Hanging Curve Read online

  To the delight of the colored fans, Leo South started the inning by walking the Cubs’ leadoff man, who trotted to first base as if running across hot coals. I was surprised to see that although he was a full six feet tall, his dark face had the wide-eyed innocence of a twelve-year-old.

  The next batter gave me my first fielding chance, driving a hard grounder to my left. I darted back on the outfield grass before lunging with my mitt. As I snared the ball, momentum carried me behind first base. With a sidearm flip, I got the ball to Tater Greene barely in time for the out.

  I moved back to my position, pleased with the play, but curious as to why the cheers I was hearing were from the Cubs’ fans. Then I saw that the runner from first was now standing on third. What the hell did he do, cut across the pitcher’s mound? Not even Ty Cobb could have made it from first to third that fast. The kid must have cut the corner at second.

  I ran to second base, planted my foot on the bag, and called to Leo South for the ball.

  The pitcher looked at me blankly.

  “Gimme the ball!” I repeated. Instead of a runner on third with one out, we were about to have two outs and the bases empty.

  South stepped off the rubber and tossed me the ball. I held it up and appealed to the base ump, expecting him to call the runner out for missing second. As the ump gave the safe sign, the kid suddenly dashed home. I was frozen, first from surprise and then with amazement at his phenomenal speed. I’d never seen a human being move so fast—I half expected him to become airborne. The ball was still in my hand as he scored the first run of the game.

  While cheers exploded from the colored side of the park, Ed Moss bolted from the bench and lit into the umpire, claiming a base runner can’t leave the bag during an appeal. But Moss was wrong; the ball is live, and a runner can advance. And this one sure did—he effectively scored from first base on an infield groundout.

  Brian Padgett shrieked at me, “How the hell could you give them a run like that? You goddamn busher!”

  I moved away from the apoplectic shortstop, and he shifted his anger from me to the umpire. Moss and Padgett both cussed the umpire more than they’d be allowed to get away with in the big leagues. I noticed for the first time that both umpires were white, and wondered why there wasn’t a representative in blue from each race.

  Tater Greene came over to me from first base. “Don’t worry about it, Mick. I might have tried the same thing.”

  “Thanks,” I grunted. I didn’t know which was worse: scorn from Padgett or commiseration from Greene.

  He added with admiration, “Damn, but that boy can fly.”

  “Like Ty Cobb with his feet on fire,” I said. “What’s his name?”

  “Beats me. I just call ’em all ‘boy.’ ”

  When the inning continued, the colored team went on to score two more runs before J. D. Whalen caught a foul pop-up to end it.

  Back at the bench, Roy Enoch’s teenage son was meticulously recording the totals in a scorebook. Out of curiosity, I checked the Cubs’ lineup for the name of the speedster who’d scored their first run. It was listed as Bell, J, and he was playing center field.

  Due to bat third, I turned my attention to studying Slip Crawford. Everything about Crawford and his pitches involved changes in motion—stop and go, twist and turn, float and flutter.

  Our lead-off batter worked him to a full count before striking out, then Brian Padgett took his turn against the tricky left-hander. With a two-two count, Crawford served a tantalizing lob. Padgett scooted up in the box and knocked the ball deep to left-center. He raced around the basepaths as the ball rattled off the fence. The speedy Bell fielded the carom and threw to third base in time to hold Padgett to a triple.

  The white crowd was roaring, making the most of their first chance to cheer an Elcars’ scoring threat. Many in the female contingent were waving their handkerchiefs and calling Padgett’s name.

  Now it was my turn. I went up to the plate thinking that this was my chance to show what a big leaguer can do. And to make up for my blunder in the field.

  Okay, I thought, with a runner on third, Crawford can’t afford to go into an elaborate motion; if he does, Padgett might steal home. And if I stand in the very front of the batter’s box, his slow breaking balls won’t have a chance to move much either; I could hit them as easily as teeing off on a hanging curve.

  That’s where I took my stance, as close to Crawford as I could get.

