I’ve always dreamed of seeing more of the world. Despite my love for the land around me, I’ve always been curious about what else is out there. Some of my neighbors are content clinging to the prairie, with no curiosity at all about how other people spend their days. I suppose that most of these folks are simply happy enough or too busy with their lives to think about all that unexplored territory. But there are also those who talk with a sneer about city folks—rantings that are not usually based on firsthand experience, but assumptions, and hearsay.
I figure they’re just scared—scared of a life they know nothing about. But it seems a waste to shut out half the world just because they wear softer pants. And I think it simply makes sense to say hello to someone who’s sitting right next to you. As far as I know, there’s no better way of getting to know them. So after my Pioneer Days experience, I looked for any chance I could find to make my way to St. Louis and meet up with Mr. Stanley Murphy.
My chance came in 1924, when we needed to ship a load of calves to Omaha. Neither Dad nor Jack was anxious to go, so I quickly volunteered. I contacted Mr. Murphy, who just happened to have someone else in Omaha that he wanted to get a look at that week. So once I knew the date I’d be there, he sent me the name of his hotel, and told me to contact him when I arrived. I told no one.
Dad and I moved the herd of calves to Belle Fourche, a three-day ride. We stabled them for the night at the stockyards next to the train station, and seventy-five calves and I caught the train at dawn the next morning. It was my first time on a train, and although I was twenty-two, I’m sure I was as big-eyed as a kid at his first fireworks show. I wore the suit I’d bought for Jack and Rita’s wedding; the jacket was too tight, the sleeves a little short.
The trip took two days, with a stop in Chadron, Nebraska, to feed and water the stock. I barely slept from the excitement. Even during the dark hours, I pressed my face to the window, as the countless unfamiliar lives rushed past. The click, clack, pause, click, clack, pause of the wheels became such a part of the journey, like a heartbeat, that I didn’t even hear it after a while.
I studied each town—homestead towns, mostly. There were usually just a few buildings—always a store, and a saloon or two, a post office, sometimes a hotel, a blacksmith, or a five-and-dime. But more interesting to me were the farms and ranches—the lone, miles-from-anything places like our own. I took a good look at each of these, trying to imagine as much as I could about the people who lived there. Some were easy—sod houses with chunks of earth hanging off, or crude ten-by-fourteen-foot shacks with oiled-paper windows, mud stuffed into the cracks, and a swaybacked mule out front. These belonged to the honyockers—the new settlers who were either already gone or nearly defeated, probably a winter or two away from being pushed eastward where they came from, or further west to another dream.
Soon after we crossed the border into Nebraska, the complexion of the land changed, as if state law demanded it. Pens filled with pigs crowded the grounds around tiny homesteads, and the fields were covered with either the stubble of freshly harvested cornstalks or the brown stalks themselves, wilting from too little water or too much sun. The rolling hills were gone. The land was completely flat, with such a lack of contour that the horizon seemed to be the only thing out there.
I ate in the diner car, eyes fixed on the panorama of scenery outside. The plates, silverware, and linen looked so delicate and fine that I was afraid of breaking them. So I ate carefully, feeling a bit sophisticated. I even ordered a glass of wine at dinner the first evening. But I didn’t finish it, because I didn’t want to fall asleep. I didn’t want to miss a thing.
The stop in Chadron took nearly two hours. The calves stumbled down ramps, blinking in the daylight. But they were too tired to protest much, and the sight of water and hay shut up the few feeble complaints. They ate and drank at their leisure while I milled among them, checking for any sign of ill health while trying not to mess up my travel clothes. One calf had died, which made me angry, as I’d tried to talk Dad into leaving her behind. I hoped that whatever ailment had killed her wouldn’t spread.
Halfway across Nebraska, I saw a house that made my eyes bulge. It was a big white clapboard house with neatly painted green trim around each door and window. A white fence made of broad planks surrounded the yard, and it had the first red barn I’d ever seen. In our country, no one had the resources to paint their barn, even if the idea occurred to them. I turned to the man next to me, who’d gotten on at Chadron and hadn’t yet spoken to me. I pointed.
“Look at that house.”
He glanced out the window with a look of utter boredom, his sagging, wet eyes hardly registering any sign of life. He shrugged. “I wonder how much corn whiskey that fella sold to pay for a place like that,” he muttered.
I didn’t realize he was joking, and I turned and studied the house. He couldn’t be right, I thought. The house was not only big, but it showed the signs of care and grooming of someone who had great devotion to the good life. I thought about the only bootlegger I knew—Bert Walters, Art’s brother, who lived in a ramshackle lean-to as far from the road as he could possibly get. And I secretly decided that this guy wasn’t as smart as he thought he was.
“Are you from Nebraska?” I asked him.
“Hell no. I wouldn’t live in this godforsaken country for all the steers in Texas.” He laughed at his own joke, or wheezed, from deep in his soft chest. “I’m from St. Louis.” He looked at me, only vaguely, and raised his forehead. “That’s in Missouri.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I know.”
But despite being annoyed, the man’s smug expression made me suddenly aware of my appearance. I realized that I probably looked and acted like exactly what I was—some young guy fresh off the farm, out in the world for the first time. I tugged self-consciously at my sleeves, at the same time resenting his superior attitude, and the fact that he made no effort to hide it. He wore a bowler and a well-tailored suit, complete with gold pocket-watch chain. His skin was as pale as milk.
“You a Dakota boy?” he asked.
I cringed at the word “boy,” bit my tongue, and shook my head. “Nearly. Eastern Montana. Right in the southeast corner.”
He nodded knowingly, his lower lip extended. “Nice country. Kind of dry, though.”
“Yeah, more than ever the last few years.”
“You know anyone in Broadus?”
“Sure. Quite a few people.”
Well, despite the fact that he never dropped his little smirk, and despite my preoccupation with the scenery outside, my neighbor and I ended up having a pleasant conversation. We had a few mutual acquaintances, and he shared my passion for baseball.
