The Legend of Mickey Tussler (33 page)

“Here, Mick,” he said impatiently. “Try it again.”

Mickey took another apple from Murph. He stood there, scratching the backs of his hands with his fingernails, pondering the meaning behind Murph's reaction, an explosion of emotion so powerful that it had now crossed over into his world. Buoyed, Mickey launched into his prepitch ritual and fired once more at the tree.

Splat.

The wormy fruit struck the tree in the exact same spot. Murph gushed with satisfaction, then emptied the sack and had Mickey throw again and again, just to make sure.

Splat. Splat. Splat.

It was the most melodious sound Murph had ever heard—the triumphant song of the bull's-eye. A million thoughts flooded his mind but never made it past his lips.

The sun had begun to dip below the distant treetops, bathing the orchard in oblongs of rich shadows. Short of declaring right then and there that Mickey was “back,” there was absolutely nothing to say. They remained in the grove only a few more minutes, enjoying the cool beneath the tree's lowest bough, chatting in between sampling some of the orchard's offerings.

“Sure is pretty as a picture,” Murph commented, then bit into the sweet flesh of a burgundy indulgence. “Nothing like good old country living, huh, Mick?”

“Uh-huh,” he answered, his words garbled by cheeks distended with hunks of apple.

“I tell you what, Mick. You look good. Real good. I feel like you're ready. You know, for the games coming up? Nothing too crazy. Maybe a few innings to start. We'll play it by ear. What do ya say?”

Mickey heard the groaning of a passing freight train off in the distance, running heavy and slow, the laborious clatter of metal cars ringing, vacant and timeworn. He wondered what the train was carrying, where it was headed, and if, with its crawling speed, it would ever arrive at all.

“Mick? What do you say?”

“What do I say? What do you mean, Mr. Murphy?”

“Pitching. Tomorrow. Do you want to pitch for me tomorrow?”

The
clickety-clack
of the train's wheels grew distant, a fading echo that wheezed and gasped before finally dying in the cool air of late afternoon.

“Yup,” Mickey said, his right arm raised in the direction of the train's final timbre. “Mickey will pitch tomorrow, Mr. Murphy.”

Tomorrow came fast. The clouds hung low and thick, suffocating a hot sun that pushed against the steel gray curtain with little success.

The Sidewinders arrived at Borchert Field to find the modest arena transformed by festive ornamentation and breathless pandemonium. Throngs of ebullient fans spilled into the ballpark like a sea swell, cramming the stands with zip and vinegar, waving banners fashioned with love and fastidious care while stamping their feet and screaming, at fever pitch, Mickey's name.

“We want Mickey!”
Boom, boom, boom boom boom.
“We want Mickey!”
Boom, boom, boom boom boom.

“Do you believe this place?” one of the opposing players remarked, staring out incredulously at the raging energy. “It's like the World's Fair in here.”

Homespun signs and banners fashioned from bedsheets and paints rippled in the breeze. In one corner, the words baby bazooka back at last. In another, in mick we trust hung as a testimony to the phenom's importance to the team. And in dead center field, draped over the railing for all to see, was the most heartfelt sentiment of all:
WELCOME BACK MICKEY—WE LOVE YOU
.

The fans' frenzy lasted all through warm-ups, rising and falling, until reaching a crescendo when the object of their unadulterated affection stepped onto the field with the rest of the hometown heroes. All rose in joyful adulation, saluting Mickey with raucous cheers and undulating arms all rocking in unison. Mickey wanted to exclaim that he did not know what he did to deserve all of this, but Boxcar was calling for warm-up tosses.

With the announcement of the Sidewinders' first batter, the roar of the crowd dulled to a restless murmur. Mickey stood on the hill, a prodigious wall of bone and muscle. He was calm, composed, staring in at Boxcar's glove with stolid eyes cast in what appeared to be a pasteboard mask. The call of his name, popping in and out like an erratic heartbeat, found his ears. He tried to remain composed but couldn't help but smile. It was good to be back. Buoyed by the overwhelming outpouring of affection, he rolled his arms, rocked back, lifted his leg, and fired. The fervor in the stands swelled again, strong and constant.

“Strike one,” the umpire called, his voice straining to be heard over the commotion.

