After a snack and nap at the Congress House, Andy bounded out of bed and stretched. Seeing his compact body ridged with muscle, I realized I hadn’t been in decent shape in years. He pulled on bright red leggings over shins scarred from spike wounds and adjusted elastic bands at the bottom of his pants just below the knees. Except for the scarlet C scripted on the jersey, the uniform was solid white. He cinched up his wide leather belt and pulled on a white linen jockey cap. Then, holding a pair of high-topped calfskin shoes on which he’d screwed brass spikes, he stood in the middle of the room poised like a gymnast. His green eyes sparkled.
“The ladies are some for our uniform,” he said, grinning. “It’s a rouser.”
Except for the heavy material and the jersey’s pointed lapels and long cuffed sleeves, it looked pretty standard to me.
“What about it gets to the ladies?” I said.
“Why, the new knickers and stockings.” He pointed to his legs. “Up to last year nobody’d seen the like. Harry says they used to call him the ‘Bearded Boy in Bloomers’ and ‘Captain of the Bloody Calves.’ But this year the Cleveland club’s already out in blue stockings, and I hear the Mutuals might switch over. You’re travelin’ with the Beau Brummells of baseball!”
I smiled as he cracked up at his own wit. “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You guys are the first to wear baseball pants and colored sox?”
“That’s what I’m saying—what everybody knows.” He shook his head. “Sometimes you’re way out of touch, Sam.”
I couldn’t deny it. “Are you in a league? With a regular schedule?”
“No, Harry and the other captains jaw about it, but right now there’s just the association—the National Association of Base Ball Players. It meets every winter to set the rules. This is the first year it’s allowed all-professional clubs.”
“And you’re one,” I said.
“We’re the only! The rest split up their gates and pretend they’re still amateurs. Shoot, everybody’s known for years that the top stars—like George Wright, or Al Reach of the Athletics—got paid on the sly. Ask George, he’ll tell you he’s never worked a lick outside of ball.”
I thought I heard a note of envy. “So you’re all under contract?”
“That’s right, signed on back before the season begun. All out in the open. Harry and George get the most, of course. Acey and Fred make out pretty good, and so on down to Mac, Hurley, Sweaze, and me—the new ones.”
“Who’s Mac?”
“Cal McVey, our kid right fielder. You’ll meet him. Anyhow, Mrs. Leonard’s boy Andrew ain’t chuckleheaded. I signed on for seven hundred dollars, and I’m happy as pie. Without this, I’d be sweating in some factory.”
I had a troubling thought. “How long’s your season?”
“April fifteenth to November fifteenth. Why?”
Seven months. He earned only twenty-five dollars a week. My suits cost half a month’s wages. Good grief.
“Nobody’s kicking about my play either.” Andy looked at me defiantly, his voice rising. “I may be small, but I cover my field good as any man, and if it’s pluck that—”
A knock came, then Harry Wright’s calm voice. “Coaches are here.”
“I’m for it!” Andy yelled, springing for the door.
Six small carriages drawn by pairs of matched horses were lined in front. Liveried drivers perched on tiny seats above upholstered passenger benches. The tops were folded down, leaving the shallow compartments open to the sky, which showed dark cloud masses building in the west.
I wanted to ride with Andy, but Millar guided me to the rear carriage where Champion waited with the Alerts’ officials—bewhiskered burghers who stared at my clothes—and we set off clopping and bumping and rattling up State Street.
The ride was rougher than any auto’s. A sense of unreality overcame me again as I looked out at vendors pushing carts and shopkeepers staring from doorways and a welter of bell-ringing claxon-sounding vehicles—including several odd-looking wooden bicycles—that swarmed around us in no pattern I could discern. People were waving gaily to us. The cheery atmosphere put me in mind of a sailing regatta—and then I was seized by the wonder of it all: it was Friday, June 4, 1869! I was riding by open carriage through Rochester, going to see America’s first pro ball players!
Shouts went up: “The Cincinnatis! The Red Stockings!” People thronged the sidewalks. The players waved to them, their uniforms bright splashes of color in the gray afternoon; they grinned at the shouts and taunts of boys in ragged knickers who chased them barefoot through the streets.
