Sunday, August 14th, 1904
Madigan Hall, Manhattan
Rain scoured the island of Manhattan in thunderous waves. The storm wrapped the city in a biting wind, setting the August air in an unseasonable chill and raking the cobblestones with swirling water and tumbling billows of rubbish–including several hundred copies of the New York Times, each baring the title BASE BALL SCANDAL as they tumbled about the streets.
Thomas Hershey, President of the Legacy Baseball League Players Union, looked pensively from the glass of his carriage window, feeling sympathy for his overcloaked driver outside at the reins. Madigan Hall, headquarters of the Legacy Baseball League, seemed more a mausoleum than a mansion in the gray light, with the great limbs of the garden trees dancing somberly in the storm. Hershey sighed, checking his pocketwatch and initiating the awkward dance of binding his long limbs with his heavy coat while seated within the carriage. The desperate driver hopped from his soaked perch, collar clasped tight about his neck, and braved the midsummer billows to wrench Thomas’s door open.
“Go ahead and wait in the cab, Hank,” Thomas called to his driver over the wind, wincing against the cool air. “Mrs. Hershey would have me flogged if I left you out in this gale to drown.”
Old Hank laughed his gratuitous compliments, shaking himself like a dog as Hershey turned and made his way through the tall, iron gates of Madigan Hall and hurried through the courtyard—electing not to pause as he usually did to admire the many vibrant plants and scurrying animals that usually occupied the gardens.
Thomas pushed himself against the heavy oak doors of Madigan Hall and wrenched his form through the doors with some effort, noting the lack of a doorman or secretary that usually loomed in the foyer. The tall windows of the lavish estate caught the drumming of the maelstrom with a form of frantic staccato, rising and falling with the wind in the afternoon gloom.
After some minutes of looking about with a politely sheepish expression, an attendant eventually emerged from the east wing, nearly rushing right past Hershey. He stopped, startled, with equal parts embarrassment and alarm, and stepped to Thomas at once.
“Mr. Hershey, I am quite sorry—I did not realize you meant to keep your appointment. What with the weather, and, well…erm…” the poor man trailed off, looking to his shoes. He eventually shook himself from reverie, snapping to attention and removing Thomas’s coat.
“It’s alright, Matt,” Thomas answered with a soft smile, offering a reassuring pat on the shoulder. “How is the old man taking the news?”
With a deeply tragic frown, the young attendant looked over both shoulders and leaned in, Thomas’s soaking coat in the crook of one arm. “Not well at all, I’m afraid to say. Mister Madigan is quite unwell. Not that he will admit it.”
“Has he seen a doctor?”
“You know Mister Madigan well enough to answer that yourself, sir,” Matthew answered grimly. “I daresay your visit will not make him feel any better. Erm, respectfully, of course.”
With a soft grin, Thomas nodded. “Probably right. May I go up and see him?”
“Of course, Mister Hershey. Please forgive the informality—it is most embarrassing—but in these recent months, well…”
“It’s alright. I’ll show myself up. It’s good to see you, Matt. Take care of yourself.” Hershey nodded as Matthew gave a polite bow of his head and turned to hang up Thomas’s coat. He headed up one wing of the large, marble staircase, watching the massive eagle of the Legacy Baseball League drop like the moon on the wall as he ascended.
Thomas walked the quiet, echoing corridor of the lavish upper story to the office of Alexander Madigan, Commissioner and Founder of the Legacy Baseball League. He worked his tongue, knocking loudly three times on the oak door.
“Enter,” rasped a voice from within, to which Hershey lifted the latch and pushed the door ajar. Inside, Madigan’s usually-meticulous office was set in a state of disarray; papers scattered over the hardwood, desk littered with newspapers, with the heavy, maroon curtains drawn over the tall windows and old Madigan sitting in an armchair by the fireplace, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
Thomas felt at once a pang of great embarrassment for the old man, nearing 78 years, whose hair was wild and unkempt and his gray beard overgrown and uneven. Madigan coughed loudly into a handkerchief, waving Thomas around with his opposite hand, as in unsurprised to see him.
“I had hoped—” he wheezed, pausing to lurch a bit with his eyes locked on the fireplace, “that you might cancel our appointment, Mister Hershey.”
