Playing Ball Read online

  COPYRIGHT

  Published by

  Dreamspinner Press

  5032 Capital Circle SW

  Suite 2, PMB# 279

  Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886

  USA

  http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of author imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Playing Ball

  © 2013 Dreamspinner Press.

  Edited by Grace McCullough

  Home Field Advantage © 2013 Shae Connor.

  One Last Road Trip © 2013 Kerry Freeman.

  Wild Pitch © 2013 Marguerite Labbe.

  One Man to Remember © 2013 Kate McMurray.

  Cover Art

  © 2013 Aaron Anderson.

  [email protected]

  Cover content is for illustrative purposes only and any person depicted on the cover is a model.

  All rights reserved. This book is licensed to the original purchaser only. Duplication or distribution via any means is illegal and a violation of international copyright law, subject to criminal prosecution and upon conviction, fines, and/or imprisonment. Any eBook format cannot be legally loaned or given to others. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the Publisher, except where permitted by law. To request permission and all other inquiries, contact Dreamspinner Press, 5032 Capital Circle SW, Suite 2, PMB# 279, Tallahassee, FL 32305-7886, USA, or http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/.

  ISBN: 978-1-62798-175-0

  Digital ISBN: 978-1-62798-176-7

  Printed in the United States of America

  First Edition

  September 2013

  TABLE OF CONTENTS

  One Man to Remember by Kate McMurray

  Home Field Advantage by Shae Connor

  One Last Road Trip by Kerry Freeman

  Wild Pitch by Marguerite Labbe

  ONE MAN TO REMEMBER

  KATE MCMURRAY

  “You can keep the things of bronze and stone and give me one man to remember me just once a year.”

  —Damon Runyon

  Chapter 1

  New York City, 1927

  THE flower vendor on Forty-Third Street displayed a riot of brightly colored roses and carnations. Walt wiggled his fingers as he tried to choose.

  “Whaddya think of these orange carnations, Mr. Selby?” asked the florist.

  Walt loved them, truth be told. He fingered the yellow rose pinned to his lapel, already starting to wilt a little. “They are lovely,” Walt said. “Such an unusual color.”

  “They’re five cents each, but for you, I’ll take a nickel.”

  Walt chuckled and fished a coin out of his pocket. He tossed it at the florist and then plucked one of the bright orange carnations from its vase. He threw the yellow rose in a bin and fastened the carnation to his lapel.

  He strolled back to the Times building, enjoying the warm spring weather and the brief respite from the chaos of the newsroom. And chaos it was, because as soon as he stepped off the elevator, he was swarmed.

  From the shouting and excitement, Walt was able to discern that Babe Ruth had done something—worn a new hat to a club the night before, by the sound of it, although Walt kept listening, hoping for something baseball-related—and that some kid playing for the Giants had hit two home runs the day before.

  He took off his fedora and ran a hand through his hair. “Pipe down, fellas. One story at a time.”

  It was Reinhold who said, “Who cares about what the Babe wore last night? Aside from Selby, I mean.” He smirked, and it wasn’t an altogether friendly expression. “I hear this kid uptown could be the next Babe Ruth, only he doesn’t like the press much.”

  “Really?” Walt asked, his interest piqued. “If he doesn’t like the press, he’s not much like Ruth.”

  Reinhold nodded. “He’s quiet, I mean. Doesn’t talk much. Avoids reporters. But he hits like Ruth.”

  “No one hits like Ruth,” said Louis.

  “What’s the kid’s name?” asked Walt.

  “Little-something. Littleton?” said Reinhold.

  “Littlefield,” said Louis, derision in his voice. “He’s not for real, though. He had one lucky game.”

  Still, one lucky game was enough to get Walter Selby’s attention.