I felt a little like a boy myself as we passed the white-foaming falls in the Genesee and angled left past Brown’s Race. As the river’s noise faded I thought I heard singing.
“Team song,” said Millar. “Each player has a verse. Listen, they’re starting Harry’s.”
“Our captain is a goodly man,
And ‘Harry’ is his name.
Whate’er he does is always ‘Wright’
So says the voice of fame.
And as the leader of our nine
We think he can’t be beat,
For in many a fight old Harry Wright
Has saved us from defeat.”
They broke into a booming chorus:
“Hurrah, hurrah,
For the noble game hurrah!
Red Stockings all will toss the ball
And shout our loud hurrah!”
“Singing on their way to play ball,” I said. “Amazing!”
“No more so,” Champion said defensively, “than men singing on their way to battle.”
He had a point. It wasn’t more amazing than that.
Our passage slowed as we entered Jones Square, a block-long public park lined with elms, and crowds pressed around us. I craned my neck to see the diamond.
“How many?” Champion said suddenly.
Millar said he guessed about three thousand.
Champion glanced nervously at the storm clouds. “Another Yellow Springs and we’re in deep.”
Millar explained that the tour’s opener against Antioch College, four days earlier, had been rained out—posing a problem since gate receipts had to meet travel costs.
“You don’t have enough to cover rainouts?” I said.
“The truth is we’re vastly in debt,” Champion replied. “We’ve borrowed against future receipts to pay the ballists while they trained. We plunged thousands into erecting a new clubhouse and stands. If this tour fails, it will spell disaster.”
“Our grounds are the finest in the country,” Millar asserted.
“And doubtless the most expensive,” Champion said. “The lease alone costs two thousand a year.”
I nodded gravely; newsman on his job.
“But beyond those concerns, Mr. Fowler, is the larger issue of whether the national game can succeed as a profession.”
“You’ve got to be kidding,” I said.
“That phrase is unfamiliar,” Champion said, a bit huffily. “As you may know, baseball with standard rules was developed by gentlemen’s sporting clubs only several decades ago. The old amateurs did all they could to keep control of their game. But its popularity during the war weakened their control, and a newer element—sharps and their ilk—brought drunkenness, brawling, and wagering to contests, the very things the old clubs feared. Of late, matches have been deliberately thrown off by players in the hold of gamblers. The game’s integrity is in grave question.”
“Where do the Red Stockings fit in?” I asked.
Champion smiled wanly. “So far, it appears that we threaten both amateurs and gamblers—the latter because salaried ballists are harder to bribe.”
I nodded, wondering how much he was overdramatizing..
“We are a novel experiment, Mr. Fowler. People, some of them unscrupulous, are watching us carefully to see whether the national game can be put on an honest business footing. That is why our men must give their very noblest performance at all times. They must be incorruptible—”
He looked at me.
“—and sober.”
I got the point.
“Don’t worry, baseball will survive,” I told him, mindful of my era’s enormous stadia, fawning media coverage, and millionaire players.
“Your assurance is gratifying,” he said tartly.
On a field still wet from the early downpour the Alerts warmed up, moving crisply in white uniforms with long pants bearing navy stripes that matched their flat Civil War-style caps; each tunic was emblazoned with a red A. Using both hands, they seemed to catch the ball as effortlessly and painlessly as if they wore gloves. How could they do that?
“They look good,” I said to Millar. “What are our chances?”
“Our?” He gave me a pained look. “We’ve won all six of our matches so far—three at home and three on tour—and should take this one. The Alerts are veterans, but this is only their opening game. Still, they’ll want to be the first eastern club to topple us.”
We had been surrounded by working-class males of all ages in shapeless pants and collarless shirts. I’d seen no women among them. Closer to the diamond, things began to change. On the arms of men dressed more or less like Brainard—“swells,” Millar called them—women glided demurely, faces blurred by veils on tiny hats, torsos encased in rich, heavy, elaborate, bustled dresses; scarves fluttered about their necks, and their gloved hands brandished parasols with practiced ease.
I stared at them, fascinated. They looked formidable, mysterious, utterly unapproachable—and desirable. Were Victorian women as repressed as they’d been made out? A fact-finding mission seemed called for. My brain concocted erotic fantasies. Even though I was still disoriented, I was undeniably horny.
