The Legend of Mickey Tussler (36 page)

Sanders painted the black of the outside corner for strike one. The inept Bouton grimaced and rolled his eyes. The crowd's animation echoed in his ears, as did the acerbic taunts from the opposing dugout. He watched the second pitch go by as well, a fastball that shaved the inner half of the plate for strike two. Bouton choked up on the bat handle and gritted his teeth, vowing that if he had to go down again, it would be swinging.

Sanders peered in at Boxcar, who was slightly out of his crouch, his mitt elevated around the letters to provide Sanders a guide for his waste pitch. The self-possessed pitcher, however, shook his head doggedly until Boxcar, visibly annoyed, reset the target lower.
Waste a pitch? On this pineapple? No way
. Sanders was determined to finish him off immediately.

With a deft, windmill-like motion, the Brewer pitcher released what was sure to be the final pitch of the inning, a fastball that was targeted for the outer portion of the plate. The ball, however, drifted unexpectedly back toward the middle. Bouton swung his bat like an ax, chopping at the ball with a blind vengeance that somehow, some way, caught most of the ball as it crossed the plate, spitting it back past Sanders and on through the middle of the diamond. The Giants bench erupted in a rash of celebratory hoots and gestures.

Sanders scowled, banging his fist in the pocket of his glove. He cursed himself. Danvers trotted in from third to mitigate the pitcher's frustration. Too much was riding on every pitch. But Sanders was in no mood for pep talks or condolence pats on the back.

“Just turn around, Woody,” he barked. “Keep your fucking rahrah babble to yourself and just play third base.”

Sanders lost all control. He began unraveling like a spool of yarn in the grasp of a playful kitten. The next batter drew a walk. That was followed by a sharp single, then a booming double that emptied the bags. The boos began to rain down on Borchert Field again.

Sanders was inconsolable. He fired his cap to the ground and stomped around on the grass behind the mound, muttering venomous commentary about the injustice of his fate. Murph saw the wild look in his eye and sprang out of the dugout without delay, gazing out at the bullpen and pointing to his left arm the whole way out to the mound.

“If we lose this thing, Sanders, we'll do it with pride,” Murph admonished. “Not whining, like some two-bit bush leaguers kicking around the sandlots. Now pick your goddamn head up and sit your ass on that bench and support this team.”

Willard bounded out of the pen like a frisky colt, buoyed by the opportunity to showcase his stuff. His cap was pulled snugly over his brow, hiding the delirium in his eyes, but his explosive smile and full, baby-smooth cheeks were visible.

“We got ourselves a good old-fashioned barn burner, young fella,” Murph said, his arm draped affectionately over the rookie's shoulder. The young pitcher edged closer to Murph, his eyes wobbly with anticipation. “We're down fifteen to fourteen. Just give me strikes here, kid. Nothing fancy now, ya hear? Just stop the bleeding. Finger in the dike. Ya got it?”

Willard licked his lips and nodded. “Sure, Murph. You got it.”

Murph trotted back to the dugout, nursing a roiling knot in the pit of his stomach. He watched nervously as Willard peered in to get his sign from Boxcar. Then, with a rush of adrenaline coursing through the young hurler's body, he retired the next Giant to step to the plate on just one pitch—a blazing fastball that burst into the hitter's kitchen and caromed weakly off the bat handle, rolling harmlessly to Arky Fries for an inning-ending groundout.

The Brewers went quickly and quietly in their half of the seventh. A pop-up, a foul-out, and a caught-looking had them back on the field just as Willard pulled his jacket over his arm and sat down to catch his breath. The Giants, however, were more resilient, continuing to chip away at the Brewer's resolve, pushing across an unearned run in the eighth and an insurance tally in the ninth, leaving the Brewers trailing 17–14.

With their season hanging in the balance, and a throng of nervous fans storming the heavens for a miracle, the Brewers began their final at bat. Murph leaned stoically against the dugout railing, his attitude almost peaceful, a kind of abject meditation. He would have to deal with the fallout of this latest failure—he knew that. It was all part of the cycle, just like all life, consisting of this continuous undulation of expectation and result.