“I thought it might be wise to retain it,” Thomas answered politely, standing at the opposite armchair and nodding his head.
Madigan waved dismissively for him to sit. “It is all the same, as there is no time, under any clime, that I am positioned to enjoy your company.”
With a somewhat amused nod, Thomas unbuttoned his suit jacket and sat upon the lavish armchair, almost comically proportioned in its wide and ornate cushions.
“I thank you for neglecting to bring your despotic falcon of a wife to our meeting,” Madigan grumbled, tucking his handkerchief into his disheveled suit beneath the blanket, “as the tax upon my brains would almost certainly deal the final blow.”
“Mrs. Hershey sends her best wishes and hopes for a quick recovery,” Thomas answered politely. Madigan fanned him away.
“Spare me your niceties, Hershey. Deliver your demands, so that I may ignore them and go on dying in peace. Summer Meetings are tomorrow, as you well know.”
Thomas observed the old fellow, who seemed determined not to lock his glossy eyes with his guest, and instead stared at the crackling fire with an empty expression, swallowing and clearing his throat. Thomas noticed for the first time that a newspaper lay clutched in his left hand.
“No demands this time, Mister Madigan.”
Madigan frowned, now turning to observe the younger man. “None?”
“No.” Thomas shook his head.
“Well,” the old man snapped, sharply adjusting his blankets, “Why then have you disturbed me on a day like this?”
Thomas’s eyes drifted once more to the newspaper. “To be quite honest, sir, I thought at a time such as this, with the newspapers, and of course your health, well…”
“Spit it out, you goat.”
“I wish to offer my deepest condolences, Mister Madigan.”
Madigan glowered, looking only briefly to Hershey, before averting his eyes once more. Thomas inhaled, gathering the courage to continue.
“We are enemies, I know. And I understand your beliefs—as much as I cannot condone nor tolerate their perpetuation. I have made it my life purpose to undermine and outwit your purposes for this game we love. But this–” Hershey nodded his head at the newspaper, which Madigan only then seemed to remember he clutched, and he tossed it to the floor with disdain.
“This is not your fault, Alexander.”
Madigan winced, looking once more to the fire for some time.
“You may go now, Mister Hershey.”
With a gentle lift of his chin, Thomas pushed himself up from the oversized chair and re-buttoned his jacket, a kindly look to the old man. “Very good. Goodbye then, Mister Madigan.” He dipped his head and made for the door.
“Wait.”
Thomas paused, one hand on the latch,
“Please send my compliments to Mrs. Hershey,” Madigan barked, a strain of emotion caught in his voice, “and congratulate her on the birth of your son.”
With a gentle smile, Thomas nodded a final time. “Until next time, Mister Madigan.”
Long after Thomas Hershey departed and the sun fell down across the Hudson River, Alexander Madigan lifted himself into his ornate, four-posted bed. His mind still lingered on Thomas Hershey’s visit, but he set it aside, devising instead the first three paragraphs of his speech, which he intended to deliver tomorrow to the press—weather permitting—in the East Garden. He elected, as he rested his head against the cool silk of his pillow, not to resign, against the adamant insistence of his attorneys (and most of the board). They would have to fight him for the Legacy Baseball League—his only child—which without him, would have never emerged from the ashes of the National League. He saved the greatest game ever devised in the greatest country ever assembled, and it would take more than some bad press and puritanical congressmen to wrest it from him. Like his fortune, like the Legacy Baseball League, like Madigan Hall itself, Alexander had made his life in America without the help or friendship of anyone, anywhere, and he had kept his dignity and principles intact. He was blameless.
As he worked out the wording of his fourth paragraph, well after midnight, Alexander lay alone in Madigan Hall on the evening of August the Fourteenth, 1904. His mind drifted to the open pastures of his youth; to the warm sun between the sycamores, and to the call of boys playing ball upon a long line that unfurled from once side of the beautiful country to the other. The infield was green and soft in the breeze, and in that moment a baseball as bright as the sky was hit well into the outfield—sailing, sailing toward him. Alexander raced with all the alacrity of his youth deep into Center Field–out, out his entire life with breathless hope toward the edge of the woods. Up above, the purest chorus of white clouds gathered around the sailing ball, and it seemed as if it just might hang forever in the summer sky.