He was a farm machinery salesman, which explained why he’d been to my part of the country. His name was David Westford, and although I was a naïve farm kid, I had enough business savvy to sift through everything he said, to avoid falling into a line of questioning that might lead to promises I couldn’t keep. But he didn’t push me that hard anyway. Instead, we visited about our families, the Cardinals, and the upcoming elections.
David was from a huge mining family in Pennsylvania. He wasn’t close to them, complaining that they all tried to take advantage of his success. He said he preferred St. Louis to his home state anyway. Before I knew it, we found ourselves in the outskirts of Omaha. Dusk had just settled, a very faint orange mist, and I could barely make out the silhouettes of buildings that were taller than any I’d ever seen. We climbed stiffly from the train, and David handed me his card with the name of his hotel scrawled on the back.
“This is your first trip to Omaha, am I right?”
I nodded.
“Well, I know some real nice girls, if you’re interested.” He raised his brow.
I blushed and thanked him, shaking his sweaty hand. And although I saw little chance that I would take him up on the offer, I tucked his card in my jacket.
That night I soaked in a city that was bigger than the combined size of every town I’d ever visited. It was a clear night, five or ten degrees warmer than it would be at home, and although I was exhausted, I wanted to absorb as much as I could before I collapsed.
I walked through downtown Omaha, and was struck by the shops—shops that sold only hats or only candy. I couldn’t imagine how they stayed in business selling just one product. And the clothes on display in the windows! I wondered where people wore such clothes. But as evening fell, people wearing those very clothes filled the streets, strolling at a leisurely pace. I had to remind myself not to stare, especially at the women, who were glorious in their sleek dresses and stylish hats. I wanted to turn and follow them. Their faces were as smooth and clear as windows, as though they’d never seen an hour of sunlight. And their lips, painted red, looked like cherries in snow. I thought about David’s offer, and the more of these beautiful women I saw, the more I considered calling him. But time passed, and my nerve faltered, and eventually I talked myself out of it.
On the streets, handbills were posted everywhere, and I stopped and read them all. Posters of Calvin Coolidge and John William Davis were pasted to walls and fences everywhere, as were pictures of the Nebraska gubernatorial candidates. And there were several other distinguished-looking candidates for lesser offices, looking stern and serious, with slogans circling their heads. There were bills for performances—music, theater, and dance, as well as ads for all kinds of household items, which reminded me of Jack. But one poster stopped me dead in my tracks. It was for a Negro League baseball game, a game between the Kanses City Monarchs and the Mobile Tigers, scheduled for eleven o’clock the next morning. I had a pencil and a notepad in my jacket, and I wrote down the details. I had called Mr. Murphy when I checked into my hotel, and we’d made arrangements to meet later in the afternoon. So I would easily be able to make it to the game.
Back at the hotel, I ate in the dining room—shrimp, breaded with crisp batter, and whipped potatoes, and buttery string beans. I’d never tasted shrimp, and although the slippery texture was strange at first, I immediately fell in love with the combination of intense fish flavor and butter-soaked flakes of breading. After a dish of chocolate ice cream, one of my favorite things, I retreated to my room bloated and content.
I took a bath in a real ceramic tub, and slid between sheets thick as cowhide. If I had wanted to make a phone call, all I had to do was go down into the lobby. In my room were electric lights, a toilet, and a sink with running water, none of which we had at home. And the next day, I would be handling the biggest business transaction of my life. But none of those things mattered that night. There were only two things on my mind as I lay on the verge of a deep sleep—my first professional baseball game, and my tryout.
At breakfast, the scrambled eggs looked as if the grease had been scrubbed off—they were as yellow as a new gold piece. I said a silent thank-you to Mr. Murphy for the dollar he had sent me to help pay for a little nicer hotel. The eggs tasted as good as they looked, with a hint of cheese. I held a copy of the Omaha World-Herald and reveled in learning yesterday’s news rather than last week’s.
I caught a carriage to the stockyards, where I met our buyer Mr. Tanner, a tall man with a friendly manner. He buried his fingers in the calves’ coats, and lifted their upper lips, checking teeth. He kneaded their flanks and ran his hand along their ribs. I felt proud surveying the corral filled with plump calves pressed together into a massive brown hide. We had done well with this stock, thanks to a slight increase in moisture and some hard work. Mr. Tanner smiled broadly and nodded.
We weighed the calves, and after figuring the total, Mr. Tanner wrote a check. When I looked at the amount, my heart rose to my neck, and I pressed my thumb and forefinger hard together to make sure a sudden gust of wind didn’t tear the slip of paper from my grasp. As soon as we shook hands and talked about what a pleasure it was to do business, I found a restroom, where I tucked the folded check into my boot.
I arrived at the baseball field nearly an hour early, so I got to watch the Tiger and Monarch players go through their warm-ups—stretching, running, and fielding grounders and fly balls. I sat in the rickety old bleachers and would have been a happy man if someone had instructed me to stay there and watch these guys for seven days straight. These professionals made every motion, from a diving catch to whacking the ball three hundred and fifty feet, look as natural as opening a door. For that glorious hour, I lost all desire to do anything athletic again. It felt as if any effort to emulate these men would be an insult to their gifts.
The Monarchs took the field first, but it was the Tiger pitcher that commanded all attention from the very first strike he threw. I couldn’t keep my eyes off him, and I found myself grinning until my cheeks hurt. He pranced, he twisted his body into positions that would rip the muscles of mere mortals, and he threw the ball so hard I caught myself flinching along with the hitters.
On his windup, he sometimes froze in the middle of his motion, bringing his body to a standstill, as if some unseen camera was aimed at him, demanding that he strike a pose. He seemed to do this without thinking—never in the same position, and never enough to throw off his control. And he smiled. Always he smiled, a subtle curl of his mouth.