The ladies took seats with their escorts in a covered stand behind home plate. Officials herded other spectators toward what Millar called the “bull pens,” roped-off sections behind the foul lines where men stood shoulder to shoulder. Ringing the outfield behind a low fence were horse-drawn vehicles ranging from carts to omnibuses.
I sat between Millar and Hurley at a long table outside the first-base line. Hurley, the team’s sole substitute and keeper of the score book, looked a bit healthier than he had that morning at breakfast.
A crescendo of admiring oohs began to rise from the crowd. In the center of the diamond, four Stockings—Andy, Sweasy, Waterman, and George Wright—stood tossing a ball rapidly among themselves. It reminded me of a Harlem Globetrotter warm-up routine. The ball blurred behind their backs, around their heads, over their shoulders, under their legs, the four of them feinting, stretching, diving, laughing at their own sleight of hand, urged on by the crowd’s response: applause, delighted cries, and finally full-throated roars as George Wright capped the exhibition by hurling the ball straight overhead, higher than it seemed a ball could be thrown. He stood nonchalantly under it until the last possible instant, when, with no other movement, he cupped his bare hands and made a basket catch, waved the ball aloft with a flourish, and, joined by the others, followed it downward in a sweeping bow.
The crowd ate it up. So did I.
“Not bad, I’m thinkin’, for country-club lads,” said a loud voice edged with Irish brogue. “Sure an’ it’s a fact, two of the four tricksters sprang from the very soil of the Emerald Isle!”
I looked around and saw a tall, hatless, smooth-shaven man approaching. He was almost handsome in a bluff way, with thinning red hair and the beginning of a paunch.
“Uh-oh,” muttered Millar.
“Who’s he?” I asked.
“Red Jim McDermott,” said Millar. “A sharp, one of Morrissey’s crowd.”
I pondered that as I scrutinized him. A pair of calculating baby-blue eyes belied the jovial smile.
“. . . the same country lads that just thrashed the poor Niagras sevenfold, forty-two to six, in but seven innings!” McDermott guffawed to the Rochester reporters at the other end of the table. His style seemed to lie in delivering pronouncements at top volume, then looking around shrewdly to check reactions. His tone suggested that we were brothers in a fraternity of greed. “Worst drubbing in Buffalo ever—and by these same western eclectics, for the love of Jaysus and Mary.” His glance swept over us.
“Our boys play a lively fielding game,” a Rochester reporter argued. “They won’t drub us.”
“Well, now,” said McDermott, “the pool-selling lads appear to agree. They’ve set the scoring at only three to two, Reds.”
“That so?” said the reporter, rising and starting for the third-base side. “Then I’m getting in now.”
“And what d’ya Ohio lads think?” McDermott faced Millar. A diamond pin twinkled on his shirtfront. “You set for a tussle?”
“We’ll play our hardest,” Millar said shortly.
McDermott smirked. “There’s some think one or two might throw off a little today.”
Millar stiffened. “By Jupiter, we’ll give a square account. Our boys aren’t corruptible . . . like some.”
“Sure, an’ I’m a wee angel meself to believe it.” McDermott guffawed and looked around for support. “You’re tellin’ me Acey Brainard’s not placed a wager in his life? Nor taken a man’s honest earnings in a billiard parlor?”
“Go ahead and bet your money,” Millar said. “It’s not our concern.”
“Well, it’s a blunt thing to be saying.” McDermott’s smile faded as he leaned down and stared into Millar’s eyes. “But that’s exactly what I intend—and my money sure as hell won’t be on you.”
He straightened and moved away slowly.
“What was all that about?” I asked.
Millar let his breath out. “Last year I wrote about McDermott and his ilk’s control of sporting events. The Clipper reprinted it in New York. I’m not his favorite.”
“What was that three-to-two stuff?”
“He’s betting we won’t outscore the Alerts by a ratio of three runs to two.” Millar’s pudgy jaw tightened. “I hope we lay all over ’em. I hope that loudmouthed mick loses his shirt!”
I regarded him with new interest. I was about to ask how gamblers could operate so openly when the crowd stirred. Harry Wright and the Alert captain had selected an umpire, a respected local player. The contest was about to begin.
