The Brooklyn Nine Page 7

  “Kel, is it true what your valet said? That you won’t play again next season?”

  “Not won’t, laddie. Can’t. I’d play if I could, but no one will have me.”

  “But you’re not old. Cap Anson’s older than you are and he’s still playing first base for the White Stockings.”

  Kelly sighed as the boys laughed and scrambled across the field after the monkey.

  “I don’t know how he does it, laddie. Cap Anson. Truly I don’t. They keep moving the mound around for starters, and the pitchers don’t throw underhanded anymore. Nowadays it comes in hard and fast, kicking and screaming into the catcher’s mitt. Amos Rusie, Cy Young, Kid Nichols—pitchers are bigger and stronger and wickeder than ever before. And they hurt like hell to catch, by the way, even with all o’ that padding. And now I hear they’re actually thinking of counting foul balls as strikes. Mark my words: There won’t be a batting average over .250 in all the league.” He shook his head. “Baseball tain’t like it were in the olden days, laddie. Me days of playing in the big leagues are through. It’s the stage for me now, even though I’m not on Broadway. Heck, I’m in Brooklyn and I’m not even playing Prospect Hall.”

  King Kelly whistled and Anson broke off his game of keep-away and came scurrying back with the boys behind him.

  “Time for me to be off, lads,” Kelly told them. There was a general moan, but it turned into well-wishes and good-byes soon enough, and then calls for a new game when Kelly had gone.

  “Me and Arnold are captains!” Joseph called.

  Arnold knew he should have felt triumphant. He was a legend. He had brought King Kelly, the Ten-Thousand-Dollar Beauty, to Pigtown. But how long would it last? How long before he was little “Arnie” again, picked last every game and only allowed to play because of his bat—and now his glove. When the excitement of King Kelly went away, what would be left?

  There was only one thing for it, he decided. King Kelly would have to stay.

  The sun was just setting over the towers of the Brooklyn Bridge as Arnold made his way north toward Bushwick. He couldn’t wait to tell Kelly his news.

  “And now the pitcher holds the ball,” he said, repeating lines from “Casey at the Bat.” “And now he lets it go.”

  He stopped mid-run and took a swing with his father’s bat. “And now the air is shattered by the force of Kelly’s blow!”

  He cheered for the hit—Kelly had gotten a double, not struck out like Casey had—then broke into a jog the rest of the way to the Gayety Theater, where King Kelly was appearing again that night. Three ladies with big poofy dresses were making their way inside when he arrived, and he slid in behind them. He had just stepped into the lobby when a hand grabbed him and yanked him back. The hand was attached to an ugly brute with a scraggy beard and a wandering eye.

  “Awright. Let’s have your ticket then, boy.”

  No! Arnold had to get inside to see King Kelly tonight. It couldn’t wait. “I, uh—” he stammered, “I’m here to . . .” He looked down at the bat in his hands. “I’m here to bring King Kelly his bat!”

  The ticket taker gave him a piercing look with his one good eye, then let him go.

  “Shoulda used the stage door then,” he said. “Kelly’s back-stage.”

  Arnold tipped his cap and ran to the front corner of the theater. Up on the stage he could feel the hot gas lights that burned along the edge, and he felt the eyes of the audience on him as though he might be some part of the act. He quickly ducked behind the heavy red curtain.

  One of the Dutch Knockabouts pointed Arnold toward a room at the back of the theater where many of the acts were preparing to go onstage. Arnold cast about and finally found King Kelly in the corner, already dressed in his light blue Boston uniform and cap. As he approached, Arnold couldn’t help imagining him in a different color uniform.

  Kelly squinted as Arnold approached.

  “Well, if it tain’t me shadow!” He turned. “How the devil did you get down here, lad?”

  “I told them I was here to bring you your bat for tonight’s show,” Arnold said. He handed him his father’s bat, which Kelly again weighed appreciatively.

  “Well, it’s a fair sight better than the one they run me out there with.” He nodded to a bat in the corner. “Give her a try.”

  Arnold picked up the bat. It was light as a feather.