There were no programs, so I finally asked someone who he was. Even his name had a certain magic—Satchel Paige.
I sat with a sack of peanuts in my hand and forgot they were there, holding them as if I was waiting for their owner to come along and claim them. And I was sitting there like that—as motionless as the players were fluid—when a hand suddenly reached into the bag, plucking several peanuts from inside. I flinched, following the arm to its owner.
“Hello, Blake.” The fleshy smile of David Westford greeted me. “You know, I thought later that I should have mentioned this game to you. I’m glad you found your way here.” We shook hands.
“Good to see you, too, David. This Paige guy is something else, huh?”
“The son of a bitch isn’t even human. He beats our St. Louis team every damn time. Or I should say kills us every time. It’s never even close.”
“Well, I feel privileged just to see these guys play,” I said. “We don’t see this kind of talent up our way.”
He nodded. “Yeah. There’s some good players in this league. I like watching these boys play. ’Course, they wouldn’t be able to keep up with the major leagues. They might be just as fast, maybe even faster, but they aren’t as quick, if you know what I mean.” David smiled, pointing to his temple. I emitted a slight “hm,” as unenthusiastically as I could, but I could tell from his expression that he assumed I agreed with him.
David told me he was going to get himself a beer, and offered to buy me one. I declined, thinking of my tryout.
Just as David predicted, the game was no contest. Paige had such control that the Monarchs only managed three base runners the whole game. I watched the catcher closely, and it seemed that no matter what kind of hitch Paige put into his windup, or whether or not he was looking at the plate when he threw, the catcher rarely had to move his glove. At one point, Paige turned his torso completely around, toward center field, in the middle of his windup. His head seemed to still be facing the fence when he spun and threw. And just as he reached his release point, his left foot tapped the ground quickly, then continued forward. But the pitch split the plate with the precision of a rifle shot. The batter swung so far ahead of the ball that he fell over. When he stood up, he was laughing. Even he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen.
To my horror, David swore at Paige a few times, loud enough that people stared at us. But Paige didn’t seem to hear him, or if he did, it had no effect. He pitched a two-hitter, walking only one, and striking out fourteen batters. And earned at least one fan for life.
David sat shaking his head, and drained the last of his fourth beer. “If the Cardinals had Paige, I do believe we could beat the Yankees,” he said.
I smiled, declining a chance to point out the contradiction to his earlier comment. “I’m going to go talk to him,” I said. “You want to come along?”
David looked up at me, and the smug little grin crept back into his expression. “You are?” he asked.
I shrugged. “Yeah. Why?”
David looked around him, and bent closer to me, lowering his voice. “You sure you want to be seen doing that? Maybe you could write him a letter or something.”
When it occurred to me what he meant, I frowned. I looked around at the crowd. Although there were several white faces among us, they were separate from the rest. A few fans lingered on the field, but none of them were white. I just shook my head, starting toward the field.
“You go on ahead,” David said. I could see that he was anxious to put some distance between us before I went down on the field. “I want to get cleaned up for a night on the town.” He rubbed his palms against his heavy thighs and stood. “You’re welcome to join me, you know, or should I say ‘us.’” He winked. “Got a couple of real sweethearts lined up. But I think they could handle the both of us.”
I reddened, nodding, unaccustomed to this kind of brash outspokenness about such matters. But I hadn’t forgotten the women I’d seen the night before. “We’ll see,” I said. “I have to catch an early train tomorrow. And I want to do a little shopping, pick up a few gifts for the family.”
“All right,” he said. “But you still got my number, right?”
I nodded, patting my breast pocket. Then I started climbing down the bleachers. But I stopped, and called out, “Hey, David.”
He turned.
“Do you know where this place is?” I dug in my jacket for the sheet of paper I had written Mr. Murphy’s directions on.
David squinted, holding the paper at an arm’s length. “Yeah. I know where that is. Why? You need a ride?”
“No, no. I just wondered whether it’s close by.”
“It’s not very close, actually. But it’s not far out of my way. Why don’t I give you a ride? Why are you going there, anyway? It’s just a little park—nothing special.” He winked, with a hint of a smile. “You meeting someone?”
I shook my head. “Never mind,” I said. “No, I don’t want to put you out.”
“No, really. It’s no trouble,” David insisted. “I got nothing going on this afternoon, and it’s almost directly on my way to the hotel.”
I thought, then decided I might as well take him up on the offer. “All right,” I agreed. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
“Wait a second here. You’ve got to tell me what this is all about.” He pointed at me. “That’s the only catch.”
I sighed. “I have a tryout,” I said.
“A tryout?” David’s eyes narrowed. “For what? A tryout?”
I nodded, looking toward the field, where Paige was starting to leave. “Yeah, listen. I’ll tell you when I get back. I don’t want to miss him.” I started toward the field.
“You been holding out on me, Blake. Who’s it with?” David called.
“The Cardinals,” I shouted over my shoulder.
David stood. “The Cardinals? You definitely been holding out on me here. We been talking about practically nothing but baseball for the past two days and you haven’t said a word about this.” He was shouting, and I gestured to him to be quiet. “The Cardinals?” he shouted. “I can’t believe it.” And then, as if he suddenly remembered what I was up to: “I’ll meet you in the parking lot,” he shouted.
I waved.
Down on the field, my joints felt unhinged. Mr. Paige was not as old as I expected, younger than I was. I found out later that he was a rookie, barely eighteen years old. And so skinny he looked even younger.
I approached with a tentative posture, from the side. “Mr. Paige, my name is Blake Arbuckle.” I stuck out my hand and he took it, looking at me with an amused expression, as if he either knew exactly what I was going to say, or as if no matter what I said, it would be amusing. I couldn’t help but smile right along with him.
“Mr. Paige, I’m from Albion, Montana, and I just wanted to tell you what a pleasure it was watching you pitch. What you do out there is unbelievable.”
