A response less than wonderful.
“Look, what I really have to offer,” I went on quickly, “are new marketing ideas.”
“Yes?”
I took a deep breath and shifted to supersalesman, laying out a half-dozen projects, monitoring Champion’s reactions. The more he frowned, the faster I talked. By the time he started shaking his head I was practically jabbering.
“Whoa, Fowler,” he interrupted. “Your schemes—”
“The club’s taking in money now,” I said. “But you told me yourself how serious the debt is. What happens if we lose a game or two? Will the same crowds come out? What if baseball stops being all the rage?”
Seeing that I’d hit a nerve, I played my final cards. “We’ve got to keep people coming out. I’m so sure my ideas will work, I’ll put up the money myself.”
Both of his eyebrows rose. “Yes?”
“Yes, I’ll repay myself from the proceeds.”
“What about salary?”
“I’ll work on commission. For, say, thirty percent of whatever revenues I’m able to generate.”
Champion smiled knowingly. “If all goes as you foresee, that would be most lucrative for you.”
“And for the club. But all right, then, I’m willing to work for what Andy makes—twenty-five a week—or thirty percent of what I bring in, whichever is less.”
“Less?”
“Yes, less. That way, the most I’d cost you would be a hundred bucks a month. And then only if I’ve brought in a lot more.”
It was a hell of a deal, and he knew it. In effect they’d get my services free.
“And you would still substitute?” Harry said. “Practice regularly?”
Which meant, I knew from Andy, hard workouts from two to six every day except Sunday. We had today off only because we’d played yesterday and faced the visiting Washington Olympics tomorrow.
“Yes,” I said. “I want to be a Red Stocking.” Which was bedrock truth. I didn’t need the salary. I didn’t relish a nineteenth-century career in journalism. Working with the club would provide variety and challenge—and enough structure to keep me from going crazy. I would stay close to Andy and the rest. Actually, if push came to shove, I’d probably pay them to keep me.
“You’ll require a contract?” said Champion.
“I’ll work a month on probation. Then if you want to keep me, I’ll sign for the rest of the season.”
I think that removed the last obstacle. They exchanged a significant glance. “You’ll have our answer tomorrow,” said Champion.
“Fine,” I said, thinking, ALL RIGHT!
I explored downtown for a few hours. The Gibson House stood on streetcar lines stretching to every part of the city; the post office was close, as were government offices, theaters, and music halls. Directly opposite were the Mercantile Library and Merchants’ Exchange. On nearby Fourth were department stores, on Fifth the business centers, on Third the city’s Wall Street, on Pearl its wholesale quarter. Open-air markets stood nearby, with their profusions of flowers and fruits. I began to feel quite well situated. In the wake of the storm even the air felt fresher. Spirits lifting, I startled an organ-grinder when I tossed his monkey fifty cents.
“Danke, kind man!” he exclaimed.
“My pleasure.”
I took a hack to the Iron Slag Grounds, the Buckeyes’ West End field near the Union Grounds. The diamond was laid out inside a racetrack—a sodden mass of mud and puddles from the storm. Nonetheless, teams were on hand—the local Buckeye Juniors and Louisville’s visiting Eagle Juniors—and not about to miss their turns on the field.
Andy tossed the coin between the captains, his face looking drawn. Guessing that he hadn’t slept, I offered to take his place. He said no, Harry expected them all to do stints in the community; he would serve his turn today. Then I offered to help by umping the bases. Andy and the two captains stared at me like I was crazy. So I watched from the sidelines and kept Andy company between innings.
The juniors played good 1869-caliber ball—about to this era what well-drilled legion teams had been to mine. They were high-school age, but it was unlikely many of them attended. They wore uniforms identical to those of their parent clubs, who followed their accomplishments and looked to them for future talent, not unlike farm clubs. The Stockings had their own juniors, who had modeled themselves after the famous first nine even to the point of being undefeated so far.
The visiting Eagles pushed across two runs to win in the tenth, 21-19. The teams cheered each other, then cheered Andy. Two more squads, the Athletes and the Invincibles, scrambled on the field. I’d heard that diamonds everywhere in the city were in use nonstop through the summer; now I saw for myself: baseball was king. Andy stayed to offer coaching tips (“give points”) and sign autographs for another half hour. When we finally left, he said, “I’m feelin’ better now, but last night was awful.”
“I could tell your mom thought the world of you,” I said.
He shook his head, whether in sadness or disagreement I couldn’t tell. “We talked way into the night. Argued, to put it more plain.”
“You and Cait?”
He nodded. “She wants to send Mother back to be buried. Wants Brighid to go along to see it’s done right.”’
“But you disagreed?”
“That I did.” He sounded sad. “Sam, please tell me what Mother said to you before we left that day.”
I hesitated. “You won’t like it”
“I suspect not, but tell.”
“She said she knew her time was coming. There would be problems if she didn’t go home, as she put it. She thought I might help her.”
“You?” There was pain in the word. “How so?”
“I wasn’t sure then, but the fact is, I can help.”
He was silent.
“Look, Andy, is the real problem her being buried over there—or the money it would take?”
“They’re wrapped up.”
“Think about them separately.”
“What for?”
“Because I asked, damn it!”
He looked at me strangely. “If we had money to throw away,” he said at length, “the rest of it might be more tolerable.”
“So it comes down to the cost?”
“Yes,” he said softly.
“What does Cait propose? Can she
