Sophomore Campaign (10 page)

“Struggling a bit? Is that what
you
saw? I saw 0–4 with three strikeouts. I saw a guy who barely had enough energy to get the ball back to Mickey after each pitch. I saw a guy—a cleanup hitter mind you—who carried himself today like some second-rate weakling who has one foot in the grave and the other on a banana peel.” Murph appeared to be watching something around Dennison's feet, and remained aloof as though he had not heard him, or as if his body had just quit functioning as soon as Dennison had finished speaking.

“What are you saying, Warren, huh?” he finally said. “Are you telling me you don't want Boxcar anymore? That you're just going to forget everything he has done—everything he has meant to this club? What is it that you want?” Dennison's face was dark and grave and oddly bemused.

“I'm not the heartless ogre you'd have people believe I am,” he answered. “We owe Boxcar some sort of allegiance. He's welcome to be a part of this team. Of course he is. It wouldn't be the same without him. All I'm saying, Murph, is that I cannot tolerate having a catcher batting in the cleanup spot who can barely swing the bat and run to first. We cannot win that way. And, if I may be perfectly clear here, I am in this thing to win.” An odd look came to Murph's face, as if Dennison had reached into the core of his soul, the vault of his innermost thoughts, fears and concerns, and suddenly exposed them to the light.

“I know what you're saying, Warren. I do. And I have been
thinking about it. Believe me. I can probably convince Boxcar to take a back seat while he works through whatever it is that's ailing him. And, if you recall, I have just the guy to give us the lift you're talking about.”

Dennison's eyes narrowed and he frowned. “No way, Murph. We have gone over this already. I have thought about your cockamamie proposal. No way. I will not replace a Milwaukee icon with some porch monkey from the lumber yard. You can play Matheson's boy. Or I'll get someone else myself. That's what we'll do.”

“You're wrong, Warren. Dead wrong. Lester Sledge is the real deal. He is exactly what we need. And he's hungry, Warren. He wants it bad.”

“He's colored, Murph. Did you forget that?”

“It's not about the color, Warren. I'm telling you. This kid is a stud. You think Brooklyn has flipped over Jackie Robinson? Wait till Milwaukee gets a look at this guy. It'll be like nothing you've ever seen.”

Dennison got up and stood in silent agitation, his hands folded into his armpits. “I told you once before, Murph. This ain't Brooklyn. You cannot replace Boxcar with some farm-fed negro. These people are not ready for it. Black and white don't mix. You don't know what you're saying here. It ain't the answer. It ain't natural. It just ain't. And when the whole house of cards collapses, who do you think will be left holding the damned bag? Huh? Me, that's who. What are you going to say to me then—when the turnstiles stop clicking, and I'm out a ton of money?”

“I don't know, Warren. It's hard to say.” He paused a moment reflectively. “But I know what I'll say to you now. Let me try this. I'll take full responsibility. For the whole damn thing. I'll do all the leg work. I promise you, you won't be sorry. I'm telling you. Between Mickey and Lester, we'll be the envy of the entire league. The fans
will have to love us. Everyone loves a winner. And if things do go bad, and you need your pound of flesh, I'll be happy to provide it.”

“Are you saying what I think you're saying, Arthur Murphy? You're serious? That you will put your job on the line? Just for a chance with this kid?”

“Just give me half the season, Warren. Half. If, at the half-way point, it has not been what you would consider to be a success, I will pack my things and be gone before anyone has any time to miss me.”

Dennison responded like a mechanical toy, one whose buttons had been pushed in all the right ways. He was curiously at ease now, as if a wheeling grace had settled in between them and had come to pass. “So you'll leave—just like that? And Mickey is still mine? Is that what you're saying?” Murph nodded and extended his hand in Dennison's direction. “Well now, you've got yourself a deal there, Mr. Murphy,” Dennison said, grabbing Murph's hand with one of his own. “The hand shake seals it.”

They talked some more, about this and that, and shook hands one more time. Dennison seemed oddly at ease. So was Murph. He smiled, then turned and walked away dutifully, his thoughts unfurling like a beautiful picture on a boundless scroll of paper.

