CARNIVAL BASEBALL
Colby Cox
Copyright by Colby Cox 2010
Smashwords Edition
1. Baltimore, 1933
Sarge Safran sat in the corner of the diner and sipped black coffee. He sat alone. His trademark bow tie was crisply centered around his bullish neck and his pork pie hat was within arms length, hanging on the back wall. The waitress shuffled around his brown wingtips, their size fourteen simply too big to remain under his table. They spilled out into her path.
Sarge mumbled an apology her way. He always felt out of place, as if the world and everything in it was shrunken down and he was left the hulking behemoth that lived with the aftermath. The waitress smiled and told him it was not a problem. The southern twang in her voice put him at ease. It made Sarge feel less like a fish out of water and he briefly thought of home. He thought of his father.
Sarge stared through the window as the people of Baltimore passed by, crossing the street, fast-walking to the trolley stop. A small boy with a cap cocked down so low you couldn’t see his eyes hawked the morning paper to anyone within shouting distance. Sarge watched his mouth work.
“Bombers beat the Whispers in extra innings! Read all about it!”
Like most things in life, Sarge found pros and cons to his days spent living out of a suitcase. On the plus side, he did not have to take out the garbage or cut grass like a regular Joe. When on the road, he ate out all the time and dined mostly on steak dinners. Of course, the minuses were things like being away from Delilah for long stints or suddenly waking up in the middle of the night and not remembering the name of the town where he had laid his head.
A loud bang at the window startled him. Coffee slipped out of his cup and spilled into the saucer. Sarge looked up to see a street urchin’s nose pressed against the glass, the kid’s face nothing but dirt smudges and freckles. A cowlick was firmly planted on his greasy head.
“Hey, Sarge! Sarge Safran! Go suck an egg! The Whispers ain’t fit to shovel shit, much less play baseball!”
Sarge leaned back in his chair, crossed his legs, and chuckled. God bless Baltimore. It was the city that would always be the exception to the rule. Home town fans of the Baltimore Bombers would never let him forget the name of their beloved town, no matter how hard he tried.
Unsatisfied by the cool reaction he received from the Wilmington Whispers head coach, the juvenile went into a tirade of ugly faces. The boy threw cross-eyes and cackled like a chicken as he stuck a finger up his nose. His performance steamed up the glass. Sarge got a good laugh at the personal show and tapped his hands together in a silent clap, an action he remembered from the time he was dragged against his will to the Grand Theater.
An open palm came in view from behind the kid and soundly whacked him upside the head. The blow threw him forward and his forehead clunked loudly against the window pane. The ragamuffin turned into a snapshot of closed eyes, a scrunched nose, and hunched shoulders. With a hard shove-off, the boy’s face quickly disappeared from Sarge’s view and was replaced with the side profile of Mink wearing a pair of shades.
“Damn, kids! That’s the the problem with this godforsaken town. No parenting! Baltimore ain’t nothin’ but a bunch of winos and derelicts, so what else are they gonna spawn but more of the same.”
Seeing and hearing Mink riled up was just as funny as the kid to Sarge, but he crossed his arms and shook his head in mock disgust. Mink was too busy to notice. He watched Sarge’s harasser run down the street all the while yelling at his back and chewing gum at a hundred miles an hour. Mink’s hair fell over his eyes. In one fluid motion, he flipped it back with his right hand and smoothed it over his scalp. He planted a straw derby firmly on his head and ran his thumb and pointer finger over his pencil mustache.
Sarge yelled to be heard through the diner’s window.
“What gives, Mink?”
He saw an opportunity to start ribbing his closest friend and he could not resist.
“Poor kid ain’t got nothin’ and you thump him for a little name-calling. You ought to be ashamed of yourself.”
Hearing that, Mink slowly swiveled his face towards the window. He dropped his head so his gray eyes were visible behind the darkened spectacles he wore. He chewed on his gum and smiled. Mink paused a few seconds and allowed Sarge to relish the moment. He could tell the big guy was enjoying the show, so he hammed it up on his behalf. He then theatrically tightened the tie knot around his thin neck, let out a cartoonish sigh, and ambled over to the front door of the diner to join his friend inside.
After hanging his derby next to Sarge’s pork pie on the wall, Mink plopped himself in a chair on the opposite side of the table. He removed his small, round sunglasses and stuck them in his blazer pocket. He snapped open a newspaper that had been tucked under his arm and Sarge watched his head go left to right, glancing over the headlines. Mink’s jaw worked his gum furiously and from time to time it would crack so loudly the sound would resonate throughout the room.
“How’d you know to find me here?”
Mink never looked up. He continued to scan the pages of the Baltimore Examiner.
“Well, let’s see. You and I served in the Great War together and have now been coaching and playing baseball since what, 1921? This season makes it over eleven years. Every Sunday morning, no matter what town we are in, you find the closest grease trap to rest your brogues, watch traffic, and drink coffee. I know you better than you know yourself, Tristan.”
Mink looked up at him and smirked when he said his friend’s true, given first name. He was the only member of the Wilmington Whispers that knew Sarge’s secret and Sarge wanted to keep it that way. The now empty coffee cup burst into several shards of ceramic in Sarge’s hand. He kiddingly stared Mink down.
Mink smoothed the paper out and tucked it under his seat.
“OK, OK. Forgive me, brother. I was just joshing you. No need for the rough stuff.”
Mink’s head was on a swivel as he craned his neck in search of their server. He found her seated by the register filing her nails.
“Hey, Sugar. How’s about some more coffee over this way? The big guy needs another cup, too.”
After a few minutes, Sarge was working on a new mug of black and Mink was starting in on a piece of key lime pie.
“Sweet Georgia Brown, that is a mighty fine piece of pie.” Mink said it out loud while he glanced at the waitress so she wouldn’t miss the double meaning.
Sarge was losing patience.
“Mind your manners, you cad, and lets get to it. What’s the status of the team?”
