Sophomore Campaign (26 page)

“Said he were gonna learn me that I would always be black,”
Lester explained. “And that nothing were ever gonna change that.”

He stopped and nodded deliberately. “I reckon that boy was right.”

He paused again as he recalled the painful reminiscence.

“That's why I loves baseball so much. Only time in my life where I can hit back.”

They broke a while from the heavy banter, trying to allay the pall of misfortune with some whimsical chatter, until a ruckus from outside burst upon them like a storm cloud. There was a conflagration of voices, hot and pugilistic, like the earth was turning itself inside out, and the smell of smoke was strong in their noses. For a brief moment, they looked at each other, frozen by the unexpected intrusion. Then through the clouded casements, Pee Wee saw, standing menacingly, six figures, vaunted apparitions cloaked in white, each brandishing eager sticks of fire.

“Jesus Christ. Not again.”

Lester and Mickey both joined Pee Wee, who was now pale and tremulous, and all three stood uneasily watching the ugliness unfold.

“We'll burn it to the ground,” one of the intruders shouted through his hood. “Let us have him.”

Pee Wee stepped back hesitatingly from the window, unable to perceive the dire nature of things. His panic soared beyond the meager limits of his resolve.

“What now, Lester? Wha—What are we gonna do now? They'll kill us all.”

Lester stood stone-faced, burning with anger and rage and shame. Though caught in the tumult of his own despair, he managed to engineer his emotions in such a way so that only clear, exacting words came from his tremulous lips.

“I suppose we'll just have to give 'em what they came for.”

Nightfall had begun dropping its veil, and it was getting too dark to see.

Pee Wee and Mickey watched as Lester steeled himself before reaching for the doorknob. Pee Wee had brewing inside of him the idea that he should jump out in front of his teammates, and lead them all outside. It would be the noble thing to do. Besides, after they finished with Lester, there was no doubt they would have to silence all those who witnessed the atrocity. Why not go out fighting? A tremor of this bravado rose up inside the diminutive shortstop and he almost embraced it wholly. But then he checked himself methodically, like a sea captain examining his vessel before embarking on a journey through tempestuous waters, and all at once he was paralyzed again, only able to watch as his friend flung open the door to a night filled with terror.

It could not have been uglier. The minute Lester stepped outside, he was seized by the tentacles of the unholy mob. The fulmination was swift and lawless; all six assailants got a hand on Lester and together, the collective beast dragged the struggling catcher away from the house and toward the tree they had already selected. Lester's cries were high and frantic, like those of an animal being lead to slaughter, and his eyes were wet and rolled from side to side, as if he were looking for something. Pee Wee and Mickey watched motionlessly from the doorway, frozen in a nightmarish state in which there seemed to be nothing more than suspended animation, and the dreamlike suffocation that usually accompanies the terror germane to such subconscious paralysis. It was almost entirely dark now. The orange sky had all but dissolved, leaving all of the players in this sordid scene ensconced in a lurid, ever-darkening shroud. Pee Wee and Mickey continued to stand stiffly in that darkness, but everything else was in motion. A group of upstart crows, protesting over the burgeoning ruckus, dispersed wildly and crossed in front of
the emerging moon, which had slid down just above the tree tops, and in doing so, now illuminated the silhouettes of busy legs and grasping hands. Things moved quickly. All around Lester was methodical, predatory movements, wild and heinous, which now mimicked the steady motion of jaws. When the rope was placed around Lester's neck, he said nothing. Didn't make a sound. Pee Wee and Mickey still looked on, now under the watchful eye of one of the reprobates who was wielding a metal pipe. Mickey's eyes flickered with a gray light, and the beads of sweat that had assembled almost instantly on his forehead and upper lip shone curiously in the wake of the blazing torches.

