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Fiction Historical Fiction

This story contains sensitive content

Content Warning: This story contains racial slurs, violence, ethnic stereotypes, depictions of racial discrimination, and historical references to segregation.



February 1945


A mariachi band plays a slightly off-key version of the Mexican national anthem. Vendors hawk local delicacies at concession stands, and the fans cheer when the Monterrey Industriales take the field.

Fifty-two-year-old Uriah “Snooky” Fallon, a scout for the Washington Senators, wipes the sweat from his brow. Short and sleight, Falon is nicknamed Snooky because of his ability to spot and snooker ball players into signing cut-rate contracts.

Snooky turns to Gabo Marquez, the Industriales’s manager. Heavyset, with pockmarked but friendly features, Gabo knows Snooky wants to steal his best player, Frederick “El Rey” Douglass.

“Don’t worry, Gabo. I’m just here to look, not to buy.”

Gabo smirks. “You’ll change your mind when you see El Rey hit. I won’t take less than $10,000 for his contract.”

“C’mon, he’s thirty-four.”

“That’s still young for a legend.”

 ***

An impressive 6’4” with bulging muscles, El Rey strides to the plate in the bottom of the first inning. Snooky takes note of his straight, jet-black hair, high cheekbones, and Roman nose.

“He’s not Mexican, is he?” Snooky observes.

“No. Cheyenne.”

“Looks like something else might be mixed in,” Snooky replies. “That could complicate things.”

El Ray hits a home run that flies out of the stadium.

“…Or not…”

                                               ***

Frederick “El Rey” Douglass surveys Snooky, unimpressed with his wafer-thin physique.

“So, you represent a major league team?”

“That right. The Washington Senators, first in war, first in peace, and last in the American League. The war has emptied the major leagues of talent. You could be a star.”

“I like it fine here. Do you know what El Rey means? The King. That’s what I’m treated like here. Do you know how they’ll treat me in America? There’ll be bigoted teammates who call me every derogatory name in the book if they speak to me at all. Opposing pitchers will throw at my head, and fans will throw garbage at me.”

“We can pay you $25,000. That’s two thousand less than the whole team makes.”

“Lou Boudreau and Joe Cronin are making $25,000 each. I want $27,000.”

“No Indian’s ever made that kind of money, not even Chief Bender.”

Frederick lets out a disgusted harrumph.

“They told you I’m Indian? My mother was Cheyenne. My father was black. Looks like you just saved $27,000. Negroes aren’t allowed in the Major Leagues.”

Snooky studies Frederick closely.

“You sure look like an Indian to me, and you will to the fans too. We’ll disguise you. But the first thing we’re going to do is change your name. It’s a dead giveaway.”

                                               ***

The cabbie eyes Frederick in the rearview mirror as he drives to Griffith Stadium.

Snooky hands Frederick an envelope. “Inside is a copy of your contract, I.D., and rent agreement. I got you a house in a nice neighborhood, but like I said…”

“No visitors.”

Frederick looks at his I.D. card. “Duke Whitehorse?”

“Pretty creative, eh? Remember that most of your teammates are war rejects, guys who can’t serve. A lot of them are gonna have a chip on their shoulder. Don’t try to knock it off. You wanna keep your money? Get used to being called Chief, keep your head down, and keep hitting.”

                                               ***

Griffith Stadium is so cavernous that few players can hit home runs there.

Clayton Kilgore, Snooky, and Harlan Hague watch Duke hit ball after ball into the left field stands.

Clayton Kilgore has waited two decades for a World Series title. Now seventy-four, bald, with sad, grey eyes and an ever-present cigar, the rotund owner presents a pleasant appearance but can be gruff and blunt.

Stocky, keen-eyed forty-eight-year-old Manager Harlan Hague is sympathetic toward the 4-F military rejects and broken men he’s trying to manage, but he’s also desperate for a player who can lead the Senators to a pennant.

“You brought me an Indian,” Clayton complains. “We already went through fans yelling, ‘Lynch him!’ and throwing trash on the field when we had Chief Hogsett.”

The three men crane their necks as Duke hits another ball into the stands.

“He hits like that, and maybe we’ll give back Delaware.”

Three Senator players watch Duke launch a ball over the right field fence.

Hoke Marlowe, the Senator’s starting catcher, spits a stream of tobacco juice in derision. Paul “Puffy” Pagnozzi skips aside to avoid being spat on.

At thirty-six, Hoke has sore knees and flat feet. His back barks, and his once-taut stomach droops over his belt, slowing his every step. He knows his hangovers and diminishing skills are tolerated because he occasionally hits a home run, but as a true ballplayer among 4-F’s, he feels he deserves to be revered and respected.

Thirty-two-year-old Myles Calhoun lost his left arm in a farming accident as a teen in Iowa but is an adequate fielder and hitter. He’s learned that his self-taught wisdom and cleverness are his best attributes.

Puffy whistles as Duke blasts another home run. At 5’ 4” and 130 pounds, eighteen-year-old Puffy is the shortest and slightest player in the league. Weakened by acute asthma and resigned to the nickname he earned from his incessant coughing, he is nonetheless thrilled to be playing. To keep the peace, he’ll go along with whatever Hoke says.