I was surprised to learn that the visiting club didn’t automatically bat first. Instead, the winner of a coin toss decided. But, since nobody had thought to bring a coin, the umpire finally spat on a flat stone, flipped it in the air, and pointed to Harry. “Dry!” called Harry. It landed wet side up. The Alerts chose the field.
I’ve watched hundreds of baseball games, but I’d never seen anything like what followed. I suppose I’d thought of old-timers as smaller, less-skilled, even comical versions of their twentieth-century counterparts. I began to get a different impression as the first inning unfolded.
George Wright marched up to home plate—an actual iron plate, painted white—and grinned cockily at the Alerts’ pitcher. He dug in, waved his bat (“grasped the ash,” Millar would write later), and called, “Low!”
“What’s he saying?” I asked.
“George wants it between his knees and belt.”
“You mean he calls his pitch?”
“Of course. ‘High’ would mean belt to shoulders.” He explained that if the ball didn’t pass through the designated zone, the umpire would warn the pitcher and begin calling balls. The batter (Millar said “striker”) took first after three called balls, or four in all. Strikes worked the same way, with the hitter first warned, then allowed three more.
There was no pitcher’s mound. The Rochester hurler, his sleeve rolled to reveal a brawny pitching arm, stood poised inside a four-by-six chalked box only forty-five feet from home, instead of the sixty feet six inches I was used to. He wound up elaborately, holding the ball over his head statuelike, then dipping into a submarine delivery much like a Softball pitcher’s. The new ball flashed in a barely discernible blur over the short distance. George swung and lofted a foul. The catcher, without shin guards, chest protector, mask, or mitt, was stationed a good forty feet back. The ball hit the turf far beyond his reach, but he hurled himself in a futile dive.
“Hustle’s fine,” I said. “But that’s ridiculous.”
Hurley turned and gave me a funny look. He said dryly, “Foul bounds are out.” Which turned out to mean any foul caught on the first bounce. Crazy rules, I thought.
“What’s the story on their pitcher?” I asked Hurley.
“He’s some swift,” Hurley said appreciatively. “But we fatten on swift tossing.”
“No, I mean why doesn’t he come in overhand?”
Again he looked at me oddly. “That’s throwing, not pitching.”
Millar explained that according to the rules, a pitcher’s hand couldn’t rise above his waist during the delivery, with no twists of wrist or fingers allowed.
Which would mean no breaking balls. It didn’t take a genius to see that with those restrictions, plus hitters getting four strikes and calling their pitches, this was a wildly offensive version of the game.
There was a sharp whack! as George lined a ball into the left-center gap.
“He’ll make his third,” Millar said, as George rounded first with impressive speed. But the Alerts played the ball promptly and held him to a double.
“They’re pretty quick out there,” I said.
“The wet grass slowed the ball,” Hurley said. “Wait’ll you see Andy run, if it’s quick you want.”
George, still grinning, stole third on the next pitch with a dirt-spilling hook slide as smoothly modern as any I’d ever seen. He scored moments later on a sacrifice fly that the center fielder juggled and nearly dropped.
“Aren’t there a lot of errors using just your bare hands?” I asked Hurley.
“What else’d we use?” he said. “George stunts with his cap sometimes, that what you have in mind?” He gave me the look again. “I thought Andy said you’d played.”
“Muffs are a natural element of the game,” Millar said pontifically. “Even Harry makes a few.”
At that moment, as if to demonstrate the point, the Alerts’ left fielder dropped Waterman’s lazy fly. The stocky Red Stocking then stole second and third, his bowed legs churning with surprising quickness, and scored on a fly before Harry grounded into the third out.
I tracked the Stockings I knew as they took their positions: Andy sprinting to left as if he feared being late; Harry jogging to center with casual grace; Waterman straddling third, hands on hips, cheek bulging and mustache tilted by an enormous chaw; George tossing pebbles at shortstop; Sweasy crouching near second, making shrill sounds and spitting through the gap in his teeth.
Brainard sauntered to the pitching box with a toothpick dangling from his lip and made a single warm-up toss to the Stocking catcher. He used a corkscrew motion in which his left leg twisted in front of his right, rocked back, and then came forward as his arm whipped from behind his back with impressive velocity. His follow-through, a series of dancing steps, took him to the very front of the box. The ball blurred to the plate even faster than the Rochester hurler’s had.
