The Only Game in Town, page 1
The Only Game in Town
Geonn Cannon
Smashwords Edition
Supposed Crimes LLC
Matthews, North Carolina
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
All Rights Reserved
Copyright © 2022 Geonn Cannon
Published in the United States
ISBN: 978-1-952150-86-9
Smashwords Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Prologue
March 1916
“When you come to the end of a perfect day, and you sit alone with your thought...”
Marcy Neal wrinkled her nose. The music had been playing for the better part of an hour, the same song drifting down the hall on a seemingly constant loop, but the singing was new. Worse than that, she recognized the voice. It was her savior, but also the man she least wanted to see at the moment. She closed her eyes and braced herself for a lecture.
She definitely deserved it. Bad girls got lectures, and good girls didn’t find themselves sitting on an upturned bucket in a Podunk police station’s broom closet listening to Carrie Jacobs-Bond echo herself on a Victrola. It would have been an uncomfortable position for anyone to find themselves in, but Marcy was tall for a woman, lanky and lean, and it felt like her knees were uncomfortably lined up with her shoulders. Her hands were limp on her thighs because her arms kept knocking into brooms and mops if she put them anywhere else.
The doorknob turned and she had to pull her feet back, squeezing in on herself. She squinted one eye closed and looked up at the man framed by the door. He was backlit by the hallway light but she would recognize that silhouette anywhere. David Buckner stuck his hands in his pockets and stuck his gut out, looking at her with a look she assumed was meant to be ‘disappointing father.’ She returned the stare without emotion.
“I suppose he deserved it,” he said.
“Don’t they always?” She stretched out her hand. “If it makes you feel better, I might not have done it if he’d been wearing his uniform.”
David took it and hauled her up. “You would have,” he said, “but you also might have run away faster instead of sticking around for a beer.”
“I hadn’t been served yet.”
He sighed and motioned her to follow him toward the source of the music. Marcy squared her shoulders and brushed off the seat of her pants. She dreaded what had to come next.
All she’d wanted was a beer. A lousy beer after the game, a game she’d helped win. Didn’t she deserve that? And if she hadn’t been carrying her bat, the deputy wouldn’t have had any reason to heckle her. “That’s a peculiar looking broom you’ve got there, little lady. It’s missing all the bristles. How do you even sweep up with that thing?”
She knew she should’ve ignored him. She wasn’t an idiot, she knew the whole point was to make her get huffy and red-faced. But when he turned to laugh at his pals, Marcy decided she didn’t feel like being the butt of anyone’s joke. Not tonight. She moved closer and dropped the bat from her shoulder in a smooth, perfect arc until it was pointed at the ground. One of his friends saw her coming and his eyes went wide, but he didn’t have time to utter a warning.
Marcy gripped the neck of the bat with both hands. She stuck the end under the man’s stool and swept outward. The stool flew. His butt went with it, but his head went straight down and smacked the bar. His friends jumped back and then converged on him to make sure he wasn’t hurt too badly. Marcy had cocked a hip and swung the bat back up onto her shoulder.
“Looks like it sweeps just fine, pally,” she said.
And then she found out the loudmouth was the town deputy. Handcuffs, a quick ride back to the station, and stuck in the broom closet because the sheriff refused to lock her up in the cells with the real criminals, by which he meant men. She hadn’t missed the poetic irony of being shoved in a closet with the brooms and mops, and she definitely caught the deputy’s smile as he shut the door on her. There was a single bare bulb that was dim enough that she was worried it would burn out before she was released.
Now she stretched her legs with every step. She did it to loosen her muscles but also to keep pace with David, but mostly to make the walk as slow as possible. At the end of the hall, David turned and leaned closer to her.
“Just apologize, and make it sincere.”
She stared at him.
“Make it sound sincere then, damn it.”
The main room of the police station had two desks facing each other behind a longer, taller desk that separated the work space from the public. The man she’d met in the bar was seated at one of the desks. His hair was mussed and his nose was bandaged, but she could still see the massive, hideous bruise under both of his eyes. Apparently he’d hit the bar harder than she thought. She felt just bad enough that she didn’t choke on her apology.
“I’m sorry, Deputy Dewhurst. I got carried away.”
He pressed his lips together and jutted his chin forward. Marcy looked down at her feet, hoping she came off as contrite. Really she just couldn’t look at him without laughing. She’d seen pouting toddlers make the exact same expression.
“You need to learn how to behave in public,” he said.
Marcy nodded. She bit the inside of her cheek to stop her instinctive response from slipping out.
“You’re lucky your husband here is willing to argue for you. I decided I ain’t gonna press charges, but he’s gonna keep a tighter leash on you. It’ll do you good. Teach you some dang manners. Now go on, get outta here.”
She lifted her head, ignoring the ‘husband’ comment. Whatever David had to tell this twerp to get her released was fine by her. She cleared her throat and tried to look contrite.
