1917: The Perfect Game

1917: The Perfect Game

JC MacQueen

Allied Books Press

© 2013, JC MacQueen, Allied Books Press.

All Rights Reserved

Cover design by the7facts

eBook Edition, License Notes

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient.

Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.

Dedicated with love for my Nancy

And the great Longchenpa

Prologue

PROLOGUE

Lightning can come out of a clear blue sky.

The best decisions are made that way.

It is tranquil in the Cincinnati Reds baseball stadium. Deep in its concrete bowels in the manager’s office that is tucked off the end of the shower and locker room, Cincinnati Reds Manager Christy Mathewson is sitting calmly smoking a cigar with his feet propped up on his battered wooden desk. His two assistants, Pitching Coach Tim Stagmeir and Assistant Manager Dave Barnes sit in old wooden chairs on the opposite side of the desk casually reviewing the batting charts for the next game at Chicago.

Christy reads the newspaper with the latest news about the slaughter in Europe and how President Wilson and Congress have decided to join the fiasco. He blows a cloud of cigar smoke up to the heavens, Hey fellas, Christy says to his assistants, Wilson wants to pass an Espionage Act to keep Americans ignorant of the war and imprison any American who speaks out against the war. What’s a matter, old Wilson figure out the people know war is nothin’ but fraud?"

The manager’s door bursts open. A well-dressed older man stands framed in the doorway. His white hair is sticking out from the edges of his black bowler hat. He pops his gold handled cane onto the concrete floor. Arrogantly he steps into the room and twirls the cane around to push the door shut behind him.

Christy Mathewson, familiar to such sudden explosions of ball players bursting into the office to demand more money or ball players demanding to know why money has been subtracted from their last pay or the towel manager demanding to know when hot water will return to the showers so he won’t have a naked riot on his hands, Christy barely raises his eyebrows above the newspaper to look at the latest intruder.

I’m here to see you, Mathewson, about that bastard, the intruder bellows, that nigga lovin’ anti-Christ. And you, Christy Mathewson, as manager of these Cincinnati Reds, you, he shouts pointing the gold handled, and now Christy can see with the cane pointing at him, it’s a gold tipped cane as well, I expect you to get a move on and do something about that god-damned anarchist!

Christy, his feet still up on his desk, sets his newspaper to the floor, nudges a small pile of paperwork stacked neatly in one corner of his desk, clasps his hands over his rotund stomach, and leans back in his chair. And without taking his eyes off of Dave, and Tim, sitting across from him, both of whom have snapped erect in their seats, Christy blows a smoke cloud up to the ceiling.

Dave and Tim are frozen with their bodies tense and their eyes wide staring at the intruder and his flashing cane.

Christ, ya two look like a coupla kids in ta see the school principal,’ Christy says, shifting his gaze to the frothing, cane waving intruder. And it looks like he’s arrived," he grins.

Playing dumb Christy raises his chin to the intruder. And who might you be? And what the hell are ya thinkin’ I should do? And who the hell are ya talkin’ about? May I be so bold as to inquire?

Don’t try ta bamboozle me, Mathewson! The man stamps his cane on the floor. You may be the god damn manager of these god damn Cincinnati Reds, but I’m the money, and you god damn well know it! I call up the owner and heads roll. That’s who I am, he shouts, his face turning red as a shiny apple.

And whose head are you interested in? And do ya have a name, mister biggest investor?

Christy crosses one shoe over the other and wags them at the man. A few clods of dirt from the baseball field drop off the spikes of his shoes onto the battered desk.

Blast it, you idiot! The man bellows so hard that his bowler pops to one side of his head. It’s that damn Fred Toney, I’m talking about. And don’t try your shenanigans on me, Mathewson. You know damn well I’m William James Jordan, he puffs out his chest and lifts his gaze to the nether realms where he can see himself sitting among the self-righteous mighty of society. He pauses, ready for the three men to fall on their knees and grovel at his feet. They don’t even twitch with recognition.

Undaunted, William James Jordan drops his chin to the world of real things, bangs his cane on the floor then waves it wildly in the air keeping both Dave and Tim worried for their lives, And I tell you now, Mathewson, as a major investor in this ball club, I want to know what you’re going to do about Toney.

Well, Mr. William James Jordan is it? Christy leisurely turns his gaze to the pile of paper on the side of his desk. Mr. Jordan, according to our schedule layin’ right there on my desk, Fred Toney is our starting pitcher against the Cubs in Chicago and that’s in five days.

