Jaybird stood next to the bat rack in the Brown¹s dugout on the first base side of the diamond. He had never seen so many bats in his life, there must have been close to a hundred, all neatly stacked horizontally in numbered compartments at the rear of the dugout. Hornsby sat on a wooden folding chair nearby, slouched down, his arms folded over his chest; his cap pulled down over his eyes.
"They're waitin' for you Skipper," somebody called.
"Let the bastards wait," muttered Hornsby.
Three umpires, neatly dressed in dark suits, white shirts and black ties, along with White Sox manager, and 41 year-old part time third baseman, Jimmy Dykes, were gathered near home plate for the usual pre-game exchange of lineups and review of the ground rules. They waited impatiently for Hornsby to bring out the Browns' lineup.
Hornsby sat up and looked around. Spotting Jaybird standing near the bat rack he reached into his back pocket and pulled out a lineup card. "Here, kid," he said, handing Jaybird the card, "take this out to them near-sighted bums."
Jaybird did as he was told. He took the card and headed for home plate, Rin keeping pace at his side. The Independence Day crowd was not large by major league standards, somewhere approaching 6,000 people, almost 10 times what the Browns normally drew for a game, but what the assembly lacked in numbers, it made up for in spirit. Browns' partisans had seen a lot of odd things on this ball field, but this was the first time they had seen a skinny kid in a baggy uniform with a cap settled on his ears, and a dog at his side, approaching home plate with a lineup card in one hand and a large bandage on the other. Jaybird heard the cries. "Hey kid ... you pitchin' today?" "Is that dog battin' cleanup? He'd fit right in with the rest of the dogs." "Where's Hornsby? Afraid to show his sorry face?" "Hey four-eyes, did the dog bite the hand that feeds him?" "Hey kid, is that a hot dog?" The senior umpire, Emmett "Red" Ormsby, a 14-year major-league veteran, was not amused. He brushed past Jaybird in full regalia, oversized chest protector slung over one arm, iron-barred mask in his hand, and stalked Hornsby, hiding at the end of the dugout. "Get your goddam last-place butt out here Hornsby or this game goes down as a goddam forfeit," he shouted.
Hornsby slowly emerged from the dugout and ambled to the homeplate conference.
"What are you tryin' to pull here Hornsby?" asked the head umpire.
Hornsby did not answer, but snatched the lineup card from Dykes. Scanning down the list he began to laugh. "You playin' third today, Dykes? Battin' behind Jackie Hayes? When you gonna hang `em up old man?"
Dykes spat a stream of tobacco juice at Hornsby's feet. "Shut up, Hornsby," he said, "just git yer goddamed team out there so's we can start takin' batting practice on yer pissy-assed, rag-armed pitchers."
Hornsby nodded his head in agreement. "Fer once in yer goddamed life you got somethin' right, Dykes, when you talk about my pitchers, but you know somethin? Them pissy-assed, rag-armed pitchers is still good enough to get a goddamed twinky-assed banjo hitter like you out, and ahm here to put mah money on it." He reached in his back pocket and pulled out a handful of twenty-dollar bills.
Umpire Ormsby held up his hands. "Hold on just a minute here men," he said, "this is no time for petty arguments, we're here to play a ball game, and..."
Hornsby interrupted. "Excuse me Dykes," he said, "but did you hear somebody say something about a ball game?"
Dykes nodded. "I did, Hornsby," he said, "I think it came from a cross-eyed, half-blind, tub of shit who likes to call himself an umpire, but who wouldn't know a strike from this here left field foul line if it was to come up and hit him smack in the face."
Hornsby smiled. "I'll tell you what Dykes," he said turning to Jaybird who was standing off to one side listening to the discussion. "Ahm goin' to ask our batboy here if he would mind lending his specs to this here so-called umpire in the interest of improving the quality of the game we fixin' to play. And not only that," he said noticing Rin sitting alertly next to Jaybird, "... not only am ah goin' to get this here umpire some spectacles, ah am also goin' to get him this here seein' eye dog ... this dog right here." He pointed to Rin.
Ormsby knew when he was being ragged. "Okay you two comedians," he said, "let's get this goddamed game goin' so we can get out of here before the moon comes up ... we're playin' two today, and they ain't payin' us enough to stand around listening to your ..."
Hornsby interrupted. "You hear that Dykes? Somebody' s payin' these guys to umpire. That's got to be the biggest flamboozle in the history of the U, S, and A."
