“I . . . thank you,” Champion managed, twisting his napkin.
She complimented Harry in similar terms. He bowed in response. Beneath the straight face and courtly manners, I suspected that Harry was amused. Then Elise moved along the line of players, flirting with George, admiring Gould’s and Mac’s muscles, asking Brainard how he hurled the ball so fast.
“Thank you especially, Sam,” she said when she reached me, and winked, prompting another mutter from Brainard.
Taking Andy’s arm, she allowed herself to be escorted to the carriage.
“Jesus Q. Christ,” said Brainard.
“Looks like the boy’s gone and gotten himself involved,” I said.
“Seems like she knows you pretty good, too,” he said suspiciously. “You’re some at stirring things up.”
“From you, that’s high praise.”
Harry stood up as Andy returned. “My boy . . .” he began.
“I fancy her,” Andy said. “And that’s all I’m saying.”
Harry regarded him intently. Brainard and I exchanged sidelong glances. At length Harry said, “Welcome to dinner, lad.”
At that point Gould stepped close to Millar, pushed his chin up with one thick, gnarled finger, and said, “If this shows up in the papers, I’ll break your bones.”
“Me too,” said Sweasy.
“Me too,” said Waterman.
Millar reached up and carefully moved Gould’s finger aside. “I saw nothing of note here,” he said.
Even Champion smiled.
We spent the balmy hours climbing rocks and walking the beaches. Being on the western edge of the continent was exciting for the others. For me it was bittersweet, laden with memories that seemed as evanescent as the ocean spray rising in the afternoon sun. I watched two little girls playing with a puppy in the distance, dancing in and out of the waves. If only my girls were with me. I’d take them back to Cincinnati to make a life with Cait, or bring her and Timmy here. I wished that I could find a pathway from one family to another, one time to another.
Andy stayed close to me, talking excitedly of Elise. He would see her in the off-season, save money so he could travel to wherever she was playing. She was grand, wasn’t she? Did I think she cared for him the same way he cared for her? Wasn’t love the most awful and beautiful condition, all at once?
Finally he broke off and looked at me. “Sam, what’s wrong? You got the blue devils?”
My fingers were shaking again. “Sort of.”
“Seems like you’re workin’ awful hard at something,” he said. “Is it something you can fix?”
I watched a squadron of pelicans skim the crests of rolling waves. “I’m not sure.”
In the distance a snowy sail bobbed up regularly and was eclipsed by the combers; it moved toward the Golden Gate, gradually rounding the headland. Something seemed to speak to me from the ocean, some note in the rhythmic surf, a muted song in the wind that blew with increasing strength and chill in the waning afternoon. If it held any particular message, I didn’t know what it might be.
Chapter 29
There was a good deal of betting in the Cosmopolitan lobby next morning. I finally went for a walk to get away from it. But there was no escape. Everywhere, I saw reminders of institutionalized greed. On Montgomery and California, following the Gold Room’s lead, the brokerage houses were closed. The papers reported the suicide of an eastern banker. Here in the Golden City, even ferries carried such names as Gold and Capital. When banker William Ralston had opened his California Theater earlier this year, the first play had been titled, appropriately, Money.
The Gilded Age indeed, with everybody on the make.
Temperatures were in the eighties at the Recreation Grounds. A fair-sized crowd, smaller than the first, showed up. One interesting feature—a ten-minute intermission—came at the end of the sixth inning. Millar sniffingly said it was a dodge to sell more liquor and concessions. A ballpark bar was conspicuously open during games here.
The Eagles played less nervously than before, but it didn’t matter. At the plate we were deadly, pounding out fifty-five hits and six homers and rounding the bases with dulling regularity. Brainard allowed only a handful of Eagle base runners. In the ninth we relented a bit—Allison went so far as to bat lefty—and they got a few gift runs.
The final was 58—4.
I should have bet.
In following days my periods of shakiness grew in intensity. At times it was a struggle to stay tuned in to anything around me. I had trouble composing my dispatches. I knew I appeared distracted, but I couldn’t seem to do much about it.
On Tuesday the additions of Champion, and Oak Taylor transformed the Stockings into a cricket eleven. Behind the bowling of Harry and George, they shocked a group of California all-star cricketers, decisively winning a seven-hour match. Champion moved surprisingly well for a man of his bulk. Harry had conducted a crash cricket seminar beforehand, and that, given the Stockings’ fielding ability and George’s formidable batting, proved to be enough.
The next day, winds near gale force whipped clouds of sand across the diamond, nearly blinding hitters and fielders alike. Opposing us were the Pacifics, who had narrowly lost the city championship to the Eagles. Diehard bettors expected them to outperform their rivals against us.
At the outset it looked like they might. In the first, a Pacific hitter spanked a ball off Gould’s frigid hands and broke for second on the next pitch. Allison had him easily, but the ball soared on a howling gust over Sweasy into center. The runner scored when Brainard uncorked a gloriously wild pitch into the wind. The crowd hooted. The Stockings looked resigned. Throughout the long afternoon they staggered beneath windblown flies like a band of drunks—but managed to catch most.
The Pacifics got only two safe hits the entire game. Meanwhile, we went to work with a vengeance. Gould slammed two homers, George, Harry, and Andy had one apiece—Andy’s a wind-aided grand slam—and the contest ended after six innings with darkness approaching and the score 66-4. I felt sorry for the Pacifics.
I talked
