I flipped him the finger.
Ignoring Harry’s shouts, he clenched his fists and charged. I set myself, arms braced, waiting. He halted only inches away, stocky body quivering.
“Go ahead,” I said, watching him carefully. “You better make it your best shot.”
Sweasy had to crane his neck to glare at me. Rage had not erased the fact that he gave away half a foot and thirty or forty pounds. He took a ragged breath. Then Harry and Allison reached us.
“That’s enough, Charles!” said Harry.
Our eyes remained locked.
“You have no quarrel.” Harry’s tone was that of a father lecturing a child. “Fowler returned what you offered full measure.”
Sweasy let out his breath slowly. “I guess it showed sand,” he muttered.
“What the hell does that mean?” I snapped.
“Settle yourself, bub!” Allison stepped before me. “He’s sayin’ you got some grit to you. Here, let’s see that.”
The hand that gripped mine looked like it had been caught in a machine. Allison’s knuckles were grotesquely enlarged, fingers flattened and bent. He probed my injured joint, grinned, said, “Welcome to the national game, bub.”
Thanks. He made it sound like I’d passed some sort of test. Great. The protruding finger hurt like hell. No way I was going to sleep that night. Did aspirin even exist? Too bad Sweasy hadn’t swung. I’d’ve enjoyed popping the little bastard.
Harry was eyeing me. “Go up and strike,” he said.
I borrowed Gould’s heavy black ash bat that he called Becky. I had trouble gripping Becky’s leather-wound handle. I had far more trouble timing Harry’s pitches—Allison called them “dewdrops”—high, arching tosses at variable speeds that seemed to bend in flight. I missed the first ones completely, fouled the next weakly.
“You’re elevating your front shoulder,” Harry said.
On my final swing I connected squarely, getting my weight behind the bat and driving the ball. Shock waves danced up my arms. Andy watched, the ball soar high over him. It hung against the sky, then plummeted into a distant cow pond.
“That was a Joe Darter,” said Allison behind the plate. “Two to one George couldn’t sock it farther.”
“Thirty cents,” Harry called, walking in.
“What?” I said. “Is he betting?”
Allison laughed. “You gotta pay for the ball.”
“Are you serious?”
“Yes sirree, Mr. Champion’s orders.”
“I prefer daisy cutters to sky balls,” Harry said, stroking his goatee thoughtfully. “On the other hand, few grounds could have contained your last blow. How are you against swifter pitching?”
I shrugged modestly.
“Fisher of Troy is one of the swiftest. I wish Asa were here to test you.” He looked around. “George!”
I stepped back in and swung hard at three fastballs delivered by George Wright.
Whiff. Whiff. Whiff.
Harry clucked sympathetically.
Having foolishly admitted catching in the past, I agreed to a checkout behind the plate, first requesting a glove and mask. I had to describe the latter.
“Let me hear this square, bub.” Allison cocked his head and grinned. “You want your face inside a bird cage?”
“Okay, forget it,” I said hurriedly as he turned to broadcast it to the others. “But I’ve got to have a mitt.”
“I’d understand better if Asa were tossing.” Harry shook his head, but sent the freckle-faced catcher to fetch his glove.
I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry when Allison returned. The “glove” he’d confessed to using with such embarrassment was exactly that—a kid-leather glove with the fingers cut off, no thicker than a cyclist’s.
I put it on silently, a matter of principle. Allison proceeded to render a clinic in state-of-the-art catching, 1869-style: how to anticipate the spin on Harry’s twisters when fielding them on the bounce far behind the plate; how to move up close (too damned close, with no protective gear) behind the striker with men on base; how to cup my fingers to minimize sprains and breaks, and to shield my face and neck with my forearms. Allison accepted my squatting position when I showed him I could rise and snap throws off quickly. My arm matched his, but my reflexes were vastly slower. Foul tips whizzed past me before I could begin to react. With visions of my face being caved in, I wasn’t unhappy when Harry finally called an end.
“You better hope everybody stays healthy,” I said. “I’m a wreck.”
“Your instincts are passable,” he said, as gravely as a doctor. “You manifest a great deal of training. Some of your techniques—well, I’ve never seen their like.” He paused. “But, Fowler, you’ve let yourself deteriorate. Slow in the field, tender-handed as a baseman, ill-timed at striking—”
“You always mince words this way, Harry?”
“—but you’ll do in a pinch.”
“Look, I never said I was . . . what?”
“You don’t budge when threatened.” He gave me a look I couldn’t read. “That could prove of worth.”
A suspicion struck. “Did you set Sweasy on me?”
“Not my style.” He sounded weary. “Sometimes Charles gets his back up like a cat.”
“What’s his problem with me?”
“Andy, most likely.” He shrugged; dismissal. “The fact is, he tried to back you down but couldn’t. We’ll need that sort of pluck against the Haymakers on Monday.”
“They’re a rough crowd?”
“You’ll see.”
“Where’d you learn the game?” Andy asked later. “What clubs you been on?”
“High school,” I answered. “A little my first year at college.” I’d nearly said Berkeley.
“You went through all the grades? Course I figured you’d know your letters tip-top, bein’ a newspaperman, but college . . .” His voice trailed off in wonderment.
“Didn’t you finish high school?”
“Hell, Sam, I didn’t even start. Figured I was lucky to pile up six years. So’d my family.” He laughed. “Nobody on the nine’s got more, ’cept Harry and George with eight—and Hurley, of course. Say, when I send off letters will you polish ’em?”
“Sure.”
“What college did you take your course at?”
I rubbed my head as though trying to recall. Berkeley probably didn’t even exist yet. “Yale?” I said tentatively.
“Why, they field crack nines at Yale College!” Excitement brightened his voice. “No wonder you’re up on so many points of the game.”
“Now wait, I’m not sure,” I cautioned.
“Must be, though.” He beamed proudly at me. “Sam Fowler of Yale. Ain’t that