Millar informed me that Brainard had broken in as an outfielder with the old Excelsiors and also had played second base for several New York and Washington clubs before coming to Cincinnati. As a change pitcher he hadn’t been particularly effective until the end of last season, when he’d learned to control the “chain lightnings” that made a formidable counterpoint to Harry’s “slow twisters.” Now Brainard was the team’s starter and recognized as one of the country’s best.
The Alerts’ leadoff man topped a dribbler that Sweasy couldn’t charge fast enough to play. I watched Hurley enter a tally by his name in the “Slow Handling” column under errors in fielding. The sophistication of the score book amazed me. Symbols existed for everything—including K’s for strikeouts.
After an out, the third hitter blooped a single over Waterman to left. Andy sprinted in with remarkable speed—Hurley was right, he could move—to contain the runners. But the next Alert squibbed a soft fly behind first, which the Stockings’ tall blond first baseman lumbered after and muffed badly. Both runners scored, the batter reaching second. Millar looked glum. Hurley muttered.
Brainard’s next pitch seemed to have less velocity. The Alert striker poised and whipped his bat. There was a resounding tock!
“Oh blazes!” Millar groaned. The ball soared and grew small in the darkening sky.
Harry Wright had turned and was sprinting over the grass, back to the diamond. As he bore down on the waist-high rail fence bordering the outfield, spectators spilled from vehicles behind. I held my breath, fearing he’d hit it headlong. A step from the fence Harry took the ball over his shoulder and swiveled at the same instant; scissoring his legs high, he vaulted the fence as easily as a boy going over a hydrant. I could hardly believe what I’d seen. The crowd applauded him as he climbed back onto the field. He tipped his cap and threw the ball in, making it all look nonchalant.
The score was 2-2 after one inning. The Rochester reporters seemed excited. So did the crowd. The favored Stockings were vulnerable after all. Across the way the pool sellers, having done extensive business at the three-to-two ratio, were now taking even money on the Alerts.
With the sky overhead blackening, Andy stepped to the plate, jaw clenched and knuckles white on the bat.
“Over the fence!” I yelled. “A homer, buddy!”
“Over the fence here is but two bases,” Millar said snidely. “Didn’t you hear the captains?”
“C’mon, Millar, don’t be a jerk.”
“Just what does ‘be a jerk’ mean?” His glasses flashed at me. “You’re not exactly the cheese, Fowler.”
“What?”
Andy ended our brilliant repartee by slamming a low pitch between third and short. I cheered as he sprinted to first.
Then the skies opened.
“This way!” somebody yelled. We dashed across the square toward the residence of an Alert official.
For the next hour, as rain drummed on the roof and players and reporters shouldered closer to the glowing stove, I listened to their gossip and made mental notes to check with Andy. Somebody was deemed “plucky withal and safe with the willow” and “led the scoring with five and two over.” Another needed “something stirring to be earnest—a pretty player but loose.” What did that mean? Another was “an uphill stem winder who never showed the white.” And so it went.
There was also talk of the Stockings’ win over the Niagras, a team the Alerts would face. Somebody produced a Buffalo Courier and quoted a reference to the Cincinnatians as “rather a burly set of men,”
Sweasy cracked, “They must’ve overlooked Andy.” It got a laugh. Andy’s smile, I thought, looked a trifle forced.
When the downpour ended we trooped back to the diamond. Pockets of water shimmered everywhere on the infield. As numbers of spectators returned, I heard Champion urging Harry to get the field in playing shape or else they’d have to refund gate receipts.
I swept water from the base paths with a short-handled broom and helped drain the batter’s and pitcher’s boxes. We spread sand and sawdust as fast as it could be carted to the diamond. The outfield remained a marsh.
The game resumed with Andy on first. The Alerts soon fell prey to the slippery conditions. Solid hits by Brainard, Sweasy, and George were abetted by errors, resulting in five runs.
The rain held off. The game moved quickly, with few of the lazy rituals or stalling tactics I automatically linked with baseball; the teams changed positions promptly and went about the business of hitting or fielding. Millar said that most contests—even those with scores resembling football totals to me—ended in less than three hours.