Hoke moves toward the batting cage. Harlan recognizes his intent.

“Don’t make trouble, Hoke.”

“Just ‘cause you hit a couple of homers for some little league team in Mexico don’t mean you can play with us, Cochise.”      

Duke continues to hit, ignoring Hoke.

“You hear me, Papoose?”

“I was hoping we could at least make it through batting practice before war broke out,” Harlan says to Clayton.

“You hear me, Yellowhorse? You ain’t welcome here!”

Hoke storms into the batting cage, standing on home plate and staring at Duke disdainfully.

“You wanna play Cowboys and Indians, Chief?” Hoke taunts.

“Sure, Custer.”

Hoke spits in Duke’s face.

Wiping the spittle off, Duke flings it back at Hoke.

Hoke throws a looping punch at Duke, who dodges the blow, laughing at Hoke.

“You think that’s funny, Pocahontas?”

Hoke throws two more punches that only catch air.

Duke lashes out with a swift, hard blow that snaps Hoke’s head back.

Hoke’s hands drop. He wobbles, lets out a sad sigh, and then falls backward, unconscious.

“That’s the most knocked-out man I've ever seen,” Puffy says, coughing.

“You made your point, boys,” Harlan says. “Duke Whitehorse made his. Now, pick Hoke up and get ready for the game.”

                                               ***

An elderly black man glances at Duke and Snooky as they talk in the hallway.

“Just because you knocked out the locker room bully doesn’t mean your teammates are gonna go color blind,” Snooky says. “You want the rest of your money? Keep your hands in your pockets.”

The elderly black man moves closer.

“Fredrick Douglass? I thought that was you. What you doin’ here?”

Snooky’s eyes widen in panic. “Duke, this is Amos Millburn. He cleans up around here. You’re mistaken, Amos. This is Duke Whitehorse.”

“Naw. I seen Frederick Douglass at Yankees Stadium just two years ago. That mustache is new, but it’s him. I watched you in batting practice. Only one man hits like you, Frederick, and that’s you.”

Snooky clears his throat. “How long have you worked here, Amos?”

“Twenty-one years since the old park burned down, and they built this one in 1923. I’m gonna retire in a few years.”

“How’d you like a little nest egg, say, about three thousand dollars?”

“I seen you pull some deals, Mister Fallon. What do I gotta do to make so much money?”

“Develop a permanent case of Frederick Douglass amnesia.”

                                               ***

The White Sox players move toward the railing, hooting and hollering like Indians on the warpath in a corny Western movie.

Standing on the dugout's top step, imitating a war dance, Lorcan Sommerville leads the group.

The forty-six-year-old manager is known as “The Rat” because of his sharp, rodent-like features. A former second baseman, the Rat would do anything to win and coaches the same way.

Duke ducks out of the way of a high fastball.

“That’s just a taste of what’s comin’, Chief! My boy’s gonna scalp ya! Whoo-hoo!”

Pacing the dugout, Harlan tries to hold back his anger. Climbing the steps, he glares at The Rat.  

“Don’t defend him, coach. He ain’t one’a us,” Hoke says.

“Is he wearin’ a Senator’s uniform?” Harlan asks sharply.

“Well, yeah, but…”

“Get your loyalties straight, Hoke.”

Duke dives for the ground when the next pitch nearly hits him in the head.

“Hey Rat! Is your pitcher afraid to throw a strike?” Harlan yells.

The Rat flashes a set of signals to the catcher, who passes them on to the pitcher.

The pitcher challenges Duke with a fastball. The crack of the bat resounds throughout the stadium as the ball sails into the left field stands for a home run.

Cheers erupt as Duke circles the bases. Touching home plate, he smiles at The Rat, imitating a tomahawk chop.

Hoke refuses to look at Duke as he steps into the dugout. His teammates drop their heads or look away, their silence starkly contrasting the crowd’s frenzied cheers.

                                               ***

Myles, Puffy, and Hoke sit together on one side of the locker room. Even after leading the team on a ten-day, ten-game win streak, Duke sits alone on the opposite side of the room with his back to them.

“How long do you intend to give Whitehorse the silent treatment?” Myles asks.

“Till he quits,” Hoke replies.

Puffy coughs heavily. “Whitehorse hit six home runs this week. That’s six more than the three of us combined have all season. He’s carrying the team.”

“This could be our last shot at winning a pennant,” Myles says. “We need him.”

Puffy stifles a cough. “So, what are you saying?”

“Let’s bury the hatchet.”

Hoke snorts. “You one-armed slot machine. You’re gonna turn your back on your own people for an animal?”

“No, for a teammate. Is this about the color of his skin or something deeper, Hoke?” Myles asks. “You’ve been a bear since Wes Farrell took the starting catcher job from you.”

“I busted my can in the minors. I rode buses from here to Chattanooga and back for years before I got my break. By the time I got it, my knees were shot, and my arm felt like it was comin’ outta the socket. It ain’t fair.”

