The Richmond Saga, 1.3
Written by Andrew V.
Saturday, May 4th, 1901
Frank Selee, among the most storied men in American baseball, leaned against the whitewashed rails of the Richmond dugout and spit a shimmering salvo of Monroe’s Finest into the gleaming grass of Libby Hill. The roar of the crowd was palpable—before 6,000 roaring rooters, Ivy “Iron Horse” Maw surrendered six runs in three innings to tie the ballgame in what should have been another easy victory. It was now a tie game against the New York Kings at the Top of the Ninth.
Selee studied Maw at the mound. He was an intelligent, determined pitcher. His windup was the spirit of grace—a careful step in his white, baggy pants; a great arch of his long arms over his head, and a sudden explosion of power that concluded with his body hunched forward and a kick of his rear leg. An elegant pitch; not quite over-the-top, not quite to the side; somewhere in between. That was where Ivy lived; somewhere in the nether. A curveball.
The first pitch was a called strike. First Baseman Trevor Childs didn’t complain, but he took his time to spit in the soil beyond the mound and swing once or twice. He’d faced Maw plenty—maybe one hundred times—and the New York old-timer should have known better than to watch Maw’s deadly curveball sail down and catch the exact bottom of the zone.
Selee exchanged a smug look with Pitching Coach David Moore.
As long as balls have been cobbled together with seams, so too have intelligent men willed them to curve in midflight. However, few men made such a splendor of the curving than Ivy Maw, who could make a pitch seem moonward at one moment, and at the next leave a batter spinning like a top, wondering where in life they had gone astray. What a curve.
Childs glared down at Maw, who shook away two signs from rookie catcher Alfredo Asquith and finally nodded, standing tall at the mound. The crowd quieted.
Come on, Ivy.
He released a circle change—what an odd pitch—and a mistake, Selee thought, to follow a curve. But it worked; Childs was early, well under the pitch, and it soared high into the air and fell harmlessly into the glove of Left Fielder Nicky Thompson. The crowd cheered, on their feet. Hold ‘em, Ironhorse.
Ivy Maw had a penchant for guessing what batters would do. It was his true gift—and a testament to his intellect. He knew a Circle Change was the wrong pitch—and he knew, all the same, that old, receding Trevor Childs would swing anyway, hoping for a misplaced curveball, as if it could return the man to former glory. He would swing far too soon. Ivy’s circle was especially slow. He had no heat—no gift in striking men out. But what he did better than most was mark a man and get the man out. His mind fed his glory.
Out came Tommy Saline. Another Legacy Baseball League original. Never a good batter, with the unusual exception of 1896—where the elite Third Baseman had earned a Golden Bat with a .324 Average. He never came close again.
Ivy took Asquith’s first sign and reared back, missing with a wide-and-away fastball. Never Ivy’s best pitch. Alsquith looked nervously to Selee, who signed a curveball. The young catcher nodded, pounding his mit, and slapped the inside of his thigh with a “three.” Ivy looked from the mound to his Manager, annoyed, but offered a compliant expression and leaned back once more.
Saline swung hard, his back foot kicking up dirt. Strike. The crowd rose to a raucous chorus of praise.
One and One.
Give him the Forkball, Ivy.
Saline was old, but he was smart. He’d just whiffed big on a curve and would likely whiff again. But a Forkball—less exaggerated, and a trick curve. Just the thing for a strategist at the plate.
Ivy shook it away.
Asquith, who was young and unaccustomed to the stubbornness of Ivy Maw, looked warily to the dugout. The pitching coach smiled, and Frank Selee shrugged, spitting again into the grass. What a shame that Erik Bailey couldn’t catch anymore. There was a man who understood Ivy Maw—lost forever to a Reserve Roster and former splendor.
Ivy hurled a fastball, if you could call it that, high and away, and Asquith had to dive to keep it from sailing toward the bleachers. Ball One.
“God damn rookie,” Hitting Coach Josh Price growled toward Asquith. However, Selee wasn’t about to chastise a new Catcher for diving for the ball—despite the lack of baserunners. Joshua Price, like Asquith, needed time and perspective—and in the meantime, passion would do.
Frank leveled his gaze on Ivy Maw, how looked back as he waited for the ball to return.
Trust me, Ivy. He’ll go low.
The Ironhorse nodded.
Selee was right. Old Saline, who had seen every pitcher in the LBL-East since 1895, took the Forkball low, sending a lazy dribbler toward Shortstop Clyde Berrow, who took his time and sailed an easy out at First to Eric Abercrombie. The crowd roared, on their feet. Two down. Stay alive.
Next up came Nick Welch. A decent runner, God bless him, but never much else. Ivy proffered a predatorial grin as Welch approached the plate, and even the Umpire could not help but feel sympathy for the fellow as The Iron Horse loosened his arm and touched his cap.
Give this idiot the Slider.
Asquith relayed and Ivy nodded.
Sure enough, on the first pitch, poor Welch chased what he assumed to be an outside pitch, and as it bent toward the strike zone he cursed aloud, with the ball pittering harmlessly to Ivy Maw, who plucked it up and tossed it to Abercrombie like a schoolboy.
