The Legend of Mickey Tussler (35 page)

The Brewers continued to apply pressure on McNally's Rangers, winning their next three games in convincing fashion. It appeared that they were peaking at just the right time. Clutch hitting, quality pitching, and stellar defense had all of them believing that they could just not be beat.

Of course, winning would not be enough. Trailing the Rangers by one game, they would need some help—for some team to play spoiler and knock the league leader down, at least once, setting up a one-game showdown on the final day of the season.

And as if the hope had traveled directly from the team's mouth to God's ears, it happened. If there is such a thing as baseball angels, then they most certainly heard Murph's prayers, for the very next night, beneath a coverlet of thick clouds that veiled a glossy moon, the lowly Colts defeated the Rangers on a suicide squeeze bunt in the bottom of the ninth, knotting up the standings in a dead tie with just two games left on the schedule.

The sudden turn of events sent Quinton into orbit. Immediately following the game, he summoned McNally to his office.

“This is unacceptable, Mr. McNally!” the petulant owner barked. “Do you want to tell me how the hell we are tied with those goddamned Brewers, after all that's happened? After all this? How in God's name is that possible?”

Something felt small and tight inside McNally. His heart was stilled. “I don't know how to explain it, sir. It, uh, just sort of happened.”

“You don't know how to explain it? Is that what you said? Well, isn't that just great. That's just great. Maybe you can explain how I'm supposed to feel about the matchup in three days—Rogers versus that fireballing freak show—should we even be lucky enough to get there. How should I feel about that now that our team—
your
team—is playing like a bunch of schoolgirls?” Quinton paused for effect. “Maybe we need a new manager, Chip—someone who
can
explain why things are the way they are—someone who can get the job done.”

“Don't worry, Quinton,” McNally insisted. “I'll handle it. We will get there. And we will win this thing. There's not a doubt in my mind.”

“Your assurance is charming, McNally, really, but I cannot afford to take that chance. We need some insurance. Something to make me sleep a little easier at night.” Quinton raised his eyebrows. His imagination, left to itself, began to bristle with evil machinations. McNally watched as a nervous shadow fell across the face of Quinton, who now looked to be possessed by an unnatural spirit.

“Oh, I know what you're thinking,” McNally said tremulously. “And I don't like it, Quinton. Not one bit. We've been down this road before, not too long ago. It was almost a disaster the first time, and I really—”

“I'm not talking about anything like
that,
for Christ sakes. Shit, what am I, an imbecile? There are other ways, Mr. McNally— understated ways—to accomplish what we need to do.” Quinton walked over to the frazzled manager, sat down across from him, folded his hands, and began to pontificate.

Murph's preparation was much less diabolical. He sat at home after practice, with a bottle of Irish whiskey at arm's length, charting out the strategy for the next two games—two games in three days—two games to decide who would move on to the postseason. The first of several sheets of paper strewn across the kitchen table was devoted to game one. Operating under the assumption that the Rangers would defeat the Bisons, he knew the game was a must. You couldn't get to the dance without a ticket. He toyed with multiple permutations of batting orders and pitching rotations, mindful that should they advance past the first game and meet the Rangers, he was going to need the right people light and rested. He had all but hammered out things for game one against the Giants—a configuration that would leave Mickey fresh for the final game—when a gentle tapping on the door interrupted his deliberations.

He could not believe his eyes. There she was, just as he had remembered. Her hair was pulled back from her face, revealing the light cheeks and bare shoulders bathed in a soft, creamy white. She smiled, a flowering smile with lips finely made of a deep red satin.

“Did someone call for a clarinet player?” she asked, her eyes warm and delicately sentimental.

“Molly Tussler,” he said with the readiness of a small child on Christmas morning. “Ain't you a sight for sore eyes.”

Her arrival brightened everything around him. The air was filled with the perfume scent of spring blossoms and the mellifluous tone of her angelic voice.

“How on earth did you get here?”

“My brother-in-law was coming up this way anyhow. I just tagged along.”

He reached down next to her for her bag, which was stuffed with assorted articles of clothing, toiletries, and a sopranino clarinet sticking out of the small pouch in which it was stuffed. He grabbed the handle of the bag and brought it inside.