By the end of the sixth the Stockings led, 14-4. A laugher. And yet excitement mounted on the sidelines. The pool sellers seemed to be writing slips faster than ever. I was about to ask Millar the reason when my attention was caught by a pale, blade-thin, black-whiskered man leaning close, to McDermott, behind the third-base line. He was tense and grim-faced, unresponsive to McDermott’s frequent guffaws. There seemed an aura of menace about him. I pointed him out to Millar.
He lifted his spectacles, squinted, replaced them. “I hope I’m wrong,” he said. “I think it’s Le Caron.”
“Who’s Le Caron?”
“Fowler, if you truly work for a newspaper—”
“Just tell me, okay?”
He sighed. “Henri Le Caron’s likely the most brutal rough ever to emerge from Five Points. Rumor has him working for Morrissey and McDermott now, but I think he’s not been seen publicly with either before.”
Wondering at the powerful visceral reaction I felt to the man, I said, “How do you know it’s him?”
“He was pictured in Leslie’s and others earlier this year. It made a ripe scandal when he left prison only months into a long sentence.”
“What had he done?”
“Stabbed three men to death in a gambling hell.”
My stomach tightened. “Oh.”
“Not uncommon, of course, but because the mayor and police officials happened to be sporting there at the time, things got a bit dodgy for him. Till Tweed and that rotten Tammany bunch pulled strings.”
“Boss Tweed?” I stared in fascination at the thin, dark man. “What was his connection?”
“Le Caron came out of the Dead Rabbits.” Millar glanced at me significantly. “That give you the picture?”
It didn’t, of course, and I had to pull it from him. What I learned was that political bosses like Tweed intimidated foes and controlled expanding immigrant neighborhoods partly through gangs of street hoodlums. A member of the most-feared gang, Le Caron had fought his way upward in Manhattan’s infamous Five Points slum—as had John Morrissey, former bare-knuckles boxing champ and current representative in Congress—in bloody struggles for dominance. But where Morrissey had gravitated to mainstream channels of power, Le Caron had remained what he was. I studied him as Millar talked. I’d never knowingly gazed at a murderer. For a moment, when Le Caron’s dark eyes seemed to flash directly into mine, I felt a faint chill.
On the field the Stockings’ impressive defense was stifling the Alerts. Waterman smothered drives at the hot corner with his arms or body, snatching the ball and rifling what Hurley jokingly called “finger breakers” to the blond first baseman, who took them casually, possessing, I decided, no pain threshold whatever.
The Stocking catcher also seemed indifferent to pain. Reacting with a cat’s quickness, he snagged everything, even tipped balls, with sure-handed ease. Unlike the Alerts’ receiver, he stood upright, not crouching. Since I’d played mostly catcher myself, I found the technique intriguing—and suicidal. The guy’s body must be a mess.
But the Cincinnati star was unmistakably George Wright. I’d never seen a better shortstop, with or without a glove. He ranged over the field spearing balls most players couldn’t have reached with butterfly nets. He leaped high to knock down liners, drifted gracefully beneath pop-ups, glided deep in the hole to launch white streaks that nipped runners at first. Andy was right. They were fortunate to have him. At any price.
In the bottom of the ninth the Alerts went to bat trailing 18—7. The Stockings’ lead began to look less comfortable when Brainard, tiring, allowed a succession of hits, some of which found outfield gaps for extra bases. By the time two were away, a pair of runs had scored and the bases were loaded.
Millar squirmed and drummed his fingers on the table. Three more Alert runs would bring the score to 18-12, a 3—2 ratio. We would still win the game in all probability—but McDermott would cash in on a far larger scale. Sensing momentum shifting their way, the Alerts were keyed up. So was the crowd. I checked out the gambling booths and saw McDermott whooping it up. Le Caron was no longer in sight.
There was a lull as Harry trotted in from center to huddle with Brainard. “Harry’ll pitch now,” Millar mused. “And yet I can’t imagine he wants Asa in the field, wet as it is. Brainard’s slow afoot.”
“Can’t Hurley go in?” I asked.
“After the third inning, the rules allow replacements only for injuries.
“Third inning? Why is that?”