Lester Sledge lived above Elijah Finney's lumber mill, a small, shingled structure just two towns over from Borchert Field. Lester was responsible for chopping, sawing, stacking and hauling lumber around from here to there; in exchange, Finney gave the young man a place to hang his hat. It wasn't much to speak of, but the price was right.

When Lester wasn't working the mill, he was throwing out base runners and hitting balls out of sight for the Milwaukee Bears of the Negro National League. The team had come into the league to fill one of the vacancies created in the NNL after the Cleveland Tate Stars and Pittsburgh Keystones had been dropped. But with limited financing and an inexperienced ownership, the team quickly dissolved and fell out of the running in the league. Most of the players, however, refused to let their dream of playing baseball die. With little more than just the shirts on their backs and some baseball gloves and bats, they formed a “pickup” squad that traveled around to neighboring cities playing against anyone who would have them. They had been very successful throughout the years, despite competition from minor league teams featuring all white rosters, particularly of late with the addition of players like
Lester, who continued to open eyes each time he stepped on the field.

Dawn had arrived suddenly, with a medley of firebrick clouds pressed softly against a sky of sea foam green, when Murph and Mickey arrived at the mill. Splashes of the early light fell on a tiny black and white kitten who had come out from under one of the piles of wood and scampered through an unhinged gate, finally coming to rest right in front of them, his tiny paws close together. He arched his neck and purred loudly when Mickey kneeled down to scratch the convivial creature behind his ears.

“Don't let him bother ya none now, ya hear? He's just looking for some more petting.” Lester tossed the log he was carrying onto a pile and started for them. He was a lean yet muscular young man, with a thick nose, small eyes, and a sociable smile that belied all the hardship he had endured.

“Can I help you fellas?” he asked, his surprise at their presence largely diminished now.

“Morning, Mr. Sledge,” Murph said. “My name's Arthur Murphy. From the Milwaukee Brewers? And this here is—”

The young man released a hearty laugh. “Are you kidding me?” Sledge said eyeballing the cap on Mickey's head. “I ain't living under no rock, Mr. Murphy. I know who he is.” The exchange held a trace of affection. But Murph stood there, like a suitor about to drop to one knee, the sickening qualms of doubt hammering his insides.

“We won't take up too much of your time here, Lester,” Murph explained. “I just want to talk to you about an idea I have.”

Lester leaned for a while against the broken metal gate. He was remembering the words his mama taught him when he was just a child.
God loves the black folks, Lester, but he helps the whites. Ya hear? You best be looking out for yourself now.

“How is it you know my name anyhow?” Lester asked. “We met somewhere before?”

“Murph thinks you're a swell baseball player, Mr. Lester Sledge,” Mickey said, his eyes still fixed on the tiny cat, who he now cradled in his massive arms. “Swell.”

Lester looked all at once thoughtful, his eyes lit by some realization flickering behind them. He stood with arms folded, studying their faces. “Oh, I see now. And here I thought you just come 'round this mornin' to play with Milo.”

Murph proceeded to unveil his plan, once or twice calling on Mickey, who was now wholly distracted by the whimsical antics of Milo, for assistance in selling the idea. Lester listened intently. He thought of himself and his place in the baseball world of 1949; skilled enough to be playing the nation's favorite game, but not quite white enough to be considered a serious player. Sure, he could play with the Bears. No one said boo about that. “Monkey ball” they called it. It was harmless, and kept them all out of trouble. He also saw, stacked behind him like a row of weathered books, the myriad tragedies and failures that had befallen him in his twenty-two years. He often thought that he would, in years to come, look back on his life, and see nothing more than a painful succession of opportunities that were never really opportunities at all. Doors that were all ajar, just enough to let the light of hope through but nothing else. He hadn't been at Rayfield Grammar School more than two weeks, not even long enough to know what a grammar school was, when his father was stricken with a deadly illness that claimed his life just two months later, leaving young Lester and his mama to fend for themselves.

