The Celebrant, page 14
“Well, he’s nineteen, Ruby, and you always want to change everything when you’re nineteen.”
“I didn’t.”
“That’s because you started working here when you were—what? Fourteen?”
“Thirteen, the day after my bar mitzvah. Twenty years ago next February.”
“Happy anniversary.”
“I suppose. Oh, Jackie, is there a ticket for me for tomorrow’s game?”
“Eli keeps the box, Ruby, but I tell you what. If I don’t have the specialties done by three o’clock tomorrow I’ll stay and finish them, and you can go to the game.”
“Take your time, then.” Ruby smiled. “Someone said Mathewson’s pitching today. Why don’t they save him ’til tomorrow? Why send him out with one day’s rest?”
“Someone’s got to stop the slide, Ruby. They’ve lost four in a row. McGraw wants to win today. He’ll worry about tomorrow tomorrow.”
“That’s the way machines break down.”
“Tell it to McGraw.”
“Tell him yourself. I’ve never met the man.”
“I wish I hadn’t.”
I returned to my office, pasted my sketches to the wall, and prepared my drawing board, but with the stylus poised over the paper I found it impossible to draw the first line. To be a pitcher! I thought. A pitcher, standing at the axis of event, or a catcher with the God-view of the play all before him; to be a shortstop, lord of the infield, or a center fielder with unchallenged claim to all the territory one’s speed and skill could command; to perform the spontaneous acrobatics of the third baseman or the practiced ballet of the man at second, or to run and throw with the absolute commitment of the outfielder! And to live in a world without grays, where all decisions were final: ball or strike, safe or out, the game won or lost beyond question or appeal.
I would not work at the family trade this day; there was a ballgame at the Polo Grounds, and Mathewson was pitching.
There were long lines at the general admission gates, though tickets wouldn’t be sold for the better part of an hour. The way to the box seats was shuttered. I looked up to the Bluff, and remembered how Eli had half pushed and half carried me up the steep slope the first time we’d ever come to the park. The memory drew me up a well-worn path, and when I reached the crest of the Bluff I saw tiny figures climbing the stairs to the clubhouse. I remembered the time—not so long ago!—when the clubhouse had stood like a lonely lighthouse on an outfield shoal. Now the bleachers abutted it, and the grandstand itself, once an intimate crescent around home plate, was a double-decked horseshoe of phenomenal size. Its roof blocked the view of home plate and third base. I thought of our bets and bluffs with derbied Johnnie on the day of McGraw’s debut; he and his Irish fellows might well be among the mob pushing at the grandstand gate. I squatted and fingered some pebbles, flipping them down the slope of the Bluff, and I heard Eli’s voice, a younger, far happier voice than the one I knew now, explaining to me that the tall man in the middle of the diamond below was the very same Amos Rusie whose name I’d learned to read in the American-language newspapers.
A solitary uniformed player descended the clubhouse stairs and walked slowly over the grass. His spikes left a clean, straight track in the clay as he crossed the infield. He climbed the mound, taking no stance, standing there with his eyes cast down, searching for signs in the dust. It cheered and frightened me to watch him summon the strength to bear the weight of a city’s hopes. How lonely that circle of clay, how exposed the man who stood there!
Suddenly a great shout arose, and the bleachers swarmed with color and noise. The fans, discovering their hero on the mound, hailed him, and Mathewson, his communion interrupted, acknowledged their cheers with a broad wave of his cap. This was the public image I’d seen a hundred times; this was Matty. More Giants came onto the field, the quick running over the outfield like roistering bucks while the lame and the weary trudged to the bench and sat there nursing their aches. Last to appear was McGraw, no longer the lean spider of his playing days, puffy in the face and broadening at the belt. I watched the players rehearse under his baton, and I thought of them and their actions as pieces of a great and intricate design. In isolation each of their skills signified nothing, like the separate parts that spilled out of the dumb machines at the shop. The game was the process that welded them into a meaningful form, and the pitcher was the gemstone.
