Magic Time, page 8
“The arguments at the Doll House were starting to get downright mean-spirited. Folks claimed to have been in safer barroom brawls. Some people got so touchy it looked like there’d be permanent enemies made. There was a small but vociferous faction wanted to name the park Johnny Carson Stadium, because he was so popular at the time, though he was born in Nebraska. It was Dilly Eastwick suggested Fred Noonan Field, as a sort of compromise.
“‘He’s one of America’s forgotten men.’ Dilly said. ‘Why, all the world knows Amelia Earhart, but you won’t find one in a thousand can name the man disappeared off the face of the earth with her. I bet there isn’t anything else in the world named for Fred Noonan. No, sir, our baseball stadium will be unique.’
“And because there were so many choices and people were so divided, Fred Noonan won on the third ballot. I don’t think anyone’s ever been sorry. The name is a great conversation starter, and all the children in Grand Mound learn about Amelia Earhart and Fred Noonan in fourth grade. We’re the only school in America teaches a whole week on those two people.”
The Grand Mound baseball stadium sat about a block back from the secondary highway. Stadium is perhaps too grand a word, though the field was picture perfect, obviously lovingly tended. The park itself was small as a button, the fences at the foul lines 298 feet, though at its farthest point the center-field wall was almost four hundred feet from home plate.
We entered through the front gate, just like paying customers, and made our way under the stands. There is little that hasn’t been said about the thrill of walking into a beautiful ballpark. And Fred Noonan Field was beautiful. The grass had been recently cut and was perfectly groomed. The air was filled with the aromas of fresh-cut grass and sunshine to such an extent that I found myself inhaling deeply as I made my way toward the first-base dugout. The dressing rooms were standard-issue concrete block, with chipped apple-green benches along each wall. The lockers were metal, standard high-school olive-drab. The locker room gave up the usual odors of sweat, disinfectant, and urine. Emmett gave me a new bicycle lock to place on my locker.
“We supply the first lock,” said Emmett. “If you lose it you have to buy the replacement.”
The Grand Mound team was called the Greenshirts. The home-team uniforms were a stark enamel-white with kelly-green trim, numbers, and names; our road uniforms were kelly green with white trim. Every time I’ve suited up ever since Little League, it’s always a thrill to pick up my uniform top and see my name, HOULE, in bright letters across the back.
Just as well; baseball players are amused by small things, and one of the favorite tricks in high school and college is to hang another player’s jersey in someone’s locker. If he doesn’t check it before he puts it on, he’s in big trouble. I’ve even seen this happen at the major-league level. I once saw outfielder Ivan Calderon of the White Sox play about three innings wearing a relief pitcher’s name and number on his back.
One year at LSU, we had a bat girl for our home games. Three of us arranged with the equipment manager to take the uniform of a large, redneck outfielder who continually gave the young bat girl, our hitting coach’s daughter, a bad time. Instead of his name and number, we had BAT GIRL and double zeroes sewn on the back. I kept him distracted as he was dressing. For whatever reason, the fans — we were hosting Mississippi State — cooperated. He played the top of the first in the outfield. When he came to bat, the umpire pointed out he wasn’t wearing the number that had been announced over the public-address system and tossed him.
* * * * *
In the Grand Mound locker room I was introduced to many players. Most of the names went by like straws in the wind. If I’d been given a test I’d have been able to supply names or positions for only a couple of the players, one of whom certainly did look Chinese. Unfortunately someone yelled as he was introduced, and I didn’t catch his name.
I met the other two new players, an outfielder named Barry McMartin, and a pitcher named Crease Fowler.
“I bet the family you’ve been assigned to just happens to have an eligible daughter,” I said to Fowler.
“Yeah. And they’re anxious for us to date. Usually parents aren’t thrilled about their daughters hanging out with itinerant baseball players.”
“You, too?” I asked Barry McMartin.
