Into the dimly lit main hall of Union Station burst a young man, cases under each arm, he resisted the urge to run and cause a commotion. Wet shoes squeaking on the marble floors, a rushed exchange with a porter to confirm the platform of the ‘Angels Special’ without breaking his stride.
Familiar faces of the team stood on the platform, talking and joking with a small band of the most loyal rooters, mostly boys and a few men, there to wave off their team and wish them success on the long trip to Richmond. The young man tried to slow his pace to look calm and casual, but the attempt to hide his relief was a failure.
“Yes, you made it Jimmy” captain Wilburn Fullbrook greeted the sportswriter with a knowing grin, and once a porter had taken the baggage, a firm handshake. James ‘Jimmy’ Harvey was the Providence Chronicle’s sportswriter dedicated to covering all things Providence Angels, this was his first year joining the team on road trips. Since he’d received this prestigious assignment nightmares of missed trains had become common place. He glanced about the players talking with the well wishers and noticed an anomaly, no Rufus Burnell. On every trip so far, Burnell had been last to board the train, thanking well-wishers, always recounting the same story of how he had once hit a grand-slam in 1903, scribbling his name on napkins and scraps of paper for the boys.
“Released…” the one word answer from Wilburn. 39 year-old Rufus Burnell was the darling of Providence, he had joined the Angels in 1899, it was impossible to imagine the team without him, his 1584 games played and 1765 hits a franchise record. For the past two years his stock had fallen, his days of leading the league in hits or triples long behind him in the previous decade, he had become a bench player, never ready to say good-bye. Before Rufus could continue, Jimmy felt a tap on his elbow and turned to face a man he’d never seen before, he instinctively took the large hand out in front of him and shook it.
“James Harvey, meet Clayton Bayman” came the introduction from Wilburn.
Jimmy had not distinguished the Angels new general manager from the crowd of well-wishers, he wore what would be best described as workers clothes, a plainly abused woollen jacket and cap and thick sweater. Nor had he expected to find the general manager joining the team on a road trip.
“Me berth is nex’ t’ your’s, join me when y’ready” an accent Jimmy had never once heard in his life, not the English he was expecting, his voice deep and soothing, his mouth hidden under a long brown moustache. Bayman had been in the job a week now, and so far, turned down requests to meet, this had perturbed Jimmy. He felt slighted, as if this unknown and unqualified man felt he was too important to give the writer just an hour of time. Now the unexpected meeting and opportunity to speak had Jimmy off-balance.
As the train worked up speed Jimmy joined Bayman in his berth, no unpacking had been done with the exception being a stack of newspapers and books that filled the small table they sat around. The Englishman filled his pipe and as he lit it apologized, sincerely, for failing to make a meeting, “there is much to be done”. They began with small talk, childhood, education, family and so on, but the journalist could not hold it in any longer, “I simply do not understand how you got here…”
“That’s reasonable” Jimmy thought he detected a smile under the hanging facial hair. “I believe you’re aware of my history in England…” he nodded, when he had heard this unknown Englishman had applied for the job he had colleagues in New York do some digging around to find out who this man was, Bayman had been living in the metropolis since arriving in the United States. It turned out that the Englishman had witnessed one short season of professional baseball in England before almost dedicating his life to the sport. “…well back in England, you cannot exactly go out and purchase baseball equipment, as I’m sure you can imagine, it was common practice for amateur clubs to take the names of Legacy League clubs, they would write to the clubs and often kindly owners would send a donation of equipment across the Atlantic, I had been part of the founding of Lancaster Angels and wrote to Mister Cartwright in 1909.” He paused and puffed on his pipe. “I arrived in New York in 1912, as you know, I saw the constant changing of manager here, and on a whim I wrote to Mister Boase, explained I’d once exchanged correspondence with his predecessor and of my experience, Leopold found the original letter filed away and invited me to meet, and now here we are.”
“You’re surely out of your depth though?” he was trying to be delicate.
“Yes.” He didn’t even pause to think, “And I trust you know the difference between the words you can write and the words that are just for you to hear, the same with myself as when you’re with my players.”
Jimmy nodded, allowing Bayman to continue, “I have nothing to lose, this is one of the losingest teams in the league, no higher finish than 7th this decade, bottom the last two seasons, if I can make an improvement of any kind on that, I will be a success, I will have done what those with experience couldn’t, if I fail, it is just as expected.”
“It would be nice if Mister Boase gave you a bolder… more confident backing than simply just announcing your appointment.”
“Between us,” his tone hushed and firm, “he doesn’t want the club, I doubt he ever truly did…”
This wasn’t particularly secret knowledge, it was the consensus in the community, but it was unheard of from anyone involved directly with the Angels. After founder Jacob Cartwright passed away, his family did not know what to do with the team, they offered it to a friend of the family, someone that they could entrust with the Jacob’s vision, Leopold Boase. As the Angels went into a malaise Boase became quieter, appeared at less games, grew frustrated as his appointments left as soon as they arrived.
“…but every sports column in the country has had a piece about how you are unqualified, has that not gotten to you at all?” He looked down for a moment, puffing on his pipe.
“If you can keep your head when all about you,
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or, being hated, don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk too wise…”
“What is that?” trying to place the words as if they should be familiar to him.
“’If-’, a poem, by Rudyard Kipling.”
As the train rolled south the pair continued to talk, Bayman acknowledged it unusual for a general manager to join the team on an away trip, explained he wanted to observe the team as much as possible as quickly as possible. Rufus had to be let go, it was time, he just hadn’t confronted it himself, in all honesty Jimmy thought that the veteran should have left on a high a couple of seasons ago, a deserving send-off is planned before the next home game. John Cressy has been sent to the minors, his visible lack of motivation the deciding factor, John Sankey, 2nd overall pick from 1915, to get his chance in the team and Auerlio Clegg called up too. Before either knew it, it was time for lunch, as Jimmy got up to leave Bayman reached into his jacket that hung on the door, taking a folded paper from the breast pocket and handing it to Jimmy.
“Thank.. you.” He stuttered, not sure what he had been given and placing it in his own pocket.
After an afternoon gossiping with the team and coaching staff, playing card games and writing, he would retire to his berth and remember the paper in his pocket. A page torn from a book containing the poem ‘If-‘.