Sophomore Campaign

  ADDITIONAL PRAISE FOR SOPHOMORE CAMPAIGN

  “Remarkable. The very best in today’s baseball fiction just got a little better.”

  —Don Williams, retired sports columnist, Newark Star Ledger

  “A moving story about an exceptional boy with uncommon athletic ability. This novel harkens back to the days when baseball was King.”

  —Chris Platt, award-winning YA author of Storm Chaser and Star Gazer

  “Frank Nappi knocks another one out of the ballpark! If there were a Hall of Fame for Baseball Books, this heart-warming Mickey Tussler series would be in it.”

  —Betty Dravis, author, The Toonies Invade Silicon Valley

  Also by Frank Nappi

  The Legend of Mickey Tussler

  Echoes from the Infantry

  Copyright © 2012 by Frank Nappi

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any manner without the express written consent of the publisher, except in the case of brief excerpts in critical reviews or articles. All inquiries should be addressed to Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018.

  Sky Pony Press books may be purchased in bulk at special discounts for sales promotion, corporate gifts, fund-raising, or educational purposes. Special editions can also be created to specifications. For details, contact the Special Sales Department, Sky Pony Press, 307 West 36th Street, 11th Floor, New York, NY 10018 or info@skyhorsepublishing.com.

  Sky Pony® is a registered trademark of Skyhorse Publishing, Inc.®, a Delaware corporation.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed within are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

  Visit our website at www.skyponypress.com.

  10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available on file.

  ISBN: 978-1-61608-663-3

  Printed in the United States of America

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  In an effort to replicate personalities and scenes from a most regrettable period in American history, and in order to tell a realistic story that avoids sanitizing the events herein to the point that they are perceived as both contrived and unrealistic, Sophomore Campaign employs certain language, themes, and events that may be offensive to some readers. The use of certain vernacular and epithets, while entirely unacceptable today, provide a gritty yet realistic glimpse into a period in time that we can happily say has passed.

  Note to baseball historians: certain artistic liberties have been taken with regard to timelines and the chronology of other baseball occurrences in order to facilitate the telling of this story.

  For Julia, Nick, and Anthony

  And for my father, Francis Nappi, whose

  undaunted spirit and love of the game

  continue to inspire me

  Baseball gives every American boy a chance to excel, not just to be as good as someone else but to be better than someone else. This is the nature of man and the name of the game.

  —TED WILLIAMS

  Contents

  MILWAUKEE—1949

  HARVEST FAIR

  SPRING TRAINING—1949

  APRIL

  OPENING DAY

  APRIL 19, 1949

  THE DEBUT

  MAY

  MIDSEASON

  JUNE SWOON

  JULY

  THE BEST LAID PLANS

  AUGUST 4, 1949

  BAKER’S WOODS

  SEPTEMBER

  STRETCH RUN

  PENNANT FEVER

  JUDGMENT DAY

  POSTGAME

  MILWAUKEE—1949

  It was one of those classic autumn days, replete with crisp jets of air and a wide, bright sky. The trees were golden brown, glistening ever so softly with remnants of an early morning frost, and the crops were heavy, saddled with a restless weight that matched the heaviness under which Arthur “Murph” Murphy’s mind labored. It had only been a few of weeks since the loss—a bitter defeat at the hands of his nemesis, Chip McNally, and his Rangers. Murph was still reeling from the callous machinations that Fate had rendered his way. He had lost games before. He was used to that. It was all part of the toiling in the minor leagues. He had lost plenty. A promising career to a freak injury; a promotion to the big show as punishment for his managerial efforts with the hapless Brewers; and now quite possibly that job as well. But it was the way he had lost that last game that bothered him most—a loss that occurred without his young star pitcher Mickey, who had spent the afternoon of that championship game languishing in a damp prison cell for an insidious crime that had forced its way into his life. That was something that really stuck in his craw.

