Sophomore Campaign (31 page)

For all his bluster and supercilious antics, Lefty was almost as good, shutting down the Brew Crew in similar fashion. The home team had managed only two hits and a walk, but all three men died an uneventful death on the base baths, leaving Murph and Matheson scratching their heads as to how they were going to push a run across.

The top of the seventh promised to hold more of the same. Mickey jumped out quickly to an 0–2 count on Clyde Rivers, burning two fireballs right past the Ranger right fielder. With the batter now in a hole, Danvers dropped back at third, even with the bag. For a moment, Mickey glanced around and scanned the crowd, as if he were momentarily blinded by the lights and fevered activity. His eyes danced from placard to placard, and the raucous cheering filled his ears.

Mickey! Mickey! Mickey!

He smiled a little, and was feeling, in the most private chambers of his heart, that Oscar was looking down on him; it felt good, but he wished that that Daphne and Duncan could be there watching too.

With thoughts of his beloved creatures fresh in his mind, he uncorked his next pitch. Lester had called for a bender, low and outside, but Mickey's arm sagged a bit during his follow-through. The ball helicoptered a bit, hovered right in the center of Rivers' happy zone. His eyes widened. The stunned batter took advantage of the fortuitous miscue, smashing a bullet right down the third base line.

Danvers, anticipating a late swing on the part of the right handed hitter, had moved off the line, leaving a gaping hole between he and the bag. Out of position now, and with only a mere fraction of a second to react, the slick fielding keeper of the hot corner laid out, fully extended, his yawning glove turned in backhand fashion. The scorched ball skipped like a skimmed stone before lodging itself in Danvers' web. The force of the smash was so great that it carried his body back a step or two toward the outfield grass. In the infinitesimal time it took Danvers to realize what he had just done, he spun to his feet, cocked his arm and fired a pea over to Finster just before the runner stepped on the bag.

Danvers stood across the diamond admiring his handiwork, and was just about to pump his fist in celebration of the highway robbery, when the first base umpire began gesticulating wildly, throwing his arms to the side as if he were tossing out a bucket of bath water.

“Safe!” he cried, pointing his finger at Finster's back foot. “Off the bag.”

The man had barely completed his call when Murph, resembling one who had just been shot out of a cannon, tore onto the field once again. He was waving his arms frantically this time and his eyes bulged from the swell of blood that pulsed behind them.
“That's twice now! What kind of a bullshit call is that?” he thundered, firing his cap in the dirt before the umpire's feet. “You've been screwing us all night. Jesus Christ! There is no freakin' way his foot was off the bag.”

“His foot was off the base, Mr. Murphy,” the umpire said. “I was standing right here.”

“I don't give a crap where you were standing! You missed the call again!”

A breathless attention suddenly seized the man in blue. He stood now, arms folded, his eyes narrowing.

“Go back to your dugout, Mr. Murphy,” he said deliberately. “That's enough.”

“I'll say it's enough!” Murph fired back. “Friggin' idiot! You're killing us here! Killing us!”

Murph continued to harangue the umpire, spurred on by the rousing ovation from the frustrated crowd. He spit, kicked the dirt, and removed first base from its mooring and flung it into the out-field. It seemed that years of frustration and misfortune had all at once welled up inside his heart and had taken the shape of this incompetent numb skull standing before him.

“Holy crap! You are awful! Awful! I'd have better luck calling the game from the other side of the friggin' field.”

The umpire, having entertained enough of the attack, abandoned the high road and answered back. His breath was heavy now, and laden with anger and exasperation. He unfolded his arms, and pointed to the Brewers' side of the field. As he extended his hand in the proper direction, the glow from the right field lights caught something on his little finger and flashed painfully into Murph's eyes.

“I told you,” he said, shoving his hand passed Murph's face while pointing to the Brewers' side of the field, “to go back to your dugout. Do it now, or you're done for the night.”

Murph stopped his tirade suddenly and directed his gaze toward the man's hand. Fancy, black onyx ring with a diamond shaped baseball in the center. He shook his head like a boxer after absorbing a deft roundhouse. It took him a second or two to remember exactly where he had seen it before. Then it him like a brick. Victor Bryant, Rosco's friend. Why hadn't he realized it sooner?