  THE very next afternoon, Walt caught the Third Avenue El uptown and walked to the Polo Grounds, enjoying the anonymity of mass transit but not especially enjoying the odd looks some of Harlem’s rougher residents kept shooting him. He pulled his hat down so the brim covered his eyes, but he supposed there was no hiding the crisp gray suit nor the flower pinned to his lapel—a purple carnation today—nor the shiny shoes.

  Not that Harlem shunned fashionable people. Far from it; Walt knew from personal experience that the well-dressed congregated on the streets all over the neighborhood. He had been sneaking uptown for years to catch the jazz shows at the Cotton Club, and those nights were always full of the most splendidly appointed people.

  But perhaps he would have been rendered inconspicuous if he’d worn a little less color on the trip uptown to see the Giants play. His red tie probably did not help matters.

  Reasoning that it was too late to do anything about it now, he walked into the stadium and headed for the press box. Ken Smith from the Graphic was standing and gazing out at the field.

  “You hear about this kid from Ohio?” Smith asked.

  “Yep. You think what they say is true?”

  Smith shrugged. “Probably a lot of malarkey. Kid just had a good day.”

  Walt took off his hat and ran a hand over his hair. He glanced at the clock, seeing by the time that the first pitch must have been imminent. He replaced his hat and adjusted his lapels, and then he pulled his notepad and a pencil from his pocket. “Were you here for the game the other day?” he asked.

  Smith nodded. “I was. It was something to see, but the kid is clumsy. Luck was all it was. He doesn’t have the same beauty as Gehrig or the panache of the Babe. He’s a twenty-six-year-old boy from Ohio who had a good day. That’s all.”

  Walt decided to refrain from judging for the time being. Instead, he watched the game begin. He could hear manager John McGraw shouting from the Giants’ dugout, although the sound was soon overwhelmed by the roar of the crowd as the game got underway. Walt walked to his typewriter and ran his fingers over the keys as he listened to the radio fellas starting their broadcast. He sank into his chair with a sigh, prepared to watch and churn out a story about the game.

  Skip Littlefield was again substituting for Freddie Lindstrom at third base, but he’d been put late in the batting order, so he didn’t go up until the second inning. As he stepped up to the plate, Walt leaned forward to watch.

  “Hey, Ken, you got those binoculars?”

  Smith raised an eyebrow but obliged Walt, handing over the pair of binoculars he kept in the press box. Walt took them and fiddled with the focus until he could see Littlefield clearly. The kid held the bat loosely in his hand. He pulled off his cap, revealing a head of thick, dark-blond hair. He wiped his brow with the back of his hand before he pulled the hat back on. This was a kid in tremendous condition, with a body that looked powerful and impressive even under the loose uniform. Walt was hit with a wave of arousal, something not altogether welcome in the context of the baseball game,
but still, this was a kid who had it. Even when he was concentrating on the game, Skip Littlefield exuded a sexuality that resonated with Walt, got his blood pumping.

  He wanted to say something to Ken Smith, but kept his mouth shut.

  The kid swung the bat a few times, just to warm up, and then he walked up to the plate. He narrowed his eyes at the pitcher and tilted his head as if he were making a complicated calculation. He took his batting stance, bending his body at the waist and raising the bat. The pitcher wound up and threw the ball. Walt heard the klok of the bat hitting the ball, and then he watched that ball soar over to left field. It wasn’t a home run, but it was a solid hit, and the outfielders couldn’t get to it in time. Littlefield ran and made it to second base before the Phillies got a handle on the ball. When Walt focused the binoculars on Littlefield again, he had hardly broken a sweat. He stood there with his hands on his hips, his facial expression neutral, maybe even expectant, like this was exactly the outcome he’d planned.

  It wasn’t just luck. That was abundantly clear to Walt.

  “A base hit,” Smith said dismissively. “A lucky shot.”

  Walt stayed quiet. He wanted this story more than anything. The Giants had a secret weapon in a young rookie who could hit the ball like it was his destiny. Walt felt that in his gut. But he waited out the game, watching until the fifth inning, when Skip Littlefield did it again. He missed in the seventh, but got another hit in the ninth.