Mink laid his fork down and dabbed at his mustache with a napkin.
“The Doc seems to think that Savoy Special will be ready to play tonight but Wonder Boy is out of the picture. Doc says that he can fix the dents no problem, but he talked about how the bucket of bolt’s reticular something-or-other is out of whack. It amounts to this: the damn thing can’t see.”
Sarge let out a grunt and ran his hand over his stubbly crew cut.
“That ain’t good, Mink. Without that robot playing right field this afternoon, lefties like Hooligan Pete and the rookie McBride are gonna run roughshod on us. They’ ll hit the ball out in the right field corner and run around the bases all day long.”
“I know, Sarge. I asked Doc if he could gear Savoy Special and switch him over from left field to right, but he said no can do. He said it would take him two days, and by that time he said Wonder Boy would be back up and running.”
Mink could see the disappointment on Sarge’s face. He always thought that the head coach took everything way too seriously. He worried too much. Mink tried to lighten the moment.
“Hey, don’t sweat. We’ll stick Biscuit in right and besides, we got Rube Robinson on the mound today. Guys like Hooligan Pete and McBride will be sitting on their asses in the Baltimore dugout after he strikes them out. No sense of them even bringing bats today.”
Sarge held his coffee cup in both hands and stared out the window. Mink knew better to say anything at times like this, so he went back to his pie and watched women pass the window as he chewed. His gum was stuck to the side of his plate for safe keeping.
Sarge shook his head and cursed two words underneath his breath. They were the two words that changed everything for him those long years ago.
Carnival Ball.
A Brief History of the Game
Little is known about the beginnings of Carnival Baseball. If you listen to most Southern Baptist preachers, they will try to sell you on the idea that it was brought forth from the fires of hell and brimstone by satan himself. That would be only partially true.
The most credible story is that it formed on the backs of traveling circuses, tent shows, and gypsies that floated from town to town, trying to eke out a living on the extra change in folks’ pockets. They were men and women who lived outside of the regular nine-to-five, the people on the fringe of normalcy - fire eaters, snake-oil salesmen, tattoo artists, cult-followers, the Irish, etc. Supposedly, a lot of those circus-type freaks brought with them a passion for America’s pastime and during precious spare moments between performances and work duties, they could be found in empty lots or train yards playing pick up baseball. There were no uniforms or organized teams and they considered themselves lucky if they could scrape together a complete side or had enough gloves to go around. It would be one troupe of oddballs against another who both happened to be working the same areas, blowing off steam.
The way the story goes, the amateur games soon drew more crowds than the carnivals that brought the players there in the first place. A lot of the small farm towns where the acts performed had never experienced honest-to-goodness baseball and they fell for the alternate version lock, stock, and barrel. They loved it.
Capitalists of the time took notice of all the attention the games received and it did not take long before the smell of money caused them to sign players and form teams. Carnival Baseball clubs popped up like ragweed across the south. Places like Walhalla, Vicksburg, Jackson, and Baton Rouge were some of the first to usher in the trend. The “Carnival Fever” (a term coined by Winston Barlow of the Wheeling Wheel Newspaper in 1917) soon spread to the north, taken there by carpet-baggers and exhibitions. Towns like Baltimore, Wilmington, and Albany soon sponsored teams and the game flourished.
Of course, the creation of Carnival Baseball was not all peaches and cream. There were many societal bigotries to overcome. Most fans of the game took no issue with a second baseman shooting lightning bolts out of his eyes, as long as he was a white second baseman shooting lightning bolts out of his eyes. The color line of Carnival Ball was finally crossed by the now-famous pitcher Tyrone “The Man Who Can’t Die” Johnson in a game between the Savannah Plague and the Lancaster Shoo-flies.
During the league’s first official season, the townsfolk of Savannah took issue with their home team being soundly defeated by the visiting Lancaster club courtesy of a black pitcher’s nasty sliders and change-ups. Only hours after the last out, under the cover of darkness, they kidnapped Tyrone Johnson from his hotel room. (It did not help matters that he was found in bed next to the hotel owner’s wife). They then lynched Johnson from the highest oak in town. The good people of Savannah admired their handiwork dangling on the end of a hemp rope for a few moments and all went home thinking that they had ended the debate over allowing blacks to play.
History records indicate that Savannah fans were quite surprised when they sat in the bleachers the next day waiting for the game to begin. They became a little suspicious when they saw Lancaster’s team laughing and grinning from ear to ear during batting practice. It was certainly not the type of behavior they imagined to be gloating over after they had murdered the northern team’s star pitcher.
When the home plate umpire yelled “Play Ball” to start the game, their jaws dropped as they watched the man they hanged, Tyrone Johnson, nonchalantly jog out of the dugout and take the mound. The crowd was eerily silent as Johnson, with fresh rope burns visible around his neck, threw a no-hitter. The Lancaster Shoo-flies won the day, ten to nothing. From that moment on, indians, blacks, catholics, jews, and even irishmen were all welcome to play.
Carnival Baseball soon became as popular as the “other league”, which was the term rabid Carny Ball fans used when referring to the Major Leagues. It was usually said with disdain and accompanied by spitting on the ground. The small ballparks built around the new teams soon boasted appearances from the rich and famous. Coco Chanel was spotted munching a hotdog on the third baseline in Albany. F. Scott Fitzgerald was seen sharing a flask with Hubert “Ghost Man” Fuski in Providence. Rin-Tin-Tin was present in Pittsfield when Duckie Jones crushed “The Grand Slam Heard Round the World” to clinch the first ever Carnival Series title for the Hellions.
