Sunday, May 25, 2008

Because I'm a poet.

Low and out. Split down the pipe. He was throwing a hell of a game. Carl Mays was pitching for the Yankees at the Polo Grounds against the visiting Cleveland Indians. Mays was a submarine-style deliverer. His arm would swing out to his side and chuck the ball to the plate. He would throw the ball from so low that his knuckles occasionally kicked up a cloud of dirt off the mound. Mays was notorious for ‘processing’ the ball. His routine was scooping up some dirt and grinding it into the hide. He would then spit out some tobacco juice on it for flavor. The process made the ball darker and balmy, perfect for a spitball from hell. Not only would the batter lose the ball, if he was lucky to catch a glimpse of it the ball would kick back inside and ocassionally brush the batter's jersey. Mays was slick and knew how to keep batters off his plate and give him quite a strike zone to work with. It was the Dead Ball era of baseball. One game, one ball, no matter how dirty it got. This made hitting the ball quite a feat, because it got so hard to see.
Bill Wambsganss of the Indians led off the inning. Mays scratched the ball with his thumbnail. Using the new friction, he manufactured a fastball low and outside Wambsganss’ strike zone. Wambsganss went for it, regardless. The contact was smooth and true. The ball sailed over the shortstop and fell short of the sprinting centerfielder. An easy jog to first gave the Indians their first hit of the afternoon. Wambsganss was a weasel. He loved stealing bases. He glanced over at second and saw that the only obstacle he faced was a second baseman kicking the dirt. Mays faced his new opponent, Ray Chapman. Ray, the respected shortstop, had an open batting stance, loose and ready for the bunt. Ray was a sacrifice player, he never hesitated to hit short to allow the runner on base to score at the expense of his out at first. His first pitch hit the dirt early and Wambganss bolted to second. Mays shook it off, just a blemish on an otherwise great game. Now was a situation Ray could bunt and let Wambganss come closer to home.
Tris Speaker, the player-manager of the Indians, tapped his belt twice and brushed his ear. Ray took from these gestures the signal to go ahead and bunt. Ray nodded and stepped up to the plate. Mays’ fingers glided over the rawhide, looking for that sweet spot. He found that slickness he needed for his patented spitball. Ray looked at Mays’ glove, and gripped his bat. The pitch was delivered high and leaned towards Ray. Ray never saw the ball coming. The impact of the ball and Ray’s temple produced a sickening thud. Mays thought the ball was live and fielded it and threw the ball to first. Ray was on the ground and Speaker and Wambganss came rushing over to see how bad he was hurt.
“Shit.” Wambganss held his head with his hands, not sure what to do with Ray.
“Ray! Goddamn it! Ray!” Speaker tripped on the dugout stairs and scrambled to Ray. All anybody could do, and all anybody did was stand around Ray. He coughed up some blood and was breathing. A couple of the Indian’s athletic trainers made their way to the plate. They settled Ray onto a stretcher and took him to an ambulance. Ray was unconscious and had trouble breathing. It was awful. Ray Chapman never woke up and was buried at Lakeview Cemetery, down the road from the home of the Indians, League Park.