“Oh, that's just great,” he said out loud, shaking his head in the direction of Rosco's seat. Now it all made sense. “Beautiful. Just beautiful. A ringer.”

Mickey was rattled a bit by Murph's explosive demonstration. He had never seen the man act that way before.

“Are you okay, Murph?” he called out as Murph made his way off the field, still muttering under his breath. “Mickey will help you.”

Murph stopped for a moment, just long enough so that Mickey could see that order had been restored.

“I'm fine, Mick,” Murph answered. “Everything's fine. Just pitch the ball, Mick. It's all good.”

Once he was off the field of play, Murph sat down, leaned up against the dugout wall and sighed. This was the final insult. It was bad enough that Dennison was putting the screws to him, and that McNally was threatening to vanquish him from the game he loved so much forever. But now, to learn that Rosco had played him as well, had arranged for a little insurance policy so that both he and McNally would get what they wanted? That was unbearable.

“Looks like we got ourselves a ringer at first, Farley,” Murph said, as he and Matheson watched while Mickey got set to deliver his first pitch from the stretch.

“Well, if that don't beat all,” Matheson griped. “How do you like that? What's an old guy like that doing playing the part of McNally's bitch?”

“Oh, he's not only taking it from McNally, Farley. Rosco's got his hand in the mix too.”

“That dirty, rotten—”

“I tell you what though,” Murph went on. “If I go down, I am bringing both of them with me. You can bet on that.”

The two of them bantered a while longer in hushed whispers, with Matheson doing most of the gabbing. Murph had moved past it for the moment, concerned more now about Mickey and the runner at first. He had delivered one pitch, a ball outside. Murph toyed with the idea of a pitch out, but did not want to put Mickey in a hole. It was a moot point soon enough when Mickey missed again on his next pitch, up and way.

It was the first trouble the kid had seen all day. Murph scratched his head, and whispered something in Matheson's ear. It was time to earn his money. With the way Mickey was throwing, and given the late stages of the game, Murph was certain that McNally would try to play small ball on him; however, he was not quite sure exactly how to combat it. Danvers and Finster pinched at the corners, and he called to Lester to remind the middle infielders that the rotation play was in effect. But Mickey was slow to the plate, and even slower off the mound when fielding his position. It worried him, although he guessed that McNally would let his batter see at least one more pitch before he put on a bunt and put the runner in motion. Hell, that's what he would do. Murph's hunch was incorrect. As soon as Mickey lifted his hands and brought his knee to his chest, Rivers took off. The ball was an easy one for Lester to handle—pipe fastball letter high—but the jump that Rivers got was just too much to overcome. He was already on the bag at second when Lester's throw arrived.

With a 2–1 count, and the go ahead run on second base, Murph readied his field for a bunt. Again, he pinched his corners, and
Lester signaled to McGinty and Fries about the coverage. The plan was simple—field the bunt and cut the runner off at third.

“Hop off that mound on a bunt, Mick,” Murph screamed. “As soon as he squares.” Mickey smiled. He loved the word
hop
. It made him think of Duncan and Daphney again. They loved to hop, especially in the morning, when Mickey would let them out of their cages to scamper around in the cool morning grass.

“Okay, Murph,” Mickey said. “Hop.”

Mickey came set, with his hands resting awkwardly at his waist, and checked Rivers at second. It bothered him that the Rangers' runner was dancing back and forth, and once or twice Mickey almost stepped off, but Murph's instruction was foremost in his mind.
Hop off the mound and field the bunt.

So with his eyes still fixed on the runner, Mickey lifted his leg, brought his hands up, turned to face the batter who had squared around prematurely, and fired. It was a dart, destined for the center of the plate, where the batter's bat hung extended and limp, flat, ready to deaden the ball somewhere on the infield grass. With Murph's admonition ringing in his ears, Mickey flew off the mound like he was pushed from a ledge. The boy had done exactly what he was told to do. Executed the plan to perfection. But he moved so effortlessly, so adroitly, that by the time he realized the batter had pushed the ball between the mound and second base, instead of in the traditional place in front of the plate, it was already past him.