  The Cubs’ catcher didn’t like it. In a gravelly voice, he said, “You looking to shake hands with my pitcher, or hit against him?” When I looked down at the massive backstop, he added matter-of-factly, “Pitchers tend to get nervous when you crowd them.”

  I knew what that meant. But I couldn’t back down; I had to remain where I was—and be ready to duck.

  Slip Crawford, appearing completely indifferent to Padgett dancing around at third base, stared in for the sign. Then he went into an abbreviated version of his windmill windup and threw the fastest pitch he’d delivered all day—right at my chin.

  I tried simply to lean out of the way, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing me hit the dirt, but the unexpected speed of the pitch had me so surprised that I went tumbling on my rear, dropping my bat as I did.

  A few hoots of delight went up from the colored seats, and a lot of loud grumblings from the white side. I got to my feet as if nothing had happened. Crawford had gone by the book: I’d crowded too close, so he brushed me back.

  I went to pick up my bat, but the Cubs’ catcher had it in his hand. He held the handle end out to me, then paused to read the name stamped on the barrel: Mickey Rawlings. He looked at me with big impassive eyes. “Popular model,” he growled.

  I sheepishly took the bat, embarrassed that my cover was blown so easily. I’d sure make a lousy spy, I thought.

  The ominous noises from the white fans died down, defused by the catcher’s gesture. Then I realized he probably hadn’t returned my Louisville Slugger out of courtesy. He’d wanted to get hold of the bat to prevent me from chasing his pitcher with it.

  I stood a little deeper in the box for the second pitch, a low curveball that broke straight down. A cloud of dust went up as it passed the plate, and the Cubs’ catcher spun around to retrieve the wild pitch. Brian Padgett sprinted for home.

  Too late, I realized what hadn’t happened: There had been no sound of the ball hitting the ground. I yelled at Padgett, “Back! Back!” but he kept coming.

  The catcher calmly turned around, the ball secure in his mitt. He’d used an old trick: tossing a handful of dirt when the pitch arrived to make it look like it was going past him.

  Fury came over Padgett’s face when he saw the ruse, and he charged in with his spikes high. At impact, however, the cleats did nothing more than clatter against the big catcher’s shin guards, and Padgett slumped to the ground where he was tagged for the second out. I helped him to his feet, and the shortstop went unsteadily back to the bench.

  Crawford then put three straight curveballs, each breaking in a different direction, past me to notch another strikeout and close the inning.

  By the end of the fifth, the Cubs had increased their lead to 5—0. One of the runs came on a homer by their catcher, whose name I learned was Denver Jones.

  After Leo South issued two walks in the sixth, Ed Moss decided to make a pitching change. J. D. Whalen took over on the mound while South moved to third base. Whalen’s control was sharp, but he directed so many fastballs at the Cubs’ heads that he was always behind in the count, and gave up two more runs.

  The head-hunting by Whalen was only one sign of the Eclars’ growing frustration. Impotent with their bats, they put their mouths to use, loudly attributing the physical abilities of the colored team to “all them years living in the jungle,” and urging them to go back to Africa “with the rest of the monkeys.” I was tempted to point out that we were losing because the Cubs were playing smarter than we were, but I knew it would have no effect on my n
ew teammates. They didn’t merely want to play stupid, they wanted to sound stupid.

  So did the white fans, who followed the Elcars’ lead and directed the vilest slurs at the Cubs’ players.

  In the colored bleachers, the fans cheered their team and stamped their feet. As the taunts from the whites grew louder, so did the chants and cheers from the other side, as if trying to drown them out.

  Then a hush fell over the colored crowd, followed by low murmurs. Some of the Negroes pointed toward the left-field corner.

  I looked in that direction to see four open touring cars that had pulled up next to the fence. The occupants, at least a dozen of them, were garbed in the white robes and pointed hoods of the Ku Klux Klan.

  One of the Klansmen held aloft a large Confederate flag. Three of them, standing on running boards, brandished rifles. All of the men kept their faces hidden, and the eyeholes cut in their masks looked more frightening than any facial expression could.

