Atop an Underwood (9 page)

I remember the days of my youth which were spent in a rickety rendez-vous, days when school bore the promise of boredom pain and effort, days which cried for romantic idling in secluded shacks along the river dump. We used to play hookey from school in those days. Days lashed by the white fury of New England snowstorms; and a squalid, scattered conglomeration of shacks alongside the frozen fructifications of the river dump. On those wild days in New England, when the white sky seemed scattered with down-coming black snow crystals, we used to wend our way down through the frozen mass of houses which comprised Little Canada. We would approach the Club, which was nothing but a hastily constructed clap-board structure. In the desolacy of the storm, the broken sign which announced the name of the Club in French seemed to be indicative of crude, raw escapism; an escapism not of comfort or warmth, but an escapism which howled and yearned inside the muggy, snow-melt streaked boards. The old stove, leaning to the left, would glow with fierce heat, but the corners of our rendez-vous were as cold and bleak as the Tibetan peaks. And there was filth: Filth on the floor, in the form of cold, forgotten beans, probably fallen out of someone's plate the night before; old cigar butts, their once clammy bits now grown hard and darkly brittle in the New England cold; tobacco ashes; caps from liquor bottles; and in the tiny, nauseating toilet there was on the floor around the bowl a gangue of frozen, crispy puke and urine-seep—and in the corner, a small brain-like pile of convoluted dark-brown man-waste—if one were to poke this unholy mess of defigated matter, he would find that the crusty, dark-brown integument covered a deep-orange core of wet stuff which smelled of old cheese and acid, rank fermentation. There was an old pool table, its green broken here and there by cue-tips. We would enter this bleak shack, put our coats on the hooks and feel ourselves shiver within our sweaters. We would run to the cue-rack for the straightest cue, and that once procured, we would rub their leather tips vigorously and happily with blue chalk.

“My break!” we would yelp happily, inside our frozen, damp shack.

“Let's toss!” Skunk would cry happily, pulling out a penny.

Skunk! How well I remember him.

He would toss the penny up and let it fall on the hard green table.

“Heads I break. Heads it is. My break.”

There was an old man in that shack who used to open it up in the early New England dawn. While we were shooting pool, he would sit by the old stove and mumble to himself. An old French-Canadian with the most ridiculously bowed legs imaginable—short, convex stumps of bone and flesh, upon which he swayed about unsteadily but with firm resolution. We called him, affectionately, “Le Pere.” The father.

Lefty Hargraves was in a fine fettle that shimmering September afternoon. From the moment he stepped up to the mound, the fans in the stands could feel the spell of an old master. All over the country, rabid baseball fans clung to their radio sets, admiring the wonderful pitching performance. The first three men to face Hargraves in the first inning went down, two of them popping up to Joe Young at third, and the other striking out. Like a smooth machine, with every cog perfectly oiled and coordinated for action, Old Lefty Hargraves put away the three men and calmly strode off the mound. A long, pleasant roar of approval from the fans accompanied him to the shade of the dugout.

“Working smooth, Lefty,” said Manager Joe MacNeill. “Keep him in there Kishy.” To Freddy Burns he said nothing. The young rookie, his nerves raw with fear and awe, sat on the bench and quietly enjoyed the whole thing. His first appearance on a big league diamond had been uneventful, but in the least, perfect. He looked forward with apprehension to his first trip to the plate—he was to be up seventh.

“Well, well, rookie,” said Nick Vickers, leaning back indolently in his seat and grinning at Freddy. “How does it feel to be a heap big Big Leaguer?”

“Swell,” answered Freddy, smiling freshly. “Just swell.”

“My my,” said the burly red-head, acidly.

Freddy Burns turned to look at the big second baseman, and let it drop with a shrug of his raw-boned shoulders. He began to think about the ball game again. He watched the Blue Sox lead-off man, Joe Young, roll out to the pitcher. Pat Gordon, on the mound for the Falcons, wasn't starting off any too badly.

The Blue Sox left fielder, Hank Brunis, came to the plate and laced out a sweet single. Clean and neat; dropping into left field, the white pellet bobbing around the outfield. The crowd liked it, and wanted more. Bib Williams, long and dangerous, came up. He popped up a high foul, which catcher Freddy Fletcher gathered in near the Commissioner's box seat. The clean-up man had been Nick Vickers all during the season. Now the Blue Sox depended on center fielder Paul Tibbs. He was a good man, looking shabby in his uniform, standing at the plate left-handed, waving a long bat.

Tibbs was fast, and one of the best men in the league. The first pitch from Pat Gordon came near to his head and he dropped in the dust. On the next one, he leaned with abandon, and there was that undeniable clouting sound. The white pellet arched to deep right, and simultaneous with the Falcon right fielder's thrown-up arms in despair, the ball disappeared in the maze of bleacherites, appearing once as it took a hop off the stands. A true home run.

