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  “Well I think my little white friend here is pretty lucky too, wouldn’t you say?” She smiled and her cheeks turned pink. “I mean, who would have thought I would have ever run into you again—and here, of all places, at my brother’s house.”

  Mickey shrugged. “I don’t reckon that is lucky, Miss Jolene. Mickey was invited here.”

  “No, no, I just mean that—”

  As Mickey rambled on about the team and Ozmore and playing in Boston for the first time, Jolene recalled their first conversation, and her mind was lit by the sudden realization that Mickey and her brother were teammates.

  “This is too much,” she said, shaking her head. “When you said you played baseball that day I met you, I never even thought of that. Don’t know why Buddy never said anything.”

  For many minutes, the two sat together, listening to the song of the sparrows and warblers, marveling at the way some seemed to soar higher and higher while others parachuted gently to earth and came to rest on the lawn all around them.

  “Don’t take this the wrong way, Mickey, but you seem so different from the rest of these guys. I don’t know. There’s just something about you. Most of my brother’s friends are loud and always talking about themselves. But you, you’re just a regular guy. It’s not bad. It’s actually nice. I never would have guessed that you were a ballplayer.”

  Mickey frowned.

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that you couldn’t be a ballplayer,” she explained, aware now of his discomfort. “I just mean that you are not like these other guys. You know, always bragging and boasting. I rarely spend any time with them. I’m only here today to give something to my brother.”

  The tinderbox of memories that Mickey’s mind housed seemed to unlock, releasing a series of moments that called into question his “different” nature. On so many occasions, Clarence had been all too eager to throw a spotlight of the boy’s condition.

  “Don’t really know what the heck to make of you, boy,” he used to complain. “Ain’t no explaining you. That’s fer sure.”

  Even Molly, whose tender, watchful eye never strayed too far from her boy, made it clear that he was not like the other kids. “It’s okay, honey,” she would say when Mickey could not understand why he wasn’t able to do some of the things the other children were doing. “You’re special, that’s all. A little different. You’re not like the others. But it’s okay, really. Someday you will understand.”

  “Mickey does not know why I am so different, Jolene,” he explained. “It is not so nice. Folks is always telling me that. Even on the field. Sometimes, it feels like—”

  She grabbed his hands and held them in between hers. “I didn’t mean anything bad, Mickey,” she said. “Honest. Actually, it was a compliment. But, listen, I know all too well what it feels like to be the outsider. You know, the one who just does not fit in. I can tell you a whole bunch of stories like that.”

  They viewed their histories like a fleet of ships, with each reminiscence following closely behind the one that preceded it. Mickey unraveled a few of his most vivid recollections of Clarence and his abusive antics and Jolene shared some of the more regrettable moments from her past.

  “I’ll never forget that spring when I was a senior in high school,” she began. Tears were already forming behind her eyes but she would not let herself cry. Instead, she went on to describe in great detail what she was recalling: It was a warm afternoon in May. The sky above was empty and pale blue and just a hint of hyacinth floated on a gentle breeze. All around her, the world was bursting with life, from the kaleidoscope of painted lady butterflies flitting around a patch of thistle to the melodious song of the pair of northern cardinals foraging in the tall grass just beyond the split-rail fence that defined her parents front yard. Hope and promise abounded, especially since she had just come from St. Anthony’s and could not wait to ask her mother about the annual dance.

  “Now, Jolene, are we going to do this again?” her mother admonished. “What did we say about this last year?”

  “But, Mama, I just want to—” The girl’s resolve began to leak from her eyes.

  “Jolene, I have told you before. You are not the sort of girl who goes to dances and does that sort of thing. It’s not a big deal. Just is what it is. You’re different, you know, from the other girls. You’re not like them. It’s not a bad thing, really. But it is something that you best learn now.”

  “But I don’t understand why—”

  “I told you, Jolene, many times, that your time is best spent around here, doing the wash and ironing and things like that. Those are things that maybe one day could help you get yourself a fella.”