With its burgeoning popularity, a scouting system the likes of which had never been seen was created. Men and women were put on team’s payrolls to find the best and the brightest from every corner of the globe. The invention of the airplane was taken to its limits as the quest for players went to remote locations in South America, Africa, and Asia. No one was off limits, as the ever-expanding rules of Carnival Ball allowed players with all sorts of talents, supernatural or otherwise. Although never confirmed, some say that a scout for the Baltimore Bombers was secretly working with Lord Carnavon in 1923 when he located King Tut’s Tomb. Since all attempts to resurrect Tutankhamun in hopes he could play shortstop failed, the scouting records were destroyed. It was one such expedition for talent that brought “Sarge” Safran and Anthony “Mink” Cosgrove into the Carnival League’s fold.
3. Mink, Sarge, and the War
Clyde Decker scouted for the Wilmington Whispers (the Wilmington, Delaware Whispers - not to be confused with the Wilmington Wombats of North Carolina) when he was called to the front office. Decker pulled in talent for the Whispers and at least six of his recruits started for Wilmington over a three year period. He was schooled as an expert in art history, but a special talent of his made him the perfect Carny Ball scout.
Clyde Decker saw people’s auras. Ever since he could remember, he observed colors surround people like mystic fuzz. It was so matter-of-fact to him that as a teenager growing up in Kent County, Delaware, he was somewhat shocked to learn that not everyone possessed the ability. Clyde could just glance at others and determine whether they were sad or happy or worried. He could tell by the shape and size of the color rings if people were compassionate or mean or what type of work ethic they held. He could determine all sorts of things with his power, but more importantly, he learned how to benefit from it.
By the time he was seventeen, Clyde was sweeping up on the east coast underground poker circuit. He made big money betting on boxing matches based on auras and invested it wisely with bankers that had the right colors floating around them. Using his winnings to travel through Europe, Clyde attended the finest art schools in Paris where he learned fluent French. A lady’s man who swore off marriage and the trappings of the normal lifestyle, Clyde kept an apartment in Wilmington and utilized the small city as a jumping point for his travels. Besides, it was only a ninety minute train ride from his mother in Dover.
Clyde Decker quickly became “the man to know” in the circles of Wilmington’s upper echelon. He was handsome, dressed smartly, and was well-versed in art and literature. He was invited to all of the A-list dinners and cocktail parties. It was at one such soiree when he was introduced to Mark DuCane, sole owner of the Whispers Baseball Club and the man whose family owned half of Wilmington.
Not knowing why, Clyde was quickly convinced by DuCane to enter his employ as a scout for the Whispers. It could have been DuCane’s charm but Clyde was not a man easily swayed. Mark offered the bachelor a decent, stable salary, but Clyde was doing quite well financially. There was always the adventure of travel, but again, Clyde already lived the life of a well-traveled man. More than likely, Clyde’s handshake deal with DuCane for the scouting position had more to do with the fact that Mark DuCane possessed his own “special talent” that entailed entering people’s minds and swaying them to his point of view. Regardless, Clyde enjoyed the job and the adventures it brought his way.
The scout was given orders from the Whispers front office to check out the potential of three United States soldiers who were currently stationed in France. They were part of a special task force formed after the World War. Clyde was told that his assignment was a personal request by Mark DuCane. He was more than happy to return to France, the only country he loved as much as his own. What Clyde found there when he finally arrived one month later, however, was not what he had been expecting at all.
After a litany of questions from all types of government bureaucrats and an oath of secrecy to anything he observed, Clyde was transported to a town called Cordes-sur-Ciel, a sleepy place near Albi. He would have loved to roam its streets and bask in its beauty, but he was kept under guard his entire stay by American military personnel who refused to speak with him. Clyde was whisked away to a small, hill-top cottage which had been converted into the office of one Captain Robert Astor.
Upon meeting the Captain, Clyde was somewhat relieved. Astor was the first polite U.S. officer he had met and his aura resonated purple, blue, and gold - a good sign. Astor explained to Clyde that he was an old college chum to Mark DuCane and DuCane had promised that he would send his best Carny Ball scout to take a look at Astor’s soldiers. From what Decker surmised, his employer owed Astor a favor thanks to a huge government contract the Captain secured for DuCane’s ammunitions company during the war years.
Clyde settled into a comfortable office chair when the Captain threw some manila folders in front of him.
“These are the three men you are here to take a look at. Charles Tanner, Anthony Cosgrove, and Sarge Safran.”
The scout pretended to peruse through the files, but he did not really read them. He merely felt the indentations that the typewriter keys left on the papers and he glanced at the photos of the men clipped to the inside. He acted interested as the Captain spoke about the secret missions that were being accomplished by these fine Americans, but Clyde was thinking more about how to get the guards off his back later so he could thoroughly enjoy the people (more specifically, the young women) of this particular French locale.
Suddenly, the baseball scout caught a word amongst the Captain’s pleasantries that struck his ears funny.
Vampires.
“Forgive me, sir, but could you repeat that last part?”
“You heard me right, son. These three are the best damned vampire killers I ever had the pleasure of commanding.”
Clyde studied the Captain’s aura and saw no indication that he was lying. The officer actually believed his own words. Oh, well, the scout thought. It was not the first crack pot he had met, and it certainly would not be the last. He was disappointed, though. Astor was a very likable guy.
“These men have been like sons to me and I want to make certain that they are provided for when they leave their current duty. That is why I contacted Mr. DuCane to inquire about careers for them when they transitioned back into the private world. I certainly hope this works out. God willing, if they can get through the next three months, they will be back home with good jobs, this madness behind them.”
Decker assured the Captain that he would give them a fair shake and he was eager to meet the soldiers whom he spoke so highly. More to the point, Clyde wanted to get as far away as possible from Astor after his introduction dipped into the realm of crazy.
Clyde first met Tanner, Cosgrove, and Safran the next morning amidst all sorts of training equipment in an exercise yard. The soldiers were seated in chairs propped up against their barrack’s wall. The little guy, Cosgrove, wore dark shades and chewed gum as if it was a race. Tanner seemed pretty amicable, a regular hayseed from Nebraska.
