June 30, 1901
Field of the Whales
Brooklyn, New York
6:00 PM
Blanketed by rage and whiskey on a chilly summer evening, Marques Williams, the manager of the Brooklyn Whales, tolerated his unwanted visitor with all of the practiced grace of a hippopotamus attempting to use cutlery. At 6’4” and 220 pounds, just about the only thing larger than Williams in the Legacy Baseball League was his own ego.
Seething at the indignity of receiving instruction from this nebbish man—a man completely ignorant of the nuances of the game Williams had devoted his life to—Williams shook with anger. Williams believed himself to be a peerless baseball mind—the greatest manger alive.
“Who could be considered better,” he obsessively wondered most nights. “Arrington in Philadelphia? That asshole lucked into the greatest ballplayer alive and Williams’ team still took the pennant from him in 1900 and nearly took the Legacy Cup from him in 1895. Victors in Detroit? Cocksucker hadn’t won his division in the 20th century despite having McCoy and Coats anchoring his lineup.”
Besides, Williams had work to do. His team had just dropped Game 5 of the Legacy Cup to the Twin City Empire and now was losing the Cup 3 games to 2.
“Mr. Williams, thank you in advance for your time and attention. Before we begin, I would appreciate your discretion. This request is one of a… sensitive… nature. I first wanted to say that, on behalf of Mr. Barclay, thank you for the impeccable job that you have done managing the team this year. Your success has been of immeasurable benefit to Mr. Barclay’s balance sheet.”
After a long, angry silence with none of the tight choreography of social pleasantries that Landon Kerr, general manager of the Brooklyn Whales and personal accountant to the team’s owner, had anticipated or expected, Landon continued. “To that end, I was wondering if you would entertain the notion of… allowing the Twin City team to win this series?”
Marques’ skin grew redder and a capillary in his eye popped like a fresh pimple.
“You see, the bonuses the team is obligated to pay the players for winning the Eastern League are already going to imperil the progress that I have made with respect to Mr. Barclay’s creditors. The bonuses for winning the Legacy Cup would be untenable… If, however, the ballclub would be willing to wait until Game 9… that would be a most optimal outcome. The extra gate receipts would be most helpful to Mr. Barclay.”
The sheer audacity of the request was of course lost on someone who cared little about baseball. To Marques, however, it was a question tantamount to asking the Pope if Jesus had pigtails.
“Get the fuck out of my office, you weasely little asshole.”
“No, no, you misunderstand me, Mr. Williams. I mean no offense. It’s just, you see…”
Erupting to his feet like an incensed grizzly, Marques hurled a glass—not quite empty of whiskey—just over the head of his general manager. The glass exploded behind the general manager—it’s brilliant, menacing arc thwarted by the unyielding wall of the office.
“I said ‘Get the fuck out of my office. You. Weasely. Little. Asshole.’” Each word was more poisonous than the last.
Realizing the dangerous position in which he had placed himself—alone at night with a rampaging giant—Landon’s survival instincts were aroused and he stood to excuse himself quickly. “Right, well, think about it please, Mr. Williams.”
July 1, 1901
Field of the Whales
Brooklyn, New York
7:00 AM
Alone in the locker room were two stubborn men old in baseball years—one 64 and one 42—that despite their age difference had more in common than not. Neither had followed a conventional path to where they currently sat, and neither were anywhere but where they were always meant to be. The success that each had found was owed mostly to stubbornness—an unwilling to live a life outside of the game they loved—and to sheer force of will. By no real coincidence, they had arrived at this moment together. Mirror images, each 6’4” and creaky in both body and spirit, the two men sat quietly together in solemn reverence and quiet appreciation for where they were and the stakes of what lay before them.
As was his process, Marques arrived early to the ballpark to begin working through his own unique blend of spite—all of the grievances and perceived slights that accumulated over a life in baseball—and strategy—all of the potential feints and counter-feints that he may need to employ—until his mind was clear and his purpose was defined.
As he always did, Alberto “Pappy” Webb, unlikely anchor of the Eastern League’s championship rotation, arrived early to the ballpark to begin his regimen of icing and stretching that, if done just right, allowed him to will his body into performing as he wanted. The aging hurler had thrown 21 pitches in Game 1 of the Cup after spending six weeks on the injured list nursing a shoulder injury. A week later, it was a struggle for him to raise his arm over his head. For the first time in his long career—a career that had taken him from one coast to the other and back—he was not sure his routine was going to be enough to get his arm to cooperate.