Speaker sat back in the chair behind the desk of the Indian’s clubhouse. He had a roster change form to send to the Commissioner of Baseball. Ray Chapman was the first name that stood out and he crossed it out with a heavy pen. He still couldn’t believe it. He didn’t want to. To make sure this was all real he looked at the black wristband he wore. It was identical to the ones worn by the rest of the Indians.
“Damn it, Ray.” Tris sighed somewhat severely. It was a reminder of what the team lost, but, more importantly, what the team is playing for, the American League pennant. The race for that top spot and the honor to play in the World Series was intense. The Red Sox were a perennial winner and now the White Sox were hot and ready to take first.
The Indians were distracted. Ray’s absence left the Indians scrambling for a replacement and the ordeal led to the Red Sox and even the lowly Tigers sweeping the Indians in the next two series. The season was waning and the Indians needed to get back on track. The final series of the season came in a heartbeat. The Chicago White Sox came to play, and they brought Shoeless Joe Jackson. Tris Speaker, the Grey Eagle, was playing deep in the outfield. He was Grey because he had premature thinning hair. He was the Eagle because he played sharp and brutal. He was often compared to the Pittsburgh legend, Honus Wagner. Speaker always brushed this praised off. He played to win and he won a lot. He was a part of the 1915 World Series champs, the Boston Red Sox, so he was used to winning when he came to the Indians. Today was nothing new for Speaker. The Indians simply had to win this game, this inning, to win the pennant. He cracked his neck and settled into position. Shoeless Joe was up to bat. Joe was famous for cracking line drives. Of course, he hit a laser out to center field. It was going to go over Speaker’s head, over the fence even. The Eagle took flight and ran with the ball, glove high. Somehow, he caught it, His momentum slammed him in the concrete wall waiting for him. He was knocked out cold, but the ball remained in his glove, in a vice-like grip. And like that ball, the pennant was clinched by the Indians.
The World Series is the stage where the best of the National and American leagues come to show their stuff. The Brooklyn Robins were the champs of the National League, and they would be Cleveland’s opponent in the series. Robins’ owner Charlie Ebbets was a gentleman and allowed Cleveland to play Joe Sewell as Chapman’s replacement, even though the replacement was made after the roster dedication deadline. Game one of the best-of-nine series was a pitching duel between Stan Coveleski and Rube Marquard. Coveleski was a machine. A mad one at that. He was so precise and sharp, he had catchers use a new glove every couple weeks. His opponent Marquard was a nice guy. His head may have been in the clouds a bit too high, but he could throw the bean. He even stopped the game to watch some fire engines go by. The Indians manage to bring one run in to win it. Game two belonged to the Robins courtesy Grimes’ spitball deliveries. When the Robins won game three as well, the Indians bit their lip.
League Park was empty besides Tris as he walked to the pitcher’s mound. He was looking for something, anything. He stood on the mound and looked over at the outfield. He read the ‘Remember Ray’ banners the fans posted. He could hear their cheering echoing from the stands. He kicked some dirt and felt a hand on his shoulder. It was Wambganss.
“Come on, Bill, it’s late, get some sleep you jackass.”
“Coach, you don’t need to pray to heaven or anything. There’s no way those shit-for-brains Robins are taking what’s ours.” He left on that note and threw over his scarf for emphasis.

Speaker commanded the attention of his ball club when they arrived to play game four. The weather was awful. It was raining and it was cold. The Eagle wasn’t fazed at all. He looked deep into the young eyes and gave only a few words to play by. Remember Ray, play like he’s watching, because he is, and he couldn’t be prouder. The inspiration led to a pillage of the Robins, heading tied two games apiece into game five. Game five would forever be chronicled in the hearts and souls of the Indians and their fans. Grimes was pitching for the Robins again. He went into the game to keep the ordeal scoreless. Those plans were crumpled up and tossed in the bin when the first three hitters he faced each popped singles to load the bases. Elmer Smith, the hardest hands in baseball, was up now. He easily smacked the ball over the left field fence in a grand slam everyone saw coming. This was a gut punch in the Robins’ hopes of being competitive in this series. Without mercy, the Indians had a brutal defense as well. Wambganss recorded an unassisted triple play, about as rare as a perfect game. The ball lined out into his glove and he touched second and tagged the runner who cursed himself for running so far ahead. The Indians lifted Wambganns and he tipped his hat to Ray.
“Don’t get cocky fellas, we only have 3 games on those guys.” Tris reminded them of the best of nine series. “You get cocky, you get stupid.”
“Come on coach, relax and have a beer!” Wambganns led the Indians to the tavern down the street. Speaker massaged his temples and went to go sleep in his office.
The next two games were quick pitcher duels and the Indians took both to win five games to two over Brooklyn. Speaker was the quietest one at the celebration on the field after game seven. He shook hands, sipped some champagne and simply smiled. He knew the team was helpful, but it was Ray Chapman who won the World Series. Chapman was just bunting soft to right again. The Indians ran home while he got caught out at first. That was the life of a sacrifice hitter.

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