The Bobs were at third, scooping up grounders and throwing across the diamond to first. Weasel-man pointed to Oscar’s team from the visitor’s dugout and Stickler laughed, but Oscar couldn’t place the other players. They were fierce and quick and tough—anyone could see that at a glance, could feel it. They were a menacing group of boys, almost frenetic, lit from within.
“Who are those kids?” Willie asked.
“I don’t know,” Oscar said.
Auntie Fedelma bounded toward them, chasing a ball bobbling toward their shoes. As she straightened up, Oscar saw that she was wearing her red thread as a necklace tied around her throat. Oscar reached into his pocket and made sure his was still there—it was becoming a nervous habit. “So, you showed up,” she said. “That’s a surprise.”
“How did you see that ball?” Oscar asked.
“I have power. I play by my senses, including my sixth sense,” she said smugly.
Oscar’s father looked at Auntie Fedelma tenderly. “We don’t have to do this. We could just talk it out. This isn’t going to prove anything.”
Auntie Gormley nodded fiercely, jostling the weasel curled in her arms.
“Old Boy is right,” Auntie Oonagh said, reaching out and touching her sister’s shoulder.
But Auntie Fedelma shrugged her off. “Who do you have here?” she asked, pointing at the boys.
“You tell us who you’ve got out there first,” Oscar said.
“Some of the best competitors of all time. Pete Rose for one.” She pointed to a shaggy kid in left field. “And he’s putting his money on us,” she said.
“He’s no dummy.” Rose sprinted after a ball thrown into the outfield and chased it down. “We’ve got Chick Gandil and Eddie Cicotte.” She pointed to two boys on the right side of the infield.
“White Sox? 1919? They threw the World Series!” Jackie said.
“My boys!” Auntie Fedelma said with a smile.
“We thought of Nettles, Cash, Sosa, and Hatcher, but a guy who just corks his bat, well, he isn’t thinking big enough.”
“That’s cheating,” said Ruth.
“We want players who aren’t afraid to win. At any cost,” Auntie Fedelma said. “It was hard to pick the best cheating pitcher of all time, but we did what we could. We’ve got Gaylord Perry on the mound.”
“Tsk, tsk,” Auntie Oonagh said, wagging a finger.
“So many spitballs and goops to choose from,” Auntie Fedelma said, “so little time!”
“Who’s that?” Oscar asked, pointing to a dark-haired boy in right field.
“Canseco,” Auntie Fedelma said. “He’s a bit of a tattler—a little lily-livered to stick with a good cheat; but the others, well, you can’t be sure.”
“Steroids?” Oscar asked.
“What are steroids?” asked Jackie.
“Are they robots from the future?” asked Ruth.
“Drugs to make you play better,” Oscar explained, and all of the boys nodded. “It’s cheating. Some of the new players will say they broke your records, but it was only because they were on drugs,” Oscar explained.
“My records?” Willie Mays said, trying it out. He seemed to like the sound of it.
“But he’s not on steroids now,” Oscar’s father said, pointing to Canseco. “He’s just a skinny kid.”
“I want the players who are willing to go all-out, who have strong convictions,” Auntie Fedelma said.
“Like Pinky Higgins.”
“Auntie Fedelma!” Auntie Oonagh said. “Pinky Higgins? He’s the worst racist of them all. How could you?”
“He understands that change isn’t always good. He understands.” She looked fragile for a moment. She teetered in her cleats.
“Are you going to cheat?” Oscar asked.
She glared at Oscar with her milky eyes. “I’m going to win,” she said.
“Who’s that?” Johnny asked, pointing to a kid in center field. He was the meanest looking of them all. His face was already streaked with dirt. He was scuffing his cleats in the grass like a bull, flexing his knees and elbows as if preparing for a fight.
“That—oh, well, that’s my old buddy Ty Cobb,” Auntie Fedelma said, pressing her mitt to her heart.
“Look at him! Just look at him! What a boy!”
There was someone new on the field—an antsy twelve-year-old boy in a shiny uniform with a brand-new mitt. He was talking to Canseco. Pinky walked over and was talking now, too.
“Who’s the rich kid?” Williams asked.
“I don’t know,” Auntie Fedelma said. But now they could see that Canseco was taking a wad of cash, stuffing it into his jeans, and walking off the field. He gave a hearty wave and walked back to the dugout tunnel.