“I should be so lucky,” he replied. ‘My ‘family’ only has sons, and they’re away at college. I had to look through a six-foot stack of photo albums last night. Man, there’s something weird about this town.”
I paid particular attention to a player named Bobby Manuela, the shortstop I’d be working with. He was Mexican, about twenty-five, small, with a ready smile and quick brown eyes.
“This is my third year in Grand Mound,” he said. “I live here all the time now. Brought my wife and baby here after the first season. My second daughter was born here.”
“Bobby works at the Co-op,” said Emmett, who was sticking to me like a shadow. “He manages the hardware department.”
Then I was introduced to the Greenshirts manager, Gene Walston, and his assistant, Vince Singletary.
“We play a lot of inter-squad games getting ready for the season,” Emmett said. “Gene and Vince take turns managing the opposing teams.”
“Step into my office a minute, Mike. I want to have a quick word with you,” Gene Walston said. He was a gaunt-cheeked man in his late fifties, his shoulders a little stooped. His assistant, Vince Singletary, must have weighed close to three hundred pounds, which he carried well on a six-foot-six frame, except for a more than comfortable swelling in the area of his belt. Singletary was black as a bowling ball. I knew I was going to like him even before he spoke. His smile was like sunshine, his laugh lines deep.
Emmett and I began to follow Walston out of the dressing room.
“Mike only,” Walston said to Emmett. Emmett reluctantly stayed where he was.
The manager’s office consisted of a battered desk and an even more battered filing cabinet that looked as if it had absorbed the rage of a thousand one-run losses.
“Just a little confidence strictly between you and me, Mike. Don’t pass this on to anyone, especially Emmett. As far as I’m concerned you’ve got the starting second-base spot locked up. I had a friend videotape four games at LSU. You’re a class act, young fellow. You field like a cat and hit like a bandit. Just wanted you to know that. So, relax, no pressure, Mike, the job’s yours.”
I barely had time to say thank you before we were walking back down the hall to the clubhouse.
There was no direct access to the dugouts on the first- and third-base sides. When we were dressed we entered the field from a single door behind home plate, and walked either right or left according to which uniform had been assigned us.
The stadium seated over two thousand, with small open bleachers on the first- and third-base sides, and a slightly larger area of covered seating behind home plate. The park was surrounded by a twelve-foot-high wooden fence, painted a dark green. All along the inside of the fence were bright ads, in reds, greens, and yellows, mainly advertising Grand Mound businesses. The largest sign, about forty feet long, stretching across left-center field, had red letters on a white background: EMMETT POWELL: YOUR INDEPENDENT INSURANCE AGENT IN GRAND MOUND.
I commented on the immaculate condition of the field. Emmett was still on the field, even though I was now warming up by playing catch with Bobby Manuela. A number of “family” members were on the field and sidelines, more or less accompanying their players.
“Yes, sir, we take pride in providing a little jewel of a playing field,” said Emmett. “You can thank Roger, the groundskeeper, for that.”
He beckoned the carrotty-haired groundskeeper over to us. “Runs the infield dirt through a flour sifter,” Emmett said, when he introduced us.
“Proud to meet you, son,” Roger Cash said, giving no indication that he had ever seen me before. I did likewise. “I’ll do my best to make the infield around second base flat and true. You won’t get any surprise bounces on any field I tend.”
“Thank you,” I said.
“Trouble is,” Roger Cash went on, “what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander, as they say. If the ball bounces true for you it will do the same for your opponents.”
A green Grand Mound baseball cap sat atop Cash’s copper-colored hair, which spilled down over the collar of his white shirt. He glanced at me, then at Emmett, a wicked smile in his golden eyes.
“When you get to playing serious games, why, Emmett and I have come up with a plan to give you an edge, a tiny one. Not that you need one, Mike. But as they say, every little bit helps. Let’s walk.”
At the dugout, we three looked around conspiratorially, as Cash continued. “Now, if we were to look under the bench here —” As he spoke he bent over and peered under the double plank bench. “Well, look at what I found.”