At Cottage Farm the game was about to begin. Sheriff Blake, the Hillsboro team captain stood near homeplate with Jaybird's dad who was explaining the ground rules, as he remembered them. "Everything is pretty wide open," he said, "if a ball goes into the crowd ..." he looked around at the spectators seated in the rickety bleachers and standing behind the foul lines. There were no bleachers on the Hillsboro side of the field, but a sizeable number of boisterous rooters had come to cheer their team on, and they were finding their places, some behind the backstop, but most streaming down the first base line. "If a ball goes into the crowd," Jaybird's dad continued, "a runner gets to advance one base."
Sheriff Blake nodded. "We goin' to have an umpire?" he asked.
"I think we should," said Jaybird's dad, "if we can find anybody who's neutral."
It would not be easy to find a neutral observer at this ball game. The crowd was large and noisy on both sides of the field, and the patrons of the game were eager to cheer their favorites to victory. More than sentimental loyalty was at stake; many of the fans had put down hard money on the outcome. A man wearing a tall stovepipe hat and a black coat with long tails stood behind the backstop taking bets and handing out betting slips.
"You think we can do that?" asked Sheriff Blake.
Jaybird's dad scratched his chin and looked around. The Cottage Farm team was on the field warming up with practice tosses. He hitched up his pants nervously, trying to come up with a solution that was a perpetual problem in these country games ... how to find an umpire. He needed to be taking his own practice tosses. Then he saw the answer to his dilemma, if not to his prayers. It was Father O'Leary, the Catholic Priest. He touched Blake's arm and pointed to the unsuspecting cleric, his white collar in full view, who was sitting in the second row of the bleachers drinking from a bottle of orange soda. " How about Father O'Leary?" he asked.
Blake was skeptical. "He's sittin' on your side of the field," he said, "any of your boys Catholic?"
The only thing Jaybird's dad knew about the Catholic Church was that he had helped build it, but he did know Father O'Leary who regularly stopped at the Cottage Farm store after Sunday morning mass to buy cigarettes. Jaybird's dad shook his head. "I couldn't tell you, Sheriff, but I don't think we can find anybody more neutral than the Padre, why don't we ask him?"
"Does he know the rules?" asked Blake.
Jaybird's dad was headed for the bleachers. "Let's ask him," he said.
Father O'Leary saw them coming. When Jaybird's dad motioned to him, his first thought was that they wanted him to perform some sort of benediction, which pleased him very much even though he was well aware that there were a lot more Baptists and Methodists here than Catholics. He climbed down from the bleachers, excusing himself for stepping on a ladies' foot, and stood before Jaybird's dad and the Hillsboro captain. "Can I be of some assistance?" he asked, always eager to help.
"I hope so," said Jaybird's dad, "we need an umpire."
Father O'Leary took a step back. "Oh," he said.
"Do you know the difference between a ball and a strike?" asked Sheriff Blake.
Father O'Leary stiffened his back and thrust out his chin. "Of course I do," he said. It was almost like asking him if he was an American.
"Well, then, that's settled," said Jaybird's dad, "you can either stand behind the pitcher, or ..." he looked at Blake, then addressed him. "Do you have extra catcher's gear?"
Blake shook his head. "No," he said, "I was going to ask if we could share your mask ... I don't know what happened to ours."
It was not the first time Father O'Leary had been asked to umpire a game, but in the past it had been for boy's softball games. Father O'Leary did in fact have a great liking for the game of baseball; he was in fact what might be called a fan. He had been to games at Sportsman's Park in St. Louis; he remembered how major league umpires conducted themselves. He squared his shoulders, he was ready. "I will agree to umpire," he said, "but with certain conditions."
Jaybird's dad and Sheriff Blake looked at each other, then at Father O'Leary. "Conditions?" they said almost simultaneously.
The Priest nodded. "First, there will be no arguing over my calls. My decisions will be final. That must be understood." He looked from one man to the other.
"What else?" asked Sheriff Blake.
"There will be no swearing by either side," said Father O'Leary. Jaybird's dad and Sheriff Blake did not immediately respond to the Priest's conditions. Instead they indicated with a wave of their fingers that he should wait while they conferred. They stepped back onto the field and spoke briefly. When the conference was over, Sheriff Blake walked back towards the Hillsboro bench while Jaybird's dad turned to Father O'Leary. "I'm sorry, Father," he said, "nobody can play baseball under those conditions." He went to the pitcher's mound to begin his warm-up tosses while the first Hillsboro hitter approached homeplate waving two heavily taped bats, the only bats the Hillsboro team had.