When Tibbs crossed the plate, one brown hand on his visor, the other clasped in the bat boy's, Freddy Burns felt his old hero-worship come back to him. All his youth, he had worshipped these Big League stars—especially when they trotted around the bases with the roar of the crowd in their ears and a home run under their belts. And now, as in a dream, Freddy Burns could feel the hot breath of Tibbs himself as he sat panting beside him, accepting the congratulations of his teammates with a quiet complacency.

Tony Zaven, the shortstop, struck out quietly and went to his post at the short field. The teams changed positions. Freddy was beginning to feel better, and he went out to second base feeling more like his old self. One thing disturbed him: on his way out, Nick Vickers had said something incoherently, and the others had laughed. Freddy could feel his ears burn. He could not understand it. He tried to push it back to the bottom of his mind. Manager MacNeill had given him an encouraging smile.

And there he was, Old Lefty Hargraves, working like a million, and with a two-run lead to carve on.

Like a bolt out of the blue, Freddy watched Lefty's first pitch come bouncing back to him, hissing sibilantly as it cut towards him in wild capers. A real “grass-cutter.” Freddy put out both hands and took a few steps. The ball took a mean hop and caromed off his shoulder, and into short right field back of him. Error! said the official scorer. Man on first.

“It's okay, Freddy. Forget it. Bad hop!” Shortstop Zaven was talking to him amidst the roar of the fans—that roar which sounded like the sea itself—booming with maddening persistency.

“Come on, you. Wake up!” This came from the Blue Sox bench, and Freddy could recognize the rasping tone of Nick Vickers' voice despite his fear.

Now he was afraid—actually afraid.
His
error . . . . his and his only . . . . and there was a Falcon on base.

[....]

The ball game went on. Old Lefty Hargraves quietly went about his way, and emerged from the inning, still unscored on. Three pop-ups. The old knuckler was working today. And now that the second inning was half over, Freddy felt a new fear as he strode to the dugout—he was to be up in this inning. He .... Freddy Burns . . . . standing at the plate in a Big League ballpark, waving his bat . . . and a big time pitcher like Pat Gordon up on the mound, looking at him disdainfully.

Right fielder Johnny McRae was up first, and he made things worse for Freddy by drawing a walk. As Freddy picked out a 34 bat, Nick Vickers said something from the dugout. There were a few snickers, and a growl of remonstrance from Manager MacNeill.

“Leave the kid alone, Vickers,” said Joe MacNeill.

Freddy Burns walked the Long Mile to the plate. Thousands of eyes were on him . . . on the way he held the bat . . . on the way he wore his cap . . . and Freddy Burns could feel all these things. He stepped into the holes in front of the white plate, and looked askance at Pat Gordon, cool and calm on the mound. Gordon nodded at his catcher, and Freddy could feel the Falcon catcher, conspiring behind him.

The first pitch came down, nice and big and low. Freddy swung, and to his dismay, found out too late that it would curve away from his bat. He finished his swing awkwardly, missing by a half-foot.

Whistles accompanied his miss, as if it were something sensational. A sensational miss, thought the fans.

Freddy, now in a lethargy of fear, let the next two pitches go by and was informed by the umpire that he was called out on strikes. Heavily, he walked back to the shady dugout and sat down, all eyes on him.

“What a flop!” he thought. “What am I doing here!”

Nick Vickers leaned over and poked a sardonic face before Freddy's: “Wassamatter, bush leaguer. Don't you feel at home.”

Freddy felt the repugnance of the red face, topped by a fiery mop of red hair. He could feel his fists harden, but he kept his temper. This was Big League ball, not a street brawl. Vickers was probably just sore at his being barred from playing for a week, and the fine to boot. Freddy repressed a surly answer, and smiled. Hank Daniels, on the other end of the bench, smiled also. The next two Blue Sox went down in order, and the second inning was over.

As a matter of fact, the game was over as far as the records were concerned. For seven innings, Old Lefty Hargraves toiled in the broiling sun, keeping his white-wash intact. The game ended in favor of the Blue Sox, 2—0. Thanks to Paul Tibbs' home run, and Old Lefty's inspiring pitching performance. After the ninth inning, he was escorted off the field by some wild-eyed fans to the showers. Old Lefty Hargraves, a ten-year man in the Big Top, had come through just once more!

And Freddy Burns had managed to beat out a roller in the seventh inning, which made him feel better as he took a shower. Beating out a roller was a hit in any man's league, he thought. Even though he had muffed two grounders in a row in the fifth inning. Luckily, his miscues had no effect on the score, although coming close to it. And he had struck out the first and second times up, walking the third. And through it all, Freddy could hear Nick Vickers' biting sarcasm, lashing out at him after each miscue or bad play.

[....]

The bomb exploded in the eighth inning [of the second game of the doubleheader]. The Blue Sox came to the dugout for their turn at bat. The shade thrown by the center field stands, where Big Bill Lacey had deposited his home run in the early innings, began to lengthen and deepen. The big crucial game had quieted down, and the Falcons were calmly efficient in their effort to hold the lead. Andy Robb was working like Hargraves had done in the first game. It might probably result in two white-washes, both ways, thought some of the fans.