  “Stage prop,” Kelly said. He took a drink from a glass sitting next to him, then refilled it from what looked like a whisky bottle. “Just a little something to fortify me for when I go out in front of the cranks,” he explained. “I’ve always found that—”

  “I’ve got you a tryout!” Arnold interrupted. He could contain himself no longer. “A tryout with the Brooklyn Bridegrooms!”

  Kelly sat speechless for a moment.

  “You, er, what?” he asked finally.

  “I skipped out on the game at Pigtown after you left and I went to Eastern Park and talked to the Bridegrooms’ manager, Foutz, while he was shagging fly balls in the outfield. He said for you to come by the field tomorrow before the game, and he’ll see.”

  “He’ll see . . . what?”

  “You. In action. The way you played today at Pigtown, you’re a far sight better than either of Brooklyn’s catchers.”

  “That was against a bunch o’ guttersnipes, laddie! Good as you lot are, you’re hardly National League caliber.”

  “Game time is one o’clock,” Arnold went on. “Foutz said to be there an hour before the game. You can even use my bat!”

  Kelly stared at the bat in his hands. “Maybe . . . maybe I could still play. I did tell Monte I still had a few good seasons left in me, and I meant it.”

  “You’ll be great, Kel. It’ll be just like it was before. And you can come play ball with us at Pigtown some mornings. Not every morning, I know, because you’ll have practice, but it’ll be a kind of a practice, see?”

  Kelly gave Arnold his big famous stage smile. “Sure, laddie. Absolutely. Just like it was before. You’re a good kid, Arthur.”

  “Arnold.”

  Kelly picked up his glass and drank it in a single gulp.

  “Arnold then,” Kelly said. “You’re a good lad, Arnold. But tell me. Promise me one thing, lad.”

  “Anything, Kel.”

  The ballplayer refilled his glass.

  “I want you to promise me you’ll never take a drink.”

  “Sure, Kel. Of course.”

  Kelly ignored his own advice and finished off another glass. His face twisted into a grimace, and Arnold watched him shiver as the drink went down.

  “Better skedaddle, laddie. It’s just about time for King Kelly’s big act.”

  Sunday morning Arnold ran all the way up Kings Highway and out to Eastern Park on the far side of town.

  “I’m here with King Kelly!” he told the man at the ticket window, dashing inside before he could argue. Arnold had remembered to bring Kelly his father’s bat the night before, but not Kelly’s glove, and he’d need that for the tryout.

  The Grooms were already taking batting practice, and Arnold searched for King Kelly and Dave “Scissors” Foutz, Brooklyn’s left fielder and manager. He didn’t see Kelly, but Foutz stood near the dugout making out a lineup card.

  “Mr. Foutz! Mr. Foutz!” Arnold cried. The manager took a moment to recognize him from the day before and made his way over to the stands.

  “Brought me Mike Kelly, have you?” Foutz said, his voice heavy with doubt.

  “You mean he isn’t here?” Arnold asked. It had to be past noon already. “He said he would be here. And he knows the way to the park. He’s played here before.”

  “Look kid, I don’t know if you’re pulling my leg or if someone’s pulling yours, but take my advice. Leave it alone. Even if Kelly could play, that man’s got a monkey on his back.”

  “I know all about his monkey!” Arnold said. “The monkey’s name is Cap Anson.”

  Dave Foutz had a good hard laugh at that, although Arnold
didn’t see what was so funny.

  “That’s good, kid. Maybe you do know him after all. But believe me: Kelly’s through.”

  “No! He must have overslept is all,” Arnold said, running up the aisle. “I’ll have him here before game time!”

  “Kid, wait!” Foutz yelled, but Arnold was already gone. Outside the park he hopped one of the trolleys heading west, paying a nickel for the privilege but saving much time. He hopped off near the Eastern District and dashed the rest of the way to Kelly’s boardinghouse, ignoring the look of the man behind the chicken wire as he ran through the lobby and up the steps.

  “Kel! Kel!” Arnold said, bursting into King Kelly’s room. Only it wasn’t King Kelly’s room. A stranger rolled over in the bed, cursing at Arnold and throwing a shoe at him as he pulled the door closed. Did he have the wrong floor? The wrong room? He retraced his steps. No, this was the room Kelly had been staying in.