“Don’t worry!” the rich boy shouted. “It’s me! Tommy Yawkey! That other kid is going on home! He doesn’t feel well all of a sudden! I’m going to play instead!” He smiled at Pinky and slapped him on the back as if they were old friends. “I belong here as much as anybody!” he shouted happily.
“Yawkey?” Oscar said in disbelief. “He’s going to play?” Yawkey had been the owner of the Red Sox during the bleakest period of racism. He and Pinky’s racism ate up the Red Sox for ages.
Auntie Fedelma sighed. “I guess he is. You can’t say no to him.”
“Is Frazee going to show up, too?” Oscar’s father asked.
“Frazee doesn’t care about baseball,” Auntie Fedelma said. “He wouldn’t show his face here.”
Jackie Robinson looked down at the ground and muttered something under his breath.
“What was that, boy?” Auntie Fedelma asked.
“You got something to say?”
Jackie shook his head. “Let’s play,” he said. “Let’s just start the game.”
Auntie Fedelma smiled. “Don’t you know you’ve already lost? This Curse can’t be broken. You are all a lost cause. Haven’t you read the Curse? Don’t you know it in your hearts?”
“I know exactly what’s in my heart,” Oscar said. He had faith. It was more than a feeling. It was something real, stored up inside of himself.
“You don’t know what’s in somebody else’s heart,” Willie said. “That’s only ours to know.”
“Like Jackie said. Let’s play ball,” Ruth said angrily. “Let’s just play.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
The Game Between the Greats
Opening Innings
OSCAR’S FATHER FLIPPED A FAT silver coin, which slapped the light in glints and then landed in the dirt just as Auntie Fedelma called, “Tails.” The coin landed head up. The bad guys were up to bat first. Auntie Fedelma called them in.
Oscar suited up in the rest of his catcher’s gear. The shin pads were long for his legs and banged above his knees. The chest protector made him feel as if he’d fallen into a well. The padding on the catcher’s mask didn’t fit his face, and he looked out at his team on the field through its thick black padding and metal cage. He tugged on his catcher’s mask, picked up his mitt off the bench, and was just about to jog out to home plate to catch Babe Ruth’s pitches when Teddy Williams called out to him, “Hey, aren’t we going to sing?”
Oscar was confused for a moment. Teddy pointed at the flag flipping in left center field. “Oh,” Oscar said, “I forgot.” He meant that he’d forgotten to sing, but also that Williams was going to grow up to be a war hero, serving in both World War II and the Korean War. He looked over at Auntie Fedelma. “We’re supposed to sing the national anthem!”
Auntie Fedelma rolled her eyes.
Oscar’s father said, “Let’s sing.”
And Auntie Fedelma’s team stepped out of the dugout. They all turned and faced the flag. Oscar sang softly at first: “Oh, say, can you see.” The voices around him—all of these boys plucked from different towns across the country, from different times, standing tall with their hands on their hearts—well, it made him proud. His voice swelled. “And the rockets’ red glare.” And the voices all around him rose up,
too. “Oh say, does that star-spangled banner yet wave” …Auntie Gormley mouthed the words. Auntie Oonagh trilled. “And the home of the brave.”
Now it was time to play.
Oscar’s team took the field just like the Red Sox were, at this very moment, on the same field at a different moment in time. Ruth looked tall on the mound for a twelve-year-old. His pitches came in fast and hard, stinging Oscar’s palm. Ruth had two pitches: a fastball and a smooth curve. Ty Cobb was the first batter up. Ruth struck out Cobb while he was looking at one of those slow curves.
Oscar watched as his teammates shifted nervously, an edgy readiness in their feet. Willie Mays called from the outfield, “Say who, say what, say where, say hey!” He was smiling and laughing all the while. Jackie Robinson was a picture of concentration. Buckner worked his mitt with his fist and, at different times, put his hands on his knees and then, deciding against it, stood tall again.
Ruth got through the first inning without allowing a base runner. Oscar met him at the steps of the dugout.
“This is fun,” Ruth said. “We should do this every day!”
“You will, you will,” Oscar said.
Gaylord Perry took the mound, his back pocket bulging with tubes of goop. Everyone knew the ball was going to get some doctoring. But it’s difficult to control a greaseball. Perry walked two runners in the first, but Oscar’s team couldn’t get a hit.
