Sophomore Campaign (33 page)

“Now or never, guys,” Murph said, glancing up at the scoreboard. “There ain't no tomorrow.”

The Brewers had the bottom third of the lineup due up against Lefty, who had convinced McNally only minutes before that he was still good to go. The despicable Rogers smelled the blood in the water, and wasted no time going in for the kill. He fanned Finster to begin the inning, retired Faber on a routine one hopper to third, and had gotten ahead of Jimmy Llamas 1–2 before finally stepping off the rubber to compose himself one last time. He had been cast as a pariah in Brewer folklore, ridiculed and blamed for the team's misfortune the previous year. Sure he had his hand in it, but it wasn't all his fault. And nobody wanted to hear his side of things. They just rode him out on a rail. It hurt, worse than anyone ever could know. But this felt good. Yeah, this felt right. Being the instrument of the Brewers' demise was more than right. It was sweet justice.

Carried away now by the emotional cocktail of pride and vengeance, Lefty Rogers climbed back on top of the hill, stared in at Llamas, who had shortened up and was crouched over the plate, and fired his shot. It was a fastball, not unlike the dozens of others he had thrown that day, except for the significance which floated behind it. Llamas saw the pitch the whole way, could even see the spin of the laces, and loaded his hands at just the right time. His stride was perfect too, right in time with the ball's approach. It was all as it should be, except when the rotation of the laces caused the ball to cut sharply outside. What had appeared to be a strike was now heading well off the plate. Llamas, in midswing, halted his attack, straining to hold back the bat barrel before it passed through the zone. The crowd gasped, but the home plate umpire awarded Llamas' efforts with the call “ball two, no swing,” but Rogers, who was already wedded to a game-ending punch out to capture the
crown, immediately pointed down the first base line, imploring his catcher to ask for an appeal. The gesture produced an instant numbing of Murph's spirit. His whole body buckled under the fatigue of his utterly vain efforts, so much so that he could not bear to watch any longer.

“When I go down, Farley,” he whispered in the old man's ear, “I'm taking them with me.”

Then he pulled his cap down over his brow, hung his head, and slipped out of the dugout and into the clubhouse, just as Victor Bryant rung up Llamas, pounding the final nail into the Brewer coffin.

Borchert Field was benumbed. There was an odd, piercing effect of quietness amidst the cavalcade of noises coming from the visitors' side of the diamond. There would be no celebration, no champagne shower or pennant waving. They had fallen short yet again. Chip McNally's Rangers had repeated last year's torture of their most storied rival, only somehow, in the flatness that followed what was becoming a dubious tradition, it seemed a little worse this time.

The rain the next morning had chilled the air so that when Murph got into his car to meet with Dennison as agreed, his hands were already cold and deadened. The icy drizzle peppered the landscape and rolled steadily down the farmhouse windows along Diamond Drive, distorting the golden glow of the lamps inside, creating what looked to Murph to be a row of mournful candles, set there no doubt to acknowledge the occasion of his professional passing.

When Murph arrived at Dennsion's office, the petulant owner was seated at his desk, his face mostly hidden behind a towering stack of papers. When he heard the door open, he did nothing to acknowledge Murph's entrance, just kept working behind his pile, every so often releasing ringlets of cigar smoke into the air, tiny white ribbons that hovered briefly and stretched high above the mess before fading quietly into the dimly lit atmosphere.

“Uh, Warren,” Murph said with notable irritation. “We had a meeting?”

The silence in which Dennison received Murph's greeting spoke volumes about the man. He continued to scribble away, not
uttering a sound or lifting his head until he had completed the task on which he was working.

“I'm well aware of our meeting, Arthur,” he finally said. “You lost again. That was the deal, remember? But holy Christ, I am getting a little tired of it all. Maybe if you had won once in a while we could have cut out some of these meetings.”

Murph was tired of holding his tongue.

“Are you kidding me? That's a bunch of bullshit. You know what happened last year. Was that my fault? And there's something you should know about this year. I only learned during the game that I had been—”

“The only thing I know, or care to know, is that you lost—to the Rangers. Again. Save the song and dance Arthur. Results. Results are what matter.”

Something inside of Murph burst. It was warm and painful. He thought for a second it was his heart. He had had episodes before. But this felt different. Worse. It was worse.

His soul was bleeding.

“So that's it?” Murph said. “Just like that? Nothing we accomplished the last two years means anything to you? You honestly think somebody else could have done a better job with these guys?”

“Somebody else will be managing the Brewers next year. That's it.”

“Just like that? You have no problem with your decision? None at all?”

“What was our agreement, Arthur?” Dennison asked, tapping the end of his cigar into a glass ash tray.

“I know what the agreement was, but—”

“And did you lose?”

“Yes, yes we lost today but I'm trying to tell you that—”

“Then there's nothing more to talk about. I told you that if you
did not win, someone else would be my manager. I expect you to have your office cleaned out by tomorrow night.”

The callous, perfunctory manner in which Dennison's comments were delivered only added to Murph's angst and frustration. In his misery, everything seemed to come to an abrupt halt, still and silent, save for the laborious sound coming from the clock on the wall. The incessant ticking was filled with all sorts of malignant implications, like lost opportunity, squandered chances and now, as he stood there pondering the evanescence of baseball life, the hour of his demise.

He was tired of all of them. Dennison. McNally. Sheriff Rosco. All of them. His mind was whirling with myriad thoughts, but he knew exactly what he was going to do as he turned for the door. They would rue the day they crossed him.

“Oh yeah,” Dennison announced just as Murph was about to exit the room. “Before you leave, I should tell you that you are expected in Boston first thing Monday morning.” The owner's expression softened for just a second.

“Meeting with the Braves' brass. You, Mickey, and Lester. All three of you. Hell if I can figure it. Must be some sort of twisted, pathetic charity stunt. Who knows. But don't be late. You've made me look bad enough already.”

Hearing this, Murph thought he was the victim of some ill-timed, temporary hallucination. A two-time loser, catapulted to the pinnacle of baseball hierarchy? He turned back to face his executioner, possessed of clashing thoughts.

“What did you just say?” he asked.

“You heard me, Murph.”

“They're calling us up?” he questioned. “Are you telling me that we got the call? All of us?”

Murph inhaled purposefully and narrowed his stare.

“So why all the damned mystery and drama then, Warren? All the talk of me ‘leaving' next year? Do you really enjoy seeing me suffer that much?”

“Relax, Arthur—have a sense of humor. It's all good, right? We both got what we wanted, no?”

“Are you kidding me? Hell yes. Yes. This is the most—”

“Easy there. Good God. There you go again, breaking your arm patting yourself on the back. Sure, they want you. But you can be sure as hell that once you screw up, you'll be out on your ass again, lock, stock, and barrel. If I've told you once, I've told you a thousand times—”

Murph heard nothing after Dennison's acknowledgment. He just stood there, as Dennison droned on, scratching his head in amazement. After all the years of broken down buses and second-rate hotels, of greasy truck stop food and the ignominy attached to the moniker of minor league lifer, he was finally going to get his chance. He would take Mickey and Lester far away from the small town ignorance and ugliness. He would leave McNally and Rosco to suffer at the hands of their own devices. Yes, it
was
all good. He was on his way. They were all on their way.