Things were not going well for the Browns. Zeke Bonura the big White Sox first baseman had led off the second inning with a monstrous homerun against the scoreboard behind the left field bleachers off Brownie right-hander Jack Knott who had the dimensions of a major league pitcher at 6' 3" and 200 pounds, but who also had a frightening habit of hanging his curve ball out over the plate where major league hitters took great glee in hammering it fast and far away.
Hornsby prowled the third base coaching box, swearing loudly at the White Sox infielders, the umpires, and especially at his batters who were going down meekly before the soft slants of 37 year-old Ted Lyons, a 14-year veteran who in the days ahead would record his 200th major league victory, all in the uniform of the Chicago White Sox. He yelled at Lyons. "Stop throwin' that shit up there you old horse turd," he said, "put somethin' on the ball like a man."
White Sox manager Jimmy Dykes, playing third base, the closest player to Hornsby on the field, yelled, "Why don't you shut your goddamed foul mouth Hornsby? I'm gettin' tired of your goddamed whining. Yer nothin' but a goddamed washed-up crybaby, why don't you go back into that sissy-assed National League where you came from? You ain't got no idea how baseball is played anyway."
Hornsby started to run at Dykes, but was intercepted by third base umpire Harry Geisel who outweighed him by 50 pounds or more. Geisel clamped a bear hug on Hornsby from behind and started to give him the bum's rush toward the Browns' dugout beyond the first base line. Hornsby was a bundle of fury, but he could not escape the steely grip of the big umpire. "Lemme go," he screamed as Geisel rushed him near homeplate. "Lemme go you cocksuckin' motherfucker."
Geisel spun Hornsby around and drew back his fist to deliver a haymaker when Red Ormsby, the home plate umpire, grabbed him. "Calm down, Harry," soothed Ormsby, "that pathetic old man ain't worth it."
It was hard to tell who was the more incensed, Hornsby, or Geisel. Hornsby now felt himself being restrained by the third umpire, Steve Basil who was even bigger than Geisel. The close to 6,000 spectators were on their feet cheering the spectacle. Jaybird sat in the Browns dugout next to Phil watching the drama in wide-eyed wonder. He noticed that the 25 or so ballplayers in the dugout were viewing the proceedings with calm, almost bored and detached reactions. Nobody was on their feet, nobody seemed to care that their fearless leader was in a hell-raising, foot-stomping, shouting match with an umpire who looked to Jaybird as if he would happily throttle the Browns noisy manager if he could. "What's goin' on, Phil?" he asked, "how come nobody's out there helping Mr. Hornsby?"
Phil shrugged. "It's just a show, Jaybird," he said, "Hornsby likes to act up when there's a big crowd. Don't pay it no attention."
Jaybird said, "If that umpire is acting, he's pretty good at it. Looks to me like he's ready to kill Mr. Hornsby."
Phil nodded. "It's because Hornsby said the magic words, sometimes he gets all carried away."
"So what's going to happen?" asked Jaybird, "is Mr. Hornsby kicked out of the game?"
"Ah don't know," answered Phil, "but it don't make no difference one way or the other, does it?"
Phil was right, it didn't make any difference. Eventually Hornsby and the umpire gave up the shouting, Hornsby huffed off the field into the dugout and up the runway into the clubhouse, the fans settled back, and the game resumed with `Sunny Jim" Bottomley coaching at third base for the Browns, who continued to flail helplessly at Ted Lyon's offerings.
At Cottage Farm, the umpire dilemma had been solved in the simplest possible way. The man who had the best view of anybody, the catcher, called balls and strikes. The fielder who was closest to the play called safe or out, fair or foul. Any disagreement, of which there were precious few, was decided by a coin toss. The game purred on.
The Mudcats were holding their own. Into the top of the sixth, the score was tied at five and the Hillbillies were coming to bat. Spirits were high, the mood of the crowd was festive, people were having fun, enjoying the game. The Mudcat infielders were peppering the ball around, calling encouragement to their intrepid hurler. "Smoke `em, Coach." "Stick it in his ear." "Batta, batta, batta, whiff."" He's a cream puff, Coach." "High and tight, high and tight."
Jaybird's dad received the ball form his third baseman, Uncle Bud, and turned to face the next batter. He took a deep breath, then stepped back and looked around, savoring the moment. He felt wonderful, even the sting of the strawberry on his left hip, sustained while sliding home with the tying run in the bottom of the fifth, felt right. The warm sun beat down on his bare shoulders ... he wore a sleeveless cotton undershirt ... his left arm, his pitching wing, felt loose and strong. He fingered the scuffed and ratty baseball fondly and eyed the batter with malice. He went into his windup, shifting his weight to his left leg and flinging his right leg high into the air as he had seen Lefty Grove do it. He uncoiled and let the horsehide fly. The ball took a path somewhat different than he had intended, and sailed into what an experienced hitter, or even Hillsboro Hillbilly might call his "happy zone". Fortunately for Coach, not to say the Mudcats entire, the eager batsman swung a fraction sooner than he intended, and sent a long soaring foul ball into the trees bordering the right field foul line.