  The words were just as painful now, years later. Her lip quivered as she completed the story.

  “Did you ever get to dance, Miss Jolene?” Mickey asked. “My mama dances all the time. She loves music. Plays the clarinet all the time, especially now that she’s married to Mr. Murphy.” He was noticeably bothered by her labored breathing and could not stop staring at her lower lip.

  “No, no, Mickey,” she replied, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand. “Figured my mama knew what she was talking about. You know, your parents always know best, right? Besides, I don’t know all that much about dancing.”

  “Are you crying because you wanted to dance? If you are, that’s okay. You can dance now. Or maybe later.”

  “No, Mickey, it’s okay. I’m okay. Really. Thank you.”

  The two sat together for a while longer, listening to the wheezy mewing of a flock of northern pintails circling overhead while sharing the ghosts that rattled around the corners in each of their minds. They tiptoed through most of the memories, mindful of the pain and shame attached to each, but managed to blink away the tears that had formed here and there and eventually arrived at a place that was somehow peaceful and safe. They had even managed to share a chuckle or two, and Mickey was just about to tell Jolene a joke that Matheson had told him, when Ozzy’s voice, shrill and reproachful, split the air.

  “Why the hell didn’t anyone tell me my sister was here?” he thundered. Standing on the back steps, hands dug firmly into his hips, his face twisted and hard, Ozzy resembled the Minotaurs Mickey had read about with Molly when he was just a child. Their host, who only hours before had welcomed Mickey and the team to his home, had morphed into something sinister and menacing.

  “Sure, all of you can drink my beer and eat my food, but you’re all too damned busy to do the one thing I asked,” he ranted as he stomped over to Mickey and Jolene. His face grew darker as he drew closer to them.

  “Jolene, that’s enough!” he admonished. “Enough, do you hear? Get away from him, right now.” His sudden tirade halted all activity. The entire yard went silent, as if someone had run suddenly from a crowded dance floor and accidentally kicked the plug from a jukebox machine, rendering all dancers lost in the awkward silence.

  “Don’t you ever, ever, let me catch you rubbing elbows with any of these guys, especially him,” he continued. “Enough of this horseshit. I turn my back for just a few minutes and look what I have to deal with.”

  The girl’s face flushed uncontrollably.

  “Never again, Jolene!” he screamed again. “You hear me? Never. Have I made myself clear? Never again.”

  HOME FIRES BURNING

  The Braves found the friendly confines of the Bee Hive to be just the right remedy for whatever ailed them. They began a twelve-game home stand with a 3–0 victory over the Pirates. Warren Spahn was his usual brilliant self, scattering five hits over nine innings to secure the complete game shutout. Murph’s crew didn’t exactly light up the scoreboard, managing just six hits themselves. But an eighth-inning surge, including back-to-back singles by Sid Gordon and Willard Marshall, followed by a long pinch-hit home run off the bat of Lester, was all they would need. Sure, it was only mid-May, and it was way too early to declare the game a must win, but it was just the sort of thing on which Murph and the Braves could build.

  Th
e victory proved to be a harbinger of good fortune indeed, as the Braves went on to win eight of the next ten games they played, stealing a single game from the Cardinals and taking series victories from the Cubs, Reds, and Dodgers before beating the Giants in the first two contests of a three-game set. Everything was clicking for Murph’s Braves. The pitching was superb, fielding stellar, and the bats were providing just the right combination of table setting and power. They were poised to close out the series and conclude one of the most successful home stands in team history; it seemed like a done deal until Johnny Sain came up with a stiff shoulder and could not take the ball.

  “So what now, Murph?” Spahn asked when he heard his buddy had pulled up lame.

  Murph had already pulled the pencil off his ear and made the necessary adjustment.

  “Well, Warren, let’s just say all of you are in for a real treat tonight.”

  Spahn, together with Buddy Ozmore, took one look at Mickey—who was busy running his finger over the laces of a brand new baseball—and exploded.

  “Are you shittin’ me, Murph?” Spahn asked. “Him? You’re starting him?”

