Two in the Field (6 page)

“Ain’t no car in
that
slough,” the boy said. “That’s fer dang sure!”

Cora glared at him. “Alex, your mouth!”

“What day’s today?” I asked, unable to wait any longer.

“Saturday,” the boy said promptly. “Eighth of May.”

I’d driven out of Keokuk on the sixth. So, just as before, a real-time correlation existed between the two eras. I’d been in the future two years. Which made this 1871. Cait and Andy and all the rest were alive again.

I’d done it!

We passed a limestone quarry and some farms. Town buildings appeared in the distance. From the wagon floor Alex produced a baseball bat that looked hand-hewn.

“Don’t be a-wavin’ that,” his mother cautioned.

“You play on a team?” I asked.

“Naw, we’re too far from town,” he said. “Paw tosses corn cobs for me to wallop, though.” He looked at his father. “We’re still buyin’ me that Ryan?”

Dickey nodded. “I promised it.”

I smiled happily. Ryan was the leading manufacturer of post-Civil War baseballs.

Alex fidgeted with his bat. “We gonna be in time for the match?”

My ears pricked up. “What match is that?”

“Me ’n Paw are goin’ to the ball grounds while Ma piles up our supplies,” he answered. “I been waitin’ weeks!”

“Who’s playing?”

“The Westerns.” He saw my puzzled look. “That’s the Keokuk nine. But my ideal plays for the enemy. Sweasy of the Reds.”

“Sweasy?” I echoed. “How’d you know about him?”

“Saw him star last summer when I visited my cousin in St. Louis.”

Sweaze, you bastard!
Picturing the Stockings’ chunky second baseman, I nearly let out a celebratory howl. We’d been antagonists, but now I felt a rush of affection.

“You’ve heard of Cap’n Sweasy?”

Captain? Alex had that wrong. Harry Wright would always be the Stockings’ captain. It didn’t matter. The team was here! Just as before, I’d come back to meet them.

“I played with Sweasy.”

That brought incredulous looks from all of them.

“On what nine?” Alex said suspiciously.

“The Red Stockings. Two years ago I was a sub.”

“Ever make a home run?”

“Once.” I pictured the ball soaring out of the Union Grounds. Being congratulated by Andy and the others at home plate. A sweet memory.

“Honor bright?” he pressed.

I solemnly crossed my heart. “Honor bright.”

“If you truly know him, will you take me up to him?”

“I’ll introduce you to the whole team.”

“Dang!” the boy exclaimed, tugging his cap lower on his head. “That’ll be the beatinest! I’ll lord it all over Jed Brewer!”

“Don’t you get biggety, Alex,” his mother cautioned.

On Keokuk’s outskirts we passed modest frame houses whose unpainted, weathered exteriors little resembled the beautiful restorations I’d seen. No phone or power lines overhead. No roof antennas or satellite dishes. No traffic lights.

It all looked beautiful.

Cora Dickey waved to somebody in front of the Female Seminary as we turned onto Main, the busiest street. My eyes feasted on the citizenry, most of whom were farmers like the Dickeys; among them were a scattering of clerks wearing high paper collars, several gents with fancy-handled canes, and a pair of women in heavy panniered dresses puffed out at the hips. The women busily worked their fans in the thick heat. Around us, carriages and carts moved to an accompanying thud of hooves and cracking
of whips. Odors of dirt and leather and animal waste worked the air. High plank sidewalks were fitted with carriage steps and hitching rings.

Gas streetlamps … yes!

I felt alive.

Opposite the imposing brick “Athenaeum”—I gathered it was an art school—we pulled up in front of the three-story Mercantile Emporium, a shoppers’ paradise.

“Grateful for your help,” I said, helping Cora down. Into her palm I slipped a ten-dollar gold piece I’d pried from my money belt. Previously, I’d arrived in this century with worthless currency and credit cards. This time I’d brought a Victorian travel kit. In my belt were nineteen more gold eagles I’d picked up from coin dealers, none dated after 1869.

She looked as startled as if I’d snatched it from the air. Filthy and addled I might be, and likely a tramp—but with astonishing resources. After some argument she insisted that I accompany her into the store and get change. She would accept fifty cents, no more.

Inside, I bought a new shirt and discarded my running shoe for a pair of low-heeled boots. I couldn’t find pants long enough to fit me. Cora handed the half-dollar to Alex, who emerged from the Emporium with a new white baseball.

The boy could scarcely contain himself as we left her behind to shop and drove north from Keokuk’s center. On our right the Mississippi shone like a burnished mirror, its surface rippled from shallow rapids above; dredging was underway there to allow steamboats upriver. The Chicago, Burlington and Quincy depot sat next to the Gas Works, whose classical arched windows seemed out of keeping with its smoke-blackened chimneys. I wondered if the Stockings would be departing by river or by rail. Either way, I intended to go with them.

“Where’s the ballpark?” I asked. “The grounds, I mean.”

“Walte’s Pasture,” said Dickey, pointing ahead.

“It’s called Perry Park now,” Alex protested.

“By any name,” Paw retorted, “it’s a turned-under cornfield.”

He had it about right. There were wooden bleachers, a shack for the players to suit up in, an outhouse, and that was it. A rising breeze funneled dust spouts on the pebbly diamond. A cow hollow graced center field. As I watched, a Keokuk player nearly took a dip chasing a windblown fly.

The crowd was sparse, only a few hundred. Hard to imagine Harry Wright bringing his club all the way out here and scarcely making expenses. I bought a penny scorecard and stub pencil for Alex.

“Cap’n Sweasy!” he exclaimed. “Over there!”

Sure enough, the stocky figure of Sweasy stood outside the dressing shack. Same pugnacious thrust of chest and jaw. My pulse speeded. Andy would be inside.

