Red Dog

RED DOG

The weekday crowd was typically light compared to the weekends, but it seemed thinner since the game was being played in cavernous Forbes Field, where the Pirates called home. But it was vociferous enough to have the illusion of a packed house. Today, their beloved Homestead Grays were in front of the Baltimore Elites by a score of 4-3. Top of the ninth, the Elites were threatening; runners at the corners, both speed merchants with one out; Jerod Cromartie on first, Timmy Gregson on third. The unfiltered sun beat down mercilessly from a cloudless sky, taking a toll on both teams.

In the stands, however, another story unfolded. Cumberland Posey, owner of the Grays, was in attendance considering decisions needed for his team. Rumors abounded that Gus Greenlee’s Pittsburgh Crawfords were in financial trouble and might be in danger of folding. If this were the case, there would be a bunch of players, even some stars, whom Greenlee stole, ready to make a move.

Cumberland hated to see a Negro League team hit a rough patch, but personally, he didn’t care what happened to that pimp, Greenlee. He stole players, made outrageous deals, and hung out with a questionable crowd; all bad for the already shaky stability of the league. So, good riddance.  Right now, Posey had decisions to make concerning his own personnel. It had been a mediocre season for his Grays. Mediocrity is something Cum Posey couldn’t abide. So, he’s been watching his team for the past few weeks, looking for some possible fixes he might apply, but for now he wasn’t very pleased, not withstanding his young catcher, EJ Lawton.

It was no secret Josh Gibson was the best catcher in the league, probably in all of baseball, and he could be one of the departing Crawfords, so Cumberland wanted to make sure that this Lock ‘N Load Lawton, as his teammates called him would strengthen his ability to negotiate with Gibson. That was his hope on this day.

On the field, the next Baltimore batter, Bump Eggers, approached the batter’s box. EJ squatted behind the plate and started flashing a sequence of signs, asking for a drop ball off the outside corner. The pitcher, Travis Dougle, leaned in to decipher the signs. Sweat drenched his uniform, dripping from him like dew from a rose, though that was the last thing Travis would smell like after eight plus innings of 12-hit ball. The sweat was so heavy and constant, it soaked through his jersey and glove.

EJ framed the signs between his legs, and then laid out the target on the outside corner. The runners tensed while taking exaggerated leads, daring, blustering. Travis went into his stretch, Cromartie on first increased his already enormous lead by a full step; his counterpart on third, Gregson, followed suit, staring Dougle directly in the eye.

Sweat continued pouring into Dougle’s eyes, stinging them. He could only try blinking them clear. As he moved his hands down to his waist, Jackson Hilliard yelled, “Time!” and strolled to the mound from his shortstop position.

“Time!” yelled the second base umpire throwing up both hands. EJ joined them on the mound.

As EJ reached the mound, Jackson was daubing the rosin bag on his forearms and squeezing it with both hands, trying to get rid of the excess perspiration, an uphill battle.

“What’s wrong, Jackson?” he asked. Travis was busy trying to locate his next breath.

Hilliard eyed both runners before answering. “These boys is up to somethin’.”

    “Ya’ think?” said EJ, giving the runners his own look. Both tossed back mocking smiles.

“But Eggers is up. That mother humper can hit the crap out of a baseball, especially off of Dougle here. No offense, Travis.”

“None taken.”

“They down by one and Mr. Long Ball is up to bat. Why not try somethin’ stupid? Carl playin’ a mile offa third ‘cause of that gorilla; they leads is a mile and a half. Oh, they gon’ try somethin’ alright; a squeeze or a delay or somethin’. I know”

EJ turned to Travis. “What you got left, Travis?”

“Just hope and Jesus.”

“Well,” began Jackson, “you know what they say ‘bout hope and I do believe Jesus done put up the Gone Fishin’ sign.”

“Or he be sittin’ in they dugout.”

The umpire from third stepped to the mound. “What you boys tryin’ to do, wait ‘til dark? Let’s get a move on.”

“What’s your hurry, Blakes? Finally, gon’ see that eye doctor tonight?”

“Never mind that bull, get this ball rollin’. PLAY BALL!”

EJ checked the runners one more time, then made his decision.

“We go with Red Dog.”

“Red Dog? You sure?”

“Oh, yeah, I’m damn sure.”

As EJ tilted back towards his spot behind the plate, his cleats unable to penetrate the sun-glazed clay of the infield, and clacked on the dirt sounding like metal on cement. The brown grass broke off in clumps, like islands breaking off from a mainland, each seeking a destiny all on their own. The cracked clay looked like miniature dried riverbeds, cutting through the African Savannah during the dry season.

Bump Eggers stood at the plate swinging two 44-ounce Louisville Sluggers with the effort a normal person would use to handle a couple of toothpicks. Sweat extended from his armpits in widening crescent moon shapes. His whole back was sopped, leaving what looked like a crude map of Florida minus the panhandle.