  Hang Ken Smith, Walt thought. This was not luck. That was skill. Genius. The next Babe Ruth was here in upper Manhattan, and that was a story Walt wanted to write.

  JOHN “SKIP” LITTLEFIELD was not a smart man. He knew this about himself, so it wasn’t a matter of shame so much as fact. There was a reason he was here on a ball field and not writing books in a tower at Harvard—or whatever they did at Harvard; it wasn’t like he’d ever been there. He hadn’t finished school, actually. Didn’t need it, was what he figured, since the plan had always been to go work for his father, who currently owned a repair shop near their home outside Columbus, Ohio. But then it had turned out repair jobs did not come easily to Skip, and he couldn’t quite understand the mechanics of the automobiles his father had lately taken to fixing. And that had left Skip somewhat adrift.

  But Skip had always been good at baseball. He’d played for the school team back when he was still in school. He played with the guys from the repair shop on a team called the Upper Arlington Bolts, a play, Jimmy from the shop had explained, on both the sorts of bolts you used to fix things and lightning bolts, which he’d drawn on the front of each cap before he’d issued it to a teammate. Skip was better at leading his baseball team to victory than he was at repairing cars, that was for certain. Then, one day, a man in a fancy suit pulled him aside after a game and asked if he’d like to play baseball for money.

  Five years later, here he was, sitting in the dugout at the Polo Grounds in New York City of all places. He didn’t care much for the city. He shared an apartment on Third Avenue with two other guys from the Giants, and that was all right, but there was never any silence. Even if his roommates weren’t beating their gums at each other, there were cars and sirens and people talking outside almost constantly. Skip was surprised to find he missed Ohio, too, which was funny because Ohio had never offered him much except opportunities for failure. At least here people thought he was pretty swell because he could hit a baseball.

  “Skip, you’re on deck,” said Mr. McGraw.

  Rogers Hornsby was standing near the edge of the dugout. He slapped Skip on the back and said, “Hit it out of the park,” in his Texas twang.

  Skip took a bat and swung it experimentally. He liked the weight of this one, a little heavier than the bat he’d used in the previous inning. He watched Mel Ott bat; Ott hit the ball right into the first baseman’s glove. Skip had already figured out that the Phillies weren’t playing well when balls were hit near left field, so slugging the ball to the right was a good way to get an out.

  He walked up to the plate and eyed the pitcher. Skip didn’t know the guy’s name, but he’d been watching those pitches from the dugout all through the game. The man liked a fastball, couldn’t really throw anything else effectively. His curveball was slow and tended to go out of the strike zone. Skip had gotten a single in the second inning, but he was more prepared now. He knew if he hit the ball toward the unattended part of the outfield, he should be good for another base hit.

  And so, the pitcher squatted and squinted at Skip, then he wound up, and then he pitched. It was a fastball headed right for Skip’s left hand, so Skip shifted, swung the bat, and connected with the ball, sending it out toward left field just as he wanted, and then the ball just kept going, past the outfielders running for it, and into the stands. Skip ran, but knew he didn’t really need to, that ball was gone. Home run.

  In the locker room after the game, Skip’s roommate Joe slapped his back. “That was a hell of a hit,” he said.

  “Thanks,” said Skip.

  Joe leaned back against his locker. “Don’t wait up for me tonight. I’ve got another date with Estelle.”

  “Oh?”

  Joe grinned. “I’m gonna marry that girl. She’s… she’s swell.”

  Skip laughed. “Swell?”

  “I don’t know what else to call her. She’s a sheba. Like Clara Bow. But even prettier.”

  Skip didn’t like these bull sessions, but he recognized how important they were. His friends wanted to talk about their romantic adventures, and he understood that desire, but he himself kept mum. He didn’t have much to share lately, for one thing, but he also knew that if he were honest about his own desires, his friends would be horrified.