“C’mon!” Alex said.

I started to realize that something was wrong. Although Sweasy’s leggings were the familiar crimson, his cap and pants were gray instead of white. On his tan jersey, scripted in old English letters, was not the name of the city I expected to see, but rather
St. Louis
. My brain seemed to stop working as I glanced down at the scorecard I carried, and read, “Keokuk Westerns vs. St. Louis Red Stockings.”

And the date:
May 8, 1875
.

 FOUR 

No recognition showed in Sweasy’s stony stare. He’d put on flab, and his nose showed a network of tiny broken vessels. I had no trouble believing that he’d aged six years to my two.

“Sweaze,” I said. “Been a while.” I didn’t bother putting out my hand. We’d never been bosom pals.

He studied my face and finally rasped, “Fowler.” He didn’t appear to be overcome with pleasure.

Relief washed over me. A confirmation of sorts. At least he remembered. “Is Andy here?”

Evidently it was the wrong question. Sweasy’s mouth tightened and he said nothing.

“The boy admires you,” I said, aware of Alex shuffling his feet.

“You’re my favorite,” Alex told him.

Sweasy warmed a bit. I recalled that he’d had a soft spot for kids. “How about signing Alex’s new ball?”

“Why?” Sweasy said suspiciously.

I’d forgotten that autographs weren’t yet in vogue. “As a souvenir.”

Ballpoints and Sharpies didn’t exist, of course, so I had to find a pencil. Sweasy grudgingly scratched his moniker. Alex, looking thrilled, took back his ball like a holy object and hustled off to show it to his dad.

“Don’t mind doin’ it for
him,”
Sweasy said pointedly, staring at my mud-splotched Gap jeans. “That what they’re wearin’ at the county farm?”

“What?” Only later, replaying it, would I get what he meant.

“Why’d you show up?”

It caught me off balance. Not why here. Not why now. Just why. I couldn’t think of a good answer and was spared further effort when Sweasy’s teammates began to troop from the clubhouse, their spikes clomping on the boards. They were young and sunburned and wore droopy mustaches reminiscent of the Oakland A’s of the 1970s. One or two reeked of liquor. As Sweasy turned to join them, I said, “Can’t you at least tell me where Andy is?”

He twisted his head. “Likely with Harry Wright’s damn pack of pets.”

I watched him walk away. What did that mean? Boston? I knew that Harry and George Wright had gone there after the Cincinnati club disbanded, and later Andy joined them. Was he still there?

The scorecard vendor also sold newspapers. I bought the
Daily Gate City
and scanned the florid summaries of recent games. Several clubs had been “calcimined” (shut out) for lack of their hitters “applying the ashen poultice to the tosser’s swift pacers.” Certain fielders suffered “fits of muffing” while others “prettily took hot line balls.”

Victorian sportswriting—an acquired taste.

Boston hadn’t played, so I gleaned nothing about Andy. Yesterday, St. Louis’s Reds had lost their opener against the Westerns, 15-2. Scanty attendance. Maybe that accounted for Sweasy’s mood.

His team looked lackadaisical during warmups, and Sweasy’s labored efforts at second were uncharacteristic of the smooth-fielding infielder I remembered. Witnessing it worried me. Six years had passed. Anything could have happened to Cait. For a moment the hot sunlight took on a hint of milkiness and again it seemed that something was tugging at me.

“You feelin’ proper?” Dickey asked, leaning across Alex.

I took a breath and nodded.

On the diamond, things didn’t appear to have changed much since ’69. No gloves or protective equipment. Pitcher working underhand. Hitters calling “high” or “low” or “belt” to indicate where the ball should come. Catchers ten feet or more behind the plate, moving closer only with runners on. Foul bounds still outs.

The biggest difference was pitching. Previously, the rules had prevented Brainard and his peers from delivering breaking balls; umps had scrutinized them for sneaky twists of fingers and wrists. But these pitchers worked more like submarine-style moundsmen of the future, with whipping motions that produced plenty of ball movement. No wonder the paper listed shutouts now.

I pointed out to Alex the oddity that each team’s shortstop—Hallinan for Keokuk, Redmond for St. Louis—threw lefty. Two southpaw shortstops in the same contest.

He looked at me as if to say,
So?

The general level of play was well below that of my old Stockings mates. The exception was Sweasy’s centerfielder, a sure-handed whippet with enormous range named Art Croft. In the fifth inning his territory expanded further when the Reds’ right-fielder crashed like a spouting whale into the water hollow and crawled out clutching his knee. Sweasy applied this era’s sports medicine by rubbing dirt on the injured spot, binding a wet tobacco chaw over it, and promising to find some arnica later. But the player couldn’t walk and the Reds, apparently unable to afford a substitute, had to continue with eight men.

The Westerns took advantage by dumping several hits into the short-handed outfield. Sweasy waved his shortstop deeper and moved closer to second. He looked like a tactical genius when the next hitter powered a double-play grounder right at
him. But the ball caromed off his shin and Keokuk led 1-0 as the lead runner scored.

In the bleachers the heat was brutal. I realized I wasn’t the only one suffering when the Reds’ first baseman, one of the booze-reekers, toppled face-first to the turf. Sweasy watched, cold-eyed, as he was dragged into the shade of the stand. He conferred with the Western captain. Five innings had not been completed; if the game ended by forfeit, admission money would have to be refunded. Sweasy appeared to be pleading to continue with seven players. Alex said it was against league rules.

Sweasy’s eyes swept over the stand and fastened on me.

“He’s coming up here,” Alex marveled.

So he was. Sweasy climbed up the bleachers and stood before me, face dripping. “Fowler,” he said, his tone almost cordial, “how ’bout standin’ in for us?”