The Legend of Mickey Tussler (23 page)

The two of them focused their attention back on the game. Boxcar was up next. He'd already had a great day—three for three with a walk, three RBIs, and two runs scored. He was feeling it—that competitive fire that would just not submit, under any circumstances. He got just what he was looking for immediately—a first-ball fastball—and laced it back through the middle. The ball exploded off his bat, narrowly missing both the pitcher and Finster as he took his lead from second. The ball was through the infield and in the hands of the center fielder in seconds, preventing Finster, who had had to hit the dirt to avoid being decapitated by the sizzling liner, from advancing beyond third.

Murph was faced with another managerial decision. With one out, and the bases filled with Brewers, the specter of an inningending, rally-killing double play loomed large. Buck Faber, who was hitting the ball with authority of late, was due up. Murph pondered deeply, then grabbed Faber before he left the on-deck circle. “How do you feel about a squeeze?”

Faber frowned. “I'm not too good with the bunting, Murph. Besides, I can hit this guy.”

Murph nodded. He let himself drift somewhere below the surface of his usual thoughts. So what? he considered. What was the worst that could happen? It was not as if they hadn't faced adversity before. Let it ride, he told himself. Just go for it.

“Okay, Bucky,” he said, tapping him on the fanny. “Hit away.”

Faber took the first pitch for ball one. The second offering missed as well. He was in the driver's seat. Bases juiced, winning run on third, and no place to put him. “Hitter's hard-on” they liked to call it. Sheer ecstasy. No one in that ballpark had any doubt—he was going to get a cripple pitch.

It came made to order. Four-seam fastball, straight as an arrow, right down Broadway. Faber jumped on it, struck it well, but only the top half. The ball appeared destined for the hole between the hot corner and short, but the third baseman stabbed it and began what looked like a tailor-made 5-4-3, around-the-horn double play. But none of the Spartans realized that Boxcar was tired of losing. He got a terrific jump off first and was in full flight just as the third baseman released the ball. The trajectory was true, a perfect throw, headed right for the bag. The second baseman straddled the base, hands ready to make the quick exchange. But the ball and the runner arrived at the same time. The ball barely had enough time to make an impression in the glove before Boxcar came in the way his name suggested, like a freight train, and separated the ball from the middle infielder and his shoulder from its socket. In the skirmish, and the frantic dash for the ball by the shortstop, Finster scampered home with the game-winning run.

Boxcar won a few games for them the more conventional way as well. He buried the Colts with a towering, game-winning homer; he neutralized the prolific running game of the Giants by gunning down seven would-be base stealers; and with the game on the line, he dashed the hopes of the Tigers when he dove headlong into the stands, snaring a foul pop that should have landed safely three rows back. Everyone—fans, opponents, sportswriters—watched in amazement, and all agreed that it was the most incredible stretch of dominating baseball they had ever seen one person play.

But, despite the superhuman exploits of Boxcar, the Brewers still lost another game in the standings to the red-hot Rangers. While the Brewers were struggling just to keep their collective heads above water, the Rangers had gone on a 15-4 run, beginning about the time Mickey was sidelined, and had completely erased the Brewers' commanding lead.

On the upside, the Brewers still had Lefty. He took the hill against the Sidewinders, with the Brewers in a deadlock with the Rangers for first place. Aside from Boxcar, Lefty was the only Brewer who had actually thrived in the absence of Mickey. He was just about unhittable in his last five starts and was throwing the baseball with a command and artfulness that hadn't been seen since his rookie year. His burgeoning strikeout total and domination of opposing batters had captured the imagination of the Brewer fans and lifted them out of their late-summer swoon. After weeks of hapless and hopeless play, they finally had something to believe in.

It was a Friday night, and after a long week of dairy farming, tool and die making, and other labor-intensive endeavors, the crowd was ready to unwind. They had come to cheer on the home team, carrying with them expressions of anticipation as well as placards, confetti, cowbells, and an eclectic assortment of other implements of merriment.