Safran was something entirely different. He was massive. His chest looked like a beer keg in the white tank top he wore and his forearms would have made Popeye jealous. His right one bore a skull tattoo in black ink. It showed two huge fangs protruding from its mouth and underneath the design was a series of tic marks grouped into fives. They covered his arm down to his wrist. The sergeant casually puffed on the remains of a cigar and displayed the brightest red aura that Clyde had ever seen. It pulsated when he exhaled. Clyde immediately knew that the “Sarge” was worth watching.
With the help of a couple of French soldiers, Decker constructed a pitching mound and then paced off 60 feet and change. He dug his heel into the soft ground to mark where home plate would rest. The scout then brought Tanner and Cosgrove over to the hill of dirt.
“OK, fellas. My understanding is that you guys are pitchers, so let’s see your stuff.”
Clyde caught pitches from the two men. He was impressed. Both were deadly accurate. Wherever Clyde put his mitt, both Tanner and Cosgrove found their mark. The two soldiers put good zip on the ball, too, although Tanner interested Clyde more because he was a lefty. The pitchers would certainly have little difficulty working into the Whispers lineup as long as their heads were not too warped under the command of Captain Astor .
Clyde was excited to see Sarge’s performance and he was not left disappointed. He watched Tanner and Cosgrove (who preferred to be called “Mink”) throw a barrage of pitches to the big man. Sarge sent them sailing over a barbed wire fence at least 400 feet away. Sergeant Safran wielded a bat like a weapon and he could hit a ton from both sides of the plate. Players with his ability were a rarity and Clyde could not wait to report back to Wilmington and let the front office know about his findings.
Before he was scheduled to leave, Clyde met with the three prospects in their barracks. He thought it odd to see garlic cloves hanging from the doors and windows, but being a scout for a Carny Ball club had its moments.
“Gentlemen, I certainly appreciate meeting you all and I look forward to seeing the three of you when you return home. The moment you touch down on American soil, you contact me and I will get you to Wilmington to sign contracts A-S-A-P! I haven’t seen talent like yours in a good while.”
Tanner and Mink’s auras told Clyde that they were excited and that they intended to follow through in contacting him when they left France. Sarge, however, showed signs of indifference. His surrounding red glow remained constant. He sat with his arms crossed on the edge of a cot. He only stared at Decker. It unnerved the scout how cool this giant man was being.
“Sarge, I hope I didn’t offend you. I think you have a lot to offer our ball team and once you men fulfill your somewhat unusual duties to the eccentric Captain Astor....”
A sudden squint in Sarge’s eyes told Decker he should probably stop talking.
“Mr. Decker, would you like to come see our obligation?”
“Excuse me?”
“I’m asking. You think Captain Astor is loony and that the three of us should be in a funny farm for following him. So I’m askin’. Do you want to come see our obligation?”
Clyde stammered. It was not like him. He was usually very calm under pressure, but the sergeant was so damned unsettling. Sarge stood up and told the scout to follow him. Clyde was uncertain what to do, so he looked for guidance from Tanner and Mink seated on their bunks. They only stared back at him, so he hurried across the concrete floor to catch up with the walking giant.
Clyde followed Sarge to a small building next to the barracks and found that it was some sort of darkroom. Sarge pulled a string that hung from a single light bulb inside. Without the light, they would have been standing in complete darkness. There were no windows and the walls were painted black.
“Listen, Sarge. Again, I am not trying to offend you or anything. I was merely saying...”
Clyde saw that the sergeant was busy dragging a box over to the center of the room and was ignoring his words. The wooden crate stood about four feet tall. A heavy drape was on top of it. Sarge grabbed the fabric and yanked it off of the top like a matador with a cape.
When Clyde Decker bent down and finally got a glimpse of the thing inside the box, he immediately planted himself firmly against the room’s back wall and attempted to crawl up it. Clyde, being fluent in French, was all the more terrified when the little creature inside spoke to him through the box’s chicken-wire window. She screamed. She cursed him. She yelled that she would drink his blood and bite his kidney. Her skin was so pale that it literally glowed and with sickness in his stomach, he realized the girl resonated a black aura. She was walking death - a bona fide, genuine vampire.
“All right, Marielle. That’s enough.”
Sarge kicked the side of the little prison with his hulking boot. The vampire girl cowered into a corner of the container at the sound of his voice. Sarge threw the cover back on top, grabbed the terrified baseball scout by the arm, and pulled him out of the room.
Needless to say, Decker left France on the first boat back home. He conferred with DuCane about the powerful prospects he found there, but wavered when asked how confident he was that they would sign with the Whispers. After Sarge’s presentation to him in Cordes-sur-Ciel, Decker did not know how to answer the question.
The following October, Clyde enjoyed an outside lunch at Brown’s Cafe, a quaint Wilmington restaurant with a view of the Brandywine River. He was going over his picks for the afternoon horse races when he was interrupted by an unexpected visitor.
“Those oysters sure look tasty, Mr. Decker.”
Clyde glanced up to see Mink Cosgrove in front of him. Mink wore sunglasses and a wide smile that moved with every chew he gave his gum. Clyde laughed loudly and offered him a seat. The scout immediately called over his waiter and told him to bring another order of oysters on the half-shell.
“Mink Cosgrove! I must admit that I did not think I would ever lay eyes on you again. You look great! How are Sarge and Tanner?”
Mink’s smile faded.
“Sir, Charles Tanner did not make it. He was killed in action over in France.”
Decker’s chest felt deflated. He could say nothing. Even though he had only met Tanner briefly, he was truly saddened by the news of his death. The world could be such a wicked place, a cruel joke.
After a long silence, Clyde extended his condolences to Mink. He was afraid to ask, but he finally coaxed the words out into the open.
“And the sergeant? What about Sarge?”
Mink’s ear-to-ear grin returned along with the furious gum-chewing.
“Well, you can ask him yourself.”