He gave a little nod, still smiling. “Well, thank you very much, Mr. Buckle. It’s mighty nice of you to come all the way down here from Albion to tell me that.”
I nodded, chuckling. “Listen. I’ve just got to ask you…” I suddenly felt self-conscious about my hands, tucking them into my pockets. “I do a little pitching myself…and I’m just wondering…do you have some special grip, or a secret for doing what you do? How do you fool these batters? These guys are good hitters.”
He smiled and shook his head, looking down at his well-worn cleats. Then he lifted his eyes, chuckling, still shaking his head. “They are good hitters,” he said. “But I’m gonna tell you something, Mr. Blake R. Buckle—something I don’t tell nobody.”
I smiled, never having heard my name broken up that way before.
“I do have a secret.” Mr. Paige looked over one shoulder, then the other, then back at me, smiling with the most marvelous twinkle in his eyes, and I knew that whatever he was about to tell me was going to be good. “The secret, Mr. Buckle, is to keep everyone thinking you got a secret.” He laughed lightly, then put his hand on my shoulder. “That’s the best secret of all.” Then he shook my hand and sauntered off, still chuckling, his body following no particular rhythm but his own.
And I felt as if I had just met the wisest man in the world.
When I went out to the parking lot, David’s demeanor had completely changed. Gone was the smug slant of his smile. I felt, just from the way he looked at me, as if our stations in the world had suddenly reversed.
“What did he say?” he asked.
I just smiled.
He tilted his head. “Oh, you can’t do that to me. You just talked to one of the greats of the game, and you’re gonna hold out on that, too? You can’t do that.”
I shrugged, knowing that I now had David Westford in the palm of my hand.
“All right. If that’s how it’s gonna be,” he said, shaking his head. “You’re the hot shot here.” He opened his car door. “So when is your tryout? We got some time for lunch?”
“Three o’clock,” I said.
David took out his pocket watch. “Okay. We got an hour and a half. So I’m gonna buy you lunch. Come on. It would be my honor to buy lunch for the next star of the St. Louis Cardinals.”
“Don’t get carried away now,” I said. “It’s just a tryout.” But it was clear he wasn’t about to take no for an answer, so I followed along without an argument.
At the restaurant, I could hardly eat. Between my nerves, which twisted my stomach into a tangle, and David’s eating habits, my appetite was shot. David ate his food in great handfuls, like some character from a children’s book. Grease coated his chin, and chunks settled into the corners of his mouth and lived there until they were crowded out by bigger chunks. I have no idea what he ordered, because I couldn’t look after the first few bites. But I barely touched my steak. I also said very little. But David did enough eating and talking for both of us. While he went on and on about the Cardinals, my mind wandered, picturing the barn wall, and visualizing myself throwing pitches to those stick figures.
“A pitcher, huh?” David said, looking me square in the eye. “They could use some pitchers right now. They got a hell of a lot of good hitters. But they could sure as hell use some good pitching. I can’t believe…boy, you really had me going with this whole farm kid routine.”
Finally, mercifully, lunch was over. Mr. Murphy was waiting when we arrived at the baseball field, which was just as David described it—more of a small park, with a baseball diamond carved into the grass. There were no bleachers, or dugouts. Not even benches. Mr. Murphy was older than I expected, probably in his fifties. He was bald, ruddy-faced, and constantly squinting. His suit was worn at the elbows, and his shoes hadn’t seen a polish brush for a couple of seasons. He had another young guy with him, a kid with a broken nose whom he introduced as Johnny Trumble. Johnny was decked out in catcher’s gear.
“Did you bring your lawyer with you?” Mr. Murphy nodded toward David, who sat on his car’s fender.
“No, he just gave me a ride. He’s not a lawyer.” I felt my face burn red.
Mr. Murphy laughed. “I was just kidding, Blake. Listen, are you nervous? Why don’t you loosen up a little? Just play some catch with Johnny here. Don’t think about pitching for a few minutes. Just relax, loosen your arm up.”
He tossed me a ball. “Did you bring your mitt?”
My heart sank. I looked at my feet. “Actually, I don’t have one.”
He looked only slightly surprised, and it occurred to me that he probably scouted a lot of young country kids who couldn’t afford equipment. “All right. Okay. Let me think. You know, I think I might have one in my car. No. Actually, I think I loaned—”
“I got one, Mr. Murphy.” Johnny Trumble trotted off toward Murphy’s car, and returned with a mitt while I took off my jacket and tie and unbuttoned my sleeves, rolling them up past my elbows.
Once I got loosened up, Johnny Trumble took his place behind the plate, and I climbed the mound. I felt as if I was towering over the world.
“You probably never pitched off a mound before, have you?” Mr. Murphy said.
And although there was nothing condescending about Mr. Murphy’s tone, I thought about lying. I didn’t want to give him a reason to eliminate me as an option. But I shook my head.
“That’s all right. You don’t have to use the mound.”
“No, no. It’s okay,” I told him. “I want to.”
“Good. All right.” He smiled. “That’s the spirit. Just throw a few easy ones to get a feel for it.”
For the first few pitches, the angle threw me off, and the ball bounced in front of the plate. But as I started to get more comfortable, I saw how the mound could provide an advantage with the leverage. I found a rhythm, and I began to put a little more effort into each pitch, until I was throwing as hard as I could. Mr. Murphy watched from several different angles—from behind me, from each side, then from behind Johnny. I felt pretty good, although my nerves never did settle completely. Mr. Murphy’s manner encouraged me. Not that he was smiling. But he studied me closely. He wasn’t bored, at least. But I was worried about the curveball. Timing was so much more important for that pitch, and I wasn’t sure I could adjust to the new angle.
“You have any other pitches? You throw a drop? Or a curve?” Mr. Murphy asked.
Okay, I thought. Here comes the hard part. “I throw a bit of a curve,” I said.
“Good. Okay. Let’s see how you do with it from up there. On the hill.”