Lefty wasted no time, stoking the celebratory fires with a strikeout of the Sidewinders' leadoff man. The “bleacher creatures,” selfprofessed Brewer diehards who had come about during the Brewers' earlier domination, roared with approval, clapping their hands, stamping their feet, whistling, and finally, after dancing what looked like some tribal rumba, hanging a rubber snake in recognition of the first killing of the night. Lefty loved it. He stepped off the mound and watched as the boisterous celebration that began in the bleachers erupted into a wave of frenetic movement that washed across the entire park, ending with a raucous chanting of his name. Life was beautiful.

The game was scoreless at the end of the fifth inning. Lefty's dominating performance, coupled with the Brewers' inept offense, made for a quick, uneventful game, another pitcher's duel. On the Sidewinders' half of the scoreboard, just below the word
hits,
stood the number 0. Across from that, on the same line on the Brewers' side, was the number 2. Ten rubber snakes hung from a metal bar that ran along the first row of bleacher seats.

The lack of offensive support dampened Lefty's spirits. He sat on the end of the bench brooding, leaning forward, head down between his knees. He was convinced that yet another of his great efforts would die the same death as so many others, until Clem Finster got a hanging slider in the bottom of the seventh and drilled it out of the yard.

The minute Lefty heard the crowd howl, he sprang from his seat. “Oh, yeah, Finny!” he yelled, pumping his fist in the air. “That's right. That's what I'm talking about. That's just what I needed!”

Boxcar and Murph exchanged a look. Then Murph glowered. The push of blood in his head seemed to cease unexpectedly, removing him momentarily from what he was watching. Winning was sweet. Christ, it meant everything to him, now more than ever. But Lefty's narcissism was intolerable. “Fucking guy,” Murph mumbled out loud. “Unbelievable.”

Lefty continued to throw darts, insulated in a cocoon of self-absorption, and the bleacher creatures continued to hang snakes—fourteen of them through eight innings. Despite the excitement, a peculiar hush seemed to fall across the crowd, like calming air moments before a late-afternoon thunderstorm. Something special was about to unfold, and the entire ballpark could sense its steady approach. With just three outs to go, Lefty had yet to yield a hit and was standing toe-to-toe with baseball immortality.

Under the silent flicker of lights that glowed like stars set in a sleepy sky, the Sidewinders took their final shot at Lefty. Their leadoff man, Buzz Stuber, looked sick, like a little boy on his first day of school. He came to the plate, eyes wide, his whole body shaking as if he were operating an invisible jackhammer. Lefty had punched him out three times already, all swinging, and now Stuber was facing a dubious date with the golden sombrero.

“Okay now, Stubey!” the Sidewinders bench yelled to him. “Come on now. It only takes one.”

The frustrated batter locked and loaded, the bat sliding around ever so slightly in his sweaty palms. Boxcar put down one finger. Lefty nodded, then lifted his right leg and whipped his arm around. The ball was swift and painted the black of the plate for strike one. Stuber's spirit sagged even further. He shook his head dejectedly, kicked the dirt, and blew a long puff of air out of his mouth. He malingered a bit outside the box, tapping his spikes and fiddling with his belt buckle, procrastinating with this and that until the umpire admonished him. “Let's go, fella. Play ball.”

Stuber stepped back in. His hands were a little steadier now and his knees had stopped knocking. Lefty grinned with confidence as he stared him down, and wild expectation filtered through his head, including the postgame hoopla that would undoubtedly accompany his first career no-no.

Lefty delivered a fastball, inside half of the plate. Stuber never flinched. He rotated his hips, went down almost all the way to one knee, held the bat out flat with a slight tilt to the left, and dropped a picture-perfect bunt down the third-base line. Danvers was caught flat-footed behind the bag. He charged frantically, trying to compensate for his poor positioning, but in his haste to barehand the ball, it rolled up his palm and off his wrist, coming to rest at last just to the right of his foot.

The miscue sent Lefty into orbit. He stormed around the infield, hands on hips, swearing and spitting, looking to the heavens in tortured disbelief. Then he glared over in Danvers's direction, picked up the rosin bag from behind the mound, and fired it to the ground, barking about stone hands and bush-league play. The fit continued for another minute or so, with everyone watching in disbelief, before finally subsiding after the official scorer ruled the play an error. Then, and only then, did Lefty's vitriol soften enough to allow him to continue.

