“Oh, ain’t he the cheese?” said Hurley disgustedly. “Puffing himself before the home folks.”
Flynn swung at the first pitch. The ball rose on a line toward left. At shortstop George vaulted high. With an outstretched hand he knocked the ball down, scrambled after it, and threw with all his strength. Ball and runner converged on Gould, who reached with an outsized left hand. The ball materialized in it almost magically and Gould jammed it into Flynn’s neck, thrusting him bodily from the baseline before his foot could strike the bag.
“Out!” the ump yelled.
The Haymakers screeched and charged the official. Flynn clutched his throat and wheeled angrily toward Gould. He reconsidered as the blond first baseman stared at him, mustache bristling.
“How’s that to start!” Hurley chortled. “Dropped a duck egg on the bastards!”
I knew by now that holding an opponent scoreless in an inning carried the emotional weight of, say, a rim-rattling slam dunk or a quarterback sack on a crucial down. Newspapers invariably reported the number of “whitewash” innings.
The crowd was properly subdued as George moved to the plate. “Hi, Cherokee,” he said, grinning. “We miss you back home—ain’t nobody we enjoy lickin’ so much.”
The glum pitcher responded with a fastball at George’s head. Its speed was terrifying; I barely saw a pale blur. With lightning agility George bailed out and hit the dirt. He climbed back up, still grinning. “I guess you recall me, too.”
Fisher threw at him again, this time targeting his knees. George skipped backward. Fisher scowled. Another blazer, even faster, at George’s throat.
“Christ!” I jumped to my feet. “He’s trying to cripple him!”
Harry pulled me down. “We’ll not descend to their level.”
“But your brother—”
“George knows what he’s about; he’s faced determined men since he was twelve. We play as gentlemen. That language won’t do.”
I felt like a child. How did the man generate all that force without raising his voice?
George picked himself up again. “You’ve lost a little spunk off your hot one, Cherokee.”
Fisher scraped his spikes in the box and this time threw behind George’s head—a murderous ploy since a hitter’s reaction is to fall back—but George seemed to expect it. He bent forward, placed his bat neatly on the plate, and strolled to first.
Wondering how Fisher could be so flagrant, I asked if a batter was awarded first after being hit by a pitch.
“Only on a fourth wide,” Hurley said. “Otherwise strikers’d jump in the path of every toss, especially slow ones.”
No wonder, then. The rules gave Fisher a license to head-hunt.
Rattled by George’s daring leads, unable to hold him closer, Fisher uncorked an 0—2 pitch six feet over Gould’s head. With the runner on, Craver was close behind the plate. Gould alertly swung, just as he’d practiced in Harry’s drill. By the time Craver chased the ball down, George perched on third, Gould on second.
“You cut a fine figure from over here, too, Cherokee,” called George.
Fisher tunneled the next pitch in the dirt. Craver swore and sprinted after it. George trotted home. Gould scored on Allison’s infield hit, but our rally ended when Waterman stumbled—I’d have sworn Craver tripped him coming out of the batter’s box—and was thrown out easily.
Stockings 2, Haymakers 0.
In the second Craver smashed a scorcher to left, stole second—he covered ground with surprising speed—and was doubled in by Steve King. King in turn scored on a hit, then Sweasy snatched a low liner and doubled the runner to end their threat. In our half, Flynn chased down Andy’s deep fly, Brainard singled and was forced by Sweasy—who misread Harry’s signals and tried to steal, only to be gunned down by Craver. A whitewash for them. The crowd perked up.
Stockings 2, Haymakers 2.
Things got worse in the third. Mart King hit a pitch so hard that he shattered a second bat. The ball screamed through Waterman’s legs for a double down the line. Overconfident, the big Haymaker was nailed by Allison on a lumbering attempt to steal third. But a succession of walks and hits followed. Craver came up again and skipped a grounder toward short. As George charged it, a runner slowed in front of the ball. It hit his leg and caromed into left. Haymakers circled the bases.
“Interference!” I yelled. “Runner’s out!”
“No,” Hurley said, scoring the play in his book.
“But it was deliberate!”
“Doesn’t matter, ball’s alive.”
There were times, I reflected, when I might as well be watching a ball game on Mars.
The Haymakers took a 6-2 lead. We fought back in the bottom half, hits by Allison and Harry scoring two. Andy went to the plate with Harry on third and two out.
“Give it a ride, buddy!” I yelled.
Fisher surprised him with an off-speed ball that Andy swung under and blooped down the right-field line. Sprinting over, Flynn extended one hand casually—and fumbled the ball. Andy had already rounded first and Harry had scored when the umpire suddenly yelled, “Foul!” To my astonishment, Harry pivoted and sprinted back for third. Flynn got the ball there ahead of him. The ump thumbed Harry out.
“Good grief,” I said. “You mean to tell me you gotta get back on fouls?”
“Do I look like Beadle’s Dime Book?” Hurley snapped. “Why don’t you learn the damn rules?”
On the field Harry protested the tardy foul call. It did no good. Three innings gone.
Haymakers 6, Stockings 4.
The gambling booths were bustling as men shouted and jostled, drunks staggered, and odds makers chanted, “Haymakers! Three to one!” The cries grew strident as the number willing to bet on us dwindled.
I scanned the crowd for Morrissey and the woman. They sat in a cluster of extravagantly plumed spectators. His dark head was tilted back, laughing; she leaned against him, smiling and petite. God, she was something. As I stared I became aware of another figure. McDermott, the red-haired gambler, was pointing at me. They followed his arm to look in my direction. McDermott clenched his
