The sounds of steam, whistles, the shouts of railroad men and the usual hubbub echoed around the grand train-shed. A dry cough broke through the din now and then, drawing sideways glances from passers-by who politely pretended not to hear the wretched, heaving sound.
“You cannot go. Please,” the man’s wife whispered, a great sadness in her eyes.
Wyatt Fairfax took a handkerchief from his jacket pocket and wiped his mouth.
“It’s just the dust. I’ll be better in no time once I get south.”
Ruth held his hand in both of hers, gripping it tightly. She had quietly watched Wyatt struggled to come to terms with life after the war. He had nightmares, drank heavily, acted erratically — and now, after giving up drink, it was clear, her husband was a deeply sick man.
The coughing fits had not cleared over the winter; they had only worsened. Fevers struck him regularly. He looked pale, gaunt, ghostlike — bags under his eyes, breath short and tight. She feared he would not even make the journey to the spring training camp in Florida.
She had begged him to see a doctor. Wyatt consistently refused. She raised it again and again until, exasperated, he compromised: he would see the team doctor in spring. Now Ruth feared it was too late.
“Ruth…” he began, impatience creeping into his voice — but another violent coughing fit seized him. He could not breathe. He gasped desperately for air, a crushing tightness gripping his chest, darkness swallowing the edges of his vision.
*
Boase Stadium looked grander than Clayton Bayman had ever imagined from the architectural plans. It filled him with immense pride to go to work each day at such a majestic new ballpark. Finishing touches were being added to the grandstand and bleachers; the players were gathering at their spring camp in Florida; and Bayman was settling into his brand new office overlooking the street below.
The excitement of moving into a modern home for the Providence Angels was a welcome distraction from the pain of blowing the League Cup series. He hung pictures on his office wall — a team photo before Game One, and another of himself and Mr. Boase at the cornerstone ceremony.
That was when he received the news, a Western Union telegraph boy at his door, Wyatt Fairfax had tuberculosis.
Fairfax was a hero to the people of Providence. While the club struggled through the 1910s, he had been a lone ray of sunshine. Owner Leopold Boase held a particular fondness for the first baseman. It wasn’t just the playing. Boase, of Belgian descent, had been deeply affected by the stories of the horrific occupation of his homeland. Fairfax’s willingness to lead the players in marching drills and to volunteer for the war had endeared him profoundly to the old man.
Bayman and Boase made travel arrangements as soon as they received the news. When they reached Fairfax’s Philadelphia home Wyatt was convalescing in bed, Ruth beside him, tending to her beloved. Bayman was shocked by how drastically the star hitter had deteriorated over the winter. The once-athletic man was a shadow of himself, his youth and prime snatched from him. Over the years Bayman had found Fairfax a lamentable figure in the clubhouse, difficult to like, this was exacerbated by drink of course, but now the General Manager looked down at the sick man and just felt and overwhelming sense of pity.
After exchanging some pleasantries, Boase sat at the bedside, pulling up a stool. Taking the hands of both Ruth and Wyatt he said “I have my secretary making arrangements. I will pay for your treatment at the Trudeau Sanatorium.”
Fairfax tried to protest, but Boase cut him off sharply, before the man could form a word.
“You have no say in this matter. I am arranging to borrow a railcar from a friend so you can travel in privacy. You will rest and recover in Saranac Lake. I’ll have it organised by tomorrow.”
Tears rolled down Fairfax’s deathly pale cheeks. Ruth thanked Boase profusely.
“It’s the least I can do for the both of you,” Boase said softly. “I owe Wyatt more than I can express.”