He was not totally disconsolate, however, and did not feel the full force of paralyzing dread that usually accompanied such egregious disappointments. Maybe it was Molly. Just her presence could have been enough. He didn't know. He had seen her in the stands, watching him, and once or twice their eyes connected and she smiled at him. Maybe her softness was just what he needed to mitigate his chronic heartache—to provide some perspective. He didn't know. Whatever it was, as he stood there while his entire season slipped slowly away, it merely seemed to him that this latest chapter was just another in the same continuing saga. There was no need for alarm. Once again, it appeared, time and events had conspired against him. He was being played with, manipulated by a capricious wind blowing him everywhere but nowhere in particular.

Pee Wee would be the first to try to stem the tide. He wasn't having a particularly productive afternoon, having reached base just once in five at bats. Now, more than ever, they needed base runners.

“See a strike, McGinty, will ya?” Murph whispered to him on his way out of the dugout. “Let's make this guy work a little bit.”

“You bet, Murph. I got him.”

Pee Wee did just as he was told, working the count to 2–2, but his eagerness got the best of him, and on the next pitch he tapped a weak roller to short. The ball, slowed by the thick tufts of infield grass in need of manicuring, rolled harmlessly into the glove of the Giant shortstop, who reached in and grabbed it across the laces and fired it across the diamond. Pee Wee never looked. He ran, head down, arms pumping, eyes fixed longingly on the bag. As his strides brought him closer to the base, he heard the desperate cries of his teammates imploring him to run harder. He glanced up briefly and saw the eyes of the first baseman widen and his arm extend in the direction of the ball. The moment was at hand. Like a projectile being flung from a slingshot, Pee Wee lunged desperately for the base, his front foot clipping the corner just as the ball popped the glove.

“Safe!”

The crowd roared its approval as the Giant first baseman whirled around and assailed the umpire, pleading his case to no avail.

With his leadoff man aboard, Murph's wheels began to turn. He watched dutifully as the Giants pinched their corners, trying to eliminate any chance of an opportunistic Brewer laying down a bunt. His eyes glued to their defensive alignment, he flashed a series of signs to Arky Fries, who stood outside the batter's box, staring intently into the dugout at Murph before finally tapping his helmet in acknowledgment.

The pitcher brought his hands to his waist and came set. The sky swirled now with roiling clouds. He drew a cleansing breath and expelled a thin stream of tobacco juice from the side of his mouth. Then, after several spastic nods of his head and a couple of furtive glances in the direction of the leading McGinty, he delivered.

With the ball in midflight, Fries turned and squared, laying the bat flat in front of him. Both Giant corners jumped. The bold attempt alarmed them, made them breathless, and they rushed the batter with urgency. Fries saw them coming and held the bat still for just one more second, drawing them closer, then pulled it back unexpectedly. “Butcher boy!” the Giant bench screamed frantically, recognizing at once the stratagem. But it was too late. With a deft chopping motion, Fries fired the bat through the hitting zone and slapped the ball past the charging fielders, allowing Pee Wee to scamper all the way around to third. Hot freshets of adrenaline sprang up in Murph's blood.

“Attaboy, Frenchy!” he exploded, clapping his hands wildly. “Yeah! Yeah! That's what I'm talking about!”

The crowd was awash with elation, stamping its feet and howling with skittish resolution. The decibels rose steadily as Woody strode to the plate with a golden opportunity. Had anyone else, with the exception of maybe Boxcar, been placed in this situation, expectation would have been nil. But this was Danvers. He had been clutch all year, leading the team in late-inning RBIs. He was cool, unflappable, and definitely had a flare for the dramatic.

He stood tall, confidently, wielding his bat, but fell behind after taking a sharp curveball for strike one. He stepped out and shot the umpire an incredulous look, aware, just as the sun broke free from the clouds, of the swirling angst that had enveloped the park.

He resumed his stance in the box, his mouth hot and slightly ajar. Bursts of discordant voices exploded in his ears, and his eyes began to betray him. He gazed out at the sun-drenched diamond and blinked, struggling with distortion, and had all but cleared his hazy lenses when the pitcher dropped another hammer on him. He stepped out again, shaking his head vigorously.

Curveball. He's coming curveball again,
he told himself.

Danvers filled his lungs, dug his back foot firmly into the soft earth, and tucked his chin on his left shoulder. Then, with the rumble of the crowd echoing in his ears, he narrowed his eyes and set his sights on the pitcher's hand.