I took a deep breath. Then I fixed my gaze on Johnny, who held his glove up, setting the target. He gave me a slight, encouraging nod, and a wink, which I appreciated. I let her fly. Again, the first one kicked up dust, landing just behind the plate. But it had broken off nicely, and I closed my eyes, making a mental adjustment, picturing the stick figure on the barn wall, and I imagined aiming just a little higher, at shoulder height instead of elbow. I wound up slowly and threw, and this one also broke sharply, but far outside. But the distance was better, and I used this as encouragement. Each pitch felt just a little better. I threw curve after curve, breaking most of them off perfectly, just as they crossed the plate.
I was soaked in sweat, and I looked over at David. He was smiling.
“That’s enough, Blake.” Mr. Murphy walked toward the mound from where he’d been standing, behind Johnny. “That’s good.” He walked slowly, head down, hands behind his back. He didn’t look at me. I got more nervous, my stomach floating. I took off the mitt, and my hand was sweating.
He didn’t speak for a long time, stopping halfway between the plate and the mound, looking down, his hands still tucked behind. Finally, Mr. Murphy turned toward me and looked up.
“Well, what do you think?” he asked me.
“What do I think?” I scratched my head. “I’m sorry. I’m not sure what you mean, Mr. Murphy. What do I think about what?”
He took two more steps toward me. “How did you feel there? How were you throwing today? As well as you can? Better than usual? Worse?”
“Good,” I said immediately. “I felt pretty good.”
He nodded. “Well, you looked good, too, Blake. You throw well. That curve has some bite to it. And you’ve got a good fastball, too. It has a little movement.”
“Yeah?” I suddenly couldn’t breathe. “Really?”
“Yeah.” He looked up at me. “There’s someone else I’d like you to meet. My boss, actually. He’s coming into town tomorrow. I’d like you to meet him, show him what you can do. What do you think about that?”
“Oh, no,” I answered quickly, without thinking.
Mr. Murphy’s brows rose. “No?”
“I mean, yes, I would like that. I’d like to meet him, but tomorrow isn’t good. I have to catch a train, tomorrow morning.”
Mr. Murphy stood right where he was, with one foot in the grass, one on the base of the mound. His eyebrows had jumped to the middle of his forehead, and he kept looking at me, as if he was waiting for me to tell him something different, to change my mind. But I couldn’t think of anything to say. I wondered about coming down another time, but I knew that was impossible. It would probably be another three years before I had a chance.
“So?” Mr. Murphy finally said. “That’s it, then? You can’t stay one more day?”
I looked at my shoes. I suddenly felt ill. I thought about how long I’d been waiting for this chance—six years of hard work, six years of hope. There had to be a way.
“Can you just talk to your boss?” I asked.
“Talk to him?” Mr. Murphy shook his head in confusion. “About what? About what? If he doesn’t see you pitch, I really don’t have anything to talk to him about. See what I mean, Blake? What do I say to him if he’s never seen you?”
I swallowed. I thought about harvest. They were starting harvest the day after my return. They needed everyone for harvest. I dug my hands into my pockets.
We all stood there, and for several seconds, nobody said a word, and I knew that all I needed to do was say “Okay.” All I had to do was say, “All right, I’ll be here,” and I might have a chance. That was it. Mr. Murphy waited, knowing that questions would be rolling around in my head. The temptation sat, holding me hostage for those long, silent seconds, and he knew it. He was good. He knew that if there was ever a moment I would weaken, it was then. Finally, I saw that there was only one choice. Despite the price I would pay, and the trouble it may cause.
“Okay,” I said. “All right. What time?”
And I heard a small whoop from the direction of David Westford.
Despite all my efforts to talk him out of it, David insisted on giving me a ride to the tryout the next morning. I sent a telegram to the Belle Fourche Hotel, knowing that whoever came to pick me up would be staying there. I just explained that something had come up, and that I’d be a day late. Nothing to worry about, I added.
I did manage to talk my way out of spending the evening with David. I wanted a good night’s rest, and I had a strong suspicion that a night on the town with him would not end with a good night’s rest. I was going to check out of my hotel, into a cheaper one, but again, David wouldn’t hear of it, paying for my room while I tried talking him out of it. I could do nothing but say thanks. So once he was gone, I walked around town, shopping.
I bought a new pocketknife for Dad, some perfume for Mom, a leather belt for Bob, and some chocolates for Muriel. The hardest decision was what to buy Jack and Rita. But in a strange little shop that sold mostly cigars and magazines, I found a catalogue that was basically a list of all the catalogues in the country. And for Rita, I remembered that she used to wear a lot of hats when she first arrived in Montana. So I found a pretty, black felt hat with a brim that curled up the front and a fake diamond pin that held it in place.
As much as I enjoyed walking around again, it felt different than it had the first evening. I noticed things I hadn’t that first night—such as the fact that people did not meet your eye. That they walked much faster than they did in Belle Fourche. And that almost every exchange I had with anyone outside of a salesclerk was negative. I started to experience some of the same stifled feeling that I did when I was living in Belle Fourche. By the time I got back to my hotel, I had a hard time breathing. I sat in the lobby for a few minutes, watching people walk back and forth, wishing there was some way to stop one of them and start a conversation. I watched people use the phone, and I wished that they had a telephone at home so I could call.
In the middle of all these people, I felt as lonely as I’d ever felt. I was happy to go to bed. And despite being as nervous as I could ever remember, I slept pretty well.
But the next morning, I was a wreck. I woke up early, with so much energy that after I ate breakfast and took advantage of the tub one last time, I had to take a walk. My mind raced as I covered blocks of downtown Omaha. I visualized pitching, imagining my motion, feeling it in my arm, and my body. But more than anything, I thought of my brother George. I remembered how horrified I’d been to find out that he was thinking of leaving the ranch. I couldn’t imagine how he would even consider such a thing. Now here I was.
