“Are they one of the oldest teams?”
“One of them,” said Millar. “It’s agreed that the Knickerbockers were first, but who came next is still debated. Around here were the Gothams and Metropolitans—”
“The Mets!” I exclaimed.
“Yes,” Millar said, eyeing me. “And the Athletics in Philadelphia and the Excelsiors in Brooklyn. The Mutuals formed sometime around ’fifty-seven, in Tweed’s old Americus fire department, Mutual Hook and Ladder Company Number One. They’re Tammany’s darlings, of course.”
Under ominous skies the Williamsburg ball field—it bore the name “Union Grounds,” like so many things now—blazed with color. At opposite ends of the grandstand the Mutes’ and Stockings’ flags flapped like medieval knights’ standards. Besides the Mutes’ rode the coveted whip pennant, signifying their status as reigning champions.
The Mutuals marched onto the diamond: somber, formidable figures in mud-colored long pants and tight-fitting jerseys with white dickeys. They were fully as big as the Haymakers and moved with quick grace warming up.
The crowd’s buzzing struck me as knowledgeable—the speculative, anticipatory sound of people familiar with the game. I said so to Andy as I lobbed the ball, testing my side against the pull.
“They’re in the know here,” he said. “But they got nothin’ over Westerners for lovin’ it. In Cincinnati right now they’re crowdin’ up outside the tobacco shops, Ellard’s Sporting Goods Emporium, and all the newspaper bulletin boards down on Fourth. They’ll stand hushed for hours—and bust loose like Injuns when word comes we won.”
World Series. I thought of Grandpa’s stories of his vigils during the battles with McGraw’s Giants. I remembered myself smuggling a radio to school and listening to games thousands of miles distant.
The sky brightened. The crowd swelled to six thousand. Our white uniforms sparkled on the field, the underdog good guys versus the sinister dark-clad Mutes. I wondered if the pool sellers saw it that way. I asked Hurley as we took seats at the scorer’s table next to our bench.
“Odds favor the Mutes,” Hurley said. “But only five to four. Our reputation’s arrived before us. We’re starting to attract sober attention.”
Harry won the toss and sent the Mutes up. Brainard’s first fastball brought a rising, expectant, full-throated sound from the crowd.
Within hours of its conclusion, this game would be judged the best ever played. Multitudes would claim to have seen it—far more than could fit inside the ballpark. The contest was hard-fought and low-scoring; at the end it was waged in an atmosphere of goose-pimpling, gut-gripping intensity.
It began with Charley Hunt, the Mutual left fielder, grounding to Waterman; jaw bulged by his ever-present plug, the stolid third baseman calmly played the short hop and threw him out. Jack Hatfield next grounded to Sweasy, who lobbed to Gould. Everett Mills topped another grounder to Waterman, who charged it cleanly but pulled Gould off with a high throw. Brainard walked the next Mute, then knocked down a smash up the middle with a snake-quick backhanded move for the third out.
It previewed what would come in most innings: threatening runners, tight pitching, clutch fielding. Brainard’s fastballs, sinking today, were driven repeatedly into the turf by the Mutes’ bats. In all they grounded out eighteen times against six flies. Conversely, Rynie Wolters, their pitcher, threw rising, medium-speed floaters that we clipped underneath, producing sixteen fly outs.
“Wolters reminds me of Jimmy Creighton,” said Brainard, watching him work on George Wright. “Makes the ball look like it’s coming up out of the ground. ’Cept Jimmy was swifter—swifter than anybody.”
“Who’s he pitch for?” I asked.
Brainard gave me an unreadable look. Andy nudged me and murmured, “He’s dead.”
Well, shit.
George popped to Hatfield. Not an auspicious beginning. Our star rarely failed to get on to start a game. Gould drove a scorcher into left center, but Hunt streaked over the grass and took it against his chest, like a football receiver. It brought an appreciative roar (“rapturous cheers,” Millar would write). But the crowd quieted when Waterman took first on an error, hustled to third on a passed ball, and scored on Allison’s bouncer muffed by the shortstop.
Stockings 1, Mutuals 0.
In the third we tallied again. George rocketed a double to left and scored on passed balls by the rattled Mute catcher, who had trouble with Wolters’s rising tosses when he was close behind the plate. Otherwise, pitching and defense smothered all threats. The Mutes held us to five hits total—unheard of among top clubs—and managed but eight of their own.
The game moved quickly as goose eggs mounted. The crowd watched in deepening silence as we shut out their champions inning after inning. At the end of seven it remained 2-0.
I kept my eyes peeled for McDermott or Le Caron. If they were going to strike, it would happen while we were in New York. The derringer was in my topcoat pocket, close at hand. It seemed unlikely they’d attack in front of ten thousand witnesses. But I didn’t rule it out.
Andy was playing superbly. On base in the fourth, he ignored Mills—the Mute first baseman was notorious for distracting opponents with amiable gossip—and promptly stole second. Taking third on a wild throw, he danced down the line, but Mac’s fly stranded him. In the sixth, with two away and runners tearing from the bags, a Mute batter smashed a ball so high that it vanished momentarily into low-hanging clouds. Hurley groaned, thinking it was gone. But Andy retreated to the fence, leaped high, and came down with the ball in his right hand. The crowd moaned in disbelief.
In the eighth, the Mutes got their leadoff hitter on with a scratch single. The next two hitters couldn’t advance him. Then Mills sent a soft looper outside the left-field line. It looked as if Andy had a chance for the foul-bound out. He sprinted. The ball bounced on the turf. He dove, stretched out, one arm extended. His fingers clutched the ball—and fumbled it.
Hurley swore softly and I tried to shake off an uneasy premonition. Sure enough, Mills connected on Brainard’s next pitch, lining it into right and scoring the