“Pap, how’s that fucking arm of yours?” Marques asked. After receiving a stoic, but nevertheless unmistakable wince from Webb, he continued. Williams thought it was best not to linger on that look too long.
“Today’s our last home game in this waking fucking nightmare of a series. I need you out there. We need that heavy fucking ball of yours. God bless him, but those try-hard Western cocksuckers are knocking Richardson all over the fucking park. Harris could barely walk after yesterday’s game. Spent the whole fucking game running sprints back to the centerfield wall.”
The manager rose and began pacing. His speech was nominally addressed to his pitcher, but was mostly an attempt to exorcise what had been troubling him.
“I am getting tired of watching those smug Eskimo fucks run all over our God damned bases. And, Pap, you know I am telling the truth when I say that I would rather have Satan fuck my immortal soul right in its ugly, glowing blue ass than drop another game at home to these fucks. If we win today, we head west tied. If we do that, Pap, we have a shot at showing those sons of bitches’ wives and daughters what hollow husks of men they are stuck with. If we lose today, you might as well tie me to the front of that fucking engine because I will be damned, Pap—damned—if I have to live with myself after spending all fucking spring and summer putting up with you fucking weirdos just to finish in fucking second place. There’s not enough whiskey in all of the boroughs that could help a man keep living with himself after that shit.”
Williams produced from his pocket a set of scribbled thoughts on the Empire’s likely lineup and starting pitcher and handed it to Webb. Alberto took the paper with his good arm, careful to keep the ice carefully balanced on his throwing arm.
“It’s Nemmers today; that grumpy piece of shit,” the incensed manager mused. “You hang with him early, he will cough up this God damned game, Pap. I can good and well guaran-fucking-tee it. They’ve thrown him too much this year. If he tries to push it—even a little—his arm’s going to quit on him faster than a nun-in-heat. Plus, he’s older than dirt, Pap. He’s not timeless like you are. And they keep sending his half-dead, dried-up ass out there every second day because they’ve got no one else. You can break him, Pap. He’s 0 for 2. Bury him. Show him he’s fucking done and send him on his God damned way to selling snakeoil to fucking Midwestern imbeciles.”
Webb, quiet as always, gave the signal to his legs to rise long before his body swung into action.
“OK, Skip, I’ll start loosening up. However I can help.” The ballplayer met the gaze of his manager—eye-to-eye. “Let’s finish what we’ve started here.”
“That’s my guy, Pap,” the old manager said with a thunderous slap on Webb’s back, causing the aged hurler to wince again. “Let’s get to work.”
July 1, 1901
Brooklyn, New York
Field of the Whales
Top of the First
The atmosphere was different than the cornfields and mudpits where Webb had spent most of his career—heavier with expectation.
As he stood astride the rubber in Brooklyn’s stadium, staring in to catcher Deacon Dunkley for the sign, he exhaled for the first time since receiving the ball. A rookie north of 40 was unheard of in the major leagues, but Alberto Webb had done it. He had already won a championship, too. But this one would be different, he thought. He had already beaten the odds. Now, he would have to beat Time itself.
After a shake of his head, Webb started a slow, creaky windup. And, just like he had done tens of thousands of times before, he let it fly.
“Ball,” yelled the umpire. And, with that, the sixth game of the 1901 Legacy Cup had begun.
“Not where it was supposed to go,” thought Webb after missing his target by quite a bit. “Hopefully, this arm loosens up soon.”
The sequence repeated itself with a grimace.
“Ball Two!”
“Ball Three!”
“Ball Four.”
Four pitches and a man on first. Not quite the plan.
Webb windmilled his arm on the mound, waiting for the Empire’s hotshot shortstop, Ralph Bennett, the Million Dollar Ballplayer, to step into the box. He wasn’t quite desperate to loosen up his shoulder, but he wasn’t far from it either.
Another deliberate, creaky windup and the pitch left the bat faster than it had crossed the plate. An RBI double for the powerful Empire hitter. 1-0 Twin City.
