Libby Hill, Virginia
August 21st, 1907
Morning of the Eastern League Cup Opener
Ivy Maw, the Iron Horse of Halifax, emerged into the morning light of Libby Hill from the shrouded clubhouse concourse. A leather bag full of baseballs thrown loose over one shoulder, his eyes adjusted to the light as an echoing chorus of applause from across the grandstands.
More than four hours before the game, the beautifully-lit, classical-style stadium was bursting at the seams, with policemen fighting off rooters who climbed over one another from the outfield ropes to catch a glimpse of old Iron Horse.
Celestin Robley, in his fifth year of catching Maw, smirked as he emerged behind him, pounding his mit and pulling his cap up to wipe the sweat from his brow. It was going to be a scorcher.
“They’re leading with Nicky, I think,” Robley noted to a pensive Maw, who took his place along the Right Field line to begin loosening his arm. He nodded his head toward the white-and-blue players on the opposite field line. Among them was Nicky Thompson, a 38-year-old outfielder who spent five years with the Rifles, leaving just before Richmond’s only Legacy Cup in 1903.
“No love lost there,” Ivy answered, tossing the ball softly and working the rust out of his fingertips. Thompson was a lazy bastard—smart, but lazy. Could have been a McKenzie if he applied himself.
Maw and Robley made quite the battery—Celestin “The Machine” with is sharp, sarcastic, and often loud-mouthed Massachusetts inflection, and “Iron Horse” with his slow, deliberate, and pensive demeanor. The two never argued—two professionals in the waning days of old baseball—though Robley had done his share of jawing batters, Managers, and umpires in Ivy’s name.
The Rifles and the Whales had particularly bad blood, for reasons no one could really understand. In some ways, the two teams represented the ideologies of their respective geographies; Brooklyn with their industrial and forward-thinking prowess; the flagship of the deadball era, meticulous and imminent. Meanwhile, Richmond represented a fading, pastoral memory of baseball; a stubborn refusal to acknowledge a changing game in a changing world. Gathered around the banners at Libby Hill was an aging roster of heroes like Maw, Holiday, Bennett, and Robley—and on hot Virginia mornings like this one, it was almost enough to make one believe it could be the same forever.
“Open Nicky upstairs,” Robley told Maw as they tossed the ball, nodding toward the Wales dugout. “He can’t lay off that shit.”
“Too risky,” Maw answered. “Corners for Nicky, get some weak contact.”
“With what, your fuckin’ slider?”
“It has a little bit left in it, Robe.”
Robley smiled, throwing the ball a little harder. “Ivy, your slider ain’t slid since 1901.”
With a soft smile in his eyes, Ivy nodded. “Alright. Something high, Robe.”
Robley nodded, dropping his mask down and crouching in the grass. “Something high.”
As the two warmed up, Pitching Coach John Cecil emerged from the dugout, chewing aggressively on a wet cigar, his face red as he leered back to unleash a string of obscenities upon his own players. The players in the dugout seemed to ignore him entirely, as did Robley when he strolled up, large hands in his suspenders.
“Gonna be a hot one, Iron Horse,” Cecil announced, his deep-southern accent pouring out like molasses. He spoke like a preacher, and his voice echoed across the grandstands. He thumped his suspenders. “A glorious meteorological gift from the great Almighty Baptist God, to bring discomfort upon our unacclimated enemy from the Babylonian hellscape of New York.”
Ivy spread a thin smile as he threw a beautifully arcing forkball at Robley’s mit. “Hey John.”
“Poetry, Ivy. God damn Song of Songs, for you to get the start today.”
“Is Matt upset?”
“Who the fuck cares? You let me worry about Holiday. Whales ain’t scared of Holiday, Ivy. But they’re terrified of the fuckin’ Iron Horse.”
A few newspapermen pushed themselves to the ropes blocking off the Right Field line, notepads drawn and pens scribbling, each barking a few questions at the trio.
“As it was ordained by the Almighty,” Cecil bellowed, turning to face the gathering crowd and placing a large hand on Ivy’s shoulder, “Yet you are like the monster in the seas; And you burst forth in your rivers; And muddied the waters with your feet And fouled their rivers.’”