I descended the Bluff and walked through the gate to the box seats, bought a scorecard from a boy whose youth astonished me, and studied the batting orders of the two clubs. One would sleep tonight in first place, the other would not sleep at all. At McGraw’s great shout the Giants sprinted for the clubhouse, leaving their wounded far in their wake. As they disappeared the Chicago players began to emerge from the opposite clubhouse door. When the booing was at its height I heard a faint voice calling my name, and I turned to see Eli and Arthur guiding their guests along the aisle toward our box. For such a game only prime clients received an invitation; these two bought jewelry for the R.H. Macy store. With room for only four in the box, Arthur bid the buyers farewell and ambled off toward the bleachers. There was no pretense at talking business; the matter was, who’s playing? Who’s hurt? Of our troop Donlin and Bresnahan would give it a try, but the right side of our infield was gone: Herzog would play for Doyle, and Merkle for Tenney at first base. The Cubs? September had exacted its toll on their roster: Hofman for Slagle in center field, Haydon for Sheckard in left.
Done with practice now, the Cubs gathered in their dugout while the Giants marched down the foul line toward their bench. This time McGraw led the way, and Mathewson was the last man on the field, responding to the enormous ovation with his familiar extravagant smile. Matty, Big Six, the master of them all at the height of his powers, the nation’s favorite—yet if he were certain to win there would be no drama, no tension, and tension there was, in every corner of the park, on every street of the city, and, yes, in Chicago as well, where they gathered at taverns and tickers to follow the play and root for their own. They would be taking the play in Pittsburgh, too, in Cincinnati and St. Louis and cities that had never seen these men save on cigarette cards and etched woodcuts; everywhere that wires ran the game would reach. And now it began.
Johnny Evers, that hard, pitiless man, beloved everywhere in Chicago save his own team’s clubhouse, singled in the first inning, but Mathewson struck out Wildfire Schulte and escaped the threat. Pfeister, for the Cubs, had almost as much on the ball, but he couldn’t find the plate in the early going. In the second inning he unleashed a terrifying fastball at McCormick; the youngster took it in the gut and fell into the dirt at home, writhing and gasping for breath. Yet in two minutes he was walking unsteadily to first base; there was no one to take his place. In the fourth it was Evers again, beating Mathewson’s best fastball for another hit and from first base gesturing at McGraw in signs it took no expert to decode. Once more Mathewson pitched out of trouble; the teams were scoreless through four, and the tension ate at us all.
In Chicago’s fifth it broke in a terrible moment. Tinker, batting with one out, reached for a fadeaway and put it on a low line to right-center field. Donlin, forgetting his pain, or perhaps anesthetized to it with an Irish remedy, circled the ball, the better to field it on the charge and come up throwing, but when he reached he missed it cleanly. It rolled on toward the fence, Cy Seymour chasing it, while Donlin fell to his knees and pounded the grass in anguish. Tinker charged for third, cut the base flying, and headed home. It was a near play at the plate, but Joe slid across with the game’s first run.
It might be the only run, for Pfeister had found himself. He dispatched the Giants easily in the home fifth. Mathewson returned to strike out two and retire Evers at last. Herzog, whose bat was gold even if his glove was dross, led off the Giant sixth; he hit a sharp one-hopper to third, and Steinfeldt, who made his living with his hands, stopped it, scrambled for it, and threw hurriedly to Chance, or rather over Chance; Frank extended every inch of his huge frame, but the ball cleared his glove by a fraction and bounced on toward the box seats. Herzog held at second base while the home fans went wild with hope and relief.
Bresnahan, utterly professional, impervious to pain, bunted Herzog to third; Steinfeldt handled the play cleanly and was mocked with the crowd’s applause. Now Donlin, and redemption: the ball skimming over second base, Herzog trotting home, the score tied.
In the pandemonium Pfeister took hold of himself and the inning. Donlin moved no farther; Seymour and Devlin went down on curve balls. Came the seventh inning and it was one to one; came the eighth and the score was the same, and then we were at the ninth, with demon Evers leading off for the Cubs. Here was the ball game, the pennant, the season: who could doubt it? And here was Mathewson’s fastball, and Evers missing it; and Mathewson’s curve, and Evers swinging through it; and another fastball tucked in under Johnny’s fists, strike three. The park exploded with noise.
