The Legend of Mickey Tussler (7 page)

“Man, I don't know what your secret is, Billy,” the Ranger catcher always joked, looking down just beyond his waist. “But whatever it is, I got to get me some of that for my little slugger.”

The Brewers, however, did not have that luxury. Butch Sanders was spent. He had been laboring since the middle of the fifth inning. And to make matters worse, the bullpen was short on arms. Packey Reynolds was sidelined with turf toe, and Hobie Miller was back home in Connecticut attending the funeral for his grandfather. That left Murph with just two possibilities—Lefty, who had never made a relief appearance and was scheduled to start tomorrow's contest, and Mickey, who was sitting on the top step of the dugout, poking his finger in and out of a series of anthills that had formed around the lip of the concrete platform. Murph sighed. He took off his cap, bowed his head, and ran his palm roughly across his scalp.

Some unforeseen hope came, however, in the bottom of the eighth frame. Pee Wee lead off the inning with a four-pitch walk. Jimmy Llama's Baltimore chop eluded the bare hand of the Rangers' third baseman, who had miscalculated the ball's topspin, and another walk to Woody Danvers loaded the bases. Down 15–13, Murph realized that a well struck ball would not only tie the game but would in all likelihood give them the lead.

But the tiny sparkle of optimism that danced wildly in Murph's eyes began to wane, suffocated by the all-too-familiar doldrums of unfulfilled expectation. Buck Faber took three pipe strikes, and Clem Finster ran the count to 3–2, fouled off the next five offerings, but ultimately went down, swinging wildly at a pitch in the dirt. “Oh, Jesus Christ!” Murph said, firing his cap hard against the dugout wall. “Swinging at a goddamned fifty-five-footer? What the hell do I have to do to catch a goddamned break?”

Boxcar was next. Ordinarily, this would have been heaven-sent. Your best player at the dish with the game on the line. But the Brewers' leader was mired in a 1-for-26 slump, including three situations just like this one. Murph folded his arms and sighed. “Perfect,” he muttered bitterly. “Just perfect.”

The Brewer catcher strode to the plate, serenaded by a frenzy of yelling and clapping and stamping of feet that washed across the ballpark like a tidal wave. Slump or not, he was their guy.

“Boxcar! Boxcar!” the raucous crowd roared.

He tapped each cleat with the shaved knob of his bat three times, in customary fashion. A subtle tip of his helmet and two practice swings that cut the air like an airplane propeller signaled he was ready.

He dug his back foot in the soft earth. For a moment, his eyes found a black-and-white placard in the centerfield bleachers:
BOXCAR IS GOD
.

It was nice to see. They had not forgotten. He smiled, but only for a fleeting moment, the glimmer of glory in his mind's eye dimming quietly beneath the haze of the impending confrontation.

“You're only as good as your last at bat,” he reminded himself.

The first delivery was a fastball, high and inside. Most definitely a purpose pitch. Everyone knew that Boxcar loved to extend his arms. His biceps were thirty inches of chiseled marble, two Herculean specimens bristling with raw power, rage, and fury. The only way to neutralize that power was to tie him up. The scouting report was clear and simple: hard stuff inside, junk away. He knew the routine. Shit, he was a catcher himself. It was all part of the dance—a classic game of cat and mouse.

The next offering was significantly slower and fluttered across the outside corner of home plate for a called strike. He grumbled a bit. Inside—outside. Inside—outside. He stepped out of the box and adjusted his helmet. His breath was hot.

“Come on, Boxcar,” Murph yelled from the dugout, no longer able to sit still. “A little bingo. Come on now!”

The sound of his manager's voice quieted some of his frustration. He glared out at the pitcher, stepped back in, but backed out once more when an explosion of pigeons passed in front of the sun. They circled high overhead with a flutter and frenzy, casting a cold shadow that extended halfway across the diamond. Boxcar remained on the periphery of the chalk-lined rectangle alongside home plate, banging his cleats again. The pitcher shivered a little and pounded his glove while continuing to toe the rubber with an awkward restlessness. He released a venomous spray of tobacco juice in the batter's direction and cocked his head invitingly. Boxcar laughed. “Relax, Sporty,” Boxcar said, staring playfully out at the tiny hill that lay some sixty feet in front of him. “I'll be your huckleberry.”