By the time the third out was recorded, Twin City had pounced to a 3-0 lead.
Top of the Second Inning
After a 1-2-3 inning, the Whales were set to take the field when their irate manager formed a natural blockade at the top of the dugout steps.
“Listen to me you despondent fucks,” he started. “There are eight more of these fucking things. I’ll be God damned if the rest of them go like that first one did. If that’s the bullshit effort you’re going to give in a God damned championship series, then just fucking put me out of my misery now. That was God damned pathetic. They’ve thrown their punch, though. And we took it on the fucking chin. But, they’re cocky now. Look at that God damned asshole over there in the batter’s circle smirking like a groom on his wedding night. Let’s wipe that fucking smile off of his God damned face. Get your miserable asses out there and hit ‘em back.”
More than used to the tirades of their short-tempered manager, the Whales filed out of the dugout to their spots on the field. They were anxious to shut down the fearsome Empire lineup if for no other reason than to shut their manager up for awhile.
“Pap,” the Whales manager stopped the starting pitcher as he exited the dugout. “Looks like you were working yourself loose out there. How’s that shoulder? We need that ball to fucking sing coming out of your hand—just like always.”
“I’m good, Skip. Shoulder’s good. Got ‘em right where I want ‘em.”
And, true to his word, three Empire batters hit three groundballs and the Whales were at bat again.
Bottom of the Fifth Inning
The confident façade of Twin City’s ace Jim Nemmer was starting to collapse. He was not panicked, but the intimidating aura of ageless domination had dissipated. The Brooklyn squad had landed a number of body blows, but only now was the Western squad starting to wobble. The score was 3-2. The fleetfooted Whales’ CF Max Harris was on second base with one out. Stepping into the batters’ box was Alberto Webb.
He thought back on Williams’ advice. “You hang with him early, he will cough up this God damned game, Pap. I can good and well guaran-fucking-tee it.”
“Maybe the old man is onto something.”
Webb looked down the baseline for the sign that everyone in the stadium knew was coming from the third base coach. “Bunt,” he recognized.
His mind told his hips to square long before they did. But, eventually, they did. And when the Nemmers fastball came off his bat, it had a heck of a lot of spin.
Like a man pulling an icebox, Webb started for first base.
The ball had started towards Nemmers but hit a rock and now was breaking hard towards third. The Empire third baseman, Rocky Poss, nearly overran the ball hopping around the infield like a grasshopper before snagging it with the fingertips of his bare throwing hand. He readied himself to throw; the ancient Whales’ pitcher was hauling down the line and was moving like a man two or three years his younger.
Not quite steady in his platform, Poss nevertheless set to uncork a throw at new Empire first baseman Nate Larrabee, who had joined the team in a trade from the St. Louis Beavers at mid-season. Hustling after the ball and unable to stop swiftly, Nemmers came barreling off the mound at Poss. He tried to avoid the third baseman, but could not quite get out of the way. Nemmers grazed the third bagger as he tried to avoid colliding with his teammate.
Poss uncorked the throw as the pitcher made contact and, in a moment that he would relive in his mind for the rest of his natural life, Poss watched the ball skip off of Larrabee’s glove. Despite the contact, the throw was relatively accurate, but just a little high.
Before the Empire could retrieve the errant throw, Harris had scored from second and Webb stood, breathing heavily, on first base. The game was tied.
Bottom of the Eighth Inning
Still tied, Webb sat on the end of the bench stoically and totally gassed. Two outs and runners on first and second. Nemmers was laboring on the mound, but kept escaping from the Whales’ threats like a savvy pugilist on the ropes.
Team captain, slick fielding, powerful reserve CF David Watson, sat to the elder pitcher’s left. “You OK, Pap?”
“Holding up OK, Cap, but my shoulder won’t last up forever. 15, maybe 20, left in me. The baseball reaper’s calling.”
“Understood, Pap. Thank you for carrying us. Let’s get you a rest.”
“Hey, Skip!” the reserve outfield yelled in Williams’ direction, while rising and grabbing his bat. “Let me give Pap a rest.”
“Well, al-fucking-right. Get in there, Watson. Put this geezer out to fucking pasture.”
“You got it, Skip.”
