Harry was not impressed when I showed off by throwing overhand curves and knucklers in warm-ups. In fact, he put an emphatic end to it when Andy and George wanted to learn. But he seemed to appreciate the fact that I knew my way around a ball field. For my part, I quickly realized that the Stockings were damned good—by far the best I’d ever been on a diamond with.
Harry drilled us endlessly on defensive covers and backups. His system was as complex as any I’d experienced. Basically, he employed two field captains: Allison flashed hand signals to position the basemen, while Harry, in center, directed outfield traffic as well as brother George, who galloped far and wide from shortstop. On a high fly Harry called not only who should attempt the catch, but who should crouch nearby to pounce should the ball be muffed—a very real possibility, I soon discovered.
The ball itself, while only a fraction larger than the modern regulation version I was used to, was remarkably more elastic. Manufacturers produced two general types: lively and dead. Harry practiced with a lively ball and reserved the others for games. His idea was to increase batting confidence in practice, at the same time honing defensive skills. He was doubtless right—where his veteran players were concerned.
With me it was another story.
Harry initially stationed me in right. When the first ball came lofting out, I moved under it with reasonable assurance, reached up to take it—and was shocked when it caromed off my hands like a tennis ball and bounced six feet in front of me. I then mortified myself and put the others in stitches by kicking it out of reach as I bent for it.
“No muffins here!” Sweasy’s voice pierced the field. “We’re a first-rate nine! Catch the ball!” He looked around with a proprietary air, as if speaking for them all. Andy’s grin faded to a worried frown.
I felt my face redden. Fuck you, Sweasy.
After more embarrassments my hands began to give with the ball. I snagged several flies and uncorked low, one-bounce pegs to the plate; my arm was stronger, if more erratic, than Mac’s. I knew that my lumbering pursuit of drives in the gap impressed nobody.
When Hurley’s turn came to hit, Harry sent me to first and Gould to right. Sweasy turned his back on me and busied himself at second while George and Waterman warmed me up. Their medium-speed throws stung, but I held them and felt a glimmer of confidence.
“Striker’s in,” Harry called from the pitching box. Brainard, ill, had begged off practice, and Harry was handling all batting-practice pitching chores.
Hurley grinned and pointed his bat at me, the club’s only lefty. He sizzled several shots down the line, then deliberately chopped the ball off the turf in front of home so that it bounced high outside the first-base line. I jogged after it, wondering at the strange maneuver. Then I heard Sweasy screaming, “Fair foul!”
I didn’t realize then that a ball hitting in fair territory remained in play even if it went foul before reaching a corner base. Some strikers—Hurley and Waterman on the Stockings—were adept at knocking fair-foul balls beyond the reach of fielders; Which accounted for corner basemen often playing on top of their bags; they had a lot of foul territory to worry about.
“What kind of headwork is that!” Sweasy shrilled. “Look sharp! Get your finger outa your butt!”
I ignored him. Which increased his output. Harry shushed him and briefed me on the rule. Sweasy paced and muttered.
Hurley next topped a roller to the right. I started for it, then retreated to the bag as Sweasy moved in quickly. He short-hopped it neatly between Harry and me, pivoted leisurely—and suddenly whipped the ball with all his strength, exploding it directly at my face.
“Let it go!” yelled Harry.
Let it go! echoed a voice in my brain. I reached for it. The ball slammed through my fingers like a hurricane flattening trees. Pain mushroomed in my left hand. For an instant I stood motionless, teeth clenched. With an effort of will I retrieved the ball, rolled it to the box, and resumed my position. Only then did I glance down. The large joint of my index finger was a bulging red knob, the skin already stretched shiny and smooth.
Sweasy’s act was not lost on the Stockings, who stood silently at their positions, wondering, I supposed, how I would respond. Harry asked if I was okay. Not trusting my voice, I nodded.
Hurley’s last turn came. Harry yelled, “Swift man at first, one out.” Hurley pulled a sharp bouncer along the line. I took it cleanly on the bag and turned to throw out the imaginary runner. Sweasy dashed to cover second. I set myself, strode forward, and rifled the ball from behind my ear, catcher-style, following through with every ounce of my weight. I’d never thrown harder in my life. The ball rocketed from my fingers. I pictured it knocking Sweasy’s head off.
He saw the effort and must have grasped my intent. He looked as if he intended to wave the ball past with a bullfighter’s scorn. But he had badly misjudged. It zoomed in crotch-high, then made a wicked upward break. I saw his eyes widen. In desperation he flipped backward, catapulting as if struck by the ball’s oncoming air cushion. His cap flew off. He hung horizontally in midair. His head and shoulders crashed to the sod, knees flopping wildly behind. The ball streaked over him into the outfield.
He sprawled on his back. The impact must have taken his wind. Waterman and George were doubled over in fits of laughter. “Like a chicken!” Waterman howled, pointing. “Sweaze flew like a chicken!” The laughter spread. Even Harry smiled.
Sweasy climbed to his feet and started toward me, face scarlet. “You son of