At that moment, Decker felt a shadow cast across him and he half-turned in his chair to find Sarge Safran looming over him. The man stared out across the river, his short-cropped hair covered by a flannel driver’s cap. He wore a dark cable-knit sweater and a question suddenly popped in Clyde’s mind: Where does a man as huge as the Sarge find clothes that fit him?
Sarge held his massive right hand out to Decker and the scout caught a glimpse of the tattoos surrounding his wrist. Clyde stood and shook hands with the toughest guy he would ever have the pleasure to call a friend. Although he hid it from Safran and Mink well, Clyde’s throat went dry when he saw a small grin appear on Sarge’s solemn face.
“Say, Hey, Mr. Decker. What’s the rumpus?”
Clyde failed to make an appearance at the horse track that night. He was too busy introducing two American soldiers to every speak-easy known in the port city of Wilmington. It was a night of no limits, a night not to be forgotten, and a night that began a great friendship between an athletic scout and a couple of soon-to-be players for the Wilmington Whispers Carnival Baseball Team.
4. Whispers vs. Bombers
When the waitress in the Baltimore diner brought Sarge the check, he left the money on the table along with a hefty tip. He checked his wrist watch, retrieved his pork pie hat and threw Mink’s hat to him. Mink covered his cloudy eyes with his sunglasses and the pair strolled out of the diner into the bustling city morning. They made quite a spectacle together, the thin, small Mink and the herculean Sarge. Occasionally a passerby would glance at them and realize who Sarge was. People were awestruck at the sight of him. Sarge was a celebrity and Mink always felt his best when he was spotted with him. He knew he amounted to what could be defined as sidekick status, but Mink could care less. He basked in Sarge’s glory. From time to time, he caught bits of the hushed talk when people passed.
“That’s Sarge Safran, the Babe Ruth of Carnival Ball! There he goes!”
Once in a blue moon, Mink heard someone mention his name, too. After all, for an older pitching coach, he was not too shabby himself. With a lifetime ERA of 2.2, he could still put the fires out when the Whispers needed him.
His arm always felt great. It was his damn eyes that were failing him. The chemicals the army used on them during his missions in Belgium and France were finally catching up with him. They allowed him to see in pitch black as if it were high noon and that was certainly the kind of ability to have when your job was spotting vampires on nightly prowls, but now it seemed his vision was fading and he suffered from booming headaches unless he wore his shades. For the first time in his life, Mink Cosgrove felt his age - and it scared him.
Five blocks later, the two were allowed into the visiting locker room at Edgar Allen Poe Park, the Bomber’s stadium near Inner Harbor. They found a few of their teammates there as well, even though they still had a full hour until they were required to suit up. Sarge scanned the crew that was already present: Catcher Jimmy “No Legs” Ruben stood (or what counted as standing for a man with no legs) next to the Whispers bat boy, Mickey the Midget; Pitchers Lil Boner, Haney Mane, Marty Wood, and Rube Robinson crowded around a folding card table involved in a game of spades; Third baseman Erv Bream chatted with the janitor next to the towel rack, and center fielder Kid “Crazy Legs” McCoy was sprawled out on a wooden bench reading Life magazine. The place reeked of medicinal balms and feet.
Sarge grabbed a piece of loose paper and pencil from the counter and wrote down his starting lineup and batting order:
1 Kid McCoy - centerfield
2 Erv Bream - third base
3 Dane Dugas - shortstop
4 Sarge Safran - first base
5 Savoy Special - left field
6 Biscuit Wagner - right field
7 Ralph Sankey - second base
8 James Ruben - catcher
9 Rube Robinson - pitcher
The head coach looked the list over and sighed. It was only July and already the Whispers were having a tough year keeping players. Carnival League rules allowed twenty to a team, but the Whispers were down to sixteen heads. They were a tough bunch and would never complain, but even hard eggs like them would eventually break going through a grinder of a season like the current one. They lost Jesuit Sawyer to a shark attack in early May (don’t ask) and the left-handed knuckle baller Rex Wildblood left them for a woman on the first day of June.
A telegram from owner Mark DuCane had met Sarge at his hotel when he arrived in Baltimore on Friday. It read that two pitchers were on their way, but that was forty-eight hours ago. There was no follow-up message on the matter and the promised pitchers had yet to appear. The team was breaking down. Even the trusty Wonderboy was out of commission.
Sarge thanked his lucky stars that it was Sunday, which was fortunate for two reasons. First, it was the last of the three-game series with Baltimore. Second, Carnival Ball rules strictly forbade any use of the supernatural on Sunday. If a team was caught using a hex, summoning demons, or possessing other players, they forfeited the game. A day of baseball without a bunch of hocus pocus was a good day in Sarge’s book.
The one problem that Sarge faced as head coach during Sunday games was keeping an eye on Simon Says. The only Wilmington player who possessed prohibited Sunday powers, Simon Says was the Whispers witch doctor. (Clyde Decker was the one who had created the name for him since no one on the team could pronounce his native one).
Sarge delegated the job of keeping Simon out of trouble to Mink. It was not that Simon would intentionally cheat. He simply could not help himself. He used his powers whenever possible. It was his nature. Sarge was also fairly certain that the Tanzanian understood almost nothing that went on around him. He was, however, the best spirit man in the league who could also lay down one mean drag bunt.
Sarge chuckled to himself as he wrote down the reserve player’s names. His pencil suddenly froze in place and the tip snapped when a thought of panic raced through his head:
Where was Simon Says?
He swiveled around the room. All the other players were ambling in and were starting to dress in their away uniforms (light gray wool with with “Wilmington” in navy blue stitched across the chest), but there was no smell of burning incense, no shrunken head on a stick, and no witch doctor with the given name “Simon Says” to be found.
Mink’s shoelace broke off in his hand when Sarge yelled his name across the locker room. His foot slipped off of the long, wooden bench and he bit his tongue when his chin connected with his knee. He looked up to see Sarge at the back of the dressing area, his massive chest rising and falling with each breath. With a wild look on his face, Sarge held a crumpled piece of paper and a broken pencil. Mink’s shaded eyes connected with Sarge’s and they both said the name at the same time.