Gaaaaaahhhh, growls Jordan as he stamps his feet and pounds the cane, Not if I have anything to say about it. And I tell you, Mathewson, I carry some strong weight with the owner.

Christy admits he likes Jordan’s choice of clothing; his gray spats over shiny black shoes and the thick gold watch chain dangling from his waistcoat. He admires the fine quality of the tailored suit, pearl gray gloves, and that elegant gold handled cane. It’s a suit that Christy wishes he could afford, but he always feels more comfortable wearing the rough cotton baseball uniform he has on now.

Weight with the owner? I’m sure ya do Mr. Jordan, Christy says nonchalantly, I don’t remember seein’ ya up there in the owner’s office, but I’m not doubtin’ ya. I’m sure you do.

The cane bangs again, I tell you I’ll have that Fred Toney wrapped in chains, dumped down in some jail in Guantanamo Bay, and left to rot, William James Jordan says as he paces around the office. I’ll have him sent back down South. I’ll have him lynched good and proper! What we do with such nigga’ loving white trash as him.

The hatred on his purple face shines clear across the room, This is 1917 and this great country has just gone to war. No time, no time, I tell you, for some wide-eyed anarchist to be using his free speech to confuse this nation’s boys with facts. Time to fall in line and march lock step, no questions, dumb to other voices, support the troops, and go and die like they’re supposed to, he shouts, And I expect you, Christy Mathewson, as manager of the Cincinnati Reds, to do your duty and drop, I say drop, Toney’s hooligan ass from the lineup immediately. Again he pounds his cane on the floor for emphasis.

Christy lifts up slightly to look over the edge of his desk. It sounds like the cane cracked that time. No such luck. Dave and Tim speechless and owl eyed are ready to duck for cover if Jordan starts swinging the gold-tipped weapon their way again.

Well now, Mr. Jordan, Christy says calmly, Fred Toney is an American. So that means he can say what he wants. And Mr. Toney is our starting pitcher against the Cubs in Chicago in five days. And that’s the way it’s gonna stay.

Go to blazes, Mathewson, Jordan bellows again. He turns on his heels, storming out of the office and slamming the door as he shouts, We’ll see about that, we’ll just see about that!

Christy wiggles his feet perched up on his desk, his hands folded over his large belly. He turns to his white-faced, sweating assistant coaches, Thanks for backing me up there fellas. The pair of ya was as good as two toothpicks in a windmill.

THE PLAN

___________________________

It’s a cold day in Chicago on May 2, 1917. Out on the field for their warm-ups before the game, both teams - the Cincinnati Reds and Chicago Cubs - are spread over the baseball field throwing balls back and forth. Like the clomping of a five-legged horse, the asymmetrical smacking of baseballs into leather mitts reverberates around the coaches, the walls, and empty seats of Chicago’s Weeghman Park Stadium.

I tell you guys, it came to me like in a dream. Hot. With pretty girls, and wrapped up with pink ribbons, Christy Mathewson tells his two assistants shivering on each side of him as the cold Chicago weather buffets the huddled group. The managing trinity stands in the visitor’s dugout behind the third base line unsuccessfully hiding from the wind that hunts through every nook and cranny of the empty ball park.

Dream? Assistant Manager Barnes asks as he presses against Christy’s right side to absorb some warmth. You still dream ’bout women at yer age? Though only three years separate the men in age, Christy with his gray hair, tall height and hefty weight looks the elder statesman of the group.

I’ll give ya - at your age -, Christy puffs. His big barrel chest and stout-legged body is a steaming radiator against the cold. I tell ya somethin’ ya young hotshots! A guy like me married for 25 years is dreamin’ more than he’s gettin’.

Dreamin’bout baseball? laughs Pitching Coach Tim Stagmeir shivering and pressed up tight against Christy’s left side.

No, ya devils. Gals and baseball, Christy says as his cheeks heat up red and his eyes get wild. Why, when I think of all the gals I had at your age…oooeee.

Ok, Ok, Christy, Tim says, not wanting to go through another saga of Christy mounting some gal in a horse and buggy carriage after a church social, You’re dreamin’ of women, an somehow ya get ideas ’bout Hippo pitchin’ for the Cubs ta day. Huh?

Boys, Christy swells his chest and pontificates, Hippo’s baffled us and bulldogged us long enough.

The two coaches press in tighter on each side of him, feeling the radiance grow and the chill recede.