  This was crazy, I thought. It was no surprise that there were Klansmen in the area; the KKK had become well established in the Midwest over the past few years. But for them to come out in full regalia, waving a Confederate flag, was something I’d have expected to see only in the Deep South. I stared at the fluttering Stars and Bars with disbelief. We were in Illinois; wasn’t this the North?

  Slip Crawford might have been disconcerted by the new arrivals, or maybe he was simply tiring, but he walked our leadoff batter in the seventh and gave up a double and single to the next two men to face him.

  I batted next, and got solid wood on his first pitch, hitting a line drive up the middle that should have been a single—except that Bell in center field raced in to make a shoestring catch.

  The rest of the Elcars kept the rally going. The Cubs’ lead had been cut to 7—4, when J. D. Whalen went up to bat with two on and two outs. For the first time that day, Crawford looked flustered. He paused a long while, peering at Whalen. Then he threw another rare fastball—at Whalen’s head. It was justified, considering how Whalen had been using the Cubs’ heads for target practice, but Whalen didn’t view it that way.

  Bat in hand, Whalen stalked out to the mound, the catcher, Jones, close on his heels. Crawford took a couple of steps in and said something that halted Whalen in his tracks. He stared at the pitcher for half a minute before turning around and going quietly back to the batter’s box.

  It looked like the fight was out of Whalen. He took two called strikes and flailed weakly at the next pitch to end the inning and the Elcars’ threat.

  Whalen got his fire back when he took the mound again. He threw twice at Bell’s head, but was frustrated when the youngster easily dodged both pitches. Then he drilled him in the hip, and Bell was awarded first.

  Denver Jones was next up. He, too, dodged a couple of knock-down pitches before Whalen decided to throw strikes. On the second pitch that Whalen put over the plate, Jones pushed a bunt up the first-base line. I knew it wasn’t a sacrifice attempt—the Cubs’ catcher wanted Whalen to have to field the ball.

  Sure enough, as Whalen ran to pick up the slow roller, Jones took only a couple of steps, waiting until the pitcher was in his path. As Whalen turned to throw to first base, Jones plowed forward, knocking him off his feet.

  Whalen promptly sprang up swinging, and Jones returned the blows. Other Cubs jumped off the bench to join in, and the Elcars came from their positions as reinforcements. Brian Padgett raced past me and jumped on Jones’s back. Tater Greene squared off with Slip Crawford.

  I reluctantly tossed my glove on the ground, obliged to join in the fight. There are some things you have to do when you’re part of a team, even if only for a day. Then I remembered that the ball was live, and looked for the runner. There was Bell, flying for home, about to score from first base on a bunt.

  My admiration for his base running was interrupted by a punch to the side of my head. I couldn’t tell who threw it, so I started sparring with the nearest Cub I could find.

  The two umpires tried in vain to restore order while the brawling teams continued their battle unabated. Then a gunshot exploded, and punches halted in mid-swing. We all looked around to see where it came from—and to see if everyone was still standing.

  One of the police officers behind the Elcars’ bench had his shotgun pointed to the sky. He pumped the weapon and let off another blast. “Play ball!” he ordered.

  The umpires quickly got the game under way again. But before Whalen threw another pitch, I looked over at the Klansmen. Their rifles weren’t pointed up; they were level, aimed in the direction of the Cubs’ bench. Glancing back and forth between the white stands and the colored crowd, I felt like I was standing in no-man’s-land between two warring armies.

  I fervently wished the game would end soon, and didn’t care whether we won or lost.

  It finally did end, with the Cubs taking a 9—5 victory. There was only polite applause from their fans; too much celebrating might anger the side with the guns. As it was, some in the white crowd hurled bottles and rocks at the departing Cubs.

  I grabbed my street clothes from under the bench and ran to the men’s toilet, where I hurriedly changed clothes. All I wanted was to find Margie and get us safely out of East St. Louis as quickly as possible.

  At the Elcars’ bench, I gave Ed Moss back the uniform. And he gave me a few sharp words about how useless I’d been to his team.