The hooting and stamping grew stronger with the second strike and even stronger with the third. The little ballpark rocked beneath the zealous feet of rabid Brewer faithful. Their ace was back, and they were loving every minute of it. He was sharp and showed no signs of his prolonged absence, disposing of the Sidwewinders in routine fashion, one, two, three.

The air had a cool edge to it, a subtle hint that postseason baseball would be arriving in the blink of an eye.

Murph wanted to draw first blood, so he sent Pee Wee up to bunt, hoping to push across an early run. The Brewers' leadoff man, however, bunted through the first two offerings. Ripples of displeasure reverberated softly through the energized crowd. Pee Wee stepped out of the box and blew on his hands. His head throbbed at one temple. He considered, for a fleeting moment, attempting it again, figuring nobody would be expecting it, but the specter of a bunted third strike stopped him. He eased his way back in and backed off the plate a hair, convinced that he was about to see a little 0-2 chin music. But instead he was greeted by a twelve-six hook that buckled his legs, ringing him up for the first out. Instantly, the boobirds were off their roost, questioning Murph's conservative strategy to open the game.

Mickey rolled on though, providing the fans with plenty to cheer about. He was perfect through the first four innings, with the exception of a second-inning walk and a hit batsman in the third. He was not the Mickey of old, not yet anyway—the guy who mowed down opposing batters with pitiless balls of fire. To the contrary, he never looked more human. Of the first twelve outs, only two were recorded by strikeout. The Sidewinders had put the ball in play all afternoon, but not with any sort of authority. Danvers, Pee Wee, and Arky Fries were called on several times each to corral routine grounders that sputtered weakly to their yawning gloves, and once or twice a Sidewinder bat found the bottom half of the ball and sent it airborne, launching cans of corn that fell harmlessly into the leather webbing of one of the outfielders. The only real challenge came with two outs in the fourth, when Mickey sawed off a bat with a hard two-seamer that cut the lumber in two, sending the splintered barrel spinning at Danvers's head just as the ball approached.

“Holy hell,” the startled third baseman exclaimed. “Some mighty big mosquitoes buzzing around today.”

Mickey was as good as gold. But as the day wore on, he tired. His legs labored and the muscles in his shoulder and biceps atrophied, rendering his usually potent arm ineffectual. It was a troubling sight. Six innings of intense hurling brought to light his diminished stamina and left the standout pitcher merely a shell of his former self.

He began the seventh inning by walking the first batter on balls that were up and well out of the strike zone. It was a sure sign that he was tiring, something that Murph had not anticipated—especially the way Mickey had cruised through the first six. But in a heartbeat, the team's fortunes had changed. Murph saw his chances slipping away, and was alarmed over his lack of remedy.

“Hooper,” he screamed desperately. “Start getting loose.”

While Gabby Hooper trotted down to the pen, the Sidewinders began hitting Mickey hard. Lumber was cracking like logs on a raging fire. First a single. Next came a ringing double off the base of the center-field wall. Then another single. Another walk moved the runners from one station to another. The merry-go-round was in full swing.

Mickey was pale, with dark shadows under his eyes. He looked around, desperate and forlorn, mopping his sweating face on his sleeve. His lips moved deliberately, forming words that nobody could really hear or understand.

“ ‘A harvest mouse goes scampering by, with silver claws, and a silver eye.'”

Murph recognized with alarm the boy's withdrawal. “Time,” he called, emerging from the dugout for the long trip to the mound. He had hoped that Mickey would be able to get through the inning— that he would not have to yank him prematurely—but trailing 4–0 late in the game, he was left with little choice.

“You did good, Mick,” he said, holding his hand out for the ball.

“Really. You kept us in this thing. Gave the fans a real thrill. It just wasn't meant to be today.”

Mickey's head sagged. He had all but collapsed.

“Hey, don't sweat it, Mickey,” Boxcar added, joining the conference on the mound. “You did good for your first time back.”

The wounded pitcher chewed the inside of his cheek and balanced idly on the edge of the rubber. “Gee, I'm sorry, Mr. Murphy,” he said, erupting in tears that shimmered in the glow of the late-afternoon sun. “Honest. Mickey is real sorry.”