  There were many things, however, for which he was thankful. Molly was certainly one. She had remained with him, and so had Mickey, for the duration of that summer. It certainly was not the plan. She had only intended to teach her insufferable husband Clarence a lesson. But she never felt more alive than the moments when she was with Arthur. She never expected, when she went there to live for a while last summer, that every thing that passed through her eyes and into her imagination would ignite in her brain this conflagration of possibility for a life—a real life, one filled with laughter, discovery and fulfillment. She was singing again, and playing the clarinet. She found herself to be lighter somehow, walking through each day unencumbered by the silent fear of vituperation and brutality that had always trailed her back on the farm. True, there were moments when she felt this morbid guilt rise up in her throat. It was so bad some days that she considered just abandoning this new vision of hers and returning home. But after the horrible incident between Mickey and Lefty Rogers, something inside her snapped, came undone, and she was sure that she would leave Clarence for good, a bold step for such a meek woman.

  Murph recalled the great trepidation that Molly had when the time had finally come for her to go back to the farm, one last time, to collect her belongings and say goodbye to Clarence, once and for all.

  “I don’t know if I can go back there, Arthur,” she said with roiling tremors of panic and indecision. “You don’t know how he gets when he’s angry.”

  “I’ll be right there with you,” he assured her. “And if it makes you feel any better, we’ll bring some of the fellas along too.”

  They both laughed now, weeks later, at the overwrought absurdity attenuating the scene on the farm that day.

  It was late afternoon and the air was crisp, clear and blank. Clarence had been laying on a cot inside, with two or three empty beer bottles balanced precariously on his heaving chest. He got up and staggered to the window when he heard the car door slam outside. Through the square panels of dusty glass, the petulant farmer could see the orange sun sinking slowly behind the line of trees. His eyes also found Molly, who was with Murph, making her way slowly from the road up to the walk. He gazed at them for a while, his mouth half open, as though they were just part of another one of his fitful dreams. He froze, unable to conceptualize the one thing he had known, since the day she left, would eventually happen.

  His head, a block of chiseled stone, remained still, pointed in the direction of the intruders. He stood still, soundless on his bare feet. Then, like a statue suddenly come to life, he rubbed his eyes, grabbed his shotgun off the floor, and blasted through the shroud of the foggy daydream full speed, whipping the front door open and emerging, wrathful and unsteady, on the front porch.

  “That’s jest far enough, little Miss Molly,” he warned, cocking the rifle and taking aim. “Ya got some nerve, showing yer trampy face round here. You, and that no good washed up jockstrap boyfriend of yours there. Both of you. I’ll shoot both of ya, just as sure as I’m standing here
. Now turn yer sorry selves round and shove off! Go! You got no business here no more.”

  Molly shut her eyes and cowered next to Murph. He stroked her face and whispered something soft in her ear, all the while glaring at the unbalanced miscreant spewing his venom. Murph imagined his voice penetrating the viscous layers of the simpleton’s dark, inaccessible psyche, arresting his bilious advances, even though he knew, somewhere deep within his own mind, that it would never happen. A man like Clarence could never listen.

  Murph tried anyway. He took one step forward, leaving Molly shaking in his shadow. His eyes did not shift and his muscles tensed in preparation for what was to be an ugly exchange. Then he fired his opening salvo.

  “Step aside, Tussler,” Murph yelled back. “It doesn’t have to be like this. She just wants to get what’s hers. That’s all. Then we’ll be gone.”

  Clarence’s face grew infinitely sad. His eye caught the whirl and dash of two ground hogs foraging in the lengthening afternoon shadows. He looked as though he would drop to his knees and surrender to the heartache ripping him apart, until he broke out in a violent sweat that revealed the true urgency of his present situation.

  “I’ll blow yer damned head off, baseball boy,” he replied. “You just try me now. Come on. I’ll take both of ya out with one shot.”

  Murph was unmoved by the perilous warning. He just stood there, feet set firmly between the divots in the gravel walkway, like an actor awaiting his cue.