“So clubs can’t influence betting odds by holding out ace ballists for critical moments. Players on the field may exchange positions any time, however.”
“I get it,” I said. “That’s why ‘change pitcher,’ ‘change catcher.’”
He nodded distractedly. “Asa’s staying.”
Brainard stood rubbing the filthy ball—it had been in use the whole game—and eyeing the Alerts’ cleanup man, a stocky outfielder named Glenn who’d hit him hard all afternoon. The crowd was standing and cheering. The gambling element formed a bellowing fist-waving mass that pushed hard at the third-base restraining rope. Waterman eyed them warily. A few broke through and were pushed back roughly by blue-uniformed cops. One man slipped and toppled backward into the mud. McDermott, standing nearby, laughed uproariously at the sprawled figure.
“They’re drunk,” Millar said contemptuously. “Whiskey sellers been over there all afternoon. Shouldn’t be allowed—we don’t at home. It brings out the worst side of the worst element.”
I’d seen the vendors with their large baskets on leather straps; most of them sold hard candy, peanuts, and lemonade. But the biggest business that cool afternoon had gone to those hawking “Spirits!”
After the police restored order, Brainard twisted into his windup, arm flashing, feet dancing. The ball sped in at knee level. Glenn swung hard and sent a low skittering drive up the middle. In the crowd’s instantaneous reaction I heard Sweasy yell, “Shit!” He’d shaded toward first and had no chance. Neither did George Wright at short. But he sprinted after the ball anyway, reflexively pursuing some unseen possibility. The runners, off with the pitch, tore around the bases. Glenn pumped toward first.
Nobody could believe what happened next.
The ball struck the second-base bag, bounded into short center—and did not bound again. It landed squarely in a puddle. And that was where George caught up with it. Running full tilt, bending low, he plunged his left hand down as if snatching at a fish. Simultaneously he pivoted toward first; the effort cost him his footing, his lunging body toppling forward. Twisting in midair, he flung the ball in a spray of mud and water, threw it with his wrong hand, his left hand, under his body—and splashed face first into another puddle. How he got anything on the throw was hard to imagine. But he did. The ball rocketed to the first baseman, who stretched and took it a split second before Glenn’s straining foot kicked the bag.
“Out!” yelled the umpire, raising the classic thumb.
The game was over.
For a moment silence enveloped the diamond. Then the Stockings broke from their positions, jumping and whooping, running to George, who climbed slowly from the quagmire, a tar-baby figure, his white teeth gleaming through a layer of mud.
Millar and Hurley leaped from the table and dashed on the field.
Champion strode after them. I started out too, then hung back, made shy by the awareness that I was not one of them. I’d almost forgotten it in the excitement.
The crowd applauded George graciously. The Alerts formed a huddle and boomed three cheers for the visitors. I tried to imagine Steinbrenner’s Yankees hip-hurrahing the Red Sox after dropping a close one. The Stockings returned the cheers, lifted George from the mud, and placed him on their shoulders.
“We are a band of ball players
From Cincinnati City.
We go to toss the ball around
And sing to you our ditty.
Hurrah, hurrah,
For the noble game hurrah. . . . “
I looked on silently, envying them their joy, their accomplishment, their belonging. My glance wandered to where McDermott had been standing. He was gone. His absence caused a strange disquiet in me and I scanned the area behind. The long table was empty now except for the score book and the metal box holding the Stockings’ share of the gate receipts.
The cash box.
Moved by an uneasy premonition, I stepped toward the table. And that’s when I saw Le Caron edging through the crowd, angling toward it. He seemed to be keeping a wary watch on the diamond. Probably just paranoia on my part, I told myself, but nonetheless I circled the opposite way through the crowd, on a diagonal to him.
The table stood several yards inside the restraining rope. The box lay in reach of anyone who dared to duck inside, take two long strides, then turn and vanish into the crowd. Le Caron edged to the rope and took a quick glance at the field. I knew then that he would make the attempt.
If I’d had time to think, I might have hesitated. Tension knotted my stomach and bunched my shoulders. I stepped to the rope as Le Caron darted inside. He seized the cash box. I came up under the barrier as he turned, and clamped my hand over the wrist bearing the box.