“Simon.”
Mink kicked his baseball cleats off and stripped away his uniform. He hopped around the room on one foot as he pulled on his street pants and grabbed a plain buttoned-down shirt hanging from his locker. He slid his feet into a pair of Oxfords sans socks before he spoke. Words shot out of his mouth as he hustled towards the exit.
“I’ll check the police blotters and the soda jerks and the trollies. Dammit, Sarge! I’ll find him!”
Only his shadow was visible through the light of the swinging back door when Sarge yelled after him.
“And check the zoo, too! That’s where I found him that time in Atlanta!”
The back entrance swung closed and every member of the Whispers team stayed as still as possible. They exchanged glances and raised their eyebrows or sucked air through gritted teeth to try and communicate. They dared not talk. Even wise-cracking Mickey the Midget kept his trap shut. He had learned his lesson the hard last season when Sarge stuffed him in a trash can and sent him rolling down a West Virginia hill.
The head coach stood there, looking at the back door for what felt like an eternity. He suddenly snapped out of his trance and twenty-four spiked feet (and two stubs, courtesy of “No Legs” Ruben) slipped and slid across the concrete floor towards the field entrance when he bellowed, “What the hell are you clowns waiting for? An invitation? Get your asses out there for some batting practice!”
Sarge was left alone with the custodian who was doing everything he possibly could to look busy at arranging towels. The coach picked up a still-burning cigar butt that fell out of Ralph Sankey’s mouth when he fled for the field. He looked the stogie over for a moment and then took a long pull from its tattered end. He blew smoke over his head and then pitched it to the corner of the room. Sarge walked towards the unmistakable sounds of wooden bats and the slap of glove leather. He mumbled the words that gave him the greatest meaning in life. They were also the words that gave him the most sleepless nights and heartache, too.
“Carnival Ball.”
Sarge jogged up the the three steps of the visitor’s dugout into a clear July day in the city of Baltimore. He pulled his wool ball cap down almost to his eyebrows and popped his uniform’s collar so it stood straight up. He felt the fresh cut grass under his spikes and as hard as he tried, he could not help but smile. All of the headaches and the worries and the babysitting were worth it to feel what was inside him at that moment.
He took it all in. Thanks to the hot streak that the Bomber’s were currently riding and the fact that their three-game series was split one and one, Poe Park was already packed. He heard that it sat fifteen thousand fans and it was shaping up to be a sell-out crowd.
The Bomber’s black and orange banners hung from all three tiers of the horseshoe shaped seating. Men stripped off their jackets and were rolling up their cuffs thanks to the early day heat. Straw boaters were in abundance and Sarge could see women making little fans out of their programs. The entire crowd seemed to sway with their movement. Vendors ran through the aisles selling sausages wrapped in rolls and bottles of Coca-Cola.
In that moment Sarge forgot about Simon Says. He left behind his father’s death, the falling out with his brother Mycroft, the death of Tanner, the War. They meant nothing to him when he hit the field. Some people thanked God for their blessings, but Sarge thanked Captain Robert Astor for making all of it possible and allowing him to be a part of something that made him human again.
Sarge heard the familiar sound of Savoy Special’s pistons fire off. He looked over towards third base and saw Doctor Bismark tinkering with the robot. The doctor was a short guy, a little over five feet tall, so he had to use a step ladder to reach Savoy’s chest. Its iron body plate hung wide open and the exposed whirling gears and springs shot little sparks onto the grass. A mad rush of kids surged forward to get a better look. They all wore smiles and looks of wonder. They pointed at the mechanical left fielder as he hummed to life. A black cloud of smoke shot out of the vent at the top of its head and as soon as Bismark closed up Savoy’s chest, the mechanical man took off and jogged around the bases.
A few hisses rose from the crowd, but they were drowned out by a wave of laughs and applause. No matter where the Whispers played, everyone seemed to love and marvel over Savoy Special and Wonderboy, the only robots currently in the Carnival Ball League. Sarge watched Bismark, who stood with the step ladder folded under his arm, beam at his creation. The little German scientist was another of Clyde’s recruits, lured to Carny Ball with the promise of citizenship in America and a laboratory of his own thanks to Mark DuCane. Sarge liked Dr. Bismark and got a kick out of his wild white hair and walrus mustache. He would never forget the time he saw the doctor late one night in their hometown club room.
Sarge had forgotten his wallet after a game and went back to retrieve it from his locker. He heard Bismark talking and when he peeped around the corner, he saw the Doc standing in front of his two robots. Wonderboy and Savoy Special were seated on the bench and were turned off. Their arms dangled next to them and they were hunched over. The Doctor was telling them how proud he was of them and how much he loved his two boys. The scene made Sarge’s heart hurt and he quietly slipped away without his bill fold. He never told anyone about it, not even Delilah.
The coach walked over to Bismark and he put his giant hand on the scientist’s shoulder.
“Savoy sure looks good, Doc. How is Wonderboy?”
Bismark waved his hand in the air and in a thick German accent said, ”Bah. He’ll be fine. After today’s baseball contest I will have more time to get him back up. I expect no more than two days, three days at the most.”
Sarge patted him on the back and thanked him for all of his hard work. Sarge knew full well that without Bismark and his fancy iron baseball players, the Whispers would not be holding the second place spot of the North Division.
Sarge spied Russ McNatt, Baltimore’s head skipper ambling over to the scorekeeper area with his lineup. Sarge trotted over to meet him.
“Hey, Russ. How’s Tricks?”
The short and pudgy coach pulled out a tobacco plug, bit off a piece and offered it to Sarge, who declined. He decided it was going to get too hot for chew.
“Say hey, Sarge. I don’t know about you and your crew, but my boys are plum tired. This series took it out of ‘em.”
Sarge always got along with Russ. The Baltimore coach was a straight shooter and, with the exception of Hooligan Pete, Coach McNatt would not tolerate any shenanigans from his players.
