Michael Bishop: Brittle Innings

Mama keeps on improvng. It helps the Hellbender players have almost all gone home. It also helps Daddy writes more often-I suggested he shd. Letters seem to arrive every week now, even if some cutup in the S.O.S. or whatever has censored parts of them all with scissors.

A senior boy here named Hal Frank Kimball thinks he likes me. He has one eyebrow and hormone hickeys. My girlfriend Sunny Ruth Grimes says he’s AWOL-A Wolf On the Loose. When he comes paddng around, I ice up or shove in my clutch. Now don’t get yr ego or yr dander up, Daniel, but I am waitng for YOU.

No jump the gun panic, please. I’m NOT in a family surcumstance. No rabbit died. On the other hand, I never want to do the aweful thing we illeegly did until we do it again together-licensed and sanctified. That wld have to be better, wldn’t it? God, I hope so. In the meantime, keep the tool cool, OK?

Uncle Jay has been in a 2 maybe a 3 month mope. You shd drop him a line. You shd drop ME a letter. I promise to catch it.

Yr patient little BB, Phoebe

P.S. If you buy every word in my billydoo, yr a real smack. Read between the lines and hit the ones that count.

P.P.S. Homer says hello.

Phoebe and I married in the early summer of 1947, the year the CVL started back up. (Her daddy, long home from the war, gave her away.) The Blakely Turpentiners replaced the Marble Springs Seminoles in Georgia, and the Roanoke Rebs took over for the Cottonton Boll Weevils in Alabama.

But I jump ahead of myself.

In the spring of ’44, I’d hobble out of Funderburke’s every afternoon and watch the Red Stix play or practice. I watched the players who came into town as closely as I did my ex-high school teammates. I noticed things-sneaky foot speed, an unhittable specialty pitch, hidden room for improvement-that other baseball folks, not exempting Coach Brandon and Miss Tulipa, couldn’t see, and I wrote letters to Mister JayMac recommending a half dozen players-a couple of locals and four unscouted visitors-as guys to watch. Mister JayMac followed up, and after the war three of my first six picks wound up playing full- or part-time in the National League, two with the Phillies and one with Brooklyn.

Early in May, Coach Brandon got word a barnstorming team of Negro all-stars called the American-Afrique Something-or-Others had an official invitation to play an infantry team at Camp Gruber, a training post eighteen miles southeast of Muskogee. Coach Brandon had a drill instructor friend who could get us a pass onto the post to see the game, if we wanted it. A memory clip of the Splendid Dominican Touristers ran in my head-old Turtlemouth Clark pitching, Tommy Christmas chasing down long flies in center, our own Charlie Snow falling over the fence and fatally hemorrhaging, with Oscar Wall’s game-winning drive in his glove-and I told Coach Brandon, Yep, I’d go, especially since it was a Sunday contest and I didn’t have to work.

The game itself was the damndest exhibition I ever saw. The American-Afrique Zanies-that was their nickname-came out onto the field in clown costumes, all tricked out with pompons, face paint, big shoes, and fright wigs. They warmed up in these outfits, they even played the Army squad in them. They pranced and tomfooled around like circus performers. But despite their shenanigans, they still managed to rap the Army boys something like sixteen to zip. A walkover. The only thing making it bearable for us fans was the GIs’ realization that the Freakies (as a few guys started calling them) could’ve beaten them in suits of armor. These decent dogfaces saved the game. They acknowledged the Zanies’ talents without giving up on themselves or letting the coloreds push their lead up into the twenties or thirties.

I also got a kick out of the PFC announcing the game: “Now pitching for the Zanies, Whim-Wham? Dinkum-Do to center? And taking over at shortstop, Gumbo Giddyup?”

Three innings into the game, I figured out the Zany playing right field and going by the name Cuffy was none other than Darius Satterfield. His clown suit couldn’t hide his muscular lankiness. The greasy white makeup melting on his cheek bones and the green and purple wig raying out from his head like a crown of vat-dyed yarn-well, that crap kept me from making a positive ID for an inning or three, but it couldn’t blind me forever to the smoothness of Cuffy’s play or the whiplash grace of his hitting.

I wanted to wade down the bleacher tier and pull Darius aside for a chat, but I never got within a hundred feet of him till the same ended and he sat under an awning of the barracks building provided as the Zanies’ locker room. While Coach Brandon talked to his DI buddy, I limped into Darius’s line of sight. When he saw me, his eyeballs gave me a bounce and his hand snapped up like it meant to hold me at bay.

“Danl Boles. Sweet gentle Jesus.”

“What happened to the Splendid Dominicans, Darius?”

He studied me real good. “You look kinda puny, hoss. What happened to you?”

I gave him the short version and pressed my own question.

“Us Dominicans ran out of gas. Coupons. Working capital. Also goodwill. Mister Cozy got us all back to KayCee with him, but we had creditors galore and jes dropped apart. So I’m here today and mebbe tomorry as”-spreading the balloon sleeves of his arms-“a damn ol American-Afrique Zany.”

“Mister JayMac’d love to see you back in Highbridge.”

“Well, he aint big enough to beat me no mo, and I aint big enough to let him try.” He pulled off his wig and used it to daub at the sweat-runneled grease on his face. “Sorry bout yo setback, Danl. Real, real sorry.”

“He’s your daddy. At least you got one. Miss Giselle’s dead and he needs you.”

“I heard that, bout po Miss Giselle. But Mister JayMac needs me like a hound needs another tic.”

“You gonna stay with these… Zanies?”

“Nosir. Gonna quit em and join up. A man cain’t play ball in wartime. I guess his duty lies elsewhere, but the war angles gainst you and it’s a sorry style ball that gits played anyway. Take this turkey strut today.”

“The wrong team was wearing the clown suits.”

“Amen.”

“Still, you should go home. You should let Mister JayMac help you get into a decent unit. You should probably-”

“Danl, put yo cumulated wisdom in a croker sack with a cow flop and burn it fo a night light. Nice to see you again.”

Darius strolled around the corner and into the building. I tried to follow him. An MP with a billy and a.45 pistol in an unsnapped leather holster blocked my way: “Zanies only. You a Zany, kiddo?”

I tried to wait, to meet Darius when he came back out in his civvies with his teammates, but Coach Brandon found me, and took me home, and I never saw Darius again. So far as I know, he never played integrated pro ball, and I sometimes think he died overseas after enlisting-maybe right there at Camp Gruber-under a phony name.

Three years later I received a registered letter from Seattle, Washington. It contained round-trip airline tickets to Seattle from Tulsa, with stopovers in Denver, Salt Lake City, and Spokane. From Seattle, I had other tickets to Juneau, Alaska, from Juneau to Anchorage, and from Anchorage to Kodiak Island. The packet also contained a money order for two hundred dollars and a note:

Dear Daniel,

I have found your father’s grave on Attu Island, at the westernmost extremity of the Aleutian archipelago. Allow yourself two weeks and embark upon a pilgrimage to your sire’s final resting place. I enclose money and tickets to return you to Oklahoma at the conclusion of your valedictory journey. I will meet you at the airfield at Kodiak. You may recognise me by the stalk of wild celery I wear as a boutonniere.