“Wha—!” He struggled to wrench his arm back. I yanked his skinny wrist hard. The box tumbled free and burst open on the ground. Le Caron was wiry, snake quick in his movements, but not strong enough to pull free. He stumbled toward me and I spun him like a dancing partner, twisting his arm behind him and jamming it toward his neck. He gasped in pain and tried to twist away. I pulled him back by ramming my left forearm against his windpipe.
“I’ll cut you,” he wheezed, reaching across his body with his free hand. I shoved his arm higher and he froze.
“Shut up or I’ll snap it!” I said. I had no idea what to do next.
“What’s this ruckus?” a loud voice called. “What’re you doing to him?”
McDermott pushed past hushed onlookers and ducked under the rope. He wasn’t guffawing now. In fact, he looked as grim as the sap he gripped.
“Ask him,” I said, wheeling so that Le Caron became a shield. He raised his foot to stomp mine, but changed his mind when again I thrust his arm to the breaking point.
McDermott crouched and started for me, then stopped and stared over my shoulder.
“Is there a problem?” A calm British-inflected voice spoke behind me. I took a quick look. Harry Wright stood with a bat resting on his shoulder. He looked relaxed, but his eyes were locked with McDermott’s.
“He went for the cash box,” I said.
“Liar!” spat Le Caron. “The bastard jumped me!”
“I’m thinking there’s a mistake,” McDermott said, sounding more affable. “I happened to see it all. Your man misjudged this lad’s intent. Sure, an’ he acted in haste. We need to set this square.”
“Let him go.” Harry stepped up beside me, bat still cradled.
I released Le Caron and stepped back quickly. He straightened, rubbing his arm. I watched him closely. The menace I had sensed at a distance was magnified now. Partly it was physical—the sallow face pitted with pox scars above the black beard, the teeth greenish and rotten-looking—but it was more: the man radiated some sort of evil, strong as a force field. I’d never felt anything like it. His glittering black eyes fixed on mine.
“It was no mistake,” I said. “He was stealing—”
“Are there other witnesses?” Harry asked.
We looked around. People were already edging away; those remaining claimed to have seen nothing.
McDermott smiled, his eyes cold. “Your lads showed well today. Be a shame to ruin it now.” He took Le Caron’s good arm. “We’ll see you in Troy. It’s my thought your paid ballists will get their due against the Haymaker lads.”
“You’d be well advised,” Harry said, “to keep a proper distance from our table, to avoid—”
“—misunderstandings,” McDermott finished. “Your meaning’s taken. I’ve a word of advice, too—instruct your big boyo there to consider before assaulting others. Trouble lies in that for him.” He shook his head dolefully and turned away. Le Caron’s mouth twisted in a thin smile, his eyes still fastened on mine; then he followed McDermott into the crowd.
“If Red Jim’s companion is who I suspect, you’ve made quite a pair of friends,” Harry said, stooping over the box. “Fowler, did you realize that all of our money, over five hundred, is here?”
Champion strode up, frowning. “Who were those men?”
Harry explained what had happened. “Our guest showed rare courage,” he concluded. “Or exceptional foolhardiness. In any event he saved the day.”
Champion rubbed his jaw, no doubt considering how close they’d come to packing for home. He extended his hand. “Fowler, you’ve done us a most valiant service.”
I’d had the thought earlier that maybe the best thing for me would be to try to hook on with a New York daily newspaper. Now as we shook I waited for what I hoped would come.
“Is there a service we can perform in return?”
Ah, good man. “How about letting me travel with you—I’ll repay the costs—until we get to Manhattan?”
“That’s ten days.” He glanced at Harry, who nodded. “Very well. From the funds you rescued we can surely advance you that much, to be repaid at your earliest convenience.” He gazed at me thoughtfully. “Meanwhile, considering the nature of our forthcoming contests and your proven capacity, there is a task you might handle.”
“Sure, what?”
He handed me the cash box. “Safeguard this.”
I wasn’t wild about it, but under the circumstances my choices were limited.
“I might have something for you also,” Harry said.
“Oh?” What had I let myself in for?
“You mentioned that you’d played baseball.”
“Well, yes, but—”
“Look up Charlie Gould, our first baseman. See if his extra uniform fits you.”