Brainard returned to the box in the seventh, throwing erratically and giving up two quick scores. The crowd’s jeers and swelling volume seemed to parallel our dwindling confidence. Brainard muffed an infield dribbler. Sweasy dropped a ball and had to be restrained from chasing Bellan when the Cuban spiked his toe rounding second. Harry misjudged a sinking liner in center. Waterman capped things by taking a bad-hop smash squarely in the balls, writhing on the turf within the sheltering circle we formed.
Andy took over Hurley’s score book chores. He didn’t resist when I packed his ankle in ice from a lemonade vendor. The swelling looked bad.
“Sorry, Sam,” he muttered.
“No problem.”
We watched glumly as Craver drilled his sixth hit. When he reached third they pulled the double steal again. This time, on Harry’s instructions, Brainard took Allison’s peg in the pitcher’s box and threw it immediately back. Craver slid furiously, spikes high. As Allison made the tag, Craver kicked him hard, sending him reeling to the turf. Pants torn, thigh bleeding, Allison scrambled to his feet. He still held the ball.
“Safe!” yelled the ump.
Waterman and Allison charged him. He took refuge behind Craver, who stood mockingly on the plate. Waterman crouched and cocked his arm. Harry grabbed the third baseman before he could swing. It was a while before things calmed.
An outrageous idea started to form in my mind, something I’d once heard or read. I turned to Andy. “I think I know a way to use that delayed steal against them.”
“How?”
“I’ll need a prop,” I said. “Watch the box.”
Minutes later I was back with a piece of sponge I’d paid a hack driver a nickel to tear from his seat. Outrageous price, but my bargaining position was poor. I set about trimming it to the desired dimensions.
George carried us in the seventh with two amazing fielding plays, one an over-the-head snatch of a fly to short left, the other an off-balance throw from deep short after backhanding a skidding grounder. We needed the clutch plays badly. We were in trouble.
Haymakers 29, Stockings 22.
The crowd’s cheers and the pool sellers’ hawking cries battered our ears. Undaunted, George led off the bottom of the seventh with a double over third. Gould lofted a high pop that the Haymaker second baseman lost in the sun. Waterman’s fair-foul chopper paralyzed Mart King at third, scoring George and putting Stockings at the corners. Allison stepped in.
And then it happened.
He topped a roller in front of the plate. Craver sprang for it, spun, and dove at Gould, who slid in ahead of his tag. Snarling, teeth bared, Craver bounded to his feet. Allison was halfway to first. Craver cocked his arm. The ball thudded against the rear of Allison’s skull. He toppled without a sound. Fisher retrieved the ball and tagged him as he lay unmoving.
Gould and I carried him to the shade beneath the grandstand, where at length he sat up groggily. On the field both clubs surrounded the ump, who finally ruled Allison out. At that point Champion wanted to withdraw from the field. Harry would have none of it.
“We’ll take their measure,” I heard him argue as I returned. “Here on their grounds with their chosen official. We’ll show them what it means to have ginger.”
Andy and I looked at each other with the same unspoken question: Would all the ginger in the world be enough for us to take the Haymakers?
“Fowler!” Harry called. “Sam Fowler!”
“Here!” My voice sounded strange.
“We need you now,” Harry said. “You’re in for Allison.”
Chapter 6
Timely hits by Harry, Waterman, and Hurley sparked a prolonged rally that saw us score nine runs. One out still to go in the bottom of the seventh, nine runs in, and we’d retaken the lead, 32-29.
Andy nudged me. “You’re the striker, Sam. Lay into it.”
Trying to hide my nervousness, I popped a wad of “gum” in my mouth. Earlier I’d tried to buy chewing gum only to learn that it didn’t exist. All I’d found was a commercially sold blend of spruce gum and chicle that tasted like tree sap. Now I chewed furiously.
At the plate I dug in, waved Gould’s black Becky menacingly, and took a deep breath. Fisher regarded me with no visible affection. Craver spat at my shoes. “Here’s a prime-sized gump,” he growled. “He’ll buy the rabbit, Cherokee.”
I tried to concentrate on Fisher. Gump? Rabbit?
“You callin’ it?” asked the ump.
Shit, I’d forgotten. “Low.”
I scarcely saw the ball as it darted from an upsweep of hand, arm, and shoulder; it flashed suddenly in the sunlight like a rippling fish. I’d intended to look at one. Instead I swung—and missed by a foot.
Craver laughed scornfully. “Give the gump another, he’s narrow gauge.”
I worked my gum, trying to concentrate. Fisher’s speed was overwhelming. Could I get around on him? I checked the defense and saw Mart King playing deep at third base. Hmmm . . .
As Fisher wound I squared around and slid my right hand up the bat, cradling it with thumb and forefinger, extending it like an offering. The ball’s sharp impact drove it back against the cushion of my palm. The ball trickled down the third-base line.
I dug for first, sure that I could beat it out. Awareness quickly came that I was the only one moving. Even the Stocking base runners stood staring at the ball as it died halfway to third. Then hell broke loose again as the Haymakers stormed the field, claiming I was out.
“What’s wrong?” I asked Harry as he ran past. “That was a perfect bunt.”
“Is that what you call it?”
I realized then that not only had I executed a bunt, I’d invented it.
The ump finally compromised, agreeing to count it a strike. The afternoon’s cumulative strain showed on Harry’s face. “That was a singular maneuver,” he told me. “Don’t ever use it again.”
Craver shared a number of personal observations with me as I stepped in again. Least offensive