“I believe you still have my property.”
He shook his head. “Nothing you’re getting back.”
Marcy’s face flushed. She stepped closer to the desk. “You have my bat.”
Dewhurst looked up at her. “Ma’am...”
“Marcy...” David warned.
She spun on him. “David.” She could look extremely severe when she wanted. She had a strong jaw, thick eyebrows, and her blue eyes could almost spark when she put enough emotion behind them. Unfortunately David had seen her rage far too often to be cowed by it, and his only reaction was to press his lips tighter together.
Dewhurst looked past her to David, like she wasn’t even there. “I thought you had your wife under control.”
“She’s just a little--”
Marcy gave up on David and took a step toward the deputy. “Give me my goddamn bat.”
Dewhurst actually leaned away from her. “You let her use that language?”
David tried to wedge himself in front of Marcy. “We don’t--”
“He doesn’t ‘let me’ do anything.” Marcy stepped around the desk. Dewhurst scurried away. She spotted her bat leaning against the wall next to the flagpole. She grabbed it around the neck and brought it up in one smooth move, aiming the end at Dewhurst’s face. She was very satisfied to see him cringe.
“This bat is my property,” she said matter-of-factly, “and I’m taking it with me.”
“You’re a maniac,” Dewhurst said.
Marcy propped the bat on her shoulder. “No, sir. I’m a baseball player. Next time you’ll think twice before running your yap at one of us.”
She walked to the door and left the station without looking back.
David came outside a moment later. Marcy was already halfway down the block and he hustled to catch up with her. She spotted his automobile, a yellow 1912 Garford touring car, and headed toward it as he huffed and puffed. Getting a ride in it would almost be worth all the hubbub she’d just suffered. It was a beauty, big enough to seat seven, with big bug-eyed headlights. It was open-top so everyone would be able to see them and know exactly who they were. A woman could feel like royalty riding around in something like that, even if it was a clunker he’d bought on the cheap when the company folded.
“You really do need to start behaving.” He huffed and popped an unlit cigar into his mouth when he caught up with her.
“Did you tell him the same thing?” she snapped. “I was minding my business. He’s the one who ran his yap and started the whole mess. I just wanted a damn drink.”
He stepped in front of her and forced her to stop. “No, I mean you really need to stay in line. You’re about to have a lot of eyes on you.”
Marcy narrowed her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest. “What are you talking about?”
“Word just came down from on high. Baseball is officially kaput.”
Marcy’s eyes widened. “Spring training starts next month. They can’t do that.”
“Can and did.” He took the cigar from his mouth, gesturing with it. “Wilson’s joined the war.”
“He’s running for reelection...”
“Against a Republican whose main argument is that the Democrats aren’t doing enough
Marcy tried not to let her imagination run away with her. “So what does that mean?”
“It means the draft. It means every able-bodied man of a certain age is going to be expected to do his part to protect democracy.”
“So every man who is fit enough to play baseball is going to be overseas soon.”
“Those who haven’t already signed up are going to be drafted soon enough. It means, little lady, that come the first of the month, there’s going to be a baseball drought in the U.S. of A. Unless there’s someone to fill it. Team owners are panicking because they shelled out a ton of money on park maintenance and advertising, and suddenly all their talent is going overseas to play a different sort of game. Some of them could go bankrupt if there aren’t any games to recoup their debts.”
“So. Women.”
“A lot of people have spent a lot of time in a lot of back rooms fighting for this, Marcy. I was one of them. We just need money and a place to play. We get to use their parks, they get a cut of the ticket and concession sales. It won’t be as much as their usual earnings, but it’s more than an empty park could ever earn. It’s beneficial to both sides. And to the crowds, who just want to see a damn game, they won’t care who is playing.”
Marcy looked back down the street as if she expected to spot a newspaper to confirm what he was saying. She stepped away from him and walked in a circle, putting her free hand on top of her head as the bat bumped against her leg. David waited patiently for her to process the news and took the time to light his cigar.
“Will people come watch women play?” she asked.
He shrugged. “If they want to see a baseball game any time soon, they aren’t gonna have a choice. It’s gonna be you, the Negro League, or nothing.”
“Are we ready for that?”
“Most of you are. We can find replacements for the ones who ain’t ready or don’t want to take the big step. But we’re gonna have to move fast.”
He started walking toward his car again. This time it was Marcy hurrying to catch up.
“Why do we have to move fast?”
“I’m not the only person who reads the Herald, Marcy. Every team owner in those meetings I talked about? They’re all running around putting together their own teams as we speak. The same thing is happening all over the country in the other leagues, no doubt. Women ballplayers are about to become a hot commodity. If you want to replace any duds on your team, you’re going to wanna get to the good ones first.”
“Why me?”