He dug in once more. The congregation of birds dispersed fearfully and the darkness lifted, the sun revealed once more, fresh in a clear blue sky. Boxcar was certain he knew what was coming next. The Rangers catcher was set up prematurely on the inside half of the plate. It was a transparent ruse, a feeble attempt at making Boxcar believe they were going to bust him in again.

The pitcher took his sign. He placed his hands together and let them fall, slowly, methodically, until they came to rest momentarily at his waist. Then he lifted his leg and cocked his arm back behind his ear. Boxcar could hear the catcher shifting behind him to the outer half of the plate as the ball rolled effortlessly out of the pitcher's hand. The sun caught the tiny sphere as it traveled to the catcher, laces spinning like a carnival pinwheel. It reminded Boxcar of the tiny white butterflies he used to observe from time to time as a kid, skittish but graceful. The ball orbited on the gentle breeze momentarily, suspended precariously like a wayward dandelion seed, before beginning its descent for its final destination. Boxcar's eyes widened. The padded cowhide glove yawned patiently behind him, waiting to receive the tiny traveler. But Boxcar's bat interrupted the artful choreography and caught the ball square as it floated across the plate, sending it screeching toward the gap in left center field.

Murph was bent over the watercooler when he heard the thunderous explosion off Boxcar's bat. He turned quickly, eyes wide but incredulous, and saw the ball rolling inexorably toward the wall and his beleaguered Brewers circling the bases. Pee Wee scored first, followed closely by Jimmy Llamas. Murph was on the top step of the dugout, alongside Mickey. His moribund spirit took flight.

“Come on, Woody!” he screamed, arms flailing like a windmill, as Danvers rounded third base. “Get the goddamned piano off your back!”

Danvers hit the inside corner of the bag in full stride. His face was strained—two hungry eyes and a clenched jaw fully visible with the loss of his cap. His chest heaved and his spikes whirled like two rotors, unearthing large clumps of clay in his wake. He was halfway down the third-base line when the shortstop, standing impatiently on the lip of the outfield grass, received the cutoff throw. The ball was in his glove for a mere second before he whirled and fired a bullet toward home plate.

The crowd had worked itself into a dizzying fit of glorious expectation. Everyone was standing, willing Danvers to safety. The ball and the runner arrived at precisely the same time. The crowd gasped, then fell silent after a thunderous sound pierced the air. Both the catcher and Danvers crumpled helplessly to the ground, dazed and shaken by the violent collision. Danvers lay limp, balled up in a twisted heap stretched across home plate. His eyes glazed over and tiny beads of sweat and blood sat nervously on his dirtstained cheeks, quivering curiously beneath the penetrating stare of the yellow sun. The catcher rested some five to six feet beyond the circular dirt cutout where he usually sat, flat on his back, pinned beneath the weight of his gear and the disappointment of having let the ball roll from his fingers following the vicious collision.

“Safe!” was the call, an exclamation that shattered the silence. The crowd exhaled, a collective wind that seemed to ruffle every flag in the ballpark. Everyone remained standing and roared with approval.

The Brewers took that one-run lead into the ninth inning. Murph had hoped to plate one or two more insurance runs, but it was not to be. Arky Fries went down looking, ending the Brewer rally prematurely. So Murph crossed himself, sighed wearily, and handed the ball back to Butch Sanders.

“Come on, Sandy,” he implored, patting the pitcher on the shoulder. “I need this one. Bad. Let's sit 'em down, okay? One, two, three.”

Sanders looked like a little boy who had just limped away from a street fight. His eyes, two fading stars, sank languidly into a face both red and awash with despair. He stumbled onto the field, shoulders rounded and dusty, and took his place on the hill. Tiny black flies flickered all about his cap, briny and askew, and a steady buzz from the crowd hopped on the frenetic air until finally settling directly above him. He exhaled. He knew he had nothing left.

He peered into Boxcar for the sign. His first delivery was feckless, a flat fastball that just glided across the middle of the plate. It was fired right back at him, narrowly missing his head, and scooted into center field.

“Mickey,” Murph called, continuing to watch the desperate affectations of his wounded pitcher. “Run down to the pen with Matheson and Barker and loosen up.”

