“I see.” I felt like I was running in place. “Did you like the necklace?”
She gazed at me for a long moment. “Why did you buy it?”
“Why . . .?” I blinked. “I guess I was thinking about you and—”
“No, Samuel, why did you buy it?”
“I thought you’d like it. I don’t understand. Is anything wrong with it?”
She shook her head.
“For God’s sake, I bring it for you and you act like I’ve done something wrong.”
“Maybe you have.”
I felt a surge of anger. “Are you going to explain that?”She hesitated, then said, “I don’t think I can bear to.”
“That’s great,” I snapped, stomping down the steps. “Just great.”
If she said anything behind me, I didn’t hear it.
Chapter 17
By the time the game got under way, several things were obvious. One was that we hadn’t overestimated the crowd—roughly two thousand were on hand—and therefore wouldn’t have to deal with unsold food. Another was that Syracuse’s Central Citys, youthful amateurs all, had no chance of winning against us. A third was that Harry, for the first time in my experience, was openly having trouble with some of the players.
Brainard showed up but sulked, complaining of a weary arm. Sweasy groused that we never got comp days for Sundays on the road. Allison griped that playing so often gave his hands no chance to heal. He had a point, but it was also true that since coming back and learning we’d nearly lost without him, he’d been acting quite the ace; his head was as swollen as his hands.
Exasperated, Harry pitched the whole game himself, stuck Brainard in right, and moved Mac to center. Later he brought Brainard in behind the plate and switched Allison to right. Keeping score, I noticed things that must have been eating at Harry’s guts: Waterman loafing to first on a pop-up; Sweasy failing to back up George on Andy’s high throw; Gould forgetting how many were out.
With lackadaisical play came mix-ups that first amused the crowd but eventually brought boos: George dropping a pop-up after ostentatiously calling Harry off in the pitcher’s box; George again, trying to score from first, failing to hear us yelling “Get back!” when Gould’s liner was ruled foul, and being put out; Allison’s halfhearted catching that encouraged the Central Citys to take liberties on the bases. Perhaps worst of all, in Harry’s view, was almost everybody trying to knock the ball over the fence. Sweasy pounded three homers, George and Gould two each. But a lot of flies settled harmlessly in outfielders’ hands. Harry observed it all with commendable stoicism, putting up with the sort of unscientific baseball he detested. We won easily—too easily—by a score of 37-9. Then we discovered he had been biding his time.
“Light practice at ten a.m.,” he announced curtly in the clubhouse. “The Central Citys want to play again tomorrow. I’ve decided to accept that challenge. The day after that we’ll play the Clevelands here. Starting this moment, anybody who complains or shirks will be fined immediately.”
I glanced involuntarily it Brainard, whose dark eyes glittered with resentment.
“We carried Jimmy to his folks’ house on Henry Street. His face was whiter than lime. I could feel him dying, the best feller I ever knew.” Brainard pulled at his whiskey. His eyes were red-rimmed. “We were both twenty-one back then. Jimmy was the first ace, could’ve done anything in his life, but it ended in awful agony.”
Brainard stared into his glass. Andy fidgeted; he’d heard it before. Across the table, Waterman arranged toothpicks in geometric patterns, his whiskey untouched. Andy and I nursed beers. The four of us were hunched over a table in a private room at Leininger’s, an oyster bar on Fourth.
“Jimmy Creighton,” mused Brainard. “Flung balls past the best strikers in the land. Nobody could touch us on the Excelsiors. We toured up and down New York—first time any club did—everybody making a fuss over us. Then we won matches in Philly and Baltimore. People couldn’t thank us enough for our exhibitions. They took us into their homes, let us know we were respected and wanted!” He refilled his glass and downed the liquid in one swallow. “It wasn’t all so goddamned organized then. We played for the sport of it and made out fine. Jimmy was the only one got a regular salary. He was the first true professional, you know. Some claim Al Reach of the Athletics, but I know better. The rest of the Excelsiors shared the gate receipts, all of us in it together. Not like now, when those paying ain’t the ones playing. They take all our profits and use ’em however they care to!” He looked at me sharply. “Now they’re proposing to sell stock. They treat us like factory hands already. You watch, next they’ll try to auction us like niggers.”
“How did Creighton die?” I asked.
“Busted his gut open, the doc said. Jimmy was thin, didn’t carry much meat. Struck a ball so hard that something snapped inside him. Ran the bases to make his run, then collapsed crossing home. All us Brooklyn ballists went in on a marble headstone with a bat and ball. It’s up on Tulip Hill, in Greenwood.”
Brainard wiped his eyes. “I miss old Jimmy,” he said thickly. “Miss them old times. Ask Harry, he knows how it was before he turned himself over to Champion and the sucking politicians.”
I looked at Waterman. His face wore its usual bland mask. Our eyes met. I thought I saw a hint of something in his glance. Amusement? Concern?
“We played like gents and were treated like gents.” Brainard’s voice rose aggressively. “Lots of times we’d banquet with the other club—spread the table right there on the grounds after. We didn’t play for riffraff, neither. One time, against the Atlantics, when toughs kept yelling insults, we walked off the field cool as could be, even though we were leading eight to six, with piles of money riding on the outcome. That was in ’sixty.” He
