He had been young then–so young–and, to any neutral observer, invincible. Every throw, every dive, every sprint came effortlessly, like his limbs were made for nothing else. The game was life, and life was in the early innings.
The sun was setting over the field, casting long shadows that stretched across the infield dirt. The grass glowed gold in the fading light, and the warm breeze carried the smell of leather and chalk. Clovis Juby stood at shortstop, just barely a teenager, with his glove resting on his knee as he waited for the next pitch. It had been one of those endless summer days, the crack of the bat and the umpire’s calls the only markers of its passing.
As the sun sank lower, the light began to change. The sky turned orange, then a bruised purple, and the shadows grew darker and longer, creeping across the diamond. The air cooled and the hum of crickets rose just beyond the outfield fence.
Baseball always felt different as the sun went down–quieter somehow. The game slowed, and so did the world around it. He glanced at his teammates, their faces bathed in twilight, and thought, with the brevity bestowed on the young, how lucky they all were to be there, sharing this moment. Even then, as a boy, he fleetingly understood that this was special—that this game and this field would stay with him forever.
The rhythm of the game carried on, pitch by pitch. He dove and nabbed a grounder in the final inning of that day, the ball snapping into his glove with perfect precision. His throw to first was clean, fluid, effortless—the kind of play that felt like it had been scripted by something greater than himself. As the crowd clapped politely and the umpire called the out, he felt a rare and quiet satisfaction, a sense that everything was exactly as it should be.
Now, years later, he sat on the splintered wooden bench of the Brooklyn Whales’ dugout, watching the sun dip behind the grandstand, its golden light spilling onto the field like a final curtain call. The game played on before him, the rhythm of pitches and swings filling the warm evening air, but his eyes lingered on the way the shadows stretched across the infield, just like they had when he was a boy. The young men on the field moved with the same energy he once had, chasing grounders and swinging for the fences, and he felt a quiet pride knowing he’d been part of this game, part of this rhythm, for so long.
The cheers of the crowd rose in the distance as a ball soared into the outfield, Whales’ 20 year old third baseman Chicago Jack Hales sprinting toward first with the kind of fire that only youth carries. Juby smiled softly, his fingers curling around the edge of his cap as he tipped it lower over his brow. The sun was setting, and he could feel the pull of the end coming closer. As he sat there, bathed in the fading light, he realized it wasn’t sadness he felt. It was peace.
The game had been good to him, as much as it had tested him, and he had nothing left to prove. The sun would always set, but tomorrow, it would rise again, and the game would go on. He let out a breath and leaned back, his eyes fixed on the golden field, his heart full of gratitude for every moment he’d spent in its glow.
CLOVIS JUBY TO RETIRE AT CLOSE OF SEASON
Harland Pritchard, Brooklyn Eagle
APRIL 6, 1916. In a development that has left the faithful followers of our Brooklyn Whales both astonished and dismayed, Clovis Juby, the stalwart defender of the hot corner and linchpin of our infield for the past 14 campaigns, has announced his intention to retire from the grand old game at the conclusion of this season.
Mr. Juby, a gentleman of 37 years and possessed of no small measure of athletic grace, shared his intentions with the press in advance of today’s Opening Day victory over the Providence Angels. Speaking with characteristic humility, he remarked: “I have given my all to this game, and it has given much to me in return. I am proud to have been a part of the Brooklyn community for all these years and proud to have been a Brooklyn Whale.”
The announcement comes as a bolt from the blue for both the club and its devoted supporters, as Mr. Juby remains in fine fettle on the field, his defensive prowess undiminished and his athletic vigor apparent to all who have witnessed his recent play. Though his unorthodox bat has become increasingly modest, his glove and guile have made him a figure of esteem, and his steady presence at shortstop and third base has anchored many a Whales victory.
The redoubtable Mr. Marques Williams, the seasoned and somewhat cantankerous helmsman of the Whales, was uncharacteristically emotional when addressing the news. “You don’t see men like him come around often. He’s the kind of fella who gives you everything he’s got, every […] day. One of a kind. You just thank your lucky stars that you got to be around him.”
Mr. Juby, however, declined to offer specifics as to the reasons for his departure, leaving fans and scribes alike to speculate. The prospect of a Whales team taking the field in 1917 without him seems, at present, almost unfathomable.