Running his fingers against the concrete wall behind the bench he came up with a half dozen pebbles, about the size of marbles.
“These are yours, Mike,” he said, dumping the pebbles into my outstretched hand.
“As you leave the field after your opponent’s first at-bat, you scatter them on the dirt. Next inning you do a little groundskeeping, pick them all up and keep them in a pocket until the inning is over, then you scatter them again. If you’re lucky, your opponent will get one bad bounce a game.”
“Sometimes that’s all it takes to decide a game,” said Emmett, slapping my shoulder.
“A ballplayer’s like a race horse, needs every edge he can get,” said Roger Cash.
“I don’t know,” I said.
“In baseball, whatever you don’t get caught at is fair,” said Roger Cash. “Players steal signs. Use the hidden-ball trick. Isn’t written anywhere that a groundskeeper can’t have a favorite player.”
“I bet you say that to all the players.”
“Mind you, you won’t start until the season opens, no edges in inter-squad games,” said Emmett.
“You know, I’m glad to see you have a little larceny in your hearts. I was beginning to think Grand Mound was too perfect,” I said. “By the way, does this happen to have anything to do with distances?” Emmett looked puzzled.
Roger Cash smiled and a look passed between us. My guess was he was holding back because he wasn’t certain I’d wanted to acknowledge our past relationship. He was about to speak when Emmett broke in.
“I know I’ve certainly got a favorite player,” said Emmett, again slapping me on the shoulder. “You are gonna be a star in the Cornbelt League, my friend, and it will be a pleasure for me to contribute in some small way to your success.”
“I’ll go along if you guys say so,” I said. “How big a discount does Mr. Cash get on his insurance?” I asked, joking, but seeing the expressions on both their faces I realized I’d stumbled on the truth. I carefully put the pebbles back under the bench.
3
Fred Noonan’s Town
ELEVEN
As we began our warm-ups I was amazed to see the stands filling just as if a regular game was scheduled. Behind the covered grandstand the concessions were dispensing hot dogs, ice cream, and soda. There were more than a thousand people out to watch the afternoon practice.
We had a perfectly routine workout: calisthenics, wind sprints, stretching exercises, batting, fielding, and base-running practice. The squad was larger than I would have anticipated, over thirty players, with a preponderance of pitchers.
The manager’s name, Gene Walston, had been bouncing around like a ping pong ball inside my head ever since we had been introduced. He was a slim, greying man with slightly stooped shoulders and a complexion like concrete. He didn’t look at all familiar, but I knew that name.
About the time I took my position at second base to field some grounders, it came to me. Suicide Walston! He had been a third-base coach in the Bigs with a variety of clubs. His nickname grew out of his propensity to wave runners around third no matter how slim their chances of scoring.
He once got to manage the final fifty games of a season after the manager suffered a heart attack. But the team blew a five-game lead, lost the division, and Walston was gone from the Bigs, disappeared like a Mafia informer.
Walston’s demise was helped along by a national pre-game baseball show that put together a collection of his blunders as third-base coach. I remember watching Walston at third frantically waving in runners who were doomed to be cut down by thirty feet. The camera showed him sending a runner home while in the background the shortstop was already taking the cutoff throw and firing toward the plate.
So this was what had become of Suicide Walston — which led me to speculate about Walston’s decision to award me the starting second-base man’s job. The other second-base man, John Quist, was a year or two older than me and a better fielder, though not as fast on the bases. But the way he whacked a couple of balls off the center-field scoreboard told me he certainly had more power than I did.
The practice broke up at about 4:00 P.M.
“Be back at 6:30 P.M.,” said Walston. “The inter-squad game begins at 7:00 P.M. sharp.”
As we drove home for supper, Emmett praised me as if I’d gotten the game-winning hit and made an unassisted triple play in the field. The reception at home was about the same. Tracy Ellen was sitting on the porch swing reading a book as we drove up, and Emmett began talking to her before he was fully out of the car.
