Brittle Innings

15

Mister JayMac called our first Friday home game against Lanett Scrap Metal Collection Drive Night. Every kid under eighteen who brought a pound of scrap metal-a shovel blade, a bag of spent cartridges, a hoard of old soup cans-got in free. Ushers collected the scrap, and businessmen-volunteers turned it over to the War Production Board.

Anyway, the stands rocked, a lot of the crowd teenagers or soldiers from Camp Penticuff. It being wartime, GIs got in for half price, paying fifty cents for baseline seats and watching the skirts closer than they did the game. Milt Frye, the PA a

CVL teams staged most games on weekends. Sometimes you’d have a series start on Thursday or Wednesday evening, but you could always count on open Mondays and Tuesdays, as travel days or as make-up days for rainouts.

In the clubhouse, Mister JayMac a

“That’s just two days’ rest,” Fadeaway said.

Everybody gaped like he’d just decided not to join the bucket brigade at an orphanage fire.

“Way I figure it, it’s three,” Mister JayMac said. “Hell, son, you’re fifteen, aren’t you?”

“Yessir.”

“Then your recovery time for both pitching and screwing’s bout as fast as it’ll ever be, and I didn’t recruit you to screw. You go

“When you ast me to.”

“Good,” Mister JayMac said. “Stop pouting.”

Twilight crept over the field. The electric pole lights came on, bright as day. That summer, no one worried about a Nazi U-boat swimming up the Chattahoochee to knock out a riverside shipyard or a lone supply barge. Under the lights, McKissic Field looked like a wonderland: green grass, shiny signs, the gauzy ghosts of cigar and cigarette smoke curling everywhere. Even the tiresome smell of burnt peanuts couldn’t douse my wonder. When Mrs Harry Atwill, the organist, played “Take Me Out to the Ball Game,” I got shivers. It seemed the sky would split open, like a milkweed pod, and an air force of seraphim drift down to mingle with the crowd like Mardi Gras partiers.

Creighton Nutter pitched that night, and if he hadn’t had his stuff, Highbridge would’ve lost. Our regulars played like cripples. They missed signs, booted grounders, misplayed easy flies, overthrew cutoff men, and so on. In the fourth i

“Ball-less Evans!” a row of soldiers chanted. “Ball-less Evans!”

Over the PA system, Milt Frye said, “Steady now, folks. Your management has great regard for our military, but we won’t tolerate smut from any quarter.”

“Ball-less, ball-less, ball-less Evans!” the GIs chanted. Frye’s scolding didn’t faze them a bit, and when he barked, “Those persisting in immature hooliganism, even men in uniform, will be removed,” a whole row of them turned towards the press box and shot it a rippling sequence of birds that would’ve won a drill competition at Camp Penticuff. But, truth to tell, no spectacle was grosser that night than our Hellbender regulars. Even folks with kids had more kindly feelings for the GIs than they did for our stumblebums.

Going into our final at bat, after playing like blind men, we were down just one run. Nutter’d kept us in it, pitching smart and refusing to rattle even when his fielders performed like dancing hippos. The shock of the night-a blow to Mister JayMac’s strategy of letting us humiliate ourselves at home-came when we somehow won the game, three to two.

It wasn’t pretty. Or just. But so what?

The win put us at eight-and-eight on the season. Opelika, Eufaula, and Cottonton lost that same night-to Quitman, Marble Springs, and LaGrange respectively-so we picked up a full game on both the Orphans and the Mudcats and broke a fourth-place tie with the Boll Weevils. But it still teed me Mister JayMac had held us rookies out, especially with his starters sucking wind like they had.

“What would our starters have to do to pit the boss to give us new boys a chanst?” Junior asked Ski

“Lose,” Ski

Actually, Ski

Anyway, just before we dressed out for the second game in the Lanett series, Darius came into the locker room and read the lineup to us:

“Batting first, playing shortstop, Danl Boles…” He went on from there, but the only other items to get my interest came in the seventh and eighth spots, where Junior and Ski

“Is this a joke?” Buck Hoey asked Darius. “I hit one for three last night. Nobody else did better.”

“Mr Curriden did,” Darius said. “If you hadn’t walked up his backside on that pop-up, he mighta done even better. That knot on yo fohead go down yet?”

“Easy, Darius,” Hoey said. “You’re treading thin ice.”

Darius rubbed his oxford’s toe across the concrete floor. “Aint no ice in here atall. Was, you could put it on that knot you got.”

“Read it again,” Junior said.

So Darius read the afternoon’s starting lineup again. My body began to hum, like a tuning fork. Saturday, June 5th, 1943. Soon, I’d actually start at short on a pro ball club.

“I can’t believe Mister JayMac wants me on the bench,” Hoey said. “I’ve got a nine-game hitting streak going.”

Darius popped the lineup card with his knuckles. “Nothing here say the change got to last fo awways, Mr Hoey.”

That drilled a nerve with me. If I booted a chance, or fa

“So whatn hell we sposed to do!” Evans asked Darius.

“How bout rest?” Darius said. “Seems logical to me.”

“The hell with that,” Hoey said.

“Well, capn, Mister JayMac wants you to coach first.”

Vito Mariani was scheduled to pitch. “Buck up, Buck. I’ll set em down so fast you won’t have enough bench time to rub the nap off your pants.”

Darius left. Hoey stared at the floor. Knowles, the deposed second baseman, went over to Junior and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Tear em up, kid,” he said.

The game wasn’t a laugher, but the Linenmakers never really got close either. Kitchen Fats for Victory Night followed Friday’s Scrap Metal Collection Night, and although nobody got in free for bringing in hamburger grease or bacon drippings, Milt Frye and three usherettes saw to it every fan who turned in a can of solidified fat got his or her name put in a drum for a drawing during the seventh-i

You could smell the rancid kitchen fats everyone’d brought in. The idea was that munitions factories would melt down the drippings to extract their glycerin, then use it to make bombs or howitzer shells. Kitchen Fats for Victory. After the war, though, I heard we’d used it to make soap. Dirty dogfaces have low morale, and the services needed our kitchen fats for soap. But asking civilians to turn in fats for soap didn’t sound romantic. Or sanitary. So the government told the public our used grease would go to make devices for blowing people up, and wham! the home front got with the program.