“Is this all you brought with you?”

“Yes, that's it,” she said quickly. “Well, I mean, that's almost it. I also brought something for Mickey.” Standing in the doorway, she motioned to the truck still parked outside. A man got out, walked around the vehicle to the passenger side, and opened the door. Then, without as much as a grunt or a gratuitous oink, out popped a portly, black-and-white pig that walked languidly up the path, stopping here and there to smell the cooling air and to nibble the wilted dandelions that dotted the edges of the walkway.

“Come on, Oscar,” she called, “here boy.” Her eyes jockeyed between the indolent porker and Murph's bewildered face. “I hope it's all right. You said Mickey could use some familiar faces. I thought this one would really do the trick.”

“No, that's fine. Fine. No problem. We can set up a place for him out back.”

“Is Mickey around? I can't wait to see him.”

“Yeah, he's inside washing up. Boy, is he gonna flip when he sees you.”

Her face relaxed into a smile. “Thank you, Arthur.” The afternoon passed quickly, with the two of them talking and marveling at the joyful reunion between Mickey and Oscar. Arthur realized that he had never really seen the boy smile.

“He's so happy, Arthur,” Molly said. “Thank you. God, it's so good to see.”

“Don't thank me, Molly. It's all you. This really completes the picture. He needs to have you—uh, and Oscar—around.”

She stood still, arrested by a scene of perfect wonder. “What about you?” he asked. “How are things with
you
?”

“I'm okay,” she replied a little tearfully. “This is not easy, as you know. I'll have some decisions to make. But for now, I'm all right.”

Murph found himself falling away from the moment as the thought of both their lives entered him.

“You know, Molly,” he said, removing her clarinet and fingering the keys. “This may sound a little corny. Heck, a lot corny. But life is a lot like baseball. Fair or foul. Base to base. Win and lose. And there's always another at bat. A chance to redeem yourself. You could be washed-up one day, and a hero the next. Truly. Nobody is tied to their fate.”

“It's okay, Arthur.” She placed her hand gently on his knee. “You don't have to try so hard. It's okay. Really. I know what I have to do.”

Murph gripped the sides of his chair, his heart brimming with a blind tenderness. “You know, Molly, I've thought about you. Often.”

She smiled uncomfortably. “I know, Arthur. I know. I've thought about you too.”

A silent energy passed between them and stole their voices. In the dying light of the afternoon, they sat staring at each other noncommittally—struggling with an odd amalgam of both shame and confusion. There was so much to be said—so much emotion bubbling just beneath the surface—yet they sat quietly, neither daring to tear at the veil between them for fear of unleashing the many delights and wonders that would no doubt overpower them.

The next day at Borchert Field, a steel-colored cloud slowly spread across the sky, producing a glasslike effect that hung above the ballpark like a transparent cover. The stands were filled to capacity, with fans standing in the aisles and up against the interior walls. The place looked like a carnival, with decorative bunting and colored streamers undulating in a crisp September breeze. The Brewers gave everyone, including their own Gabby Hooper, something to cheer about early, staking the starter to a four-run cushion in the bottom half of the first inning. But the lead, and the good feelings that accompanied it, were short-lived, as a plethora of errors and well-struck hits in the top half of the next inning resulted in five runs for the Giants.

Undaunted, and playing with an urgent sense of purpose, the Brewers fought back in the third, stringing together consecutive hits by Danvers, Boxcar, Finster, and Jimmy Llamas. With two runs already in, Buck Faber launched a 2–2 curveball into the first row of bleachers in left, putting the Brewers ahead, 9–5.

“Yeah, Bucky!” Murph yelled from the dugout as the ball disappeared over the wall. “That's huge! Huge!” Murph paced nervously in front of the bench, unable to corral the excitement and uncertainty pumping through his veins. “Come on now, fellas,” he continued to rant, walking back and forth. “We got 'em. No letting up now. Come on. This is our time. Right here. Right now.”

He continued to pace, tapping each of them on the back as he passed by, before coming to rest on the bench next to Hooper. The pitcher had his right arm wrapped in a towel, and he was chewing the nails on his other hand.