Wildfire Shulte, twice struck out: he took a fastball for a strike, swung at another and missed, held off a fadeaway that just missed the plate (and had McGraw livid at Umpire O’Day’s call), and made ready for the one-and-two pitch. I expected an inside fastball; instead it was a curve that surprised Schulte as badly as it would have done me, but only Wildfire had to suffer the strikeout. Two away.
Frank Chance, soul of the Cubs: he swung at the first pitch and popped it foul into the box seats. The fans scrambled about, and one of them snatched the ball as it rattled under the seats and flipped it back onto the field. The batboy ran it out to Mathewson, who turned his back to the plate and massaged the scuffed brown baseball in his huge hands. That ball, bright white ninety minutes before, indistinguishable from a thousand others, now bore its own unique markings: Mathewson’s hands ran over the smudge that Donlin’s hit had made, touched the seam frayed by Tinker’s bat. The game’s history was on that ball, more exactly than in any box score or the memory of any witness.
Mathewson took his sign and pitched, Chance swung, and the ball bounced easily to shortstop. Bridwell’s throw was true. Three hands out, all out: the first and greatest of Doubleday’s rules, three-quarters of a century old.
Seymour grounded out to begin the Giant ninth. Devlin now, hitless to this point against Pfeister’s fine curve, and the pitcher threw another, high, and yet another—good, too good, a batting practice pitch, and Devlin knocked it cleanly into center field.
Young McCormick was certain to bunt, and indeed he tried, once, twice, both times foul. McGraw’s strategy foundered on the rookie’s unfinished skills. Swinging with two strikes, McCormick grounded the ball to second. The Cubs tried for two, but Devlin’s hard slide upset Tinker at second, and McCormick was safe by a fraction at first. Chance argued the call with field umpire Emslie; for a moment Emslie was our hero. A good call, a great call. Good old Emslie.
Two outs now, and Merkle at the bat: Merkle, the baby of the club, nineteen years old yet, big as he was, seeming far younger. He’d passed the year as a late-inning body inserted now at first, now in the outfield; with Tenney injured, this day marked his first starting assignment. He was hitless in three tries, victim of the rookie’s devil, the major league curve ball. His bat never moved as Pfeister took him to two strikes. The third pitch was outside, the fourth closer to the edge: Merkle stroked it, and it rose over Chance’s glove at first, slicing for the foul line. Every Giant loyalist stretched and strained to push or pray the ball fair. It nicked the line, sending up a white puff of lime, and the crowd shrieked. McCormick tore around second and dug for third; Merkle took a wide turn at first, thought about stretching the hit, played it safe, and returned to the bag. There he stood, unable to force back a happy, relieved smile while the cheers thundered down.
Bridwell advanced to the plate. The back rows of the grandstand emptied; the box seats were inundated with swaying, shouting men. Pfeister set and pitched; Bridwell swung; Pfeister brought up his glove but grabbed only air. Emslie, just inside second base, whirled out of the ball’s path, lost his balance, and fell. The ball kicked earth just where the infield dirt bordered the outfield grass and bounded gaily into center field. From third base McCormick dashed down the line; from the coacher’s box alongside McGraw raced with him. The rookie took two long steps, jumped, and came down on home plate with both feet.
The ecstasy! Fans burst onto the field and swarmed about the victorious Giants, who fought their way toward the clubhouse amid swirls of dust and turf. I was standing on my seat, both fists raised to heaven, and Eli was pounding me on the shoulders and shouting at the top of his lungs. Our clients threw their bowlers into the air, lost them to the lower deck, grabbed others that showered down upon us, and flung those after their own. I could hardly see the surface of the field, so crowded it was with celebration. Had there ever been a more glorious victory?
I had my arms around Eli; together we jumped and danced. “Let’s go to the clubhouse!” I shouted. “I’ve got to see him!” “You bet! But wait until things calm down!”