“John,” Ivy said, throwing the ball up in his hand, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“You are Jonah, Iron Horse!” The large, sweating old man grabbed both of Ivy’s shoulders and shook them. “Jonah, in the belly of the Whale!”
“Hey Cecil, we have a ballgame to prepare for, if you don’t mind!” Robley called, annoyed, lifting his mask up.
“You stay out of this!” Cecil bellowed, not bothering to turn his head. “If you had any fuckin’ brains, Robley, you’d be a pitcher!”
“Fair enough.” Robley shrugged. Cecil cast one more serious gaze upon Ivy, as if searching for something in his eyes–he found it, and gave a relieved and confident nod. He slammed the wet cigar back in his mouth, storming back toward the dugout.
Robley and Ivy shared a sardonic smile, and The Machine crouched low once again.
The crowd along the baseline grew into an excited clamor, and the two men halted again to turn and see Tennesee Mears emerge from the clubhouse, to the warm applause of all around him. With his handsome smile and trademark swagger, the talented Center Fielder waved, signed some baseballs, and drifted away from the crown when Bench Coach Joshua Price barked at him to get his act together.
“Hey fellas,” Mears said with a warm smile, letting his bag fall away from his broad shoulders. “Great day for a ballgame.”
“Hey Ten’,” Ivy answered, executing his trademark high-kick windup and delivering a sweeping curveball to Robley.
Sweetheart Scranton was hot on Mears’s heels—and as the 5’9” shortstop appeared, the crowd grew into an even higher degree of fervor—particularly among the female observers. Scranton grinned like a fool, leaning on his bat and waving out at his worshippers.
Robley, annoyed, surrendered to the lull in warmups and lifted his mask once more, walking over to the gathering circle of ballplayers.
“Three hours ‘til first pitch, boys. You all gonna start selling sausages, or can we get ready for this ballgame?”
Mears laughed. “The Machine!”
“Fuck off,” Robley answered, pushing his mit into Mears’s chest, “and go warm up. You’re playing Brooklyn, big guy.” He turned, with a frown, to Scranton, “And you—Sweetheart—if you don’t lay off that junk shit you love missing so much, they’re going to cut you down like a sapling today. Get your head out of your asshole, Scranton.”
Frowning, Scud shook his head and motioned for Mears to depart with him. The crowd cheered as they walked toward Center Field to begin their own warmup.
“A little harsh,” Ivy noted as he set in again.
Robley shrugged. “It’s their first playoff game, Ivy. Gotta give ‘em someone to be pissed at besides the Whales.”
“My first was against the Whales, too.” Ivy said thoughtfully, rolling the baseball in his hand and delivering a sharply-cutting forkball. Robley nodded, satisfied with the pitch, and tossed it back. 1901. What a year that was—cut short by Brooklyn. Always Brooklyn.
After a few more well-placed pitches, Robley stood and jogged over to Maw.
“Looks good, Ivy. Looks real good.”
“It’s shit.”
Robley shrugged. “Fastball’s gone. Curveball’s gone. But you don’t need it, Ivy. You’re one of the best there ever was. Just use that big head of yours.”
Inhaling slowly through his nose, Ivy turned to survey the opposing team—his oldest adversary since 1896—the Brooklyn Whales. The Leviathan. “I don’t know, Robe. I have a bad feeling about today.”
38 years old, a master of the mound, and a true pioneer in finesse pitching, Ivy knew his time was ending. He knew what it meant to start today—knew the faith and loyalty of his Manager—knew the trust of his team, which he had been part of since long before anyone else—management included. Ivy Maw was the Rifles—it encapsulated his personality and adult life. But he could tell, eerily similar to when he first replaced the long-forgotten Phil Ledford as the Ace; his time was near. Ego and idealism could only take it so far.
“Fuck them,” Robley said, lilting his head toward the Whales. “It’s like Cecil said—you’re Jonah. Or—what’s that book with the whale? The Dick Whale?”
“Moby Dick.”
“Exactly. That’s Moby Dick, Iron Horse. They kill that thing in the end, right?”
Ivy smiled softly, placing a hand on Robley’s shoulder. “Yeah, pal. They sure do.”