He spat out a huge stream of brown tobacco juice onto the ground. It could only bead up on the hard infield clay. “You boys plannin’ somethin’ special fo’ me?” he said loosening another firehose stream of brown juice, smiling, revealing a top and bottom row of crooked, stained teeth.

“Why the hell we gotta plan somethin’ for you, Bump? You what we call automatic.”

“That right? You best hope I don’t automatic that junk Travis dealin’ out of goddamned Pittsburgh, let alone this park.”

“You know what they say ‘bout hope, don’t you, Bump?”

“What’s that?”

“Hope in one hand, shit in the other, see which one fills up first.” Bump thought for a second and laughed out loud. He tossed one of the 44 ouncers aside, wiped both hands on the side of his soaked flannels, and stepped into the box.

“That be a good one, EJ, a real good one. Now let me ‘hope’ you boys out ya’ll’s misery right now.” He let loose another river of tobacco juice, tapped the plate twice with his bat, and dug in, crunching the hardened dirt with his cleats.

EJ squatted down behind the plate and pounded his mitt. “Everybody need a dream, Bump. That be yours?”

On first base, Cromartie kept inching towards second while Gregson maintained his huge lead off third. You could read Cromartie’s eyes; he was telling you what he was going to do, daring you. They were wide and gleaming, like an eight-year old on Christmas morning, not even remotely hiding his intentions. EJ threw down the sign to Travis. Travis went into the stretch, eye checked both runners. When his foot lifted off the rubber and came forward, there was movement and an explosion of dirt at first base, cleats sparking on the cement-hard clay; off to the races! EJ stepped out from behind the plate as Travis threw it high and wide; a pitchout, Red Dog, step one.

EJ yanked down the high pitch, in the same motion fired a rifle shot down to second. In the corner of his eye he caught a flash of movement from third; Gregson was barreling down the line. As the throw whistled past the ducking Dougle, Jackson sliced in front of second base from short and picked off the throw; Red Dog, step two. It all moved with lightening rapidity. EJ was in a zone reducing everything to slow motion, the sounds muffled and distant.

By the time Jackson had the ball in his glove, Gregson was twenty feet from home plate. Without breaking stride, Jackson fired home. EJ had the plate blocked, braced for the impact, awaiting the throw. 

The ball slammed into EJ’s glove with an explosion of dust and sweat at about the same time Gregson’s extended leg sought out the plate and only found EJ’s leg. EJ buckled at the impact, glove hand and free hand holding the ball as he collapsed tagging the runner in the process. Gregson had slammed into him with the force of an freight train.

When the dust cleared, he could vaguely remember the umpire calling, “OUT!” sounding as if it was coming from underwater. Cromartie didn’t hesitate rounding second base. He was streaking towards third, legs stretching like a Cheetah’s, clawing the dried earth, third base his prey.

EJ bounced straight up hurling a cannon shot down to third. Wingate was already there, straddling the bag. The throw beat a sliding Cromartie by two feet. “OUT!” came the cry of Blakes. Game over, losing streak done, as was the season.

As EJ stood up, dusting himself, Bump was still there, bat still on his shoulder. “See, Bump, we don’t need a plan for you, your teammates already got one.” All Bump could do was to toss out a thunderous laugh.

Cumberland Posey witnessed all this from the stands. He couldn’t help but smile. Reaching into his pocket, he came out with a pencil and paper and hastily scribbled a note.

In the ragged facility the Pirates let them use as a locker room, the team slumped in exhaustion. Eddie, the clubhouse boy, brought in an iced tub of long neck beers. EJ grabbed one, his body caked in dried dirt. He rolled the frosted bottle across his forehead. Every muscle ached and his bones were feeling the same, but it was all good. Victory by any stretch of the imagination, especially hard-earned victory was a salve to any pain your body could endure. Eddie then handed EJ a note whispering it came from the boss.

As they celebrated and cleaned out their lockers, EJ opened the note. Since this was the last game of a dismal season, EJ read with a lot of apprehension. Cumberland Posey couldn’t be a happy man after such a season. Maybe some of these guys wouldn’t be back. Maybe he wouldn’t be back.

Tomorrow, they would all scatter to whatever they did in the offseason. For EJ, it would be underneath the blast furnace at US Steel, shovel and pick in hand ready to clean out those blast furnace pits. Maybe he would take a couple of classes at the college. Others would be barnstorming and continue to play the game they all loved so much.

The other players noticed him reading the note. “Good Lawd, EJ, what you done gone and did now?” asked Wingate.

“Hell, I don’t know. Mr. Posey wants to see me in his office first thing in the morning. Damn.”

“You best go on and git it ovuh with and be on time. You don’t wanna keep Mr. Cum Posey waitin’. He got business to do and women to RO-MANCE.”

The whole locker room burst out laughing. EJ tried to laugh, but being called to the owner’s office after the last game of a losing season didn’t bode well in his mind.

“Maybe you can Red Dog him too,” said Jackson. More laughter.

Maybe he’d be at the steel mill longer than planned this off season. Damn was the only word surfacing to his lips. And he said it quite often the rest of the day.