The game had to wait until the ball was found. While the rightfielder assisted by a battalion of small boys and girls searched for the ball, the Mudcats gathered around the mound. "Your heat don't have much steam today, Coach," said shortstop Jimmy Fields, "you feelin' all right?"
Coach nodded. "I feel really good," he said, "but my mind seems to be wandering." Uncle George explained. "We're goin' to St.Louis after the game ... to look for Jaybird."
Coach gazed at the distant trees. "A funny thing happened," he said. They all looked at him. "Just as I was getting ready to throw that last pitch, while I was at the top of my windup, I had a ... it was ... like a flashback. There was this boy watching me pitch ... he was about the same age as Jaybird, but he wasn't Jaybird. ... Strange."
Hornsby was back on the bench in civilian clothes. He was smiling and seemed entirely unconcerned that his team was down 4-1 coming to bat for their last chance in the bottom of the 9th. He even had some kind words for Ted Lyons who was still on the mound for the Sox and still bedazzling the Browns. "Watch that old man pitch, fellows," he said. "In, out ... up, down ... slow, fast ... if some of you guys could pitch like that we'd be up there challenging them goddamn Yankees."
Jaybird was surprised at the change in Hornsby's manner. Five innings ago the manager had left the scene boiling with anger and screaming obscenities, and here he was, acting as if he didn't have a care in the world, and actually praising the man he had been cursing earlier. "What happened, Phil?" he asked, `why is he so happy?"
Phil nodded knowingly. "They is only one thing in the world that can make Hornsby act like that, Jaybird ... his horse came in."
Jaybird remembered. "I forgot to tell you, Phil," he said. He related the scene in the clubhouse when everybody had left, and Hornsby gave the clubhouse man $3,000 to bet a horse for him.
"Speak of the devil hisself," said Phil just as the clubhouse man, Alabam' Delmas, appeared smoking a long, fat cigar.
"Gimme one o' them stogies, Alabam'," said Hornsby.
All eyes turned to Hornsby, missing a hit by shortstop Billy Knickerbocker that brought the Brownies to only two runs back at 4-2. "You don't smoke, Skipper," said Alabam' handing Hornsby a cigar.
"When you hit a 44-1 shot you got to make an exception," said Hornsby lighting a $10 bill with the match held out by Alabam' and lighting his cigar with it.
Alabam' laughed. Then he looked at Jaybird. "Hey, Jaybird," he said," you still got your ticket?"
Phil looked at Jaybird. "What ticket's he talkin' about, Jaybird?" he asked.
Jaybird said, "I forgot to tell you, Phil. That money we won in the crap game. I gave it to Mr. Alabam' to bet on Mr. Hornsby's horse."
Phil looked from Alabam' to Jaybird. "How much did you bet, Jaybird?" he asked.
"All of it," answered Jaybird.
"He bet $500 to win," said Alabam', "where's your ticket, Jaybird?"
Jaybird searched the two back pockets of his oversized baseball pants. " I think I left it in my other pants, back in the locker room," he said.
Phil jumped from the bench and began to run up the runway to the locker room, with Jaybird and Rin trailing behind.
Coach was back on the pitcher's plate. The thought crossed his mind how nice it would be to be pitching off a real mound. He could show these guys something then. He eyed the batter. The guy was way too eager after smacking that long foul fly. Coach measured him and fired his best fastball under the guy's chin. The startled hitter spun around and hit the dirt, a cloud of dust rising all around him and the catcher. Hoots and hollers resounded from both sides of the field. Jaybird's dad grinned. He loved to pitch like this .. high and tight, low and away. He received the toss from the catcher and toed the plate again. The batter, a mean-looking muscular man with a dark two-day growth of beard, stood away from the plate sifting dirt from one hand to the other, and glaring at Jaybird's dad. At last he stepped back into the batter's box and took his stance. Jaybird's dad went into his elaborate windup and delivered a spinning curveball that approached the plate considerably slower than the previous pitches. The batter squared around to face the pitcher's mound, and bunted the ball expertly down the first base line.
Jaybird's dad, falling toward first base after delivering the ball, was in good position to field the slowly rolling ball. He was not prepared for the vicious knee to his jaw delivered by the lumbering Hillbilly.