The next batter caught a similar pitch right on the sweet spot of his bat, sending a frozen rope to third. The ball appeared destined for the left-field corner. But Woody Danvers, still riding the high of the previous half inning, lay out, full extension, and snared the smash in his web just at it passed by.

“Oh, holy shit!” Murph bawled. “Matheson? Matheson? Would you move your ass down there?” he yelled desperately. Sanders was out of gas. Murph knew it. The Rangers knew it. They were all licking their chops and swinging from their heels. Even the crowd knew it, and a smattering of boos and jeers began cascading onto the field. Murph stretched his glance to the bullpen. Matheson knew what he wanted and shook his head and held up five fingers. Murph cursed and crossed himself again.

The next batter sent two long foul balls soaring into the bleachers before lining a sharp single to left. That was followed by a scorcher to right. The runners each advanced one base, loading the bags for the Rangers' third- and fourth-place hitters.

Murph's heart sank. “Time!” he called. He hung his head and made the long walk to the mound. “Like some goddamned Abbott and Costello routine,” he muttered under his breath.

He hated these trips to the mound more than anything. His spirit always labored, buckling beneath the weight of ruthless castigation that would come from the fans, the local press, and at times his own team.

“Left 'im in too long” or “Never should have started him to begin with” were only two of the comments he imagined being bandied about. And as if the concern over their words weren't enough, he lamented over what
he
was going to say—that desperate search for the pithy sentiment that would preserve the dignity of his pitcher and at the same time extricate himself from any further scrutiny or criticism over why he had stayed with him so long.

On the way out, he measured his gait, mindful of the myriad superstitions attached to stepping on the sacred lines of chalk. So, he would walk gingerly, methodically, like one who was negotiating the dimpled, slippery side of a fallen tree trunk stretched across a raging river. His focus was clear—just get to the other side. And although he tried to prevent it, his eyes always strayed from the intended destination, wound up flirting with the many faces in the crowd, rendering him lost amidst the kaleidoscope of images and the shrill, admonitory voices filtering through the fitful abstractions. It was then, at that moment, when he always felt the sweat beading on his back. Each step he took stoked the fires of vexation even further and seemed to amplify the discord raining down on him.

“You lousy bum! Go back where you came from! You stink so bad you could knock a crow off a shit wagon!”

These sounds and sights swirled turbulently and always seemed to him not simply the atmospheric conditions of a ballpark in flux but the rushing of the flames of hell. It never got any easier. He often mused that one day, when he arrived at the hill after conquering the proliferation of pitfalls that always accompanied a pitching change, the earth would laugh sardonically and just open up and swallow him whole.

“You gave it your best, kid,” he said to Sanders, patting his back. “It's okay. Hit the showers.” Sanders hung his head and departed without a word. Then Murph made a deft motion with his right arm, signaling to the bullpen.

Mickey bounded out from the pen to a faint, inquisitive buzz that insinuated itself into the ear of every person in the park. Murphy was at it again. Another reclamation project. He was the champion of the lost cause. A long list of misfits and has-beens trailed in Arthur's wake. He'd been quiet of late, stopped courting this quixotic pie-in-the-sky philosophy after his last effort ended so bitterly. Scooter Moran, the Athletics' young, talented third baseman who'd ascended the amateur ranks like a phoenix, was left for dead after he was beaned in the left eye by Grover Daniels.

“Never be the same,” they all said. “Nobody ever is.”

Murph thought differently. “I know the A's let Moran go. I know. But I'm telling you, Mr. Dennison, I can feel this one. Really. He's gonna be fine. Let's sign him.” Scooter was grateful to Murph, but all the gratitude in the world could not resurrect his moribund career. He batted a meager .138 in his first twenty-one games with the Brewers. The nineteen-year-old phenom from Mississippi had felt the heat from both the fans and the press.

So did Murph. He had left the struggling third baseman in during some pivotal moments, and in each instance Scooter's failure translated into failure for all the rest of them. Dennison was just about to drop the hammer on both of them when Scooter disappeared. Just up and left. Cleared out his locker one night. Walked in with tears in his eyes and a bag draped over his shoulder. It took him less than ten minutes to pack his dreams into a tan gunnysack. Then he caught a train back home.