  Murph looked over at Bob Keely, the bullpen coach; Keely turned his head and looked away.

  “What kind of harebrained nonsense is this?” Ozmore added. “Relief is one thing. But we are finally on a roll here and you’re going to send out an overgrown ankle biter who still don’t know his ass from his elbow? This is your great idea?”

  Outside, the sun began spilling its light across the ballpark, lighting up everything in its wake, including Murph’s fractured expression.

  “Really, guys? The season’s almost two months old and he’s only had three appearances. None at home. What did you think? That the kid was going to go an entire calendar with just doing bullpen sessions? And an occasional relief appearance—really? Did you think that all of this was some sort of publicity stunt?”

  Murph’s response was curt and continued on with varying shades of intensity.

  “You know, you guys are something else. All full of piss and vinegar and a whole damn wheelbarrow full of complaints—nothing but complaints. Just once, one time, I’d like to hear maybe a suggestion, an idea. You know, something helpful, for the good of the order.”

  Ozmore glared at Murph with beady eyes. “You want a suggestion?” he said through clenched teeth. “Okay, you got it. Here’s a suggestion. Put your blockhead friend on the back burner today and give the ball to Chipman. He’s the better choice. That is, if you’re interested in winning the game.”

  “He’s right, Murph,” Spahn interjected. “Chippy hasn’t pitched in a while. He’s fresh. And he knows the Giants’ lineup. Give him the ball. The kid can pitch another time.”

  “Seems to me Mickey handled the Giants pretty good last time, no?”

  “That was relief, Murph. He barely faced anyone. Starting a game at home is a whole other ball game.”

  Murph closed his eyes and massaged his lids with an open hand. This was way more difficult than he expected. “You guys want Bobby Chipman to start today? Is that it?”

  The two malcontents nodded in unison.

  “Yeah, and while you’re at it, you might want to give Coops the nod behind the dish. What’s right is right.”

  The lines on Murph’s forehead grew more pronounced.

  “So Mickey and Lester both sit?” Murph asked. “Is that what you want? Okay, you got it. No problem. Chipman gets the ball, just like you asked. And Coops will catch him. Mickey will go out there some other time.”

  Bobby Chipman began the game in reasonable fashion while Murph tried to convince Mickey that nothing was amiss. The lanky lefty retired the leadoff batter on a sharp single to short, and then after falling behind 3–0 to the next batter, induced a weak pop out that Earl Torgeson caught in foul ground. Then things began to go awry. Don Mueller, the Giants’ three-hitter, laced Chipman’s next delivery into center field for a single. Roy Weatherly followed with a clean single of his own, and both runners crossed home plate after Bobby Thompson’s line drive found the left center field gap and rolled all the way to the wall. The third and final out of the opening frame came by way of a long fly ball that Tommy Holmes managed to run down just before running out of room on the warning track. But the damage was done.

  “Chippy ain’t exactly fooling anyone out there,” Murph whispered to Keely. “Why did I listen to those two?”

  “It’s still early, Murph,” Keely said, shaking his head. “Give him some time to find it.”

  The Braves went down quietly in their half of the first, including a three-pitch strikeout of Ozmore. Chipman, who barely had had a minute to get some water and collect himself, was visibly rattled and back out for another shot. The lefty’s demeanor only worsened after he walked the first two Giants to face him and surrendered back-to-back singles to the next two hitters. He looked like a wilting flower. Murph slammed his fist on the bench and then motioned to his catcher Walker Cooper to take a walk out to the mound and check Chipman’s temperature.

  “Maybe people will start listening to me around here,” Murph grumbled under his breath. He was wild with anger. His blood felt like lava flowing faster and faster beneath his skin. This would not do; it was completely unacceptable. He had to grab on to something, grip with his mind, and find an answer that would allow him to feel whole again and not like some A-ball patsy who was playing bog league manager.

  “Enough of this horseshit,” he said to Keely. “Take Mickey down to the pen and get him ready.”