Selee smiled. The dugout applauded, and the passionate cries of “IRON-HORSE” erupted across the lovely grandstands of Libby Hill. Selee traced his sight down the outfield to the tower of Monroe House, where he witnessed the standing Monroe family, applauding politely.
As Maw entered the dugout, Selee offered the man a stern expression. Maw frowned.
“You were right, Skipper,” Maw offered, annoyed. Frank spit again.
“Yeah, Ivy,” he noted, “I was.”
What followed was a useless inning, burgeoning with crowd anguish, as the Rifles failed to score and sent the match into extra innings. The Pitching Coach knew better than to warm up Garfield Cresswell. Ivy Maw didn’t leave ballgames.
First up was the New York Catcher, William Rogers. He singled off Ivy’s fastball, nearly immediately. Next came old Artemis Wool, the Strikeout King of New York, who somehow worked Ivy into a full count.
That was unlike Ivy Maw. Tired in ten. A worried glance. Maw threw a lovely curveball and struck poor old Artremis out anyway. Next came the hero, Demetrius Dwyer.
Fresh from an injury, Dwyer set in with a cautious posture. He took a strike right down the middle, then fouled one away. Tenth Inning. All or nothing.
Relax, Ivy.
Curveball outside. Ball.
Give him the Forkball, kid.
Curveball, outside. Ball.
Losing his patience, Selee signed a Forkball again to Asquith. The Catcher offered a helpless expression and set in.
Another Ball.
Out of respect for Selee, the players in the dugout made themselves busy. Price smoldered. Another Ball.
“Jesus and his god-damned beard!” Selee called at the Umpire, Michael T. McMillian, both hands clutching the dugout poles. “Shall I fetch an Optometrist, Mike? Are you sore on finances?!”
McMllian, a towering Irishman, tilted his head and stepped away from the plate, leveling his steel gaze on Selee.
“Fancy a dance with Saint Peter, Frank?” McMillian called, his towering voice ricocheting from the stadium walls.
Selee sighed and packed another wad of tobacco. McMillian stepped back toward the plate.
Fastball, high. Dwyer fouled it away.
Don’t be a goddamned hero, kid. Forkball.
Ivy wanted him. He wanted the strikeout.
He missed outside, again, and Dwyer tossed the bat at his dugout and trotted proudly to First Base. Ivy looked furious. An uncharacteristic walk. Nervous glances in the dugout. McMillian stared down Selee, daring him to call out. Frank shrugged.
Next came Nick Williams, the two-time Golden Bat. One on. Top of the Tenth.
Circle, away.
Ivy threw a Fastball. Williams missed and sent the ball sailing behind Homeplate into the stands.
Circle, away, you infinite ass.
Ivy shook it off again. Fastball. Right over the plate. Williams, surprised at such an easy target, overcompensated, and what should have been a two-run blast fell harmlessly over the stands.
Ivy gazed defiantly from the mound to Frank Selee. The seasoned old Manager spit again and sighed. He looked to the Catcher.
Alright then, Iron Horse. Curveball. See if it lasts forever.
It was a beautiful curve. It sailed like a dove and fell toward the earth; before Williams could compensate, it was in the glove of the First Baseman. The crowd erupted, and the Richmond defense trotted into the dugout once more.
Ivy paused at Selee. He knew better than to pass him—it was not in his nature to be disrespectful, once off the mound. Selee scoffed.
“You’re getting older, Ivy,” Frank said plainly, spitting once again into the grass. Ivy Maw nodded, solemnly, and looked toward the dugout floor.
“Maybe, Frank,” he said quietly, patting the old Manager on the shoulder. “Maybe.”
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The Rifles went on to win, to the delight of the home crowd. The roar of the rooters filled the hilltop air like the first day of Spring, and they sang for their heroes from the grandstands like the Greeks of old. It was a beautiful day to be a Rifle.
When the rooters were long-gone, ferried home on Michael Monroe’s electric trolleys, Frank Selee emerged from the clubhouse to sit in the dugout and watch Ivy Maw, 31, stand upon the mound and hurl pitches at an unmanned fence. He was alone.
Next to Selee on the bench sat General Manager Preston Kirby—a quiet and reclusive fellow—dressed in an oversized, pinstriped suit with his hands in his pockets. In silence, the two aging ballplayers watched the Iron Horse sail baseballs into the beyond, grimace after grimace. The half-light of Virginia faded softly over the James River.
Ivy Maw collected his baseballs and departed, never looking toward the dugout.
As night took the stadium, the last of the negroes turned in their brooms. The moon rose over the pines and a great, humid stillness took the evening air.
Preston Kirby sighed, leaning back against the dugout and gazing up at the new stars.
“Is there anything like it, Frank?”
Selee looked thoughtfully upon the fading twilight of Libby Hill.
“No, Preston,” he answered quietly, his eyes heavenward. “I don’t believe there is.”
Felt like I was right there.