It turned out to be respectable. My newly stationed observers counted 4,563. We found that receipts were over a hundred dollars short. Either four hundred people—almost ten percent—had gotten in free, or gate money had been pocketed. The juniors suspected the former, reporting that a ticket taker at the main gate had let friends slip past, and that a number of boys had sneaked through the east-side carriage gate during the heaviest influx of vehicles. Champion, pleased, said he would fix the gate problem at once. I pointed out that that alone would more than cover my salary the rest of the season.
“Yes,” he said shortly. “That’s why we’re paying you.”
The day’s big news involved our concessions. At a booth beside the clubhouse, the smells of hamburgers and hot dogs wafted over the grounds for the first time. A world premier, so far as I knew. Johnny and I had brought in a small wagonload of supplies early that morning. While Helga unpacked our custom-baked round and long buns, we set up a grill and went to work.
“Vy you call dem Hamburgers and Frankfurters?” Johnny translated for her, affecting a thick accent. “I yam from Wiesbaden!”
The sausages’ skins were a bit too tough, but they tasted right. We’d had the beef ground that morning. Ketchup didn’t exist, but we had some of the finest German mustard I’d ever tasted, lots of pickle relish, and chopped sweet onions. The lack of tin foil or other insulation stumped me at first, when I’d envisioned selling our sandwiches in the stands, but then I’d hit on the booth idea.
To test our products, Johnny and I delivered samples to the clubhouse when the Stockings arrived.
“What’s the nigger doing here?” Sweasy demanded. Blacks showed up at the Union Grounds only when one of the local colored teams played. Slavery had not rooted this far up the Ohio, but Jim Crow had laid down its iron divisions. Blacks rode on the outer platforms of omnibuses, lived in colored neighborhoods, attended colored schools, were nursed at the colored hospital, were even buried in colored cemeteries. A comprehensive system of segregation, cradle to grave.
“He’s Dutch,” I said, extending a hot dog. “Here, try this.”
He took a bite. “That’s damn good. The nigger’s gotta go.”
I moved closer. “He’s my partner,” I said. “Don’t say any more, okay?”
Sweasy stared up at me. Behind his eyes a calculation went on. We both knew that I could beat the shit out of him if it came to that.
The Stockings went for our food like sharks. Three burgers disappeared into Mac before the others had finished one. Harry commanded Gould to stop after half a dozen hot dogs, fearing his limited fielding range would shrink to nothing.
“What’ll you do next?” Waterman demanded, wiping mustard from his mustache. “Make our bats?”
“Never can tell. Here, have the last burger.”
From my post at the scorer’s table I watched lines form outside the booth and heard people exclaiming. Johnny and Helga worked frantically. By the fifth inning all six hundred sandwiches were gone. Their ingredients averaged four cents, and we sold them for twenty. After paying Johnny and Helga five bucks each—top-scale wages; I felt extravagant on this landmark day—we netted eighty-five dollars for the club, an amount equal to nearly a tenth of gross paid admissions split between the two teams that day. My trial balloon had soared.
The Olympics left after seven innings to catch the six-thirty boat to Portsmouth. Home runs by Andy and George, plus sharp fielding that limited the O’s to eleven hits, gave us the win, 19-7. Davy Force tripled twice, once after faking a bunt down the third-base line, which angered Waterman and drew a protest from Harry.
“He heard about you doing that,” Waterman said accusingly to me between innings. “Every baby hitter’ll be trying it before long.”
“So stop crying and work on your defense,” I retorted, thinking that the Stockings, like everybody else, preferred their own “head-work” to an opponent’s.
As we were about to leave the clubhouse, Andy approached with a perplexed expression. “They’re here.”
“Who’s here?”
“Cait, with Timmy.”
A tingle of excitement moved up my spine. “I thought she didn’t like baseball.”
“They’ve never come before. But she and Timmy were in the Grand Duchess. O’Donovan, too.”
“Oh.” The excitement quieted.
“You said you wanted to see her.”
I nodded, unsure now.
“So, you coming with me?”
I paid Harry fpr a new ball and followed Andy through the main gate, where he was promptly surrounded by autograph seekers.
“Sam?” He stood to one side, small and shy, a curly-haired figure in short pants.
“Hi, Timmy.” I held out the ball.
His eyes widened. “For me?”
“Sure is, just like the one Andy knocked for a homer. Wasn’t that something to see?”
He examined the ball as if it were the rarest treasure.
“Bring it back next game,” I said. “I’ll have everybody sign it.”
He nodded gravely, took a pencil from his pocket and held the ball up. “Would you, Sam, now?”
I loved him for that. When I finished, he touched his fingertips to the signature and then dashed off, yelling, “Andy!”
They were in a small open carriage beneath overhanging elms. As I drew close my vision suddenly and frighteningly was flooded with the milky half-light. I sensed the presence of a bird—the great bird in the graveyard—and the trees around me swayed and shimmered as though underwater. But all that was peripheral. What my eyes fixed on was her dress: it was pale and flowery, yellow with tiny pink buds and leaf clusters, the dress of the picture and quilt.
“Are you well, Mr. Fowler?” The words came from somewhere beneath her broad-brimmed hat. I tried to focus. I saw her eyes. Cloudy jade.
“Mr. Fowler?”
“The heat . . .” I blurted. “Hello, Mrs. O’Neill.”
“It must be wearing to wield a pencil as your striking stick.” O’Donovan clipped his words with military precision; his tone dripped sarcasm.
I looked at him, still seeing through a thin milky haze. His tunic, sash, and
