When Addy led off the seventh, Harry pulled us in a bit, figuring the injury had sapped his strength. But the stocky hitter connected on a high pitch and drove it far over my head. Again they had knotted the score, 9-9.
I led off in our half. Spalding glowered, mindful of my triple last time. Brush-back fastball, I guessed. As he strode into his motion I adjusted my stance. The ball blurred toward me, rising slightly and spinning inside—but not as far as Spalding intended. I swiveled into it and whipped the bat. CRACK! The ball rocketed into the blue summer sky. It hung for a long moment above the left-field fence before dropping lazily into Kenner Street.
I wish I had videotape of it. I wish shutters and film had been fast enough to capture any of the lovely sequence that followed as I rounded the bases and was mobbed at the plate. The Commercial—bless Millar’s florid soul—would term it “a grand old hit,” one of the “longest ever made on the grounds,” and the Gazette would say that “Fowler, a new hand, filled Allison’s place admirably.” I stashed the clippings in my special drawer.
A grown man hitting a ball over a fence. Silly, probably, but for an instant of existential joy, a moment of pristine sensation, it was hard to beat. Andy was all over me. Mac and George and Gould bobbed around me like toys on a string. Harry nodded as if it had been no more than he’d expected. Brainard, Waterman, even Sweasy, pumped my hand. Heady stuff. No wonder old-timers don’t want to quit.
The crowd stayed frenetic as Harry followed with a ringing double. Andy grounded out, but Brainard drove a ball into the corner and circled the bases when it skipped past the right fielder. They shut us down then, but we’d scored three.
Stockings 12, Forest Citys 9.
If there were any justice it would have ended there, with me the day’s hero. But it didn’t. The Forest Citys jumped all over Brainard in the eighth. The first hitter smashed a liner that I botched trying to play on the hop; he took second and scored on Spalding’s grounder that George fielded cleanly but slipped setting himself to throw. The next batter doubled, sending Spalding home. Addy followed with a slow bouncer that George charged, picked up beautifully, and whipped to first. But Gould was astride the bag. Addy lowered his head, broken nose and all, and plowed into the big first baseman, knocking him flat. The ball whizzed past. Addy scrambled all the way to third while the other Forest City scored. Four runs in. We were behind now, and getting clobbered.
Harry changed places with Brainard again. He got his first man to pop to Sweasy. As the second stepped in, he motioned me toward right. Sure enough, a lazy fly came directly at me.
“Got it?” yelled Mac, running toward me.
“Yeah, mine!” I caught the ball and saw Addy tagging up at third. Bypassing the cutoff, I threw to the plate with all my strength. Addy, trotting in leisurely, was astonished as the ball whistled to Brainard on one bounce. Again he put his head down and crashed into a defender. Brainard made the tag and held the ball. But the umpire ruled that Addy—sprawling supine, out cold—had touched the plate first. Brainard stalked off furiously. Sweasy rushed in, foaming with rage, threatening to punch the official. Harry wrestled him away.
“Throw was a dinger, Sam!” yelled Andy from left.
The next hitter fouled out to end the inning. They’d scored five runs and led by two. Then, rubbing it in, they whitewashed us in the bottom of the eighth. Another zero went up on the new telegraph board.
Stockings 12, Forest Citys 14.
An ominous stillness settled over the stands. The next minutes held the fate of our 29-0 win streak, the longest ever. Not to mention Cincinnati’s position in the sporting world.
Sweasy cursed loudly as we started toward the field. Harry told him to be quiet and gathered us together.
“What’s required,” he said, looking each of us in the eye, “is that we try our best. Play hard and fairly. Every moment. This inning is no different from any other.”
If so, I reflected, why was he saying it now?
“God willing,” Harry concluded, “we will prevail.”
“Let’s dose ’em with our ginger!” Andy yelled, thrusting out his hand. We clasped ours over his and yelled as we burst away toward our positions. I bellowed with the rest, energized. The Forest Citys looked at us sardonically.
I’d seen each Stocking carry the club at one time or another with clutch fielding, hitting, running. But I’d never seen us enter a ninth inning trailing. Now that the chips were truly down, would one of us be able to rise to the occasion?
I soon found out.
Pitching brilliantly, Harry treated the Forest Citys to an amazing assortment of floaters. They cocked their bats, crouched, poised, lunged, swung ferociously—and went down in order.
“Now,” he said, when we reached the bench, a smile playing on his lips, “it’s our turn to test their mettle.”
I then had to face a central fact I’d tried to keep out of my mind until that moment: I would lead off the bottom of the ninth. I hefted my bat as the crowd’s clamor built into a chant.
“Home RUN! Do it AGAIN! HOME RUN!”
God, wouldn’t it be sweet? No, don’t think about it. Meet the ball. Get on base. Two to tie. Three to win. I stepped in and swung in level grooves, concentrating.
Spalding didn’t give me a thing I could handle. I looked at off-speed teasers on the corners, then misjudged a rising fastball and popped it straight back to Addy. So much for storybook. Three fucking pitches. I walked back to the bench, staring at the ground. The stands were eerily silent. I almost wished they’d booed.
“Lift your head, Sam,” said Harry on his way to the plate. “You’re a Red Stocking!”
God bless you, Harry Wright.
“START