  “Good luck,” he said to Joe.

  Skip changed clothes and headed out of the locker room. In the hall, he saw a man in a dark suit with a pink carnation pinned to his lapel. The man was handsome. He looked wealthy, his clothes expensive, and that made him entirely out of place in a baseball stadium. Skip planned to walk past him, but then the man said, “Mr. Littlefield.”

  Skip was surprised. He’d kept such a low profile he couldn’t imagine anyone would know his name. He turned to the man. “Yes?”

  The man smiled. “I’m Walter Selby.”

  “All right.”

  A look of surprise came over Mr. Selby’s face. “I’m a sports reporter for the Times.”

  That made Skip’s heart seize. “Oh. Nice to meet you.”

  Mr. Selby smirked. “Calm down. You’re getting too excited.”

  Skip let out an exasperated sigh. He recognized the sarcasm, but he had no interest in talking to a reporter.

  “I’ve heard you don’t like the press,” said Selby, “but all I want is a little bit of your time. I—there’s something really special about you. I was at yesterday’s game too, you know, and watching you play is really something else. I’d like to interview you for my paper.”

  “Oh, no. I couldn’t possibly—”

  “I see such potential in you. Obviously the big story this summer is that Murderers’ Row in the Bronx, but we could change the narrative, write a new story. Ruth has been at this a decade. He’s having a hell of a season now, yes, but soon he’ll be the past. You could be the future.”

  “Mr. Selby—”

  “Let me buy you dinner. We’ll talk about baseball. I won’t print anything you don’t want me to print.”

  “I’m just not sure it’s a good idea.”

  Selby took a notepad and a pencil from his pocket. He scribbled something on the pad and then ripped off that sheet of paper. He handed it to Skip, who almost shoved it in his pocket without a glance. Instead, he took a deep breath and looked. There were a lot of words there, and they all started to swim together a bit.

  “The Penguin is a speakeasy off Times Square,” Selby said under his breath. He pointed to a word that started with a P on the page. “Meet me there tomorrow night. I’ll buy you a cocktail. All right?”

  “I’m not sure
—”

  “No one knows who you are, if you’re worried about being recognized in a place that serves hooch. And besides, if the Sultan of Swat, Babe Ruth himself, shows up anywhere else in Times Square, all the reporters will go there. I just want to talk about baseball, honest. That can’t be too difficult, can it?”

  Skip looked at the jumble of words on that piece of paper. “Tell me the address of the place again.”

  Instead of the look of triumph Skip expected to see, a frown crossed Selby’s face. “Fifty-Sixth Street. I wrote it right there.” He pointed.

  Skip recognized the numbers. He could read, a little. He put together which was the street the club was on and which were the cross streets and he nodded, though he also committed the address to memory. Just in case.

  “So you’ll come?” asked Selby.

  Skip looked up into the face of this man who seemed so interested in him. He didn’t know what to make of the attention he was getting. The man was very good-looking, the sort of man Skip had sometimes lusted after before he moved to New York. Nothing like that could happen here and he knew that, but part of him held out some hope.

  “I… yes. I’ll be there.”

  Selby grinned. “Fantastic.”

  Chapter 2

  WALT leaned against the brick facade of a Times Square building and watched Babe Ruth get out of a cab. The Bambino was wearing a clean white suit with a matching fedora tilted at a jaunty angle. Walt always found the contradiction of Ruth—the expensive clothes on the odd, triangular body, with the craggy face that looked like it had been in too many bar brawls—to be quite interesting. But there were plenty of reporters in New York dying to follow Ruth around. Walt had another story to pursue.

  The Penguin Club was around the corner. It wasn’t Walt’s favorite Times Square establishment. It was a little bland, but that was why he’d chosen it—it was safe. He couldn’t imagine a kid like Skip would do well in the sorts of places Walt really liked to go. He was skittish in the baseball stadium; Walt couldn’t imagine him calm in one of the racier clubs.