With the well-placed bunt, the Rangers were in great shape. The first pitch to the next batter resulted in a steal of second base, placing runners on second and third with nobody out. Murph just shook his head and sighed.

“Pull the infield in, Farley,” he said. “Try and cut down the runner at home.”

Dutifully, each of the Brewer infielders crept forward so that they were now standing on the infield grass. They all pounded their gloves, and assured Mickey that they had his back, but it was of no real consequence, because the next pitch was lofted high in the air to centerfield. Jimmy Llamas darted back to the warning track and tucked the ball away neatly, but had no chance of throwing out the runner tagging from third. Rivers practically walked home. A silenced throng of Brewer faithful watched in horror and disbelief as the Rangers grabbed a 1–0 lead.

Mickey, spurred on by the sudden misfortune, regained his prior dominant form and fanned the next two hitters. Murph tried to use Mickey's prowess as motivation for some sort of an offensive stand, but Lefty appeared to have their number, retiring the Brewers in order in the seventh and the eighth. Mickey did his part the rest of the way, sitting down the next six Rangers to face him. He left the field to a rousing ovation, one that carried into the home half of the ninth as the Brewers sent up the top of the order in a final attempt to stave off elimination.

McGinty lead things off with a terrific at bat, working the count full after falling behind 0–2. He proceeded to foul off the next three pitches before finally grounding out weakly to second base. Everyone in the ballpark sagged.

Arky Fries was next. He did not fair much better, lofting a hump back liner that teased initially, only to fall harmlessly in the outstretched glove of the shortstop. Under a sky that appeared to darken now, an entire city seemed to sink into the deepening night, an early October pall that signaled ominously the long, approaching winter weeks ahead. The bewildered masses looked on breathlessly, wanting desperately to believe that there was still time, as Lester Sledge came to plate for what was more than likely the final at bat of the Brewers' season.

Lester had done nothing all night, save for a long fly ball in the fifth inning that drove the Ranger centerfielder up against the fence before dying a quiet death. Despite his lack of productivity on this night, it had been quite a memorable season for the young African American catcher. He led the American Association in homeruns and doubles, and posted the highest slugging percentage in the team's history. His defensive prowess was also well documented, punctuated by the meager success rate of all of the would-be base stealers who fell victim to his lethal arm.

Lester had also become one of the fan favorites both in and around Borchert Field, something that those close to him found utterly remarkable, given the tumultuous start to his Brewer career. But that was months ago, before he and Mickey had become the “dynamic duo,” the “terrific tandem,” and the heart and soul of a Brewer team that, as the season wore on, promised better things than were about to transpire.

A steady but guarded buzz began to surface as Lester dug in to take his cuts. Lefty postured on the mound, puffing out his chest and tossing the ball up with one hand, all while delicious thoughts of a complete game shutout against his former team, one that would nail down the pennant and send droves of Milwaukeans to the exits, sick and teary-eyed, swirled magically in his head.

Lester was still, focused and humble, the very antithesis of his dance partner. His eyes were calm and his jaw set. He had traveled a long way to this fantastic lawn, had weathered controversy and hardship and unfathomable ugliness. Standing there, scanning the many faces lit softly by the stadium glow, he felt complete. Satisfied. Lester Sledge was at peace. Each muscle was patient and primed, ready to combat whatever it was that Lefty had in store.

Lefty began his sequence to the potent Brewer catcher with a riding fastball, up and in. Lester, who had been looking for
something middle-in, pulled his hands in and fired the bat head through the hitting zone, pulling the ball thirty feet foul into the leftfield stands. The crowd, sensing their hero's readiness and resolve, stirred a little louder, hoping against hope that the wondrous season that had treated them to so many phenomenal feats had just one more miracle left to reveal. The slow bender that Lefty offered next surprised no one in the park, including Lester. He was on that one too, lacing it viciously down the line, where it landed in virtually the same spot as the previous pitch. Lefty had not fooled Lester a bit, but he was now in command, needing just one more strike to finish off the Brewers once and for all.