As my mind explored every angle of the situation, I looked up to realize that I had been paying no attention to where I was. I was in a part of town that looked completely different from the area where my hotel was. I noticed that it felt more dangerous, that people looked at you more suspiciously. There were people holding hats out for change, and the pedestrians were rougher, bumping into each other without a word of apology. I had to ask for directions, and to my surprise, I found that I was just two blocks from the hotel. It was a good thing, too, because I checked the time, and it was only ten minutes before David was supposed to pick me up. But I was struck by how abruptly the flavor of the town could change from one street to the next.
I hurried back, ran up to my room, splashed some cold water on my face, and waited in front of the building.
“You nervous?” From the amount of sweat pouring down David’s face, he appeared to be the one who was nervous.
I shook my head. “Not too bad,” I lied.
“God damn, I would be.”
I didn’t say much, and to my surprise, neither did David, somehow honoring my unspoken desire for a little time for mental preparation. When we arrived at the practice field, Mr. Murphy and Johnny Trumble stood on the field talking with a third man, a dapper, handsome man who was perhaps twenty years younger than Mr. Murphy, in his early thirties. And a good half foot shorter.
“Blake, how you doing today?” Mr. Murphy asked. He sidled up to me, shook hands, and handed me a mitt. I looked down and recognized it was not the one I used the day before. It was new. Mr. Murphy winked at me, and I realized that he had bought it for me.
“Good, fine,” I answered, smiling. “Thanks, Mr. Murphy.”
He simply nodded. “This is Billy Spinelli,” Mr. Murphy said. “He’s the head scout for the Cardinal farm system.”
I nodded, shaking Mr. Spinelli’s hand. But Mr. Spinelli showed right away that he wasn’t interested in the social aspect of his job. “All right,” he said. “Let’s see what you can do, Arbuckle.”
Johnny gave me an encouraging smile before trotting behind the plate, where he stood pounding his catcher’s mitt while I took off my jacket and rolled up my sleeves. Mr. Murphy took a shiny new baseball from his jacket, rubbed it hard with the palm of one hand, and tossed it to me.
“Okay, Blake. Just remember how you felt yesterday. Just do the same thing you were doing yesterday.” He sounded nervous himself, which immediately brought a fluttering energy to my body. I took a deep breath, adjusted my grip on the baseball, and threw a few straight fastballs, right down the middle. The jitters began to fade.
Mr. Murphy did as he had done the day before, checking my motion from several different angles. But Mr. Spinelli had the opposite approach. He stood ten feet behind Johnny Trumble, expressionless, his arms folded, his brow furrowed. After checking the look on his face a few times and seeing that it hadn’t changed, I decided it would be better to avoid looking his way. Seeing that same rigid brow and the straight line in his mouth only worried me.
“All right, let’s see that curveball,” Mr. Murphy said. “Show him how you snap that thing off.”
I adjusted my grip, running my first finger along one seam, and wound up. But I realized the moment I threw the first curve that something was wrong. The ball squirted off to one side, almost two feet outside the plate, not breaking at all. Johnny didn’t even try to catch it, but stood up and trotted after the ball.
“That’s okay,” Mr. Murphy assured me. “Take a deep breath. Take your time. Just relax.”
“I hope you’re not wasting my time here again, Murphy,” Mr. Spinelli said.
But I knew what the problem was. I wasn’t used to a brand-new baseball. The leather was much slicker than the old, scuffed balls I was used to throwing. So before Johnny threw the ball back to me, I bent down and rubbed dirt on my hands. I caught the throw from Johnny and massaged some dirt into the smooth leather. I set my forefinger along the seam, laid my right foot on the rubber, kicked and threw. The dirt helped immediately. This pitch started toward Johnny’s glove, then dropped off its line at the plate. It would have kicked up dust right at Johnny’s feet, but he was ready for it, and caught it with his glove laid flat on the ground. Despite my vow, I had to shoot a quick glance at Mr. Spinelli. His eyebrows had jumped to the middle of his forehead. But it was the only part of his body or face that responded, and they quickly dropped back to their normal position, low over his eyes.
“Nice pitch.” Mr. Murphy was behind me, and I was relieved to hear this bit of encouragement. “Let’s see a few more like that one.”
So I did what I could, throwing pitch after pitch, letting the ball spin off the tip of my forefinger as it left my hand. Most of them broke nicely, diving through the strike zone. Johnny smiled, and winked after four in a row broke across the outside corner of the plate. But Mr. Spinelli retained his rocklike demeanor. Not until I’d thrown about twenty-five curveballs did he speak.
“Is that it?” he asked, still standing firm, arms crossed, brow low. “Does he have any other pitches?”
There was a long pause. I was annoyed that he spoke to Mr. Murphy as if I wasn’t there. Mr. Murphy cleared his throat behind me. I was just about to say “no,” or shake my head, but a thought came to me. “Yeah,” I said. “Yeah. I have one more pitch.”
“Hm?” Mr. Murphy held back his surprise.
“What is it?” Mr. Spinelli asked.
“Well, I don’t really know what you call it,” I said. “It doesn’t have a name.”
This seemed to annoy Mr. Spinelli. “All right,” he said impatiently, looking at his watch. “Let’s see it. I don’t got all day.”
Mr. Murphy came out from behind me, circling around halfway between me and first base. He set his fists on his hips, and eyed me with a subtle look of amused confusion. I took a long, slow breath. Johnny established the target, and I positioned my fore and middle fingers right across both seams, just as I would for my fastball, and started my windup. I changed nothing about my delivery, throwing a straight fastball, except that just as I brought my right arm forward, I flipped my glove hand in a slight motion across my body. The pitch honed in on Johnny, splitting the plate, popping the leather on his thick catcher’s mitt. He held the ball for a moment.
Mr. Spinelli looked up at me, and for the first time that morning, he shifted his glance toward Mr. Murphy. Again, his expression revealed nothing. But he did say, “Let’s see that again.”