I looked down at the field again. Behind second base, standing out in their uniforms, were a trio of players, two Cubs, one Giant: I recognized McGinnity. Doubtless the Iron Man had claimed the game ball, which was Mathewson’s by right and custom, but the Cubs—Evers? Hof man? I thought so—were contesting his title to it. There was a short scuffle, and Umpire Emslie came between them; McGinnity broke loose and threw the ball high and far away. I watched its flight, instantly reminded of the finish of the World’s Series when McGann had flung the ball into the sun. This one came down amid the crowd at the base of the bleachers. I felt a flash of anger at the Chicagoans. To fuss over a souvenir that indisputably belonged to the Giants! It was hardly sportsmanlike. Then I looked toward the clubhouse and saw Mathewson riding on the shoulders of the adoring mob, and I began to cheer again. Forget Bryan, forget Taft: Mathewson for President! We laughed. And Merkle for Vice President; the rookie deserved a share of the palm. So did Herzog, and Bridwell, and Donlin, and good old Devlin.
There were boos rising from the field. Evers was still at second base, holding a baseball and talking insistently to both umpires, Emslie and O’Day. The three men made an odd progress through the milling celebrants in the outfield, the umpires walking away, Evers running ahead and turning to confront them, a few moment’s argument, and then the whole process repeated. A passing fan took a swipe at Evers’ cap, and Evers swung at him with his glove as if brushing away a noisome fly. I lost sight of them in the throng that circled the clubhouse. Thousands were streaming through the gates and onto the street while hundreds remained on the field, unwilling to depart until they had wrung the last measure of rapture from the afternoon.
I’d never been eager to visit the Giant clubhouse, but now I longed to be there, alongside Mathewson. I’d seen his private devotions four hours before and felt that my very witness had added to his strength; to be with him now, to confess my faith and share his glory was all my yearning. At the top of the ramp to the lower deck I threw my arm over Eli’s shoulder, and marching in step with him I began to sing:
Take me out to the ballgame!
Take me out to the crowd!
Buy me some peanuts and crackerjacks,
I don’t care if I never get back!
For it’s root, root, root for the Giants!
If they don’t win it’s a shame—
For it’s ein! zwei! drei strikes unt raus
At the old ballgame!
We struck up a second chorus as around us people joined in the song, amused by the interpolations which were ours alone. There is nothing that can so delight the heart as being a boy again, and there is no better transport to that happy past than a victory in a boy’s game.
“Stick close now,” Eli cautioned the clients as we pushed into the crush near the clubhouse. “I’ll see you in.” We fought our way up the stairway to the heavy iron door; Eli hailed the uniformed policeman guarding the passage, and he beckoned us forward. Eli clapped him on the back as he admitted us.
The room was large, almost square, and dimly lit; six caged hanging lamps added little to the twilight that filtered through the high windows. To call it a locker room would miss the mark; there were no lockers, merely long stretches of wooden shelves with nails beaten into the wall beneath to serve as clothes hangers. Milking stools were scattered here and there. Well-wishers far outnumbered the ball players; most of the athletes were in the shower, and their laughter and rough insults were amplified by the tiles. In a tiny corner office a knot of reporters was gathered around a wooden desk, and behind it sat McGraw, his uniform shirt unbuttoned and his stockinged feet crossed on the desktop.
Eli and his guests stood by the doorway to hear the exchange, but I moved on to the edge of a circle around Merkle. The boy’s baby face was shining with delight.
“What was the pitch, Fred?”
“Curve ball, I expected it. Might have been a little outside of the plate. Don’t tell Mister McGraw.”
The reporters laughed. “I think he’d forgive you,” said one.
“He’s fined guys for less,” said Merkle.
“What did you think when he told you you were starting today, Fred?”
“I just thought, please, God, don’t let me embarrass myself. I was ready, though. You hate to see guys get hurt, but let’s face it, that’s the way rookies break into the line-up. Hey, we rooks didn’t do too bad, did we? Moose scored the winning run, didn’t he? And Buck scored the first one.”
“How’s it feel to be a game ahead?”
“Terrific!”
“What did you think when Bridwell’s single went through in the ninth?”
“What did I think? I thought, ‘great, we win!’ Then I saw the pack coming out of the stands and I thought I’d better get the hell out of there.” He grinned awkwardly, the boy using the man’s cussword. “So I lit off for the clubhouse. Almost didn’t make it. That was quite a mob out there, wasn’t it?”