  Back in the lobby Arnold went up to the man behind the screen.

  “Do you know if King Kelly has changed rooms?”

  The man put down his newspaper and frowned.

  “You know Mike Kelly?”

  “He’s my friend,” said Arnold.

  “You know where he is?”

  “No. I was hoping you could tell me.”

  The man harrumphed. “Well, your friend bailed owing me twelve dollars. Don’t know how he got his things out with him, but he did. Must have climbed out the window. You gonna pay me the twelve dollars?”

  “I—I don’t have twelve dollars.”

  “Yeah. Right.” The man flicked his newspaper back open. “You tell that bum he owes me twelve dollars.”

  Arnold ran to the theater. The story was the same there. “The louse slipped out after his last act owing more’n his pay in whisky,” the stage manager told him. “If you’re looking for him, I’d try any saloon in walking distance. Oh,” he said before closing the door, “and tell him he won’t be playing any stage in Brooklyn until he pays off what he owes.”

  There were a dozen or more bars in the Eastern District, and Arnold tried them all. In those that weren’t empty or locked up tight he found some owner or barmaid who had heard of Kelly and seen him in the past week, but he had paid a call to none of their establishments last night. And every one of them was looking to settle up with him. One of them even handed Arnold Kelly’s bar bill. It came to fifteen dollars and seventy-five cents.

  Arnold walked back toward Kelly’s boardinghouse in the vain hope that he might see Kelly, or one of the other performers, or find some clue as to where he’d gone. He had just resolved to return to the ballpark, thinking perhaps Kelly had only been late and they had missed each other, when an item in a shop window caught his eye.

  It was his father’s baseball bat. His father’s baseball bat was in the window of a Fulton Street pawnbroker’s shop.

  Arnold burst into the store, almost tearing the bell on the door from its hinges. A stout man wearing a pin-striped vest and a large, thick mustache looked up from tinkering with a pocket watch.

  “Looking for something in particular?” he asked.

  “That bat in the window,” Arnold said. “It’s mine!”

  The man smiled. “It’s yours if you have fifty dollars.”

  “Fifty dollars!?”

  “That bat is a collector’s item,” the man told him. “It’s signed by King Kelly himself. Ever heard of him? He’s a bit before your time, but he was one of the greats.”

  “No,” Arnold said, though not in answer to the man’s question.

  “Had that bat made especial for him by a man in Kentucky. A Falls City original that is. What they call a Louisville Slugger.”

  “No. I mean, yes, that bat was made by a man in Louisville, but it was given to my pa during the war. It wasn’t made for King Kelly.”

  The man shrugged his shoulders. “It was King Kelly’s bat. I can authenticate it as such. He came into this shop himself right before closing last night and sold it to me.”

  Arnold felt like his heart had been ripped out of his chest.

  “You looking to sell that glove?” the man asked. “Might be able to give you a dollar or two for it.”

  Arnold looked down at the glove in his hand. He had almost forgotten he carried it. The glove he had traded for his father’s bat, without meaning to. The glove his hero King Kelly had given him. Arnold went to the front window to look again at the bat on display. He could reach out and touch it, but it wasn’t his father’s bat anymore. Arnold had lost it. He’d given it away and King Kelly had sold it.

  “Said he needed train fare out of town,” the man behind the counter said, as if he could read Arnold’s thoughts. He went back to tinkering with the watch. “Some opportunity in Boston. You suppose that means he’ll be back with the Beaneaters next season?”

  “No,” Arnold said, pushing his way outside. “Mike Kelly is all washed up.”

  Fourth Inning: The Way Things Are Now

  Coney Island, New York, 1908

  1

  Walter wandered the grand boardwalk along the yard outside the Brighton Beach Hotel while his parents checked in. It was early spring, just before the start of the baseball season, and the salty air from the roaring surf was still cool and crisp, like a last gasp before the long hot summer to come. A few brave souls were even wading in the ocean, their navy blue two-piece suits dark against the bright white of the sandy beach.