I took the throw from Johnny, set my grip, and repeated the same motion. Again, I flipped the glove, and the pitch crossed the middle of the plate. The words of Satchel Paige ran through my head, and I acted as if I’d just done something nobody had ever done before. I took Johnny’s throw with a confident flip of my wrist, and stretched my throwing arm above my head.
“You say you don’t have a name for that thing?” Mr. Spinelli said. Considering his manner up to now, I was fully prepared for a sarcastic follow-up, or a challenge. I shook my head.
“Well, throw a few more of those.” For the first time since I’d started throwing, Mr. Spinelli showed signs of life. His arms dropped to his side, and he stepped forward, so that he was just a few feet behind Johnny. He leaned forward, bracing his hands against his knees. Mr. Murphy moved closer to the plate.
I did as he asked, and the more I threw, the more comfortable I felt with the little hitch in my motion. In the end, I don’t know whether this little flip of my glove actually affected the path of the ball, or if the best secret really is making people believe you have a secret. All I know is that after I had thrown this pitch another twenty times or so, Mr. Spinelli walked up to Johnny and reached for the ball.
“All right, Arbuckle.” He gave a quick nod. “That’s enough.” He motioned to Mr. Murphy, and the two of them walked over across the third-base line and began a quiet conversation. Johnny trotted out to the mound.
“What the hell were you doing out there?” he asked.
I smiled and shrugged. I couldn’t tell from Johnny’s expression or tone whether he was impressed, or if he couldn’t believe I thought I could get away with such blatant fraud. “I’ve never seen anything like that,” he said with admiration.
“Thanks,” I said. We shook hands.
I had not thought about David through the whole tryout. But I glanced over at him now. His ruddy face sported a smile that stretched from one ear to the other. He clapped his hands together a couple of times.
I watched the two scouts confer. It was clear from their body language who had the power between the two. Although Mr. Murphy was a half head taller than Mr. Spinelli, he was leaning toward him, his hands out, palms up, as if he was begging for a morsel of food, or a dime. As he listened, Mr. Spinelli stood with his arms crossed, his chin high. He pounded a fist into his palm when he spoke. Mr. Murphy nodded repeatedly, and it appeared as if no matter what Spinelli said, Murphy would agree with him. The discussion probably lasted a minute, but I wouldn’t be able to guess, as my mind was racing. Finally, the two men turned and walked toward me.
“You’re in,” Johnny said quietly, but I didn’t have time to ask how he knew.
Mr. Spinelli led the way, and Mr. Murphy was smiling at me from behind him. Mr. Spinelli took off his felt hat, plucked a handkerchief from his breast pocket, and wiped his forehead.
“Well, Arbuckle,” he said, “what do you got going on next spring? You have plans?”
I couldn’t breathe. “Urn, well, besides doing my regular work, you know, on the ranch. No. Nothing.”
Mr. Spinelli sniffed. He cleared his throat. “How does seven dollars a week sound? We’ll start you out in A ball, and see what you do in game situations. Everything from there will depend on you. You mow ’em down in A ball, you can move up fast, start earning some real money.”
“Seven bucks a week?” The voice from behind made me jump. “That’s not right. Seven bucks a week?”
Mr. Spinelli’s face suddenly changed completely. His brow lowered just over his eyes, and squeezed together. “And who is this?” He turned to Mr. Murphy. “Who is this?”
“Please don’t pay attention to him,” I said. “I barely know him. I just met him yesterday.”
“Hey, I’m just trying to help. I don’t want you fellas taking advantage of the kid. That’s all.” David stopped fifteen feet from us.
“David, please,” I said, giving him a look. “This is none of your business.”
“Are you a lawyer or something?” Mr. Spinelli asked David. I began to panic, thinking that David was going to ruin my big moment.
“No. I’m a businessman. And a baseball fan. And I just want to make sure you treat my friend right. That’s all.”
“David, please,” I pleaded. “Mr. Spinelli, don’t listen to him. I barely know him.” I stepped in front of David, blocking the path between the two men.
“No, it’s okay,” Mr. Spinelli said. “He’s just trying to help you out. Okay, Arbuckle. Here’s what I’m gonna do. I’m going to offer you ten dollars a week. But only if you promise not to tell any of the other players what you’re getting. Except Johnny here, of course, who’s getting the same as you. You two can help each other keep this little secret.” He winked, and grabbed my upper arm. “What do you say?”
My head spun, and my jaw had fallen into a dumb slack. Despite all the years of work, I don’t think I ever believed it would come this far. The offer came as such a surprise that I had no thought of the consequences of my decision. My mind was blank.
“Okay,” I said. “Yeah. That sounds great.”
Mr. Spinelli clapped me on the back, and Mr. Murphy stepped forward and shook my hand with an enthusiasm that confirmed my suspicion that his job might depend on this. Mr. Spinelli arranged to send me a contract, and we all shook hands.
“I can’t believe I’m sitting next to a future pitching star for my favorite goddam team.” David Westford chuckled like a little kid weaving through the streets of Omaha.
“Well, I thought you were going to ruin everything for a second there.”
David laughed. “Yeah. I could tell you were worried. But hell, you got to watch guys like that. They won’t give you a dollar unless you ask ’em for it. And they won’t give you an extra one unless you scare ’em a little.”
“Yeah…well, I guess I owe you a thank-you.”
“Hell no. You don’t owe me nothing, son. You earned it. You can pitch. You’re going to let me take you out tonight, aren’t you? You got to celebrate, right?”
“No, no. I’ve got to catch the train. In fact, what time is it?”
David pulled his watch from its little pocket. “You can’t wait until tomorrow morning?”
“What time is it?”
He looked at his watch. “Three-fifteen.”
“Damn. I’ve got to hurry.”
“What time is your train?”
“Four.”
“I’ll give you a lift.”