She went to work cleaning in some of the wealthier homes around Rayfield and Lester pitched in as well, taking any odd job he could find just so they could put food on the table. It worked for
a while, until his mother fell ill too, leaving Lester, at the tender age of thirteen, to a world unwilling to open its arms to someone like him. He tramped around from place to place but never really found a home. It was baseball—the hitting of chestnuts or bottle caps or anything else he could find to whack with the whittled wooden stick he had made—that kept him alive. No matter where he went, he always found two or three kids to play with. He was the best. Wowed everyone who had ever seen him with his raw ability. He found it was easy to win over a kid, white or black, when you could do the kinds of things he could. But it always ended the same way—with Lester having to move on in search of work that could fill his stomach.

“With all due respect, Mr. Murphy, there ain't no colored folks playing in the American Association. This here's still a white man's world. You got your league, we got ours. I may not be educated, but I'm smart enough to know that's the way people are happiest round here.”

“Are
you
?” Murph asked. “I mean, happy about that?”

“Don't reckon I ever gave it much thought. And I don't know why I would now. It ain't like it's gonna change anytime soon.”

They stood for a while silently, each overcome somewhat by the other's presence, melting only when they both caught sight of Mickey, who had tied a machine bolt to the end of a piece of twine and was dragging it behind him, with Milo nipping playfully at his heels.

“Amazing,” Lester said smiling. “I bet he don't even know what he's done, on the field and all. And he has no idea on this earth what other great things that lie in front of him.”

“Yup, he sure is something. He's getting better, Lester. Every day. Last year was quite an eye opener. But we all got to watch out for Mickey,” Murph explained. “He's special. Pure, with a heart as big as that pile of lumber over there.”

“Yeah, and that boy sure can throw a baseball. Like nothin' I've ever seen.” Lester explained that he and some of his teammates had caught a game or two last year, after Mickey joined the club. They were all amazed at the boy's simplicity, and of course, his pitching prowess.

“We was at the game when he broke 'bout five bats,” Lester said chuckling. “Damn, it was sumpin'. And all my friends give me quite a ribbing too, saying the boy sawed more wood in two hours than I could in an entire day.” They both laughed. Murph was heartened that their exchange had reached such a pleasant level of conviviality.

“Well, that's why I'm here, Lester. Because I see you two sort of the same way. Nobody thought they were ready for someone like Mickey on the ball diamond. Hell, most weren't. And some still balk. But look at him now. He's the darling of this entire town. He's got it, Lester. I saw it right away. And I'm seeing it again. With you.”

Lester's smile sagged. Murph looked hard into his eyes, for the first time that morning, saw deep inside the young man. His own gaze penetrated the gregarious veneer and revealed a profound wound, a bottomless hurt that made his heart quiver.

“Look, Mr. Murphy. I appreciate what you is trying to do. I do. But this boy ain't like me. I may not be no college boy, but I read the papers. Sure, he's different from the rest. That is true. But you is forgettin' something mighty important. He's the right color. He may be off to some folks, but he's still the right color.”

Murph shook his head with great agitation. “Come on now. Look around you, kid. You got nothing to lose here. Nothing. I'm giving you a chance, a real chance, to show off that talent of yours to some pretty powerful people. And if my hunch is correct, you just may find your black hind quarters squatting behind a white man's dish, maybe one day gunning down another pretty darn good player from Brooklyn. I think they call him Jackie?”

“Oh, come on now, Mr. Murphy. Do you mean to say that—”

“What I'm saying here son, is that you got talent. Loads of it. And the time is right. It's happening. Things
are
changing. Now. Screw these backward-ass country fools who still think only white is right. Robinson is the first. The first. But he sure as hell ain't the last. You got a real shot here, son, if you're smart enough to take it.”

Their engagement rendered Lester stupid for the moment. He had never before entertained such an idea. “I want to thank ya and all, Mr. Murphy. Really. But it ain't no use. One man can't fight against no army. I know they out there. Can't see ‘em none. But they there. Heck, I don't got much, but what I got, I'd like to keep. Don't need no trouble like what that guy from Kentucky saw. I think I best leave it alone.”