The third and final pitch of the at bat came like a lightning bolt, quick and explosive. He saw it as a blur—recognizing it too late. His hands were slow—too slow—and the ball was on him and past him before he could swing.

The crowd fell mute, deflated by Danvers's failure, as if they had all been betrayed by a fault in the universe, some heinous injustice that should have been corrected before they were forced to witness it. That same expression was tattooed on Murph's face as he stood, anxious, against the dugout rail, arms folded, his face furiously impatient.

“Okay, Box,” he called, trying to suppress the feeling of impending doom as the battle-scarred catcher got ready to take his turn. “Do your thing now.”

Boxcar's chest was scalding inside. This was it—most likely his last chance for glory. One last chance at redemption. He approached the plate, his eyes shining, like a hungry man seated before a grand repast he has yet to sample. He thought of all he had done in baseball—the times he was the goat as well as the hero. So many moments—just like this. It had been a good career. He could not complain. But no matter what had occurred in the past, he knew that this would be the one they would all remember.

The pitcher's first offering was met with exuberance; the ball had no sooner broken the plane of the plate when Boxcar threw the bat head out and whistled a long, arching fly ball that climbed the sky steadily, scraping the underside of the one gauzy cloud that was still dozing overhead. The entire crowd rose to its feet in unison, their heads craning desperately to follow the majestic trajectory. It was a beautiful flight, until it hooked to the side, inches in front of the leftfield foul pole. The Ruthian blow was nothing more than just a long strike.

“Son of a bitch!” Murph lamented loudly, slamming his foot against the watercooler. “That close.”

Boxcar was unfazed. He reloaded, his sights set on late-inning theater, and tagged the next delivery on the screws, sending it screaming into the left-center-field gap and all the way to the wall. Pee Wee scored easily, and Fries was not too far behind. It was just what they needed. The tiny ballpark rocked with merriment as Boxcar gimped into second with the biggest hit of the season.

Trailing now by just one, with the tying run on second and two shots to get him in, the crowd could sense something magical. Clem Finster validated that sensation instantly, shooting an outside fastball down the first-base line. The ball skipped off the façade of the stands and rattled around in the corner, eluding momentarily the eager hands of the right fielder. Boxcar had gotten a good jump, but still lumbered clumsily around the bases, knees laboring under the full weight of his brawny frame. He was really pushing himself. His mouth twisted open and to the side, as if it were about to become entirely unhinged, as he rounded third. With chest heaving and eyes firmly fixed on the catcher's chest as though it were a bull's-eye at some roadside carnival, Boxcar prepared for landing.

The Giant catcher, set in the direction of the throw, heard the massive tremors coming down the baseline and flinched, his eyes darting for a moment that way in an attempt to gauge the probable collision. His concentration diverted, the ball skipped off the heel of his glove while Boxcar slid safely under the would-be tag with the tying run.

A faint, late-afternoon breeze began to stir as the sun crept lower. Murph's eyes found the grandstand and the myriad faces scrutinizing the diamond drama. He looked wearily as these faces appeared to him, first one, then another, then one beyond the next, seemingly out of thin air, each one mumbling over the hammering of his heart. Then he saw Molly as he flashed his signs to Finster at third. Molly—standing angelically among the bristling throng, the drowsing sun at her back. Her arms were folded gently across a white, lacy blouse, just below her breasts. She was smiling, and in the full glare of the sun, everything else seemed to vanish.

You're gonna do it,
she mouthed.

The sky was crossed with thin rungs of red and orange and purple, and behind them flashed the fading sun, moving downward slowly as if descending a colorful ladder.

Jimmy Llamas emerged from the dugout holding his bat, a surging pressure building in his arms and legs. He too took a sign from Murph, then stepped into the batter's box to a chorus of raucous cheers.

Finster inched off the bag at third. The Giant pitcher, uneasy about the size of the lead, stepped off the rubber. Finster snickered and retreated playfully. The two of them repeated this a couple more times, lost in the impromptu contest of cat and mouse, much to the loathing of the impatient crowd. Only after the pitcher realized that he was powerless to alter Finster's position, did he turn his attention back to Llamas.