“This is going to be a team of girls. I think it would go over better if they were dealing with another girl, don’t you?”
“Makes sense.” Marcy trotted around the front of his car to get in the passenger side. Her hands were shaking with anticipation, her mind racing.
“I’m already working on names,” she said. “One in particular.”
David raised his eyebrows at her. “I’m dying of curiosity.”
Marcy smiled at him. “Shrikes. The Chicago Shrikes.”
“You want to change the name of the team? What’s wrong with Lady Yankees?”
“It’s a whole new world, David. If we want them to remember us, we better make ourselves memorable.”
I.
SPRING TRAINING
“FIGHT OR GET BUSY
SWEEPING EDICT TO IDLERS TO
MAKE NATION EFFICIENT
IN WAR.
IS TO BE IN EFFECT JULY 1
Order Takes Registrants Out of Deferred
Class - Ball Players, Golfers, Clerks, Bartenders, and Others,
Must Find “Useful” Employment.”
- The Southern Herald (Liberty, Mississippi), May 31, 1918
Chapter One
Oswego, Illinois
“You’re pouting.”
“Men don’t pout,” David said.
They were standing with their backs to a brick wall outside a bank. It was the first truly hot day of the month. Enough people were taking advantage of the weather that the smell of fresh-cut grass made Marcy’s nose tickle. She tried her best to ignore it and focused on watching the door of the soda shop across the street. There had been a steady stream of customers in and out, but none of them were the person Marcy was waiting for. The same person David was pouting over.
“You’re mad about her.”
David snorted, scoffed, kicked his shoe at the pavement, and then glowered at her. “You could choose anyone in the world, and you choose Rosalind O’Brien?”
“What’s wrong with her?” Marcy smirked, because she knew very well David’s problems with her. She crossed her arms and waited, forcing him to say it out loud.
He sighed, started to say something twice, then finally gave up. “Rosalind’s a fucking nightmare.”
Marcy laughed. “Don’t pull any punches, David. Gee willikers.” She looked at her watch. “I could stand here and explain to you all the reasons you’re going to want Rosalind on your team. But you already know how good she is. But we’re going to stand here for another thirty seconds or so and wait for my point to be proven by itself.”
“It doesn’t matter if--”
The soda shop’s door swung open at such a speed that it stopped him mid-word. The woman who opened it didn’t touch the stoop on her way out, instead landing on the sidewalk and changing direction in a fluid full-body twist that didn’t take away a lick of her speed. She was almost to the end of the block before David realized what he was watching.
“Gadzooks,” he muttered.
“You’ve seen her play. But did you know she could do this even when no one’s chasing her?”
“I...”
Marcy pointed at Rosalind’s quickly-shrinking back. “She’s going that fast just because she wants to, when she knows she’s got a few miles ahead of her. Imagine what she can do when a home run is at stake. Do you want her on another team playing against us?”
David only stared.
She tugged on his jacket sleeve as she passed him. “Come on. The wheels give us an advantage but we’re gonna wanna hurry if we expect to catch up with her.”
He glanced over his shoulder, still disbelieving, as he followed her to the car. It took a minute for the engine to get started up. By the time he was on the road, Rosalind was out of sight. Marcy pointed him to the correct turn, which took them onto a dirt road.
Rosalind didn’t look back as David closed the distance. She waved them for them to go around her and moved further to the side of the road. David pulled up alongside and slowed to keep pace. She glanced over and shook her head when she recognized the passenger.
“Keep driving,” Rosalind said.
“You don’t even know what I’m going to say,” Marcy said.
“Someone got hurt or isn’t living up to their potential.” She didn’t even sound out of breath. “You want me to join up to play while the men are at war. But I ain’t interested. I’m not going to wear a cute little dress. I’m not gonna pitch underhand. I won’t smile and flirt and flutter my eyelashes at the boys in the stands like a damn doll.”
Marcy said, “What if I promised you wouldn’t have to do any of that? What if what we’re offering is real baseball, not some exhibition or spectacle? We won’t have a full roster, so you don’t have to worry about warming the bench. We’re going to be using every warm body we’ve got, and we need the best warm bodies we can get.”
Rosalind kept her pace. The road was long enough to keep up this slow pursuit, but Marcy could see they’d have to make a turn in just a few minutes.
“We’re even changing our name. We’re not the Lady Yankees anymore. We’re going to be our own thing. The Shrikes.”
David said, “We’re not a hundred percent settled on that name.”
“Don’t listen to him,” Marcy said. “We’ll be the Shrikes. Whatever we’re called, we won’t be riding the coattails of any man’s team. We don’t have to be. For once, we’re not going to be competing with the men for ticket sales or begging for attention. We’re going to be the only game in town. I want to show people what women’s baseball can look like, and I can only do that if I’m playing with the best. That’s you, Ros.”
