic.”

Indignant, Lefty slammed the ball in Murph's palm. He was off to the showers, but before he could get far, Boxcar stepped in front of him. Lefty returned the fire in Boxcar's eyes and for a second felt as though he were onstage, and the curtain was coming down. The final act. Lights out. It was the beginning of the end or of something new, although of exactly what, Lefty was not sure. He looked long and hard into the stone face of the Brewers' field general with absolute loathing, something that activated the catcher's only words.

“Don't let me catch you in the locker room after the game.”

Quinton's office was lit like the town's fair, sparkling in the afterglow of victory. It looked as though the Rangers were going to cruise to the pennant and their first postseason berth in years.

“Not a bad day,” McNally said.

Quinton raised his eyebrows and smiled wickedly in acknowledgment with great satisfaction and a tinge of camaraderie. “Not bad?” He laughed. “I'd say things worked out masterfully.” He paused, smitten with the pleasure engendered by his successful machinations. “But, alas, there's still work to be done.”

“What do you mean?”

“It's time to drop the hammer.”

“What?”

“Jesus, McNally. Do I have to spell out everything for you?” Quinton stared curiously at the picture of Shoeless Joe hanging over the fireplace. “The seed was planted and we got what we wanted. Now it's time to get out before we get burned. And what better way to do it than to have that ungrateful little bastard Rogers take the fall. He's practically asking for it. It's genius.”

“What are you saying? Are you going to turn him in?”

“Well, I believe it is our civic duty to do the right thing,” Quinton said, smiling. “I mean, assault is a serious offense. It should not be taken lightly. I think the sheriff would be most appreciative if we helped him bring his investigation to a close.”