“Yeah. I know what you mean, Russ. Mink’s out running around town looking for our witch doctor. He took a powder and that can mean trouble.”
McNatt spat a big line of tobacco juice out of one side of his mouth and let a howl out of the other. Sarge noticed a permanent brown stain next to the “s” in “Bombers” on his uniform.
“How did two eggs like us end up in this line of work, Sarge?”
Sarge chuckled and squinted at the sun.
“I guess it was luck, Russ.”
McNatt smiled.
“Yeah. I reckon’ you’re right.”
Both coaches were waved over to home plate by the head umpire, Gus Sawchenko. He stood there with the other three men that made up the field officials. Carnival Baseball umpires wore black blazers, gray slacks, a black ascot and large stovepipe hats. Players and fans assigned them the nickname “pallers” because they looked so much like pallbearers from a lost era.
Sawchenko was tall and lanky. He shaved away what little hair he still kept and underneath the Lincoln-like top, he was completely bald. He was very pale, so much so that when he was out of ear shot, he was called “Professor Powder.” If a coach or player were in the mood to get tossed from a game by Sawchenko, calling him Prof Powder would have gotten the job done. Once Sarge and McNatt joined the pallers, Sawchenko emphasized the golden seventh day rule.
“Gentlemen. As you know, this is Sunday, and as such, there will be no spiritual powers utilized on the field. Is that understood?”
Coach McNatt turned his head and spat.
“Yes, Sir. Only player on our lineup with that kind of juice is Mo Chin.”
Russ threw a thumb behind his back and Sarge’s eyes followed it towards the stone statue of an ancient Chinese soldier standing at attention next to the Bomber’s dugout. Sarge was glad that Chin would not be playing. He had knocked a couple of No Legs’s teeth loose during a close play at the plate the day before. A couple of kids were climbing all over the now lifeless sculpture. They were goofing off.
Sarge chimed in.
“Sir, our only spirit guy, Simon Says, isn’t even here today. You won’t have any problems from us.”
Sawchenko smiled.
“At any rate, Umpire Finberg is in the centerfield tower, making certain. Gentlemen, let’s play some Carnival Ball.”
Sarge and Russ shook hands and they both walked to their dugouts. The stadium began a round of applause as the Bombers’ starting players took to the field, and they went positively wild when Hooligan Pete strutted up to the mound and began to throw warmup pitches. Wilmington’s two rookie pitchers seated in the bullpen felt a pang of trepidation when the dreaded Hooligan chant from the Baltimore crowd reached their ears. They had heard nothing like it.
“Hoooooooolllllllllllllllliiiiiiiiiiggggggaaaaaaaaannnnnnnnnnn!”
Every club in the league had their special ways and traditions. When the Hooligan hit the field, Bombers fans loved to express theirs.
Hooran “Hooligan” Pete was one of Carnival Ball’s true greats and was a huge draw for the sport. He was one of the only players in the history of the game that crossed over from the “true” professional major leagues into Carnival League, although it was not by his choosing. As an outfielder for the Pittsburgh Pirates, he had a respectable career and played alongside Honus Wagner when that baseball club won the nation’s title in 1909.
Pete’s career difficulties in the major leagues arose when people took notice that he never seemed to age. Five, ten, then fifteen years went by and Pete could still be found playing and looking like a young rookie. Suspicions led to inquiries into his past as reporters of the steel town dug around for any information on Hooligan’s life before professional baseball. What they unearthed made no sense whatsoever.
Although none was ever able to discover a birth certificate or archival records of Hooligan’s childhood, they did find papers, letters, and even photographs of Hooligan fighting for the 20th Maine under Joshua Chamberlain during the Civil War. This struck everyone odd since that would mean that Hooligan was at least eighty years old, yet he did not look a day over twenty-nine. The reporters found unmistakable proof though, that it was the same man. A photograph taken at Gettysburg on the third day of that tragic battle clearly showed Hooligan standing with a group of Union soldiers, his trademark mustache freshly waxed, his hair parted down the middle, and the scar across his left cheek shining brightly in the sun. One old and yellowed photo also showed him standing in the background of a Union encampment as Abraham Lincoln shook hands with a now forgotten United States Senator. It was definitely Hooligan, his feet crossed, leaning on a baseball bat and smirking at the camera.
As soon as he was confronted with the evidence, Hooligan disappeared from Pittsburgh like jobs after Black Friday. No one saw hide nor hair of him until twenty years later. The Baltimore Bombers of the North Division announced to the Carny Ball world that Hooligan Pete was returning to the game. By that time, Hooligan was a mythical lore. He was a supernatural tale told to children before bed.
The city of Baltimore closed all government offices the day Hooligan reappeared to sign with the Bombers. Thousands crowded the street in front of Poe Park. A hush fell across them as Pete addressed the masses. He had not aged a day since he left the Pittsburgh locker room back in 1910. His words were brief and to the point.
“Ladies and gentlemen of Baltimore, The Hooligan is back in baseball!”
With that statement, Pete pulled out of his back pocket his old Pirates cap and showed it to the crowd. The letter “P” for Pittsburgh displayed on its front had been transformed into a “B” for Baltimore thanks to a curve of orange stitching. The Gazette printed a giant photo of the baseball cap on the front page of its afternoon paper. Copies of it can still be found hanging in certain Baltimore pubs and restaurants.
Hooligan was not a bad man, but he could be a downright dirty ball player. Famous for ending the careers of at least four catchers, he refused to slide into bases. When it was going to be a close play at a bag or home plate, Hooligan would bear his huge shoulders down and run clean through members of the opposing team.
When a Baltimorean theorized that the immortal Hooligan Pete was one of the thieves crucified with Jesus, another quipped a reply.
“Nah. It couldn’t have been Hooligan. He would have knocked Christ off his cross to get the better position.”