As Brooklyn battles on in the pursuit of another pennant, supporters of the Whales would do well to savor every remaining opportunity to see their beloved ballplayer in action. For when Clovis Juby lays down his glove for the final time, he shall do so as one of the finest gentlemen to ever don the Whales uniform, his name forever etched in the annals of our great game.
Born of Texas sandlots, Mr. Juby joined the Whales, by way of the Baltimore Clippers, as a fresh-faced lad of 23 in 1902 and has since become synonymous with the club. His quick reflexes, unerring arm, and sharp baseball intellect have earned him the respect of players and patrons alike. Juby is a four time Grande Snagger winner, a two time Platinum Stick winner, and a five time Legacy Cup champion. He twice finished in the top three in voting for the Eastern League MVP award. As the sun sets on his career, Brooklyn tips its cap to a man who has done the borough proud.
TOUGH NEWS TO DELIVER
March 31, 1916
Juby: (quietly) Skip, you got a second?
Williams: Sure, Kid. You want to talk about your swing? Goddammit, if you hit any weaker, I’m gonna have to bunt you into retirement.
Juby: (smirking faintly) You know my fieldin’ makes up for it. You’ve been sayin’ that for years.
Williams: Still true. You could glove a goddamn cannonball if someone shot it at you, but that doesn’t mean your bat hasn’t gotten softer than a baby’s ass. Now quit dancin’ around it—what’s on your mind?
Juby: (pauses, his voice lowering) I went to see Doc Harmon last week.
Williams: Harmon? Shit, he still alive? I thought he’d’ve keeled over by now from the whisky. What’s the bastard say? You pull a muscle?
Juby: (shaking his head) No, Skip. Something worse.
Williams: (frowning) Worse? What the hell does that mean, worse? You break somethin’? How many fucking times have I told you God damned boys to be careful?
Juby: (looking at the ground, quietly) Doc says there’s somethin’ in my blood. Says there ain’t a thing he can do about it.
Williams: (staring at him, stunned, before slamming his fist on the bench) Mother of Goddamn Christ. You’re thirty-fuckin’-seven, Juby. Thirty-seven! Fucking hell, you’re one of the fittest sons of bitches I’ve ever seen. How?
Juby: (shrugging weakly) Life’s funny like that, I guess. Doc says months. Maybe a year.
Williams: (stands up, pacing, muttering) Goddamn doctors. They don’t know shit. Probably misdiagnosed you, that drunken son of a bitch. Hell, you’ve got more life in you than half this goddamn team put together. You look fine. You look fine, Juby!
Juby: (softly) I don’t feel fine, Skip. Been tired.
Williams: (stops pacing, staring at him) Goddamn it. God-damn it. (runs a hand through his thinning hair) Does anyone else know?
Juby: No. Just you.
Williams: (gruff) Good. Don’t tell a goddamn soul what that quack told you. You hear me? You tell those assholes in the clubhouse, and they’ll treat you like a fuckin’ ghost. No pity parties in my dugout. Not for you, not for anybody. You’re Clovis fucking Juby. You hear me?
Juby: (smiling faintly) Yeah.
Williams: (sits down next to him, his voice softening slightly) You’re gonna keep playin’, kid. As long as you’ve got it in you, you’re out there on that diamond. And when the time comes… well, we’ll figure it out then. But you ain’t quittin’ yet. Not a goddamn chance.
Juby: (nodding) Next week, I’m going to tell the Eagle I’m done. I ain’t going to tell em why. But, I didn’t wanna keep it from you, Skip. You’ve been like a father to me.
Williams: (gruffly, voice cracking) Jesus Christ, Juby. Don’t go gettin’ sentimental on me. I’m too old for this shit. But… (pauses) hell, you’ve been like a son to me, too. A pain in my ass most of the time, but a son all the same. But now, I want you to fucking fight. Give me the season. Give me 1916. We’ll worry about after, after.
Juby: (smirking) Even with my soft bat?
Williams: (grinning, shaking his head) Even with that goddamn feather-duster you call a bat. Now get your ass up, Juby. We’ve got a season to get ready for, and I’ll be damned if I’m gonna let you wallow.