  Walter heard a familiar crack and a cheer. Farther down the boardwalk, part of the yard that separated the hotel from the ocean was parceled off into a baseball field, and he rushed to watch. As the batboy for the Superbas, Walter saw more baseball games than probably any other boy in Brooklyn, but the sound of a bat hitting a ball still excited him.

  There was a small but enthusiastic crowd of hotel guests watching the game—gentlemen dressed in suits and hats, and ladies wearing extravagant summer dresses, all lounging on reclining beach chairs under umbrellas while colored waiters served them drinks and treats. This was where New York’s well-to-do vacationed, and the baseball game was being played for them, and them only.

  And it was being played by Negroes.

  The runner on second base danced back and forth trying to rattle the pitcher, waving his arms and making silly sounds that made the hotel guests titter with laughter. The pitcher wheeled and pretended to throw the ball to the second baseman, who made believe he’d caught it. The runner played along, getting into a rundown between second and third as the fielders tossed a phantom ball back and forth between them, trying to tag him out. The ladies and gentlemen roared with laughter.

  This isn’t baseball, thought Walter. It’s a minstrel show.

  The runner slid safely into third base and the invisible ball was thrown back to the big pitcher, who focused again on the batter. The pickoff and rundown might have been fake, but there was nothing phantom about his next pitch, except that the batter had no way of hitting it. It was a blur of motion, a momentary vision that made you think a baseball had been thrown, but you weren’t quite sure. Until the umpire called it a strike. The ball was tossed back to the pitcher—there it was, made of real laces and leather, proving that something had actually been thrown—and then he did it again, and again, the batter taking a pathetic, halting swing at the last one before being rung up on strikes.

  The players changed sides.

  “Who are they?” Walter asked.

  “Waiters,” said a gentleman lounging next to him. “Some of the hotel staff.”

  “Cubans,” his lady friend said. “Up here for the season. They only play for fun.”

  The last three pitches didn’t look like somebody playing for fun, Walter thought, but he kept it to himself.

  “Hey, nice hat,” said a boy behind him. Walter turned.

  Three boys around his age had come up to him. The oldest one might have been thirteen.

  Walter touched the Brooklyn Superbas hat he wore. “Thanks. I’m the batboy for the Superbas.”
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br />   “No,” said the big kid. “I mean, ‘Nice hat, sheeny. I think I’ll take it.’”

  Walter clenched his fists. “What did you just call me?”

  “You heard me, kike,” the kid said.

  “I’m not a Jew!” said Walter. It wasn’t the first time he’d been called a Jew, and not the first time he’d gotten into a fight over it.

  “Sure you’re not, Bergstein. With that nose you’ve got, your mom must have doinked a rabbi.”

  Walter launched himself at the big one, fists flailing. It was a fair fight for about two seconds. He got in one good blow before the kid and his two friends ganged up on him and beat the stuffing out of him. It would have been smarter to try to break away and run, or even curl up on the ground in a little ball, but Walter clawed and fought, getting himself bloodier in the process.

  “Cheese it. Pinkertons!” one of the boys said, and suddenly they were gone. And so was Walter’s Superbas hat, the official hat he’d been given with his batboy uniform. He tried to sink to his knees, but a hotel security man pulled him up roughly by the arm.

  “All right, we don’t stand for any roughhousing here at the Brighton,” the man said, his accent thick with Irish.

  “I didn’t start nothing,” Walter said.

  The Pinkerton man eyed him. “I’ll bet. I know your kind.”

  “Walter!” his father called. His parents rushed up to him. “Walter, we’ve been looking everywhere for you.”

  “Walter, what happened to your face?” his mother asked. “And your clothes!”

  “Been fighting,” the Pinkerton man said. He gave the same appraising eye to Walter’s parents as he had to the boy. “You guests?”

  “Er, no,” said Walter’s father. “They’re out of rooms.”

  “The concierge was kind enough to recommend the West Brighton Hotel,” Walter’s mother said. She licked a handkerchief and wiped at his face with it. Walter squirmed.

  “We won’t be troubling you anymore,” his father said.