“You should have seen Mike at second base this afternoon, Tracy Ellen. He was like an octopus out there. An octopus. Picked up every ball within a half block. And hit! At one point Mike hit five consecutive ground balls straight back up the middle. Keeps that up he’ll bat .400.”
“That’s really nice,” Tracy Ellen said, hardly raising her eyes from her book, a novel by someone named Tim Sandlin.
But as we were walking into the house — Emmett had his hand on the front doorknob and was hollering, “Marge, Marge, you’ll never guess what Mike did at practice” — Tracy Ellen set the book down, stood up and said, “Congratulations, Mike. I’m glad you did well.” Then she hugged me. I suppose it was the way a sister would hug a brother who had just played a good game of baseball, but frankly, her action surprised the hell out of me. Now, I don’t know what to think about Tracy Ellen.
In the kitchen, Marge hugged me, too, and then we sat down to another meal fit for a threshing crew.
In spite of their protests I ate lightly.
“If I eat any more I’ll run like I’m wearing cement blocks instead of cleats. I’ll get caught stealing every time.”
Emmett reluctantly agreed that he didn’t want me to bog down.
“But I promise I’ll go three rounds with that roast beef after the game,” I told Marge.
“Good. I’ll heat it up just as soon as the game’s over,” Marge said.
“Just a couple of sandwiches. I’m quite capable of making my own. I’ve fended for myself in the kitchen most of my life. You already cook three meals a day, Marge. I can’t have you making a fourth on my account.”
“Tracy Ellen and I will be just so pleased to make a meal for you after the game. This is the first time we’ve boarded a player, so we’ll just have to get used to your hours.”
The Powells seem like the happiest family I’ve ever met.
I guess I’ve always had some doubts about traditional families, because what I’d seen of family life, outside of our home where it was Dad’s superhuman efforts that made our life good, it wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.
Mom’s sister, my Aunt Nadia, was married to an ignorant ox of a man named Ed Vlasyk. Ed worked at a foundry, flopped into a chair and turned on the TV the second he got home, and spent his evenings swilling beer and swatting at any child that got too close to him.
“So, Mike, you still hitting home runs or what?” was his standard greeting. I was surprised he remembered my name.
“I play second base. I don’t hit many home runs,” became my standard reply. Uncle Ed, sitting like a rock in his chair, would grunt and turn his attention back to his beer can.
“How come Aunt Nadia married a creep like him?” I asked Dad once. We were driving home after a Sunday afternoon visit. I liked to look at Aunt Nadia, she had the same flaming red hair as Mom, even though she was shorter, heavier, and seemed worn down by life.
“When you’re young there’s no way to guess how your life is gonna turn out. Ed and I went to school together. He wasn’t a bad guy. We even used to double date once in a while. But life is full of cruel surprises, and Ed’s way of coping is silence and beer. It’s too bad.”
“But why does he have a wife and kids if he doesn’t like them?” I persisted. “If Aunt Nadia died he’d give the kids to the first person who’d have them. He’d never stick with them the way you’ve done.”
I hugged Dad’s arm.
“I can’t explain, Mike. Maybe it’s his fault. Maybe it was the way he was raised. Maybe he and Nadia just don’t connect the way Gracie and I did. What is it they say? Don’t judge a man until you’ve walked a mile in his shoes.”
But I wasn’t satisfied. In school, everyone, including the teachers, thought it odd that I came from a motherless home,
“So, how come you don’t get married again?” I asked Dad
“Son, I’ve thought about it.” Dad had kind of a crooked half-smile on his face. “I’ve even looked around a bit.” He paused for a minute, ran a heavy hand over his dark chin. “You’d be surprised at how many women are interested in an ugly old guy like me. Lots of women who are divorced or separated, and anxious to have another go at the very thing that’s made their lives miserable. And they’re willing to settle for less than the best, just to have a man around the house. Now marriage to your Mom was the best thing that ever happened to me, and if I was to get married again it would have to be at least that good.