  “Well, come on ya lily-livered piece of crap,” Clarence said. “You want some of me?” Murph stepped back to Molly and steadied her with a firm hand to the small of her back. Then he looked directly at Clarence, who was squinting through one eye with the shotgun pressed firmly against his cheek, placed two fingers in his mouth, and let fly a whistle that pierced the cool air like an alarm. In a fury of abhorrence, two pickup trucks appeared from nowhere, their tires coming to a violent skid in front of the property. Out of each stepped three men, each one wearing a baseball cap and brandishing a wooden bat. Included in the group was Raymond Miller, the fiery catcher and Brewer captain—the heart and soul of the team, the man the other guys all called Boxcar because of his solid build. Last season had taken a lot out of him. They all noticed it. He looked smaller somehow, and not even the brightest of afternoons could light the darkness looming behind his eyes. Still, he remained their undisputed leader.

  With Boxcar were Woody Danvers, the barrel-chested hard hitting third baseman, Clem Finster, keeper of the opposite infield corner, right fielder Buck Faber, second baseman Arky Fries and Jimmy Llamas, the eccentric centerfielder who was always up for a challenge. They walked steadily, purposefully, and joined Murph and Molly at their side. The scene turned perfectly motionless. Murph folded his arms and smiled at the fuming farmer. The confidence in Clarence’s visage was invisible now—only the bushy overhang of his tangled brow which seemed to slump downward toward his feet in silent submission was discernable.

  “Mr. Tussler, I’d like you to meet some of my best hitters,” Murph announced ominously. He glanced proudly at the lineup he had assembled. “Yup, each one of them hit well over. 300 last season. They don’t miss very often.”

  Clarence stood uneasily, trying to appear impenetrable. “A wood bat ain’t no match fer a bullet, city boy,” he shouted back. “You should know that.”

  Murph’s brain split suddenly into two parts. The half nourished by the blood and adrenaline rushing through his body wanted to just overrun the smug bastard, take from him the remaining shreds of self respect he was struggling to preserve. The other half, however, had the effect of cold rain on a camp fire, dulling the raging flames with a more conservative, methodical approach. “True. Yes, that’s true. But unless that shotgun of yours can fire more than one shot at a time, Tussler, I reckon you got yourself a little problem.”

  Murph and Molly were able to laugh now at the dissolution of Clarence’s tyranny, as he just stood there like a little boy, surrounded by Boxcar and the others, scarred, frustrated and helpless, while Molly proceeded to empty the house of her belongings, closing the chapter on the most regrettable period of her life. Both of them—Molly and Murph—had come a long way in a very short time. Their lives, separate from one another, were riddled with unspoken longings and frustration; together, they had assumed a far more definitive shape, one that appeared safe and promising. She was happier. And he was okay, for the first time, outside the white lines. There was even some premature talk of nuptials, somewhere down the road. Yes, life was good for both of them. All that remained now was the question of Murph’s job for next year—would Warren Dennison renew his contract as manager of the Boston Braves minor league affiliate Milwaukee Brewers, or was his tumultuous career to end so abruptly and unceremoniously? The meeting with Dennison was brief, and came sooner than he thought. Murph had agreed reluctantly, after the final loss to the Rangers on the last day of the previous season, to discuss his fate with the Brewer’s capricious owner sometime before Thanksgiving. But here it was, just two days before Halloween, and he was on his way to Dennison’s office for yet another one of these now infamous sit downs.

  The sun was darting in and out of a line of white, downy clouds stretched across a wide canvas of deep blue, creating unannounced spikes in the temperature that afternoon. One minute Murph was chilled, the crisp autumn jolts of air nipping at his face, and the next he could feel the sweat rising to the surface of the skin on his neck and lower back. He could not decide if he was hot or cold. The vacillation was irritating. He was also having some trouble reconciling in his head the myriad rumors afloat regarding his future with the club. Some said he was finished, washed up for good. Others thought he was being reassigned, as a scout or head of player development. He couldn’t be sure. He even heard some conjecture that he would be replacing old man Thompson, the grounds crew icon who had been working the diamond at Borchert Field since its inception. He said he didn’t care—that what was to be was to be—but everyone knew he was lying. “Mr. Murphy,” Dennison said upon Murph’s arrival. Dennison sat recumbently in his chair, feet on his desk, a mere phantom shrouded in shadows, holding a freshly lit cigar in one hand and a sheet of white parchment paper in the other. “Come on in, sit down. I’ve been waiting for you.”