“No, David. Come on now, you’ve done enough. Thank you, but you’ve already done too much.”
I did catch my train, and of course David did give me a ride, and an hour later I was retracing the route home with a very different perspective from the one I had three days earlier. I ate an early dinner, but when I reached back into my pants for my wallet, I felt nothing there. I panicked. I searched my pants pockets, then my jacket. Then I searched them again. The waiter stood patiently watching, then impatiently watching. I looked up at him, my mouth slack. “I don’t know…“I think I lost my wallet. I don’t know…can I go back and check my seat?”
He nodded with a bored expression, and followed me. I searched my satchel, the floor, the space between the cushions, everywhere. We asked the conductor, and the passengers around me. Nobody had seen it. The tenth time I patted my palms against my chest, then my thighs, I flashed back to that morning, when I’d gotten lost. A man had bumped into me. Then another man had bumped me from behind. I hadn’t thought much about it at the time, except that it seemed rude. But it suddenly hit me that my pocket had been picked. And my heart jumped up into my throat until I remembered that I’d slipped the check from Mr. Tanner in my boot. I pulled my boot off, and there it was, safely tucked away. I showed it to the waiter.
“I guess my wallet was stolen while I was in Omaha. Can I send a check when I get home? I’m very sorry. But as you can see, I have enough to cover it.”
“This check is made out to you?”
I nodded, a white lie. But he agreed. I guess he didn’t have much choice.
I sank into my seat, and felt an immediate change of heart about my experience in Omaha. The thrill of that first night on the streets seemed like weeks ago. The shrimp, the thick cotton sheets, the bathtub, it all felt like a façade, a setup. I was so exhausted from waking up early and from the strain of the day that I fell asleep before the windows were dark.
When I woke up the next morning, I had a whole day on the train, again studying ranches so much like our own, thinking about my decision, and considering the prospect of telling my family. And the more the miles rolled by, and the clicking and clacking beat away at my conscience, the more my resolve began to fade. When I had first gotten on the train, I would not have suspected that there was any possibility that I would change my mind. I was ready I felt sure about what I wanted to do.
But now I saw these ranches racing by, and they made me realize how much I missed everything—the space, the smell of the grass, the feel of the warm wind that traveled unimpeded across miles of fresh nature. And the people. I missed my family. And as I thought about harvest, one of my favorite times of the year, and about watching the yellowing stalks of wheat being swallowed by the thresher, and about feeling a burlap bag swell with grain between my knees, I got excited about being back home. I hated thinking of the look on my parents’ faces as I told them I was leaving.
For the first time, I had a slight understanding of why Jack would disappear the way he did, without telling anyone, to avoid seeing that look. And I wondered whether George had experienced this same hesitation, whether it might have had something to do with the fact that he never left. I changed my mind hourly, telling myself that I could always change it later. I could always come back to the ranch. I thought about ten dollars a week, and how I might be able to make even more, and maybe save some and come back with a little money put away. The next minute I was thinking about how lonely I felt in the hotel lobby that second night, and wondered how I could even consider moving.
By the time the train pulled into Belle late that evening, my head was muddled. The fact that I’d given Mr. Spinelli and Mr. Murphy my word weighed heavy on me—especially Mr. Murphy, who seemed to have a lot riding on my answer. As I expected, there was a message at the hotel:
Couldn’t wait. Had to get back for
harvest. Jack
I went directly to the post office, where Annie Ketchal was just loading her truck. I dreaded another night with Annie and her stories, another night without sleep, especially with harvest the next morning. But as I climbed into the cab of her truck, it occurred to me that I could actually ask her to let me sleep. It seemed like a good idea, one that I was surprised I hadn’t thought of on my last trip with her. But once we started out, I couldn’t find a gap in the conversation big enough to wedge a word into. So I listened for a while, waiting for an opening, and as it turned out, she told me something important.
“I heard your brother was in town today.”
I nodded. “Yeah. He was there to pick me up, actually. I was supposed to be here yesterday.”
“Oh yeah? What happened?”
“Oh, nothing. It’s a long story. I just got hung up.”
I could tell that not getting a straight answer just about killed Annie, but she nodded, looking out the window. And I leaned back, resting my head against the seat, and closed my eyes. I was just about to tell her that I wanted to sleep.
“I also heard Jack was in the bank today,” she said, “asking about your land.”
I was so tired, and so unfocused on what Annie had to say, that this took a few seconds to register. But when it did, I lifted my head.
“He what?”
She wiggled in her seat, sensing that she had something good here. “He was asking about what it’s worth.”
“Our land?”
“Yeah. Your land.”
“Are you sure?”
Annie nodded, squinting. She stopped to drop off a mail sack. “And I guess he was also asking how much money was in the account.” And she got out, letting a cold wind blow through the cab.
And suddenly I was wide-awake. In the time it took for that cold wind to reach inside and slap me, I realized that there was no longer a choice. These rumors could mean nothing. And Jack’s questions to the bank could be completely innocent. He might have just been curious. But I didn’t trust Jack. I couldn’t bear the thought of him even remotely considering the thought of pulling any of the land out from under our family.
Annie climbed back into the cab. “But I did hear it from Trudy Spears. Her husband works there, you know.”
Any remaining doubts disappeared right then and there. I leaned back and closed my eyes. “Annie, if you don’t mind, we’ve got harvesting to do tomorrow, so I need to get some sleep.”
“Sure,” she said. “Sure. Of course.”
And I rested my head on the seat again, pretending to sleep, thinking about Jack, and about the ranch. And it didn’t take long to realize that I’d made a decision.
For years, I convinced myself that the combination of the robbery and Annie Ketchal’s news changed my mind about going to St. Louis. But I know better now. I know that when it came right down to it, I just used these facts as an excuse. As much as I liked the idea of exploring more of the world, I couldn’t leave. The truth of the matter was, I didn’t want to leave.