George, still grinning, stole third on the next pitch with a dirt-spilling hook slide as smoothly modern as any I’d ever seen. He scored moments later on a sacrifice fly that the center fielder juggled and nearly dropped.
“Aren’t there a lot of errors using just your bare hands?” I asked Hurley.
“What else’d we use?” he said. “George stunts with his cap sometimes, that what you have in mind?” He gave me the look again. “I thought Andy said you’d played.”
“Muffs are a natural element of the game,” Millar said pontifically. “Even Harry makes a few.”
At that moment, as if to demonstrate the point, the Alerts’ left fielder dropped Waterman’s lazy fly. The stocky Red Stocking then stole second and third, his bowed legs churning with surprising quickness, and scored on a fly before Harry grounded into the third out.
I tracked the Stockings I knew as they took their positions: Andy sprinting to left as if he feared being late; Harry jogging to center with casual grace; Waterman straddling third, hands on hips, cheek bulging and mustache tilted by an enormous chaw; George tossing pebbles at shortstop; Sweasy crouching near second, making shrill sounds and spitting through the gap in his teeth.
Brainard sauntered to the pitching box with a toothpick dangling from his lip and made a single warm-up toss to the Stocking catcher. He used a corkscrew motion in which his left leg twisted in front of his right, rocked back, and then came forward as his arm whipped from behind his back with impressive velocity. His follow-through, a series of dancing steps, took him to the very front of the box. The ball blurred to the plate even faster than the Rochester hurler’s had.
Millar informed me that Brainard had broken in as an outfielder with the old Excelsiors and also had played second base for several New York and Washington clubs before coming to Cincinnati. As a change pitcher he hadn’t been particularly effective until the end of last season, when he’d learned to control the “chain lightnings” that made a formidable counterpoint to Harry’s “slow twisters.” Now Brainard was the team’s starter and recognized as one of the country’s best.
The Alerts’ leadoff man topped a dribbler that Sweasy couldn’t charge fast enough to play. I watched Hurley enter a tally by his name in the “Slow Handling” column under errors in fielding. The sophistication of the score book amazed me. Symbols existed for everything—including K’s for strikeouts.
After an out, the third hitter blooped a single over Waterman to left. Andy sprinted in with remarkable speed—Hurley was right, he could move—to contain the runners. But the next Alert squibbed a soft fly behind first, which the Stockings’ tall blond first baseman lumbered after and muffed badly. Both runners scored, the batter reaching second. Millar looked glum. Hurley muttered.
Brainard’s next pitch seemed to have less velocity. The Alert striker poised and whipped his bat. There was a resounding tock!
“Oh blazes!” Millar groaned. The ball soared and grew small in the darkening sky.
Harry Wright had turned and was sprinting over the grass, back to the diamond. As he bore down on the waist-high rail fence bordering the outfield, spectators spilled from vehicles behind. I held my breath, fearing he’d hit it headlong. A step from the fence Harry took the ball over his shoulder and swiveled at the same instant; scissoring his legs high, he vaulted the fence as easily as a boy going over a hydrant. I could hardly believe what I’d seen. The crowd applauded him as he climbed back onto the field. He tipped his cap and threw the ball in, making it all look nonchalant.
The score was 2-2 after one inning. The Rochester reporters seemed excited. So did the crowd. The favored Stockings were vulnerable after all. Across the way the pool sellers, having done extensive business at the three-to-two ratio, were now taking even money on the Alerts.
With the sky overhead blackening, Andy stepped to the plate, jaw clenched and knuckles white on the bat.
“Over the fence!” I yelled. “A homer, buddy!”
“Over the fence here is but two bases,” Millar said snidely. “Didn’t you hear the captains?”
“C’mon, Millar, don’t be a jerk.”
“Just what does ‘be a jerk’ mean?” His glasses flashed at me. “You’re not exactly the cheese, Fowler.”
“What?”
Andy ended our brilliant repartee by slamming a low pitch between third and short. I cheered as he sprinted to first.
Then the skies opened.
“This way!” somebody yelled. We dashed across the square toward the residence of an Alert official.
For the next hour, as rain drummed on the roof and players and reporters shouldered closer to the glowing stove, I listened to their gossip and made mental notes to check with Andy. Somebody was deemed “plucky withal and safe with the willow” and “led the scoring with five and two over.” Another needed “something stirring to be earnest—a pretty player but loose.” What did that mean? Another was “an uphill stem winder who never showed the white.” And so it went.
There was also talk of the Stockings’ win over the Niagras, a team the Alerts would face. Somebody produced a Buffalo Courier and quoted a reference to the Cincinnatians as “rather a burly set of men,”
Sweasy cracked, “They must’ve overlooked Andy.” It got a laugh. Andy’s smile, I thought, looked a trifle forced.
When the downpour ended we trooped back to the diamond. Pockets of water shimmered everywhere on the infield. As numbers of spectators returned, I heard Champion urging Harry to get the field in playing shape or else they’d have to refund gate receipts.
I swept water from the base paths with a short-handled broom and helped drain the batter’s and pitcher’s boxes. We spread sand and sawdust as fast as it could be carted to the diamond. The outfield remained a marsh.
The game resumed with Andy on first. The Alerts soon fell prey to the slippery conditions. Solid hits by Brainard, Sweasy, and George were abetted by errors, resulting in five runs.
The rain held off. The game