But I’ve got a plan to break his curse, his voodoo over our guys.

What’s that, Christy? Tim stammers through his blue lips and chattering teeth, Hippo’s shut us down two times already.

Well boys, this time we’re gonna use science against that scientist, Christy pauses to let that ray of light soak some warmth, some hope, into his comrades, Ya see Hippo’s a leftie pitcher. Right? So this time to confound him, to stymie him, to throw him off his game, to knuckle him down and dirty, I’m puttin’ up nothin’ but … right-handed batters against him.

Genius, says Dave stomping his feet and hugging tight to Christy’s side, Perfect.

That’s right Dave, perfect. Christy smiles and raises his chin in pride. The chill seems to have lost its grip on him. The two coaches press in tighter, warming their bodies in the fire of his certainty.

But Christy, you gotta think of Art Wilson, says Tim, pushing hard against Christy’s side, his cheek nearly resting on Christy’s heart. Every time Hippo’s pitchin’, they use Art Wilson as the catcher. Art’s callin’ the pitches, an’ when he sees nothin’ but right handers…

Ya’ doubtin’ me, Timbo? What’s he gonna do? says Christy as he squares his shoulders and in pride suddenly stands erect. The two bounce off Christy like fleas shook off a dog but they dive back and snuggle tight against him.

Christy, with his chin raised in determination says, What’s he gonna do, Tim, change the laws of…of…geology?

FRED TONEY

____________________________

Just a couple of days before this game between the Cubs and the Reds, on the top floor of the Reds’ management building in Cincinnati, Betty, a smiley secretary with a snug fitting dress and clicking high-heels, leads Fred Toney and Christy Mathewson along the marble hallways to team owner Clancy Banken’s large, wood-paneled office. As Betty swings open the massive walnut door to the office, it’s as if she’s opened the door to the clouds. Toney and Christy pause in the doorway straining to see through billows of cigar smoke. They can barely make out the lawyers and the team owner all decked out in their expensive suits and tight collars loudly talking over each other and puffing out more tobacco cumulus nimbus into the room.

Banken’s hairless head suddenly breaks through the cloudbank over his desk as he leans forward, Hampf, he belches. He swats aside some white Havana fog, walks around his desk, and shakes Toney and Christy’s hand. Freddy boy! Good to see you. And how the hell are ya’, Christy? You guys take a seat an’ let’s get down to business.

Banken rolls his stogie through the fat fingers of his hand, then jams the cigar back into his mouth. With an enormous diamond pinky ring sparkling on his little finger, he slides his hand down his vest to the watch chain dangling over his belly. He pulls on it, and clicks open the gold pocket-watch.

Right on time. Well, that’s somethin’ I guess. He smiles and quickly clears his face of all expression. He walks back behind his desk and plops into his red-leather chair. The lawyers, taking their cue from the loud click of Banken snapping his watch shut, silently settle into the over-stuffed leather seats lined up beside Banken’s desk. Fred and Christy sit in plain straight back chairs facing the owner.

Now Fred, Banken says, we’ve been hearing that you’re shacked up with some gal. What’s going on? We thought you were married. What gives, Freddy boy?

The lawyers start mumbling.

Christy squirms in his rumbled suit and tie. He even sent the suit out to get cleaned and pressed, but it still looks like it had been dumped in the back of the closet floor for a month.

But Toney by comparison is looking as sharp and fresh as the lawyers. His suit is tailor made of fine imported fabric. He sits with one long leg crossed neatly over the other, with one hand holding his hat that rests on his knee. Toney is not intimidated by the lawyers, the owner or the ornate owner’s office. He speaks his mind in an easy relaxed fashion without hesitation as if he’s talking with teammates on a late night train ride.

You get married, and it’s the end of sex, and besides marriage is unnatural. It’s against human nature, Toney says. The room goes silent. All lawyer heads jerk from the young pitcher to the owner. Banken nods and moves slightly in his chair. The lawyers sit up straight, eyes shining hard through the smoky haze, as if Toney’s comment is a fog horn suddenly blowing them to attention. They begin to cackle like a flock of sea gulls gasping and blurting out over each other:

Chief, such a statement leaked out to the public…whipped up to frenzy by sports writers…we’d have a riot on our hands…It’d cause a furor…such a blasphemy would injure the profits…ruin the club!

Banken lifts his hands up and pats the air calming down the lawyers. The room goes silent again, and he turns to Toney, Now, look here, Fred. Marriages come and go. I know that. But we gotta protect our interests. Keep the shareholders happy. Give the public and the shareholders a good successful ball team. No scandals. Understand?