In the second inning Pete Rose ripped a ball down the left field line. It took one bounce and ended up in the bleachers. That wiped the happy grin off Ruth’s face. Yawkey hit a nubber off the end of his bat that dribbled to Jackie. Yawkey was out at first, but Rose moved over to third. On the next play Fedelma hit a grounder to short, and Rose broke for home.
Pesky never hesitated. He fired a strike to Oscar.
Oscar wanted to stop everything. He wanted to shout to Auntie Fedelma, “Did you see that? Did you see how he did that perfectly? He wasn’t the goat!” But, no, Oscar thought. No one would stop to admire the perfect execution of that play. They expected it; and Pesky would go on, like Buckner, to be branded by one mistake instead of being praised for thousands of perfect plays.
There was no time to stop. Rose was charging at him like a steam train and plowed into him, knocking Oscar backward. When the dust cleared, Oscar sat up—Rose standing over him in disbelief. Oscar’s mask had been knocked off, his shin guards had spun to the sides of his legs, and his jaw felt as if it was swelling; but he held the ball in his puffy mitt. Rose was out.
Oscar could hear Mays whooping and yelling from center. Oscar looked out to left field where his father stood, grinning, giving Oscar a thumbs-up. In the dugout, Auntie Gormley and Auntie Oonagh clapped wildly.
In the top of the third the Bobs put all four hands on one bat; and to everyone’s surprise, they got a hit and wobbled miraculously to first base—safe. Ruth challenged Cobb with a fastball, but Cobb was ready. He crushed Ruth’s pitch over the Green Monster. It was a beautiful sight, the sure crack of bat on ball, the soaring arc, the white speck noiselessly disappearing from view. The Bobs came in panting. Oscar looked out for Cobb. He had a deep respect for Cobb’s ability, and he smiled at him as he crossed the plate.
“Sucker,” Cobb said, and he spat on the ground at Oscar’s feet. A thrill of rage ripped up from Oscar’s stomach to the back of his throat. He marched toward the pitcher’s mound with a new ball.
“That guy will not get another hit in this game, you got that?” Oscar said to Ruth.
Ruth was mad about the pitch, but he winced at Oscar. “I got it, boss.”
“Good,” Oscar said, and he slapped the ball into Ruth’s mitt.
Chick Gandil sidled up to the plate. Oscar had read about his part in the Black Sox scandal of 1919. He didn’t like him. Gandil struck out on three pitches. Oscar wondered if he was trying to throw this game just like he had a long time ago. How could you trust him? He eyed Oscar after the strikeout with a look of disgust—for Oscar? For himself? Oscar couldn’t tell.
Oscar’s team was still struggling to hit Perry’s junk balls. Willie Mays returned to the dugout shaking his head. “It’s like trying to hit a butterfly with a baseball bat,” he muttered.
Oscar watched as Perry pulled an oily tube from his back pocket. He slathered the ball. Oscar’s father never got the bat off his shoulder. The third strike stuttered from Perry’s hand across the plate. Oscar’s father swung and missed.
The Middle Innings
RUTH GOT THROUGH THE FOURTH allowing only a single to Fedelma, and Oscar took off his gear quickly for his second turn at bat against Perry. On the radio, the announcers talking through the Red Sox–Yankees game were reporting the same score: the Yankees up by two.
“Come on, we can beat these guys,” Oscar said. Mumbles of encouragement came from the other players.
Oscar stepped into the batter’s box and saw Perry wipe a syrupy goo from the underside of his cap’s visor onto the ball. Perry rubbed it in and then reared back and threw. As Oscar watched the pitch veer away from the plate, he relaxed. At the last moment, though, the ball sneaked back over the outside corner.
“Strike one!” called the umpire. Oscar couldn’t believe it.
The second pitch looked the same.
“Strike two!”
Perry snickered and went to his visor. This time, protecting the plate, Oscar lunged at the outside pitch; but instead of sliding back toward the plate, the ball swerved even farther outside. Oscar stumbled to keep his balance, and that’s when he heard the laughter coming from the empty stands. At first it was just Perry and Auntie Fedelma, but then the whole place seemed to swell with the taunt.