  The unregenerate old man just sat there, smiling oddly. He did not speak, but merely placed the sheet of paper down on the desk and with his wrinkled hand motioned toward a stack of invoices and ledgers sitting innocuously on the middle shelf of a three-tier mahogany book case. Murph’s eyes narrowed. He could not make out what was going on inside the man’s head.

  “It’s the paper on top,” Dennison said. “That’s your copy.”

  Murph dragged his feet across the floor, and pulled the top sheet off the pile. “I don’t understand,” he said with a clear note of liberation in his voice. “Everyone said—”

  “I know what everyone’s been saying, Murph,” Dennison remarked, placing his cigar in his mouth and his feet firmly on the floor. “And don’t think for a second that each and every scenario wasn’t, at some point, a distinct possibility.”

  Murph’s eyes scanned the paper incredulously.

  “Well, this is great then,” he said, shaking his head in disbelief. “Really. I don’t know what to say, Warren. Thank you. I’m stunned. Really. I certainly appreciate you giving me another shot.”

  Dennison puffed vigorously on his cigar, then pulled the tiny brass chain dangling from his desk lamp. “Hold your horses there a minute, Murph,” he said soberly. “You might want to read the fine print there—the part about Mickey—before you start falling all over yourself.”

  A blinding brightness fell on Murph’s face, gilding the premature tears still resting on his cheek. He read the paper again, this time with a far more meticulous eye. “You mean I will only be asked back if I can get Mickey to come back too?” he asked dejectedly. “Is that what this means?”

  He sat down across from Dennison and slouched over in his ch
air, as if being suspended by an invisible chord stretched somehow from a point in the ceiling to the center of his back. Mickey? Playing baseball again? After all that transpired last year? Hell, that was never going to happen. Murph could still recall vividly the glare of the sheriff’s car lights and the exanimate body of Lefty, a crumpled heap of flesh laying quietly at the feet of Mickey, who was just rocking, his mouth opening and closing in catatonic recitation. It had all happened so fast. Murph’s fortuitous discovery of the boy on a scouting trip; Mickey’s precipitous rise to prominence on the baseball diamond; Lefty’s betrayal and ill-fated plan to stop Mickey from pitching that last game in order to ensure the Rangers’ victory.

  Then there was Mickey’s violent outburst after Lefty assaulted the boy’s pig, followed by the arrival of Sheriff Rosco and the subsequent incarceration of Mickey for attempted murder. It was all just a kaleidoscope of misfortune, all of which the boy was ill-equipped to understand. Months later, even Murph had trouble sometimes accepting what had happened. If it had not been for the governor—who orchestrated a pardon for Mickey for all that he had done, not only for the town, but for his sickly grandson—the story would have ended right then and there.

  “Are you kiddin’ me, Warren?” Murph asked desperately. “You can’t be serious. You remember what I told you. The kid is traumatized. Wrecked. He told me he was finished. All that stuff last year with Lefty and the sheriff? Even a kid in his right mind would be rattled. Besides, his mother would never go for it. There ain’t no way he’s coming back to play. No way. Hell, after what happened last year, I’m lucky they still want to live with me.”

  Dennison scratched his chin and stood up, detaching himself from the transitory hold of Murph’s emotional plea, and with a scathing eloquence, proceeded to explain his position to Murph, who just looked at him with a sick stare.

  “Listen, Murph. Let’s be real here. You, and the entire team for that matter, are nothing without this kid. Nothing. Now you get your chestnuts out of that little lady’s purse and be a man. I don’t care how dim-witted he is. He puts fannies in the seats. He’s the one all the papers write about. He’s the one who somehow, some-way, does something superhuman just about every damned time he takes that mound. He’s the ‘Baby Bazooka,’ the darling of this city.”