“How ya feeling, Hoops? You okay?”

“Yeah, Murph. I'm good.”

“Don't be a hero here. This is no time for false bravado. Tell me the truth. We got a four-run lead again, and I want this one to stick.”

“I said I'm good.”

“All right. But any trouble, I have to yank you. Without this one, there may be no tomorrow.”

Hooper was built like his mother, lanky and slight. His legs and arms looked like pipe cleaners—four skeletal limbs emanating from a scraggy trunk that was also lean and sparse. It was always the knock on him throughout his career—that he lacked the strength and stamina to go deep into games. This year, however, he had silenced many of his critics, logging the most innings pitched on the team. It was the main reason why on this most important day, he got the nod over Sanders and Winkler. Still, when he ran into trouble and an inning was prolonged, his physical size became an issue.

The top of the fourth began innocently enough, with the Giants leadoff batter tapping a comebacker to Hooper for an easy 1–3 putout. But disaster was not far off. The next batter lined a base hit to right, followed by a push-bunt single and a four-pitch walk. Hooper looked dazed. He rolled his shoulders, as if trying to summon some additional strength from somewhere inside his body, his breath trembling through distended cheeks. Murph saw all the signs of alarm but let him go another batter, trying to buy Winkler a little more time to get loose, only to regret that decision when the next Giant batter cleared the bases with a triple off the glove of a diving Ruffings.

“You better get him outta there, Murph,” Matheson droned dryly. “A tree don't move none unless there's wind.”

Murph scowled. “Time,” he called, storming to the mound in a fit of self-loathing. God, why had he left him in? His body was wilted and sick with hurt. The thought of squandering another lead ate away at him with ravenous fury.

“You did fine, Hoops,” he said mechanically, placing his hand on the back of Hooper's neck. “Some days, it just doesn't fly.”

Murph gave the ball to Rube Winkler, whose first few pitches had the effect of gasoline on a fire. Each of the four batters he faced reached safely, and three runners crossed the plate, putting the Giants ahead again, 11–9. The crowd rumbled and roared, littering the field with apple cores, banana peels, and soda bottles. Murph heard the cries of the disgruntled and felt all the angry faces in the crowd swivel in his direction. Standing on the top step of the dugout, he felt like an idiot and vowed he would not be burned twice by indecisiveness. He stepped onto the field again and with a hiss of dismay yanked Winkler immediately.

Butch Sanders was next in the rotation for the day, leaving just Enos Willard, a young left-hander with little game experience, and Mickey, whom Murph was saving for the last contest against their nemesis. Sanders was sharp, allowing just one inherited runner to score, and shut down the Giant attack for the next two innings. His effectiveness lifted the spirits of the disheartened crowd and became a catalyst for the offense, which exploded for five runs in the home half of the sixth, lifting the Brew Crew to a 14–12 advantage over the pesky Giants.

Murph was pleased, but his optimism remained guarded. When Sanders took the hill in the seventh, Murph had the young Willard get up in the pen. The sun had split the thick cloud cover, spilling onto the field in long, slanted rays. Murph leaned against the exterior dugout wall as if he were trying to balance himself. He glanced to the skies once or twice, in half prayer, half demand, pleading for something good. Nine outs. That's all he needed. Nine stinkin' outs. After all he'd been through, he did not think it was too much to ask.

Sanders whiffed the first batter and retired the next on a foul out that was corralled by Boxcar just before it landed in the seats behind home plate. With two quick outs, and Sanders pitching with a full tank, things were looking up. The crowd, sensing that their team was closing in on what would be a monumental victory, began to stir. Everyone in attendance stood anxiously, some stomping their feet in a frenzied effort to release the coiled tension, while others placed their hands together over their mouths in silent prayer.

Sanders stood on the hill, his chest puffed out, as he stared down at the Giants' pinch hitter. Sammy Bouton was a slick-fielding utility man, a skilled defensive player who could play anywhere in the field. But each time he stepped to the plate, he elicited derisive comments from other players, including his own teammates, such as “He couldn't hit water if he fell out of a boat” and “Shit, I've seen better swings in the park.” Sanders couldn't help but smirk a little. The inning was all but in the books.