Had she not been looking, I’d have moved my lips: Fuck you.
The fourth was a disaster for Andy. He fumbled Fisher’s leadoff fly and then threw wildly. Fisher sprinted all the way around. Berating himself, Andy later misjudged Craver’s hooking shot, which allowed another run. Only brilliant heads-up play by George, who deliberately dropped a pop-up and launched a double play—no infield-fly rule existed, naturally—kept the lid on for us.
Haymakers 8, Stockings 4.
The pool sellers boomed a new litany: “HAYMAKERS! FOUR TO ONE!”
Struck by a tantalizing idea, I asked Brainard whether the odds referred to the ratio of runs.
“No, just who wins,” he said wearily. “They think we’ll fold up our tent, so they’ll risk four dollars to every one on us.”
“Are we gonna fold?”
He glanced up sharply. “What brand of question is that?”
“I’m asking your opinion.”
“What’s it matter?”
“Depending on your answer, I might want to borrow fifty to bet on us.”
“Hush, Sam,” he whispered, his eyes darting. “I can’t spot you cash for that. Champion’d be fit to—”
“I’d take all risk,” I broke in. “At those odds I could double your fifty, pay Andy back, and still have money to spend.”
“Double my fifty, you say?”
“Yeah, you got it?”
“Not here.” He glanced at the cash box. “But you do, close at hand.”
“Cover me if we lose?”
He reflected. “You got collateral?”
“Hell, Asa, when we win you’ll get—”
“I’d settle for ‘Home in the Valley’ and that other ballad.”
“I told you, they aren’t mine.”
He shrugged and worked a clod from his spikes.
“Damn it,” I said. “Look, you think we’ll win?”
He nodded slowly.
“Okay, what the hell. But just one song: ‘Home on the Range.’ For your fifty—and only if we lose.”
“I guess that’s hunky with me.”
“Done.”
Suppressing a paranoid vision of Brainard throwing the contest to claim the song, I counted the day’s take. Nearly a thousand. I palmed five gold eagles and closed the box. “Gotta hit the privy,” I told Hurley. “Keep an eye on the money.”
I borrowed a sweater from Millar to cover my jersey and headed for a rear booth out of sight of our table. My timing was perfect. When I returned with a betting slip tucked inside my belt, the odds were tumbling before a barrage of Stocking blows. Capitalizing on two hits each by Andy, Brainard, and Sweasy—and several atrocious errors by Mart King—we stunned the Haymakers with ten runs.
But they came at a price. As Andy sprinted home the second time, a premonition told me to watch Craver. He stood disgustedly, hands on hips, just behind the plate. When Andy crossed before him he shifted as if to take an incoming throw. His spike crunched down on Andy’s heel. Andy staggered, his leg buckling for an instant. When he came to the bench, he was limping.
I started up, my brain on fire. Andy blocked me and said, “I’m all right.”
His face was pale. I bent to look at the wound. His stocking was ripped just above the heel of his left shoe. I saw a splotch subtly darker than the crimson fabric spreading over his Achilles tendon.
“Get your shoe off, we’ll ice that.”
“No, it’ll swell. I’m just scraped.” He stared into my eyes. “Don’t try to keep me from playing, Sam.” .
I reluctantly returned to the table.
The Haymaker sluggers, righties all, were pulling Brainard hard now. Craver lashed a drive to left center that Andy, practically hobbling, could not intercept. By the time Harry retrieved it, three runners had crossed the plate. Following a conference, Harry moved to left, Mac to center, and Andy to right.
“Why doesn’t he take Andy out?” I demanded.
“Needs him as a striker,” Hurley said calmly.
The Haymakers soon struck again—in several senses. With another run in and the corners occupied, the first-base runner took off on Brainard’s pitch. While Allison whipped the ball to Sweasy, Craver broke from third on a delayed steal. Sweasy handled it with textbook perfection, stepping in front of second and pegging back to Allison.
But before the catcher could turn for the tag, Craver lowered his head and blindsided him. The ball shot straight up as Allison folded to the ground, Craver touched home while the other Haymaker sprinted to third. When Allison regained his feet, his eyes were glassy. Like Andy, he refused to come out.
Stockings 14, Haymakers 13.
We were at game’s midpoint, clinging to the lead. For us it was becoming a question of attrition. In the fifth, Fisher quick-pitched George, got a prompt return from Craver, then hurled the ball squarely into George’s back as he protested to the ump. No longer smiling, George retaliated by slamming a drive inches from Fisher’s head and hook-sliding safely into second on a daring challenge of Bel-lan’s strong arm. Later in the inning, Andy, mouth set in a grim line, clubbed a pitch into the right-center alley—normally at least a double for him, but now he held up after limping to first. Brain-ard and Sweasy followed with hits; we came out of the frame with three runs.
Stockings 17, Haymakers 13.
In the sixth Harry took the pitcher’s box, Brainard’s arm stiffening from hundreds of pitches. The switch proved disastrous. After the predictable leadoff walk, Bellan and Flynn smashed triples into the ring of spectators around the outfield. Craver stepped in later with runners on and drove them home with a ringing blow to center. An infield hit moved him to third. It didn’t take a genius to see what would come. “Double steal again,” I told Hurley.
Sure enough, Craver barreled toward the plate like a runaway train. Sweasy’s throw came late this time, and Allison stepped safely aside. Craver laughed at him as he scored their ninth run of the inning.
Haymakers 22, Stockings 17.
In our half George stretched a looper into a double and scored on Brainard’s hit. Andy singled up the middle—and hobbled so slowly that Bellan in center nearly nipped him at first. Harry finally replaced him with Hurley. Andy protested, his face drawn, his bloody legging bulging ominously.
“Better not to risk a