The captain dug his cleats in hard to the box. He knew he couldn’t miss if Nemmers gave him a good one to hit. He stared out at the old veteran, saw the sweat on his brow and the heavy breathing, and he knew.
What happened next was a story shared by fathers to sons and sons to their sons–from that first violent crack of the bat to the roar of the crowd. The ball launched off the bat and slammed off of the wall in RF above the painted homerun line. As years went by, the hit got harder—the brick wall more and more damaged by its collision with the ball.
As Watson rounded second, he looked back into the home dugout and saw a smirk start to emerge on the stoic pitcher’s face. Watson tipped his hat towards the aging hurler as he rounded third and, for a brief moment, Webb tipped his hat back at him.
As he reached the dugout, the captain brushed passed his exuberant manager.
“Watson, you magnificent bastard. You absolute sonofabitch. Let’s bury these fucks, gentlemen. Let’s bring the fucking fight to Minnesota!” Williams exclaimed in the background as Watson worked his way towards Webb on the end of the bench.
The reserve centerfielder gave a silent nod to the pitcher and reached out to shake his hand. “Thanks, Cap,” the pitcher said and, with a slight, quiet grimace, Webb reached out and gripped back.
“Three more, Pap.”
Top of the Ninth
Nemmers had quickly gotten out of the bottom of the eighth after Watson’s gutpunch of a homerun to break the stalemate. And so, three outs from another Legacy Cup victory, Pappy Webb strode out to the mound. The crowd was raucous, but his inner tempest had been calmed.
“Three more.” He told himself as he grabbed the ball.
The Empire batter steeled himself in the box. He cheated up a bit, knowing that Webb was running out of pitches. The ball had been floating across the plate since the sixth inning.
Dunkley called for a splitter, hoping Webb’s fatigue might make the pitch dive a little more than usual. Instead, the pitch hung and the first Empire batter was aboard after roping a liner passed a diving Anderson Bosshart at shortstop.
“Time,” Dunkley called and worked his way out to the mound.
“Pap, let’s finish it up here, boss. I had a vision last night of us clutching that trophy. Must have been heavensent.”
The old pitcher nodded. He never quite understood the rookie catcher, but he had always been impressed with his natural baseball abilities.
“What’s still working, Pap? Let’s just throw that.”
“I feel pretty good about the fork. Changeup feels OK. Could probably get the fastball over in a pinch.”
“Great, that’s what we’ll throw then. Don’t worry about the rest.” And, with that, the catcher headed back to the plate ready to call the game from the more limited menu of pitches.
The second batter was anxious to jump on the first pitch after watching his teammate wreck Pappy’s splitter into leftfield. But, the bottom dropped out of the forkball late, and he swung on top of the ball, chopping it passed the pitcher’s mound.
Merrill Robinson, the Whales’ second baseman, ranged to his right and snagged the ball on a hop, flipping it towards second base as his momentum carried him beyond the bag. Bosshart was there to snag it and relayed the throw quickly to Blennerhassett at first. Two down.
“One more.”
The first pitch fastball was high and the batter didn’t even move in the box. 1-0.
The forkball missed low, 2-0.
The Empire batter barely missed a lofted changeup that would have been an easy homerun if he connected. 2-1.
Dunkley, nervous at the potential damage that had just been averted, called for a forkball. But, the veteran pitcher shook him off. The next sign was for a fastball. Again, shaken off.
The second changeup in a row was beautiful. Dancing and diving across the plate. Again, a swing, but, unlike the last pitch, the batter never had a chance at it. 2-2.
Webb buried a forkball at the bottom of the zone on the next pitch, but the Empire batter wasn’t fooled. 3-2.
The sign was clear. With a nod, Webb let it go. A pitcher that relied more on guile and an endless number of pitchers—on soft contact rather than overpowering hitters—struck out the last Empire batter with a changeup. A 1-2-3 inning and a new hope in the Legacy Cup.
The Whales were going to Minnesota with the series tied 3-3.
Webb, trying to limp his way back to the dugout, was swarmed by his teammates near the mound. Dunkley hit him first—a perfect form tackle. The order of the rest of them were unclear. But, when the pile dissipated, the man standing there with an extended hand to help him up was Williams.
“Hell of a fucking game, Pap. Hell of a fucking game.”