“I’d like to go by climbing a birch tree,
And climb black branches up a snow-white trunk
Toward heaven, till the tree could bear no more,
But dipped its top and set me down again.
That would be good both going and coming back.
One could do worse than be a swinger of birches.”
–Robert Frost, Birches, 1915.
Preston Kirby, General Manager of the Richmond Rifles, sat hunched in the dim light of his Libby Hill office. The mahogany desk groaned under the weight of contracts, newspapers, and scouting reports. Every thirty seconds or so, a deep, rattling cough seized him, shaking his frame and echoing down the quiet corridors. He’d recover, wheeze a few more times, then return to his work. The Richmond Times front page lay amidst the clutter: GERMANS ADVANCING IN VERDUN. Nine mournful bells tolled from a distant tower.
Ivy Maw’s oversized loafers announced him before he even appeared in the doorway. His awkward, large frame, ill-suited to his worn suit, was a common sight among ballplayers. Though his best years were faded memories, stitched into the tattered banners in the grandstands, Ivy remained unmistakably a pitcher. He crossed the room to the half-empty wet bar without a salutation and poured himself a drink.
“Hell of a week, boss.”
Kirby rasped, stifling a cough, “What do they do in Philly when they lose eight out of nine?”
Ivy’s eyes flicked toward his tumbler with a small, knowing smirk. Kirby grunted, scribbling on a large envelope, stuffing it with reports.
Ivy moved closer, glancing at the newspapers. “First-class trade that Williams pulled off,” he said, a hint of irony in his voice, tapping a copy of the Sporting Times. “That miserable old bastard did it again.”
Kirby leaned back, sighing, rubbing his tired brow. He removed his spectacles and tossed them onto the desk. “First overall. First goddamn overall, Ivy. To the Brooklyn Whales.”
“Pittsburgh didn’t bite?”
Kirby gestured wildly. “Or St. Louis. Either St. Louis.”
Ivy clicked his tongue, took a sip, and sighed. “Sounds like you need a trip north, skip.”
“I’ll be damned if a single stamp is credited to this office for the Philadelphia Brewers while I’m still breathing. I’d put your sorry ass back on the mound first.”
Ivy shrugged. “You’re a ballplayer, Preston. Not a salesman. And you sure as hell ain’t a magician. You got outplayed.”
Kirby waved him off, lost in thought. Ivy tossed a portfolio onto the desk. “Reports you asked for.”
Kirby grimaced. “I don’t want to see any more draft reports.”
“Suit yourself.” Ivy sat down across from him. “Nothing new. Coad, the kid from Appalachia, still the best bet. I’d say second overall, maybe as late as fourth.”
Kirby frowned. “Coad? The kid who can’t throw a fastball?”
“It’ll come.”
“He’ll need a miracle. Hunt says he’s a premium-grade asshole, too.”
“Top of the line. Teammates hate him.”
Kirby waved him off again. “Who’s left at twelve?”
“No pitchers. None I’d recommend, anyway.”
Kirby sank deeper into his chair. Ivy grinned, twirling his flat cap on a finger. “How’s the family, boss?”
Kirby ignored him, picking up a newspaper. “What the hell are we doing here, Ivy?”
“Finding the next Richmond Rifles.”
Kirby continued, his voice heavy. “A war across the ocean. Gallipoli…one hundred and twenty thousand dead. More than twice Gettysburg. Do you have any idea what one hundred and twenty thousand corpses look like? What’s the price of that much blood?”
“More than we can afford.”
“People are so goddamn stupid.” Kirby shoved the reports away, rose, and walked to the window overlooking a moonlit Libby Hill. He muttered, his breath fogging the glass. “What the hell are we doing here?”
Ivy nodded slowly. “Maybe lay off the newspapers, skip.”
Kirby turned. “You know, Ivy—after the war, when they piled the guns at Appomattox and shipped us north on the Norfolk Line—fifty to a boxcar, in the tidewater heat—it was this time of year. I remember it like yesterday.” He stared out the dusty window. “My goddamn leg, ten ounces of Uncle Sam’s lead still festering—do you know what the boys did when the train stopped?”
Ivy listened, head tilted.
“They played baseball, Ivy. With a birch branch and the sorriest twine of wool you ever saw. It had a tail when they hit it. Hundreds of prisoners—Virginia boys—pathetic, defeated, shoeless, ignorant, and hateful as the goddamn mud. They drank water from a ladle in the spring sun and played ball.”
Ivy nodded solemnly. “My daddy didn’t remember that train ride so fondly, skip.”
Kirby grunted, a bitter, nostalgic smile touching his lips.
“People are so goddamn stupid.” He brushed the curtain aside, his gaze drifting from home plate toward the darkness beyond center field.