He felt a vague, familiar burning in his stomach, and the mannerisms that they had all come to dismiss as just idiosyncratic “mickeyisms” warped into something grotesque and alien. His face hardened and his posture became severe and robotic. His limbs were completely stiff; the only movements observable were the fain't rocking of his upper torso and his trembling lips, from which came forth the audible recitation of the familiar poem, “‘Slowly, silently now the moon, Walks the night in her silver shoon…'”

The alteration of his deportment was alarming. But the change in him went deeper than that. Somewhere deep inside the most cavernous recesses of the boys memory, something broke loose, coursed through his body now wild and unfettered, and seized him. He appeared to be all at once a hollow shell.

When the group noticed the strange antics, there came forth a blast of corrupt laughter, followed by whooping and hollering as the loose end of the rope still tied to Lester soared skyward, then disappeared beyond a stodgy limb before returning back to the hands from whence it came. The thrower wrapped the end of the rope around his hand, tight coils that suggested he was just about ready
to begin pulling, then looked up at the others with a demoniac grin. Then the diabolical incantation began.

“String him up! String him up! String him up!”
they chanted, lost in a ridiculous swell of baseless malevolence. Their focus was sharp and all at once insatiable. They followed the impulse, blind apostles wedded to the mastering lust, in sinful concert. The savagery was deliciously wicked, and had all but begged for immediate satisfaction when a fragment of their attention caught some movement in the distance; it was soft at first, then grew louder and louder—closer and closer still. Reluctantly, they suspended their assault.

At first it sounded like an animal rustling in the brush, a wayward forest dweller, foraging for morsels to complete the evening's repast. Night had now come completely, with the moon throwing a peculiar spotlight on the unfolding drama. They all stood, hands tight and sweaty, as they looked from side to side in incredulous self pity while Murph and the entire Brewer team spilled out of the woods from the east, and a half dozen men in gray suits distended at the hip on one side by swollen holsters came from the west. The group in white hoods stood inanimate, their arms dangling dejectedly at their sides, as the cavalry swarmed all around Lester.

“What's happening, fellas?” Murph asked, hands on hips and his head titled ever so slightly. “A costume party—and nobody invited us?”

Then, in the orange light of the torches, Murph pushed passed the two executioners and went to Lester and removed the rope from around his neck.

“Man, Murph, you sure know how to make an entrance,” he said sighing deeply. “What the hell kept ya?” Murph smiled and winked playfully.

“Now is that any way to show appreciation? I'm not that off. Besides, you know what they say now. Better late than never.”

They both laughed, but the levity engendered by the exchange was fleeting. The reason for the assembly returned to Murph's consciousness with an unavailing wrath and impatience. He swallowed his temper, and with the scene dissolving slowly, motioned for one of the men in suits to join him. For a moment it appeared as though Murph may just abdicate all punishment and justice to the Feds. He stood unresponsive, as though incapable of action, until a surge of riotous rage rose up and rattled his lifeless limbs. “You piece of crap! How could you?” he said through clenched teeth, ripping the hood off the head of the man closest to Lester. “After all I've done for you?”

There was once again a peculiar silence, save for nightly song of the tree frogs, as everyone struggled with the disquieting sight before them. Especially Lester.

“Aw, no. That can't be. Sanders?” Lester said softly while shaking his head. “Sanders? Naw, that can't be. Can't be. He's one of us. I just helped him get on top of his curveball. Sanders? A racist? How about that. Old Lester was fooled again. And right under my nose the whole time. Now don't that just beat all.”

As the Feds counted and cuffed each of the klansmen, Mickey and Pee Wee, ensconced in their idleness, finally came forward and rallied around Murph and Lester, their fears and private longings now simply thoughts of the past.

“You knew about this, Lester?” Pee Wee asked breathlessly. “I mean, that this was gonna happen? And you never let on?”

“Wasn't part of the plan, little man,” Lester replied. “Besides, ain't like you knowing 'bout it would've changed nothing.”

“Wouldn't have changed nothing? That's your answer? You almost got us all killed.”

“Back off, Pee Wee,” Murph said, placing his hand on the shortstop's shoulder. “
I
told Lester not to say anything. It was my idea. The whole thing. Nobody knew anything. It was for your own good.”

Pee Wee shook his head, and noticed that Mickey was staring at him with unusual intentness. His jaw was tight and his eyes glowed, lit by the scattered thoughts burning behind them.