He could hit. He could run. And the worst thing was, he could pitch. Hooligan did not have much junk, but he could rear back and throw heat all day long. Sarge watched him from the visitor’s dugout and knew that pulling off a Wilmington win in Baltimore with the Hooligan on the mound was not going to be an easy feat at all.
The lead-off hitter for Wilmington, Kid McCoy, stepped up to the plate to begin the game. Hooligan made quick work of him. McCoy fouled off two bunt attempts and then fanned at a scorching fastball. “Crazy Legs” McCoy was so fast that he could steal a base before a pitch hit the catcher’s glove. To accomplish that task, however, he had to reach first base. Instead, he was the first out. Erv Bream, the bruiser from Boston popped up to the Bomber’s first baseman and Dane Dugas struck out. When the sides changed and Whispers pitcher Rube Robinson began to throw his stuff, it became quite clear to everyone in attendance that the game was going to be a pitching duel.
Rube was young. He was only nineteen years old and was all height and no weight. Rube’s uniform hung on him like a burlap sack and his long blonde hair stuck out from under his cap. It seemed to cover his eyes like a sheep dog. Rube was a lefty with decent heat, but he possessed a skill set that made him almost untouchable. When young Rube concentrated, he could make things disappear. The effect would not last long, only a fraction of a second, but it was an invaluable trait.
It was a tough accomplishment to hit a baseball hurled at eighty-five miles an hour, but it was nearly impossible to hit one when it suddenly vanished as it made its way to the plate. Hitters found themselves watching his windup only to hear the smack of the catcher’s mitt behind them as the ball found its target. They wouldn’t even catch a glimpse of the thing.
Robinson could not make the ball vanish every pitch and if he did it too much, he would get nosebleeds. Sarge always kept an eye on his young ace to make certain the kid didn’t push himself too hard. The coach promised that much to the boy’s mother. If there was ever any sign of strain, Sarge pulled Rube off the mound with no excuses, but so far, the rookie was having an outstanding first season with six straight wins.
Rube mowed down Baltimore’s Ghost Wheeler and Rand Jeter. As he worked on big left-handed rookie, Pie McBride, Pete Hooligan called out from the Bomber’s dugout to Sarge. Sarge was, as always, playing first base.
“Hey, Safran!”
Sarge glanced over to see Hooligan sipping water from a metal ladle at the edge of Baltimore’s bench. He found Hooligan’s waxed mustache and parted hair strange. It was out of place, like Hooligan just stepped through time. Of course, the man technically had.
“Say Hey, Pete.”
“Looks like it’s going to be one those days, old timer.”
Sarge thought that line was rich coming from a guy who was probably a hundred years old.
“Yeah. It looks it.”
“I heard your jungle doctor man went splits-ville on you. Coach said Mink was out looking for him.”
Sarge was getting tired of the back and forth and was pretty certain Hooligan knew something he didn’t. The Whispers coach felt a punchline was coming.
Pete took a long pull from the water ladle. His mustache came up wet.
“Hey, Sarge. You don’t think it would have anything to do with Ty Cobb being in town would you?”
The little hairs on the back of Sarge’s neck stood at attention. His face went flush with heat.
“Well, I sure hope everything works out for you, Sarge. Good luck today.”
Sarge worked to keep his cool and his anger in check. Pete was trying to get a rise out of him and he knew it. He also knew, as well as Pete did, that if Ty Cobb was in Baltimore, there was no doubt Simon Says was out in the streets stalking him like an unstoppable lion.
Simon’s bizarre obsession with Cobb was due solely to the witch doctor’s most precious possession and the Whispers secret weapon: Chew-on Man.
Sarge’s mind raced over the possibilities and he almost missed the dribbler that that came off of the end of McBride’s bat. He tagged first for the third out of the inning and raced to the dugout. Sarge had to figure out a way to send word to Mink about how big of a pickle they were actually in.
When Sarge was safely out of the public eye, he yelled for Lil Boner, one of the the Whispers relief pitcher. Boner’s real name was Lilden Bonaparte, but it was quickly shortened after word from the Wilmington East Side brothels got back to his teammates about a certain physical endowment Lilden possessed. Boner was famous for his sidearm knuckleball that was so slow unsuspecting batters actually dislocated shoulders swinging at it.
“Boner! Get off your ass and go find Mink. Tell him that Ty Cobb is in town and find out where that son of a bitch is staying. Hopefully, Simon ain’t got to him yet.”
Lil gave Sarge a salute and trotted down the hallway through the locker room and out the back door, uniform, spikes, and all. Lil had no idea how to find Mink and he could make no sense out of anything his coach had just told him, but he knew that when Sarge ordered you to perform a task, you simply did it. The waif-like pitcher received all kinds of stares from the fans and vendors that lingered outside of the stadium as he jogged past them yelling at the top of his lung for Mink.
Sarge snatched a bat from the extended hands of Mickey the Midget and angrily stomped to the plate. He was the clean-up hitter for Wilmington. As mad as he was, all he wanted to do was hit something and hit it hard. The boos and hisses from Baltimore rang out when he passed the dugout’s shadow onto the field. He paid them no mind. Sarge was now focused on Hooligan, who stood on the mound with his glove on his hip. Hooligan smiled, and Sarge was determined to wipe it clean off his face.
Hooligan Pete came at Sarge from a full windup and his hand almost scraped the ground as he delivered his pitch. Sarge knew Hooligan would try to jam him to the inside, so he shuffled away from the plate. Sarge slammed the incoming fastball with a vicious, tight-fisted swing. The baseball cleared right field in a hurry and sailed high over Rand Jeter’s head. It bounced off of an orange and black banner and dropped into the second tier of outfield bleachers. The second base paller raised his hand and twirled his finger. Poe Park went quiet as Sarge’s huge frame ran around the bases. No one had ever hit a home run like that in Baltimore, especially against the Hooligan. Sarge was not called the Babe Ruth of Carny Ball for nothing.
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