“You’re going to lose,” Auntie Fedelma said.
“Everyone knows it.”
Oscar retreated to the dugout, passing Williams on his way to the batter’s box. Oscar fastened on his catcher’s equipment. His eyes burned. He remembered Drew Sizemore in the line for gym the last day Oscar had been at school. “Who’s your daddy?” Oscar looked down the bench at his teammates. They struggled to meet his eyes.
“You think I dragged you guys here to lose to this bunch of cheaters? You think we’re going to let Perry throw that junk and fool us?” Oscar kicked the ground. “We’re going to play within the rules, and we will win this game. You understand?”
No one said anything.
“Do you?”
They looked at each other up and down the bench and nodded.
Another round of ugly hooting and laughter erupted from the stands as Williams flew out to center. They all watched Williams march back into the dugout. “It’s like they’re wolves out there,” he said. “Wolves in the stands.”
“Let’s do the best we can,” Oscar’s father said, almost apologetically, his hand on Oscar’s shoulder, his wings giving a quiver under his shirt.
“No. Let’s go get ’em,” Oscar said, staring at his father, wanting him to straighten up, to be a hero.
“He’s right.” The voice came from behind him. Oscar turned. Pumpsie Green stepped out from behind Buckner.
“Pumpsie!” Oscar said. “You came!”
“I just couldn’t help it,” Pumpsie said. “I could hear you all—the echo of the game, far-off—coming from the closet. And it seemed like I should follow it.”
“We need you,” Oscar said.
“I don’t know how or why,” Pumpsie said, “but I feel like I can do something good here, somehow.”
Williams nodded. “Glad you’re here.”
The other players smacked him on the back.
“Pumpsie, you go in for Smoker at third,” Oscar’s father said with an ease in his voice that calmed Oscar.
Perry lost control of his goopy baseball in the bottom of the fifth. He walked Buckner and Jackie. Then when Willie grounded out, Buckner raced to third. There were two outs in the inning when Pesky shot one through the right side bringing Buckner home, and then Perry walked Oscar’s father. With the bases loaded, it was Babe’s turn to bat.
“You know what to do,” Oscar told him.
“Yes, I do,” said Babe, a smile on his face.
Babe scuffed at the dirt and cocked his bat. Perry wound up and threw a menacing curveball. But Babe watched it all the way in and smoked a line drive up the middle that sent Perry sprawling and his hat flying off his head. The gooped-up cap clotted with dirt. Jackie and Pesky pounded around; Oscar’s team took the lead, 3–2.
“Yeah! Yeah!” Oscar cried, as his teammates clapped one another on the back in the dugout.
Oscar overheard the radio at that moment. It reported a turn in the fourth game of the Red Sox vs. Yankees playoffs. David Ortiz had just singled with the bases loaded to push the Sox ahead of the Yankees.
“Yes,” Oscar said, clenching his fist. But he was up now. He felt sick. He grabbed his bat and stepped into the batter’s box.
Perry fumed. Oscar struck out swinging at three straight pitches. He looked at the other team. Weasel-man and the Bobs couldn’t hold his gaze. Neither could Gandil nor Cicotte.
Oscar returned to the dugout as an eerie sound rose from the stands and the field itself—not one voice as with the laughter, but a thousand nasty voices, full of gripe, full of bile and bitterness. Ghostly forms appeared in the bleachers, shaking their fists, swearing, booing. Words were hissing from their mouths: “Darkies,” “Coloreds,” “Losers.” The voices were ringing and rising. One group started to chant, “Goat! Goat! Goat!” and then another, “Who’s your daddy? Who’s your daddy?” Among them, Oscar could clearly hear a voice with a slow, Texan drawl, louder than all of the other jeering voices: Woodall, the scout who had passed up watching Willie Mays. He was refusing to watch black ballplayers in the rain. And then it was Pinky’s voice, grown-up but saying a famous line: “There will never be any niggers on this team as long as I have anything to say about it.” The sentence echoed on and on. Then another voice said, “It’s our policy. The Safari Motel doesn’t allow colored guests.” It quickly blurred into another voice saying something similar about the Elks Club of Winter Haven. And that voice blurred into the Floridian Hotel, and then another and then another. Pumpsie tightened up and narrowed his eyes in concentration. The voices burned in Oscar’s ears and in his chest.