Champion stood on a table and read a telegram that arrived from the directors of the club.
“ON BEHALF OF THE CITIZENS OF CINCINNATI WE SEND YOU GREETING. THE STREETS ARE FULL OF PEOPLE, WHO GIVE CHEER AFTER CHEER FOR THEIR PET CLUB. GO ON WITH THE NOBLE WORK!”
George joined him atop the table and led cheers. Toasts were offered until Harry protested that we faced two more tough games in successive days.
During all of that I received a message of my own. A courier tapped my shoulder and handed me a sealed letter. I tipped him and tore it open.
Dear Mr. Fowler,
Allow me to express my gratitude for the appreciation you showed following my performance. I will repay you with this vital information: I overheard Mr. M. talking to a certain gambler who will attempt to take your life after tomorrow’s match. Beware passing through the crowd, for that is where it will come. I risk all with this note. Destroy it and never admit its existence.
EH
I stared at the thin sheet. The writing was frilly, its loops and flourishes incongruous with the stark message. EH: Holt. M: Morrissey. The gambler could only be McDermott. I twisted the paper nervously. Should I go to Champion? The police? Get the hell out of New York? But where? I didn’t want to jeopardize my shaky standing with the club. I also didn’t want to die.
Without explaining how I’d been warned, I huddled later with Andy. He called in Brainard and Waterman, and together we came up with a simple plan. I hoped like hell it wasn’t too simple.
Sometime after midnight Andy and I were jolted awake by hammering on our door. Andy opened it. Sweasy and Hurley stood unsteadily outside. They smelled like a distillery. Hurley began to sing.
“Come, let us roam together
O’er the soft and purple heather
From Ulster’s dim gray mountains
To Muskerrys fairy fountains. . . .”
“He’s spifflicated,” said Andy. “We gotta keep him quiet.”
“ ’S as natural for Hibernians to tipple as pigs to root,” Hurley proclaimed. “ ’S your trouble, Andy, you think you’re too good to be properly Irish anymore.”
“That’s true goods!” Sweasy said, scowling at me. He took a lurching step forward. “C’mon, you bastard!” He raised his fists. “You’re bigger’n a shithouse, but I’m meaner’n a singed cat.”
“Oh fuck,” I said, and closed the door in his face.
“Get some sleep, Sweaze,” said Andy. We listened as they lurched down the corridor. “Don’t pay any heed,” he said. “He’s just jealous.”
“Of me?”
Andy nodded. “See, me ‘n’ Sweaze’ve always been roomies. That’s mostly what he’s riled about.”
“Well, hell, I never intended to break up—”
“I know you didn’t. It was my idea, Sam. Like I say, don’t pay it any heed. The tour only runs a couple more weeks. Sweaze an’ me board together in Cincinnati. Everything’ll be hunky by then.”
“What was that Irish stuff?”
He looked uncomfortable. “Dick was just carryin’ on. As for Sweaze, I reckon I’ve changed since we were kids. He’s still the old way, an’ he resents me coming to want new things.”
“Am I connected with that too?”
“No, you’re different.” He did not elaborate.
The morning papers were flooded with descriptions of the victory. Several featured play-by-play accounts. One writer’s use of “red-legged porkopolitans” baffled me, until George explained that it referred to Cincinnati’s thriving hog industry.
Again we took the ferry at midday, but this time the weather was clear and sparkling. Sun sprites danced on the river; a breeze freshened the air. Sweasy, I noticed, wore colored glasses, and Hurley looked dead.
A noisy crowd of twelve thousand awaited us at the Capitoline Grounds in Brooklyn. I grew increasingly tense. Vehicles jammed the surrounding streets—Nostrand, Marcy, Putnam, Halsey—and spectators scrambled for vantage points. As we alighted from our bus, the Stockings formed a tight phalanx around me according to plan. Forging ahead, bats riflelike on our shoulders, we marched briskly to the diamond. Seeing one loony with binoculars clinging to the lightning rod of a church steeple, I thought it a very good thing that telescopic sights weren’t yet around.
The Capitoline Grounds were spacious enough to hold two games at once. The grass was smooth and level as a billiard table. Banked inclines beyond the foul lines were jammed with wagons and carts. Blue-jacketed cops patrolled in substantial numbers—a comforting sight. The wooden stands were packed beyond capacity.
From a cupola waved the Atlantics’ tiger pennant and banners from years the club had captured the whip pennant: ’61, ’64, ’65, ’66. They reminded me of Celtics’ flags hanging from the rafters of Boston Garden. Andy informed me that Brooklyn had dominated New York baseball for the past decade, the local Eckfords taking the pennant virtually every year the Atlantics didn’t.
Brooklyn and baseball. Grandpa and I listened faithfully to broadcasts of Dodger games in the years just before they moved to the West Coast. My first heroes were Pee Wee, Jackie, and Duke. How powerful I’d be, I used to think, with a name like Duke Snider.
It was ironic to learn from Andy that out on the field now, in ice-white jerseys and charcoal pants and caps, were men who had been his particular boyhood idols: Joe Start, known as “Old Reliable,” the Atlantic first baseman; Dickey Pearce, the dodgy shortstop; and “Young Jack” Chapman, the left fielder.
In recent seasons the Atlantics had added talent: Tommy Pratt, a speed-balling
