At length Brainard found the tailor he had in mind. There I spent what seemed hours holding up bolts of material while Brainard cocked his head and muttered, “Can’t see it, let’s try another.” Finally we agreed on tan broadcloth for a daytime suit, to include a frock coat, and another of dark English wool, with tails, for evening.
“Have them done up today,” Brainard told the tailor. “We leave on the night train.”
“Two dollars extra,” the tailor said. “Forty-six in all.”
“Here’s five eagles,” said Brainard, glancing at the gold coins Andy handed him. “Keep the change.” He chuckled at Andy’s indignant look.
I was amazed. Less than fifty bucks for two suits. With waistcoats and vests, tailor-made in hours!
We boarded a green horse-drawn car to return to the hotel. Inside were benches for about twenty passengers. A wood stove in the rear had been lit earlier and still trailed wisps of smoke. Because of the wet streets, straw had been spread on the floor for safer footing. A strong animal odor rose from it.
“What’s that smell?” I asked.
The glance they exchanged suggested I lacked some fundamental marbles. “It’s a mild concatenation,” Brainard said, adjusting his carnation, “of odoriferous effluvia.”
“Say what?”
“Horseshit.”
Andy explained that as manure dried, the resulting dust was impossible to sweep from cobblestones. After rains, the straw in public vehicles became permeated with it, therefore smelling like horse stalls.
“I never would have thought of that,” I said.
“I suppose Frisco’s got smooth paving everywhere,” Brainard said sarcastically.
His tone irritated me. “Damn right it does!”
Chapter 3
After a snack and nap at the Congress House, Andy bounded out of bed and stretched. Seeing his compact body ridged with muscle, I realized I hadn’t been in decent shape in years. He pulled on bright red leggings over shins scarred from spike wounds and adjusted elastic bands at the bottom of his pants just below the knees. Except for the scarlet C scripted on the jersey, the uniform was solid white. He cinched up his wide leather belt and pulled on a white linen jockey cap. Then, holding a pair of high-topped calfskin shoes on which he’d screwed brass spikes, he stood in the middle of the room poised like a gymnast. His green eyes sparkled.
“The ladies are some for our uniform,” he said, grinning. “It’s a rouser.”
Except for the heavy material and the jersey’s pointed lapels and long cuffed sleeves, it looked pretty standard to me.
“What about it gets to the ladies?” I said.
“Why, the new knickers and stockings.” He pointed to his legs. “Up to last year nobody’d seen the like. Harry says they used to call him the ‘Bearded Boy in Bloomers’ and ‘Captain of the Bloody Calves.’ But this year the Cleveland club’s already out in blue stockings, and I hear the Mutuals might switch over. You’re travelin’ with the Beau Brummells of baseball!”
I smiled as he cracked up at his own wit. “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You guys are the first to wear baseball pants and colored sox?”
“That’s what I’m saying—what everybody knows.” He shook his head. “Sometimes you’re way out of touch, Sam.”
I couldn’t deny it. “Are you in a league? With a regular schedule?”
“No, Harry and the other captains jaw about it, but right now there’s just the association—the National Association of Base Ball Players. It meets every winter to set the rules. This is the first year it’s allowed all-professional clubs.”
“And you’re one,” I said.
“We’re the only! The rest split up their gates and pretend they’re still amateurs. Shoot, everybody’s known for years that the top stars—like George Wright, or Al Reach of the Athletics—got paid on the sly. Ask George, he’ll tell you he’s never worked a lick outside of ball.”
I thought I heard a note of envy. “So you’re all under contract?”
“That’s right, signed on back before the season begun. All out in the open. Harry and George get the most, of course. Acey and Fred make out pretty good, and so on down to Mac, Hurley, Sweaze, and me—the new ones.”
“Who’s Mac?”
“Cal McVey, our kid right fielder. You’ll meet him. Anyhow, Mrs. Leonard’s boy Andrew ain’t chuckleheaded. I signed on for seven hundred dollars, and I’m happy as pie. Without this, I’d be sweating in some factory.”
I had a troubling thought. “How long’s your season?”
“April fifteenth to November fifteenth. Why?”
Seven months. He earned only twenty-five dollars a week. My suits cost half a month’s wages. Good grief.
“Nobody’s kicking about my play either.” Andy looked at me defiantly, his voice rising. “I may be small, but I cover my field good as any man, and if it’s pluck that—”
A knock came, then Harry Wright’s calm voice. “Coaches are here.”
“I’m for it!” Andy yelled, springing for the door.
Six small carriages drawn by pairs of matched horses were lined in front. Liveried drivers perched on tiny seats above upholstered passenger benches. The tops were folded down, leaving the shallow compartments open to the sky, which showed dark cloud masses building in the west.
I wanted to ride with Andy, but Millar guided me to the rear carriage where Champion waited with the Alerts’ officials—bewhiskered burghers who stared at my clothes—and we set off clopping and bumping and rattling up State Street.
The ride was rougher than any auto’s. A sense of unreality overcame me again as I looked out at vendors pushing carts and shopkeepers staring from doorways and a welter of bell-ringing claxon-sounding vehicles—including several odd-looking wooden bicycles—that swarmed around us in no pattern I could discern. People were waving gaily to us. The cheery atmosphere put me in mind of a sailing regatta—and then I was seized by the wonder of it all: it was Friday, June 4, 1869! I was riding by open carriage through Rochester, going to see America’s first pro ball players!
Shouts went up: “The Cincinnatis! The Red Stockings!” People thronged the sidewalks. The players waved to them, their uniforms bright splashes of color in the gray afternoon; they grinned at