  “At least I played for free,” I said as I left.

  “Yeah, and we sure got our money’s worth!” he called after me.

  Margie was standing near the ticket booth gnawing on her lower lip. The two of us ran hand in hand for the tracks and squeezed aboard an already full streetcar.

  As the packed trolley began to crawl west, I looked back at the ballpark, at the thousands of people still milling about, and at the shotguns and rifles conspicuously targeting some of them.

  Ugly as the events of the day had been, I thought, we’d been lucky. One spark could have set off a riot. What was supposed to be an exhibition of the National Pastime could easily have turned into another episode in a national tragedy.

  CHAPTER 3

  Three days and three hundred miles later, I was in another ballpark—one that seemed a world away from East St. Louis. Home plate had the same five-sided shape, and the bases were still ninety feet apart, but otherwise there was little similarity between the semipro field where the Cubs and Elcars had battled and majestic Comiskey Park, home of the Chicago White Sox.

  The modern, steel-and-concrete stadium was dressed up for the start of the new season, swathed in red-white-and-blue bunting, with flags and streamers flapping in the wind. The grass was neatly manicured and the dirt dragged as smooth as a billiard cloth. Even the flattened water hoses that served as foul lines wore fresh coats of bright white paint.

  An overflow crowd of almost thirty thousand was also in holiday dress for Opening Day, the men wearing suits and derbies, and the women in bonnets and pastel frocks. Around the perimeter of the field were blue-uniformed patrolmen—but unlike the officers in East St. Louis, these were on hand as part of the pageantry, not because of any anticipated violence.

  My attire for the occasion was the gray-flannel road uniform of the St. Louis Browns. I stood with my teammates, lined up in front of the visitors’ dugout, as a military brass band thundered its way through “The Star-Spangled Banner.” Holding the brown-billed cap over my heart, I kept my eyes on the American flag in center field, and began once again to feel the pride that comes with being a major-league baseball player. Millions of men all over the country played this game, but only a lucky four hundred got to compete in a big-league ballpark. And I was among them. I might not get to play often, but when I did, it was on diamonds like this one.

  By the time White Sox owner Charles Comiskey threw out the ceremonial first pitch, I was starting to think that even if this season turned out to be no different from the ones before, it would still be special. Every day as a major-league ballplayer was
something to relish.

  That’s what I kept telling myself as I picked a spot on the bench to spend the next nine innings.

  Marty McManus, our starting second baseman, sat down next to me. The tall, skinny youngster was the main reason the Browns had acquired me. I was supposed to teach him what I knew about playing in the big leagues, and in return I’d get to spell him in the lineup every now and then.

  McManus was a former bookkeeper who’d been drafted during the Great War and somehow ended up serving in Panama instead of France. He was also a “prospect,” which meant he was being groomed to be a “star.” He’d done well enough last year as a rookie, but had some rough patches in the early months; the Browns were counting on me to help him get off to a good start this season. He was a likable enough kid, but served as a constant reminder that I had never been a prospect—nor a star. In ten years, I’d progressed only from utility infielder to veteran utility infielder.

  Chicago hurler Red Faber toed the rubber to face the top of our order—an unenviable task, for the Browns had the hardest-hitting lineup in baseball. All three outfielders—Ken Williams, Baby Doll Jacobson, and Johnny Tobin—posted .350 batting averages last year, first baseman George Sisler had once hit over .400 to break Ty Cobb’s string of batting championships, and catcher Hank Severeid was coming off a .324 season.

  Faber shut down our hitters in the first, though, and McManus picked up his glove before running out to second base.

  “Don’t forget to check the ground,” I reminded him.

  “Why? It looks fine.”

  The kid was supposed to take my advice, not question it. But I explained, “This park is built on a city dump—and they didn’t clear it too good before making it a baseball field. Junk works its way up from the ground sometimes. Check it out.”

  The groundskeepers had done a good job, but I wanted McManus to get used to looking for himself whenever he played in Comiskey. More than one infielder had been victimized by a bad hop from a half-buried piece of nineteenth-century trash.