Toney leans back in the stiff chair, Now, Chief, calm down, ’cause all that’s small potatoes. Like ya say, everyone gets divorced, finds a new girl, and the club don’t fall apart. You want a real successful team with strong players. I hear ya, and we’re doin’ our damndest to give it to you. But there’s more to it than stayin’ married when marriage isn’t natural. Hell, what about this. If we’re lookin’ to have a top notch team, I know a lot of good Negro ball players out there in their own leagues, an’ they should be part of our league, just like anybody white. That is, if your goal really is ta’ have a good successful team. He taps his hat against his knee.

All the air of the room is sucked out with the lawyers gasping, coughing and choking frantic to breathe. Banken’s eyes bulge. His face goes as pale as the few wisps of cigar smoke that haven’t been inhaled in shock. The gaggle of lawyers sputter, their necks get red. Christy fidgets, Toney looks Banken eye-to-eye, the lawyers scream;

That’s preposterous….No niggers are gonna share the same bench….bench, hell, the same shower as our boys…you anarchist, how dare you threaten the sanctity of our lady folk at the ball parks across this nation…a wall has to be retained to maintain the purity…Chief, the reporters will fry us…this loose cannon, what with the war going on has to be throttled…

But Toney isn’t through. He breaks through the baying hounds of lawyers. Okay, you wanna talk war? I tell ya what. All war is failure. And this big war goin’ on in Europe is a pathetic mass murder with no reason to ever start it or continue it. It’s a god damn mess is what it is an our American men shouldn’t have any part of it.

A cacophony of shouts, demands, and hysterics reverberates out into the office lobby where secretary Betty shudders, puts her hand up her heart and stares wide-eyed at the big walnut door expecting it to burst open and somebody come flying out.

The lawyers and Banken whirl around red-faced yelling at each other, pointing their cigars and fingers at Toney. In the eye of the storm, Toney sits calmly.

Through it all, with each of Toney’s unabashed statements chastising marriage, blasting America’s racism, and now deriding the war, Christy has sunk lower and lower in his chair. If he slides any further he would be out of the chair and plopped down on his knees on the thick Persian carpet. Through the smoke and the hysteria, he looks at Toney. He sees how serene he is. He really sees Toney, as if for the first time.

Like a damn beacon in a storm he was boys, Christy tells Barnes and Tim later as they huddle together at a table in Frankie Tauber’s tavern across the street from the Reds stadium. Tim and Dave stare at Christy as he recounts the meeting. I saw Fred like I haven’t seen any man before, excepting you fellas of course, an’ I just couldn’t let them lawyers tear him apart jus’ cause he thinks, cause he sees things a little different, an’ he’s a damn good pitcher, an’ I’m not gonna stand by an’ let them lawyers… He trails off and drops his head onto his forearms on the table. Tim and Dave burst out, Wha? Wha? Ya can’t stop there fer Christs sake, Christy! Hey, Frankie get us another round of that piss water ya call beer…Fer God’s sake, Christy, what did ya’ do?

Through the smoke and noise of the owner’s office, what Christy does is he shifts his weight and abruptly stands up waving his hands, Now guys, hold on, hold on…no he won’t…wait a second…hold on here…Chief, wait a second before ya do that…give ‘im a chance…let me say…now, wait…let me say this…there, there, now that’s better…let me say…now hold on…No he won’t…NOW LISTEN TO ME!

Christy wipes the sweat off his forehead with the handkerchief he’s pulled from his trousers. The mayhem calms down with the waving of his white flag.

Now fellas, Fred never mentions any of these things to the press an’ never will. Ain’t that right, Fred? An’ we’ve managed to keep marriage failures, an’ drinkin’ an’ religion, an’ drugs, an’ girlfriends out of the press before... this shouldn’t be any different…An Chief…Chief, now listen. Banken is frozen wide eyed in his chair as if stunned by a bright light. Now listen there Chief, Christy continues even though its like talking to a mannequin backed up by a pack of growling wolves, "He’s a 20-game winner, Chief…that’s right, 20 games…an’…now hold on…an’ the fans love him…he comes on the field an’ the crowd cheers for ‘im…besides, Chief, we know the public is a bunch of hypocritical fornicators themselves…Chief…let’s give ‘em one of their own…they love ‘im…give ‘im a chance, he knows what he can’t say to them reporters…who broke the story of