April 13, 1917, Philadelphia. Karl stood near first base, hands tucked behind his back, watching the stands slowly fill. It was one of his favorite times of the year. People came here for another year of baseball. Everyone was excited, and the ballpark would only shine like this on Opening Day. The smell of the grass, food, and malt carried over from the nearby brewery. Opening Day at Boeselager Stadium should have been pure joy. Yet, Karl didn’t feel the same emotions this year. Just recently, the United States declared war against Germany, and despite their American citizenship, the German-born Boeselager brothers felt the anti-German sentiment even in Philadelphia. The world they had built since the 1890s felt suddenly fragile.
“I guess this is it. My last time in uniform.”
Karl turned and found Leo McKenzie standing beside him, tugging his cap a little lower over his weathered face. His uniform still fit him neatly, but there was no hiding the passage of time. McKenzie turned 46 last September, and Karl admitted that he should have retired a few years earlier.
Leo McKenzie, a Philadelphia legend, was being honored for his 22 years of service to the Brewers — from the inaugural season of 1895 to 1916. McKenzie played 1,849 games and is the only player in the LBL to collect more than 2,000 hits and 1,000 stolen bases. His number would be the sixth retired in club history.
“Yes, Leo,” Karl said, his voice warm but tinged with sadness. “It seems so.”
They stood quietly, gazing over the stadium. The grandstands, the lush grass, the creaking wooden bleachers — everything that had grown around them over the decades.
“I wish your father could see this,” Karl added after a long moment.
Leo smiled faintly. “I’m sure he is. He never missed a game. I’m sure he’s watching now.”
Karl nodded, his throat tightening. Michael McKenzie had been more than the man who first introduced the Boeselager brothers to baseball in a new country; he’d become a close friend, a kind of family. After Michael died, the brothers honored that bond by hiring Leo at the brewery and, soon after, making him the first player ever contracted by the Brewers.
A beat passed.
“This is the first year your mind isn’t fully on the club,” Leo said, glancing sideways.
Karl exhaled slowly. “You’re right.” He paused, weighing his words.
“Leo, things are changing. This war… it’s poisoned everything. I’m sure Downing is trying to have us removed by the league. But also, attendance is dropping. People are spitting at the name ‘Boeselager’ as if we chose this war. We can’t deny our heritage, but everyone forgot why my father brought us to the US.” He shook his head. “We’re considering leaving the US and selling the brewery. And our shares of the club.”
Leo’s eyebrows lifted slightly.
“To a man from the Netherlands,” Karl continued. “A brewer named Gerrit Hendrik Jacobus de Groot. Good man. We’ve spoken with him. He might help us set up something in Europe in exchange.”
Leo lowered his gaze to the field.
“Crossing the Atlantic right now… it’s dangerous.”
“We know. U-boats patrol the shipping lanes. It’s a risk.” Karl looked up toward the flag, snapping in the breeze. “But staying here might be riskier.”
Before Leo could answer, Karl turned around. “I’ll be back in a few minutes.” Then he disappeared in the Brewers dugout and ultimately moved on to the catacombs.
Leo felt uneasy. How had it come to this?
Footsteps on the gravel interrupted his thoughts. It was Peter Boeselager, Karl’s son.
“Ready for the ceremony?”
“Yes,” Leo smiled. “How are you?”
It was a sincere question, as they hadn’t seen each other since the end of the 1916 season.
“I have no idea how to answer that question.” Peter scratched his head, then combed his hair. “It depends on what my father and my uncle are going to do.”
“You know?”
“I think they’re going to sell everything. Uncle Walther gave some Dutchman a tour around the brewery.”
“That’s what your father just told me.”
“Leo, I’m certain he wants to go back to Europe to look for my brother.”
He meant Alois, Peter’s younger brother, missing now for months somewhere on the Western Front. Since last year, not a single letter had arrived. And nobody knew about the last letter but Peter. The war had swallowed him up, and every day without news weighed heavier on the family.
“I’m not sure I want to leave Philadelphia.”
Leo opened his mouth to speak but stopped himself. What could he say? He simply placed a hand on Peter’s shoulder and squeezed it firmly.
Before either could speak further, Karl reappeared, this time with Walther beside him — and a tall, well-dressed man with dark blond hair and a neatly trimmed mustache.
“Leo, Peter,” Walther said, “this is Gerrit de Groot. He owns Brouwerij te Heerlen in the Netherlands.”
De Groot extended a hand. “An honor, gentlemen.”
“Pleasure’s ours,” Leo said, recovering quickly.
“He may be the future owner of this place,” Walther said, only half-joking.
There was no time for more. A low murmur swept the stands — the signal.
The Brewers players lined the first base line, caps tucked respectfully under their arms. Across the diamond, even the Richmond players and staff had stepped out of their dugout, clapping politely.
Standing at the makeshift podium, the club’s announcer raised his voice, letting it carry naturally across the field. Everyone was quiet to listen to his words.
“Ladies and gentlemen, today we honor a man who has been the heart and soul of Philadelphia baseball for over two decades: Leo McKenzie!”
A wave of cheers and applause rose from the stands.
For a moment, the dark clouds outside faded, replaced by the warmth and unity of this crowd. Here, inside these wooden walls, baseball still belonged to everyone.
Leo swallowed hard, adjusting his cap. His legs felt heavier than they ever had in all his years on the basepaths.
He walked toward the mound, flanked by Charles Ayscue, Frank Stilgoe, Moriarty Stapleton, Seamus Maynard, Rusty Hall, Stephen Millington, Danny Edgerton, Lambert Holmes, and Mose Rylance — all former teammates of the golden generation that contributed to five championships. These old friends had returned just for him and maybe to remind the crowd that the old guard had finally retired.
Each step across the grass carried the weight of countless memories: stolen bases, diving catches, victories, and, unfortunately, too many losses in recent years.
Walther and Karl waited at the mound, holding a large brass plaque framed in deep mahogany.
Karl handed it to Leo as the applause washed over them.
The plaque read:
“Leo McKenzie — Philadelphia Brewers 1895–1916”
“This,” Walther said, voice rough with emotion, “will hang inside the walls of this stadium as long as there is baseball in Philadelphia.”
Leo blinked rapidly, fighting to keep his composure. He tipped his cap to the crowd.
The men gathered briefly around the mound, exchanging handshakes and backslaps.
Then, in a moment both simple and perfect, Leo picked up a worn leather baseball and faced Charles Ayscue.
The old catcher crouched behind home plate one last time.
Leo nodded towards Ayscue, then tossed the ball right over the plate.
The stadium erupted in cheers.
Leo turned, arms open wide, and began a slow, reverent lap along the edge of the field. His former teammates fell in beside him, waving to the crowd. Fans stood, waving hats and handkerchiefs, tears streaming down faces both young and old.
Even the Richmond players lined the foul line, tipping their caps in silent respect.
By the time Leo rounded third base and approached home, Walther, Karl, and Peter were waiting.
As the applause echoed, Leo caught sight of old friends in the stands and saw the teary eyes of strangers. For the first time in months, he felt something like peace. Even as the world outside the gates threatened to unravel, within these wooden walls, gratitude and tradition still held sway.
Walther, Karl, and Peter opened their arms, embracing Leo at home plate. The club’s future, the threat of war, and the uncertainty waiting outside the stadium walls receded, if only for a heartbeat.
In this moment, the city of Philadelphia remembered — and, in remembering, found a little bit of hope. All that remained was gratitude, the enduring bond of baseball, and the legacy of one of its greatest sons.