  The struggling southpaw lasted only two more batters. By the time he was through, he had allowed six hits, surrendered four runs, and failed to retire a single batter in the second inning, leaving Mickey with a second and third jam to navigate.

  “Okay, Mick,” Murph said, as the two of them watched Keely go out to get Chipman. “Nice and easy now. Like you can. That’s all. Just be yourself.”

  Lester, who had been watching from the other side of the dugout, joined the exchange. “Murph’s right, Mick,” he said, patting the boy on his back. “Just like you did with me all those times. Okay? Just like tossing them apples. You get me? Just do it, kid. Ain’t nobody better.”

  Mickey looked at Lester. “You coming out, too, Lester Sledge—to catch Mickey?” he asked.

  A difficult silence stole the moment.

  “No, Mick, no,” Murph said. “Not this time. Cooper will catch you today. But don’t worry, son. Lester will get you next time.”

  Mickey’s entrance was uneventful, like a careless whisper passed between two strangers. He bounded out of the bullpen and ran with purpose across the lush outfield grass toward the hill of dirt that awaited his arrival. He moved awkwardly but with speed, his head raised just enough so that his eyes got caught in the web of indifferent faces packed in the stands. It was nothing like the welcomed frenzy he had grown to love back in Milwaukee. The cold reality was unsettling and worked against his effort to push on, but it paled in comparison to the patchwork of images filtering through his fevered mind. Every step he took rattled another painful recollection. He could see Clarence and smell his rancid breath. He could hear him too. “Ain’t no retard gonna ever amount to nothing special. No, siree, Bob. Won’t be long before those baseball boys see what I seen yer whole life.” The words made him wince. What if Clarence was right? Mickey was a long way from Borchert Field. Who would care about him here?

  He was thinking of Lefty Rogers too—and his boots, the right one in particular—the same one that crashed into Oscar’s side and sent the porker crashing to his tragic demise. He also could see Lefty’s black eyes and was remembering The Bucket that night and Lefty’s defection to the archrival Rangers. He could still remember how he awoke in a crumpled heap the next morning. His stomach was beginning to hurt that same way and his mouth was just as dry, as if he had stuffed inside his cheeks too many forkfuls of his Aunt Marcy’s homemade sponge cake. And of course, he could still feel the burning pain in his right hand. That was
the worst thing of all—that and the weeks he missed afterward healing from the vicious attack. Panic seemed to find him now and was slipping its sticky tentacles around his neck. Only a quick glimpse at Jolene, who was waving from her brother’s seats, and the sound of Murph’s voice prodding him to just do his thing enabled him to stand tall on the rubber and begin his warm-up.

  Mickey’s first tosses were easy and true but nothing special. There was no popping of the catcher’s glove. It was strange throwing to somebody other than Lester. It bothered Mickey less than he would have imagined. He always felt like the practice throws were less about him getting loose and more about getting accustomed to his new backstop. He understood that. Each ball he delivered ushered in more and more of the remarkable pitching power and precision that had brought him to Boston. But he was still finding himself in front of a strange crowd that was largely unimpressed.

  But all that would change minutes later. With the stars winking their collective approval, the umpire put the ball in play and the boy threw his first pitch, a blistering fastball that roared past his first batter like a meteor. It was one of those moments in time when everything else just seemed to fade away. Mickey was front and center now, exposed in all his glory as if the universe had adjusted the glow of every light in the stadium directly over him, illuminating his figure in a brilliance reserved only for the likes of angels and saints.

  “Strike one!”

  The batter shook his head. So did everyone in the stadium who had been watching.

  Murph just smiled. He had seen this unfold before.

  Mickey received the return toss from Cooper and set himself again. He took his sign, wound, and fired. The delivery was as true as the first and split the plate right down the middle.

  “Strike two!”

  The pop of the glove and the buzz that followed filtered through the stands like a ground fog, seeping into every corner of the stadium. By the time Mickey had set himself for his next delivery, everyone was standing, intoxicated by the anticipation of what was fast becoming an epic moment straight from the annals of Greek mythology.