Murph's face was pained as well. “You got nothing to be sorry about, boy.” Murph waved a finger before Mickey's face. “You did just fine. Fine, ya hear? And if you don't believe me, listen to the crowd when you walk off this field.” With that, Murph took the ball from Mickey's sweaty palm and nudged him off the mound. Mickey's first steps were tentative, like those of a foal venturing from its mother's protective gaze for the first time. He was moodily silent, his cleats scarring across the green carpet.

Somewhere between the mound and the dugout steps, however, the thunderous, rhythmic rumble of the crowd pierced his impenetrable veneer, reaching into his bones and jolting him from his stupor.

“Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!”

The entire ballpark was on its feet, clapping and chanting for him. He walked a little lighter now, the sound gloriously potent; it carried him all the way to the dugout, where he found a seat on the bench and watched, his heart much lighter now, as Gabby Hooper took the reins.

But Murph was still distraught. He had rolled the dice starting Mickey, and they had come up snake eyes. It was a long shot, he told himself, a dream he was ill-advised to entertain. How could he have expected anything more from Mickey? After what he had gone through? And Murph himself? That story was already written. He was always going to come up short. That's just the way his stars aligned. He sighed and shook his head, the reality of yet another failure sinking in his stomach like a lead ball.

Hooper did, however, get out of the seventh with no more damage and escaped the eighth and ninth unscathed. He had stopped the bleeding, but as the Brewers faced their final three outs, they found themselves trailing 4–0 and teetering precariously on the precipice of postseason extinction.

Pee Wee's name was announced to begin the last of the ninth. The words echoed loudly, as if having been uttered in a hollow canyon. The crowd had capitulated, resigned to the grim recognition that Murph and the beloved Brew Crew had made a valiant effort but had regrettably come up, once again, short.

Pee Wee served the first pitch he saw softly to right field for a leadoff single. However, half of the disillusioned crowd had all but reached the exits just as Arky Fries stepped in the box. The first pitch to the Brewer second baseman was in the dirt, a sharp slider that rattled off the catcher's shin guards, skipping off to the side. Pee Wee advanced to second with little trouble. The next three pitches missed the mark as well, putting Fries on first and arresting the flight of the rest of the crowd, at least temporarily.

With the first two men on base, and the heart of the order looming, ripples of guarded expectation slithered through the ballpark. It began as a murmur, faint but audible, then swelled in strength after a sharp single to left off the bat of Woody Danvers, loading the bases with nobody out.

Murph leaned against the dugout wall, stomach burning, wondering how much of what was transpiring he should believe. It was the strange thing about baseball. You just never knew. Fickle fortunes he called them, each moment flickering like a candle in the wind. A bad hop. Windblown double. A line drive that just tickles the chalk. The proverbial game of inches. So many great ones before him had tried in vain to figure it out. It was all so fucking inscrutable. What looked like a certain victory often melted into a pool of defeat, seemingly willed by a higher power, while many a loss was averted by that very same force just as the crushing jaws of setback were ready to close. Fickle fortune could certainly humble you.

Clem Finster strode to the plate with a chance to do some real damage. Murph watched as the power-hitting first baseman lined up his knuckles and cocked the bat behind his head. The anxious manager entertained all sorts of scenarios in his head. A sharp single to drive in two. A bases-clearing gapper. A grand salami to tie the game. God, his imagination was ravenous. What an opportunity. He tried to supplant the urge to count the runs before they had even crossed the plate. He had been seduced far too many times before. But, shit, bases juiced with nobody out. Surely they would come away with something. The odds were with him. Unless of course Finster buckled under the pressure and whiffed. Or worse still, hit into a double play. That would certainly kill the rally. Fucking baseball. The game could tear your heart out.

Murph chewed his fingers as the Sidewinders' right-hander delivered ball one. He exhaled loudly and spit out fragments of fingernail and skin. The next pitch was a sweeping curveball that broke around the plate for ball two. Finster stepped out, reveling in the advantageous count.

“Hey, now, Finny,” Murph called out, unable to suppress the nervous energy bubbling in his stomach. “Hitter's count. Selective now. Be selective. Zone up in there. Aggressive, but smart. No help now. Selective. Here we go, Finny.”