I stared at him, Mrs. Sloan already starting to muddle my brain. “Killed your father?”
“Drink did it. You understand what I’m sayin’?”
“Yeah,” I said. “I understand.”
In the afternoon I awoke to a babble of noise. Andy rose from a writing table.
“What’s the commotion?”
“They discovered we’re here.”
“Who?”
“Townfolk, already in a sweat.”
I looked through the window. A throng of people worked at stretching a banner across the street: unions over Cincinnati! The Haymakers, Andy said, were officially the Unions of Lansingburgh, a suburb north of Troy City. Cheers erupted as a dummy with red feet was elevated on pitchforks and suspended from the hotel’s eaves, where it dangled at the end of a noose.
“They’re pretty intense,” I said.
“Wait’ll the sporting crowd shows up. This is our biggest match before we get to Brooklyn. Last year the Stockings came here and drubbed the Haymakers twenty-seven to eight. They been freezin’ for revenge ever since. Built a crack team—same as we’ve done.”
“Who’s favored?”
“Oh, the pool sellers’ll always puff the East club. ’Specially since the Haymakers think they’re going to take the whip pennant this year.”
“What’s that, the championship?”
“Yes, the flag. The top club keeps it till they lose twice in a match of three. Then it goes to whoever beats ’em. The Haymakers think it’s as good as flyin’ over their grounds already.” He laughed. “We’ll have somethin’ to say about that.”
Again I felt excitement at the prospect of a tough clash. “You nervous about tomorrow?”
He shrugged. “Are you?”
“A little.”
“I’ll likely fret some.” The green eyes regarded me calmly. “It’s natural. But there’s a prime thing to keep in mind.”
“What’s that?”
“We didn’t come all the way out here to get warmed.”
I smiled at his single-mindedness. “I’ll try to remember that.”
We spent the day quietly. Andy and the other Catholic players went to Mass, while Harry, Champion, and a few others took in an Episcopal service. Brainard, Sweasy, and Waterman disappeared to explore more secular pursuits.
I occupied an overstuffed divan in the Mansion House lobby and tried to make sense of the news. The Troy Times carried a piece on the Stockings’ victories in the young season, lifted almost verbatim from Millar’s stat-laden press release. Why were sportswriters always nuts about numbers?
The front pages were devoted to a national peace jubilee scheduled in Boston the following week. Grant and his cabinet would be there. Choirs fifteen thousand strong would sing in the week-long event. Overseas, England’s Parliament was hotly debating disestablishing the Irish Church, while in Cuba the guerillas continued their struggle against Spanish rule. From the Far West—grouped with items from Calcutta and Madagascar—General Custar [sic] had telegraphed to scotch rumors of his demise at the hands of the Pawnee.
I wrestled with the problem of foreknowledge, remembering that the blond cavalry commander met his fabled end in June 1876, almost exactly seven years ahead. Should I try to warn Custer? Use any argument that might spare all those lives? Would he listen? Did I have the right to interfere with events? Minding my business suited my temperament and seemed more sensible, but even doing nothing I risked altering history. My presence here was doubtless an alteration in itself.
Had I asked for any of this?
The Haymakers sent neither delegates nor carriages on Monday. We ate shortly after noon. The atmosphere was tense. Sweasy tried, “Say, ‘d you hear the one about the Yankee peddler and the farmer’s fat daughter?” In unison, Waterman and Allison told him to shut up.
Up in our room I spread out the accessories Harry had given me: a jock strap of stiff webbing with attached tie strings, a thick leather belt, red stockings, and elastic bands.
By wearing the belt—it was so wide and rigid it felt like a girdle—low on my hips I managed to make Gould’s pants stretch below my knees. The flannel jersey felt heavy as a blanket. My wrists extended from the sleeves like a scarecrow’s and the shoulder seams cramped my armpits. With spiked shoes in hand—mine half a size small—we walked on stockinged feet, a silent procession moving down the boardwalk to the horsecars. Bands of ragged boys and older tobacco-spitting youths swarmed around.
“Youse jakes’ll get whipped!” they yelled. “The Haymakers’ll lay over you milk-and-water bastids!” They hurled dirt clods with insults and darted close to spit at the windows. A street scene out of Dickens. When Champion wasn’t looking, Sweasy gave them the finger.
We moved along River Street through North Troy, an industrial scape with steel mills, carriage works, and steam-powered knitting factories. Many of them were letting workers out early to see the game; they lined our route, faces pallid, some already lurching drunk-enly. The streets resonated with animals and vehicles, pedestrians, shouts and curses and cracking whips. Sweating cops on horseback tried to free intersections.
We crawled past a cemetery, past the huge Ludlow Valve Works, into Lansingburgh. Tree-shaded lanes ascended from the Hudson. Lining them were Dutch Renaissance mansions with steep roofs and narrow windows, and bristling with gables, towers, and ironwork.
We reached open land. The Haymakers’ grounds lay in a natural amphitheater formed by sloping hillsides. Fences hadn’t been erected, but the crowd formed a dense barrier around the playing area. Millar estimated ten thousand on hand, and more were flooding in. Already the noise level was formidable.
George Wright grinned at me, excitement flashing in his eyes, and said, “How’s this for high?”
It was a high. Imagine the most exciting day of early summer when you were young and everything was vibrant and the world teemed with possibilities. That was the afternoon we had, clear and sparkling, breezes heightening the air’s crispness. Perfect for baseball. I felt like I was thirteen again. We pushed through the crowd. Before us lay the field, a green mat surrounded by swirling color and sound.
Harry stopped and grouped us. His eyes met mine, moved briefly