“
Mickey
knew,” the boy said, the weighty secret leaping from his unburdened soul. Murph frowned. “About Sanders,” the boy continued. “Mickey saw him, that night. The night Lester was almost beat up.”

All around them the man-made glow from the torches mixed with the moonlight, bathing all of their faces in peculiar hues. Disturbed considerably by Mickey's announcement, both Pee Wee and Lester stood dumbfounded, brooding over the nature of what had been brought to light. The whole scene struck them oddly.

“This is unbelievable,” Lester said thickly. “Mickey, you knew about Sanders, all this time, and didn't say nothing? Not anything? To no one?

“Well, Mickey didn't—”

All at once the boy who had endeared himself so easily to Lester was now somehow part of the ugliness of the world. Lester's head throbbed and his tongue burned.

“This is bullshit, Mickey!” he exploded. “Bullshit! I don't care how special you—”

“But I couldn't say nothing,” he continued. “I was not allowed to. Murph said that we needed all of our arms. That we had to win games, Lester. I did not want to lose. And I were scared too. I just—”

“Shut up, Mickey!” the catcher bawled. “Just shut up! I do not want to hear any more—”

“Hey,
you
shut your mouth now, Lester,” Murph said, stepping in between the two so that his figure could sufficiently conceal Lester from Mickey's vision. “What the hell's wrong with you?”

“Get away from me, Murph!” Lester screamed. “Enough. What
kind of bull is this? Do you know what my life has been like these past few months? And he knew? Left me in harm's way?”

Murph grabbed Lester by the shoulders and shook him steadily.

“This whole thing has not been easy for any of us—including
Mickey.
Do you know what is was like for this boy to carry that secret around with him? Do ya? He was damn near frightened out of his own skin. Could barely function. You've seen him. Has he been himself? Hell no! But even with all that, and all the other horse crap he's had to deal with, this boy who you are attacking still came to me. Told me everything. Everything. You hear? That's gutsy. And I'll tell you something else. Without him, this thing would still be going on right now.”

Murph kicked at the dirt in front of him, and in the flickering light, he took notice of Lester's drooping profile, as the man struggled to release the words that needed to be said, while Mickey, with his thoughts raw and untamed, collided hard with the limitations of his sensibility.

Chip McNally was miserable. He saw the tide turning against him, an undertow of inexorable energy that seemed to be pulling him further and further from his intended goal. With the arrest of Hooper and some of the others, and the subsequent success of a re-focused Brewers team, the Rangers' manager was reeling. Rosco, who was in the middle of a conversation with someone else, never saw him coming.

“This is how you have me covered?” he barked at the blemished law man. “You let this happen? Are you kidding me, John? Now what am I gonna do? That negro is gonna do his darnest now to stick it to me.”

Rosco was unphased by McNally's harangue.

“Chip McNally, I'd like you to meet my friend, Victor Bryant. Vic here is in town for a little while. He's looking for some work.”

“What? Are you listening to me, Rosco?”

“I am, Chip. But I'd like you to meet someone.”

McNally surveyed Rosco's friend with a quick eye. He seemed like an okay guy—middle-aged, graying temples and big, dark eyes. Yup, a real regular Joe, except for his little finger, which sported a
fancy, black onyx ring with a diamond in the shape of a baseball right in the center.

“Good to meet you, Vic,” he said robotically.

“Nice to meet you too,” the stranger replied.

With the introductions now complete, Rosco set his mind to disarming his visitor.

“Hey, Vic, would you excuse us a minute?” Rosco asked, pointing in the direction of his car. “If you wait for me over there, I shouldn't be more than a minute or two.”

Once alone, Rosco and McNally began their heart-to-heart.

“I had no choice, Chip. I already told you that. It was either Sanders and the others, or me and you. Is that what you wanted? You wanted me to blow us up instead?”

“No, of course not, but now—”

“It's fine. Everything is fine.”

“It's not fine. My ass is out there John. Quinton is calling for my job if I don't beat these guys and capture the pennant. I have no room for error here. And how do you know the others won't take us down with them?”