Boxcar, however, had seen enough. “Time!” he called, motioning for the infielders to join him in the center of the infield. He flipped up his mask and walked out to the mound, fists clenched, biting his lip. His gait was deliberate, purposeful, and his face sweaty and crimson. Reaching the mound, he stood for some seconds and did not move. A great hollow of darkness appeared to be facing him. There was so much he wanted to say, to do, that for a brief moment it paralyzed him. Everyone just stood around waiting. The silence was interminable. Then, as if a light switch had suddenly been thrown, Boxcar was back.

“Hey, asshole!” he began through clenched teeth, poking Lefty's shoulder and motioning over to Danvers. “You got a problem with Woody? Do ya?”

Lefty said nothing, just stood there quietly, frazzled in front of the penetrating gaze of the assembled company.

“What about Pee Wee? Or Fries? Or maybe it's Finster? Are they doing it for you today?”

Lefty grinned nervously. The outward show of disrespect lit a fuse somewhere deep inside the fiery catcher.

“Listen, you selfish piece of shit,” he threatened, grabbing him by the throat. “We've been down this road before. I won't do it again, you hear? These guys—all these guys—play for Murph, and the team. Not you. You understand? Fuck your goddamned no-hitter. It don't mean shit.”

Boxcar let him go. Lefty's face was remote, still voiceless. His eyes swept momentarily across his teammates, then shifted above Boxcar's shoulder to the crowd, then fell again on the disdainful visage directly in front of him.

“Hey, you listening to me, Rogers? You getting me? Don't you ever show up another teammate again—not on my time.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Lefty answered. “I got you, tough guy. You can stop putting on the show. Everyone saw you.”

Lefty retired the next three batters in order. When the final pitch landed safely in Boxcar's glove, the no-hitter was complete. Lefty threw his arms up in exultation and jumped around on the mound like a little boy, waiting to be mobbed by his jubilant teammates. It never happened. They just left him frolicking in a querulous bonfire of self-idolatry. Only some of the fans were with him—the few who were not estranged by the odd on-field exhibition just moments before. This tiny faction stood and applauded the effort, lost in a frenzy of vicarious exhilaration that blinded them to the real drama unfolding. Lefty's teammates' behavior told the real story. Led by Boxcar's example, they simply refused to feed Lefty's swelling ego, offering only brief, perfunctory expressions of acknowledgment before walking silently off the field. It was the quietest no-hitter ever pitched.

Lefty celebrated quietly as well—that night, at The Bucket, with just a few of his more ardent female admirers. He had drawn the attention of some of the local baseball groupies, young girls with wanton ways, determined to hitch their wagon to what they believed was a rising star.

They sat all around him, a coterie of pandering floozies, fawning and drinking and feeding his ravenous ego.

“Oh, Lefty, you were spectacular out there,” one of the girls said. “Like a gladiator. It just made me tingle all over watching you.”

The others giggled coquettishly and added saccharine comments of their own. Lefty ate them up. Every last one.

He had been there awhile, trying to decide which of the harlots he would take home with him, when another girl came up from behind and tapped him on the shoulder. Unlike the others, her face was severe and offered no outward show of affection for the star pitcher. She seemed bitter. All the misery in the tortured girl's life was present in her dark eyes. She swayed slightly, nervously, from side to side, her head half-tilted.

“We need to talk,” she said, her voice cold and raspy. Now.”

A sort of dullness settled on him. He was tired and drunk and did not really care to engage the girl. He turned only slightly on the barstool, just enough to catch her eyes. “I told you,” he whispered through clenched teeth, “never to come here.” He dismissed her with an abrupt turn of his head.

She did not leave. “George, you promised.” She grabbed his shoulder. “You said if I helped—”

He flared at her. She was slow of wit. Her dimness made his blood boil. “I said not to bother me here,” he ordered. “Now, turn around and go away.”

She crumbled. Laney Juris had met Lefty the first week he was with the Brewers. She was standing outside the train station, waiting for a distant relation from the East who never showed. He had just gotten off his train and was fumbling with his bags.

An enormous orange sun was staring at him from the tips of the distant trees. He stood looking at it. Then he saw her. She was smiling. Although her face was covered by a shadow cast by her hat, he could see the ends of her mouth, bent up toward her eyes. “Beautiful sun,” he said to her, struggling to manage the load in his hands. “Gonna be a hot one tomorrow.”