“Forgot. Besides, there’s been no time.”
“I’ll be back,” I said, and dashed off to the booth. There, things were a mess. Helga and the other women had lagged far behind, with Johnny off on the steamboat rescue. Now the four were frantically trying to catch up and serve hundreds of customers standing in line.
“How’re we doing out there?” Johnny asked. He was drenched with sweat. A lump swelled his forehead where he’d taken a hit during the fight.
I wrapped up some fries (square-bottomed paper bags hadn’t been invented, so we, like everybody, twisted paper to form cone-shaped containers, much the way flowers are wrapped) and a hamburger and poured an ice-cream soda into a glass (disposable cups didn’t exist either) and said, “So far it couldn’t be much worse.”
I got back in time to see Andy thrown out by a step on an infield bouncer. Harry, breaking from first on Bearman’s floater, sprinted all the way to third. To my surprise he didn’t stop there. A roar erupted from the crowd. Too late the Haymaker first baseman realized what was happening and threw to the plate. Harry slid past Craver’s lunging tag. Only one run—but it was a start.
Andy wolfed the food down. I settled back at the scorer’s table. Brainard was due up next, then Sweasy. To me they’d looked as energized as the rest when Harry scored. If either intended to sell us out, he was putting on a good show. It got better: Brainard worked Bearman for a walk and Sweasy singled up the middle. Mac then drilled the ball past a diving Bellan to score Brainard, and George’s low shot over third base scored two more. Then Gould topped a roller down the line that Bellan, playing deep, couldn’t get to in time. Snakebit, he slammed the ball to the turf in frustration. Waterman walked to load the bases, then Allison stroked a single that, coupled with a wild throw, scored all three runners. We yelled with the exultant crowd. And it wasn’t ended yet. Harry, playing with the brilliant intensity he’d shown in the Forest City squeaker, singled Allison home and dove into second on the throw.
“I see good now,” Andy told me, heading for the plate. He quickly proved it by slamming an inside pitch to left that scored Harry for our ninth run of the inning. McDermott’s grin had long since vanished.
The Haymakers moved Fisher to the box. Andy went to work on old Cherokee with dancing leads off first. To the crowd’s delight he stole second and third on consecutive pitches—and when Craver threw wildly over Bellan, he trotted home.
Something about the way Craver stood with hands on hips triggered in my mind his spiking of Andy. Not again! I thought. I jumped up and ran toward the plate, yelling, “Watch out! Watch their catcher!”
Brockway glanced curiously at me, then at Craver as Andy tagged the plate. Craver’s face turned purple. He pointed at me and snarled, “Get that nancy boy away!”
I pointed back. “Next time you want to step on somebody, try me!”Andy grabbed me, and suddenly I was hemmed in by Stockings.
“Calm down,” Harry said. “He hasn’t done anything.”
“He intended to,” I said, and looked at Brockway. “Watch that ape—he likes to hurt people.”
“I’ll run this, not you,” Brockway snapped.
“Enough, Sam!” Harry pushed me back. “Haven’t you had your fill today?”
“Meet me after!” Craver yelled. “I got a score to settle, nancy boy!”
“Anywhere!” I yelled.
Harry and the rest practically dragged me back to the table. Only later, after the Haymakers had argued in vain that my interference invalidated Andy’s run—Brockway ruled there was no possible play at the plate, and in any case I hadn’t actually stepped within the diamond—did I consider how monumentally stupid it would be for me to stick around to fight Craver instead of leaving the ballpark as soon as we’d won.
Assuming we did, that is, by enough runs. The Haymakers came at us again in the bottom of the second. After diving spectacularly to snag a sinking liner, Andy, playing more erratically than I’d ever seen, turned an easier drive into a two-base muff. A sequence of scratch hits preceded Mart King’s towering triple, on which Haymakers circled the bases like windup toys. Only Waterman’s ballsy knockdown of a blistering smash saved more Haymaker runs. As it was, they tallied seven and moved back in front, 13-10.
We got two back in the third on errors, then blanked them in their half when Andy snared a foul bound in the corner and Harry leaped high to rob Craver.
The next half inning belonged to Andy. Taking first on a fielder’s choice, he stole second and third again, outrunning Craver’s bullet throws with flashing speed that amazed even me. The burly catcher looked homicidal.
Then Brainard lofted a fly to short right. Andy tagged and set himself to sprint home. Flynn caught the ball on the dead run and launched a low whizzing peg. Andy’s legs drove him toward the plate. Craver straddled the base path several feet up the line. The ball arrived on a perfect bounce.
“Watch him,” I yelled at Brockway, jumping up again. “WATCH CRAVER!”
The throw had Andy by six feet. Craver wheeled for the tag, a murderous obstacle. I wanted to look away as Andy bunched his shoulders and ducked his head. No, I thought, not headfirst! Craver dropped to one knee and held the ball with both hands, ready to rip upward with it. But Andy had decoyed. Instead of diving he straightened abruptly and vaulted into the air. The suddenness of it was startling, as if he had exploded upward from the sod. For an instant—an indelible instant in the minds of the thousands watching—Andy seemed to air-walk over Craver. Realizing he’d been fooled, the catcher bellowed and reared, thrusting the ball upward with maiming force.
And Andy kicked it from his hand.
He landed on the plate with the tying run. In itself the vertical leap was astounding. In these