“Whitehorse played in the Mexican league for sixteen years. He’s paid his dues, too,” Myles returns. “I understand your bitterness. I wouldn’t even be in the majors if most of the real major leaguers weren’t overseas. But Whitehorse isn’t responsible for you not getting a hit in your last thirty-six at-bats. Don’t take your hatred out on the guy putting food on our tables.”

Hoke jumps up from the bench, raising a clenched fist at Myles.

“If you had two good arms, I swear I’d beat you senseless.”

“It’s you who’s senseless, Hoke.”

                                               ***

Over the next month, as the Senators climb from last to first place, it’s Hoke who finds himself isolated in the locker room.

Harlan spots Hoke slipping a half-empty bottle of rum into his locker.

“You’re already riding the pines, Marlowe. I told you the last time I caught you drinking…”

“What? You gonna send me to a reservation?”

“That’s not a bad idea. You might pick up a few pointers on how to act.”

Hoke rises from the bench, barely able to steady himself.

“You ungrateful…”

Hoke’s eyes bulge, rolling back in his head as he clutches his chest. A line of spittle issues from his mouth as he wobbles, pitching forward.        

“He’s having a heart attack! Somebody get the doc!” Harlan hollers.          

Hoke’s body twitches wildly as he starts to choke, the color draining from his features.

Duke steps forward. Bending over Hoke, he reaches into his mouth, freeing his tongue.

Pressing his hands together, Duke pumps Hoke’s chest. He leans over Hoke, starting mouth-to-mouth resuscitation.

Hoke coughs, his eyes fluttering open as his breathing returns to normal.

“Wait until he finds out Whitehorse gave him mouth-to-mouth,” Myles says to Puffy. “He might have another heart attack.”

                                               ***

The Rat runs his hand through his hair, cursing as he watches Duke round the bases.

“What’s he, four for four?” he asks Walker Foote.

The Fifty-four-year-old craggy-faced pitching coach from Alabama spits a stream of tobacco juice on the dugout floor.

“Five for five. Two homers and three doubles. He’s knocked in seven of their nine runs. He’s a real stud, Lorcan… Hey, what do you think of the rumors about some of those ballplayers from the Negro Leagues comin’ to the Majors?”

The Rat chuckles. “The Commissioner’s nickname is ‘Happy’ Chandler, not ‘I’m Out of My Mind’ Chandler.”

“Shame. I barnstormed with some of ‘em. Cool Poppa Bell was so fast he could turn a light off and get in bed before the room got dark. He stole six bases in a game against us. Satchel Page was such a good pitcher that he told his defense to take a break and sit down. Then he struck out the side. And Josh Gibson, wooh!… He hit a homer out of Yankee Stadium. They called him the black Babe Ruth. The blacks called Ruth the white Josh Gibson.”

“That’s blasphemous, Walker. Besides, exhibition games aren’t the same as major league games.”

“It’s the truth. We had some fun and competitive games against those boys. The best was an outfielder who also played in the Mexican League…, Frederick “El Rey” Douglass. He averaged fifty homers a year…,” Walker says, his voice trailing off.

The Rat glances at Walker, who stares drop-jawed at the Senator’s bench.

“Something wrong, Walker?”

“Naw… It can’t be… “

Walker points across the field at the Senator’s dugout.

“It’s him! That Duke Whitehorse fella is Fred Douglass!”

“C’mon, Walker. They wouldn’t let a black player in the League.”

“He magically appeared at the end of spring training. Even now, nobody knows much about him. I’m tellin’ you, Lorcan, that’s ‘El Rey.’”

The Rat’s laser stare lights on Duke. “Are you still in touch with your cousin, the private eye?”

“Yeah, I saw him last week.”

“Tell him I got a job for him.”

                                               ***

Duke finishes taking batting practice, his eyes locking with Hoke’s.

Hoke slowly walks up to Duke. They stand nose to nose, staring each other down.

“They told me I owe you my life,” Hoke says. “I don’t like that.”

Hoke takes his turn in the batting cage. He misses the first two pitches and barely fouls off a third.

“You’re holding your bat up too high,” Duke observes. “Drop the bat down even with your shoulder, and don’t loop your swing.”

Hoke scorches the next pitch up the middle, then lines two more balls to left field.

Stepping out of the batting cage, he locks eyes with Duke again, his expression calmer and more resolved.

“You fixed my swing. Looks like I owe you again.”

                                               ***

Walker strolls into The Rat’s office. The Rat is laughing contentedly at the scattered papers and photos on his desk.

“What’s so funny, Lorcan?”

The Rat picks up a photo, handing it to his pitching coach.

The photo shows a headstone.

“I’m sorry, Lorcan, but there’s nothin’ funny about death. Least not to me.”

“Read the headstone.”

“Duke Whitehorse. 1901-1936. What?”

“You were right. He’s a phony. And we’ve caught him.”

                                               ***

Clayton gives Snooky and Harlan a rancid look.

Looking at the photos and news clippings sent to him by Lorcan Sommerville highlighting Frederick Douglass’s career, Snooky exhales defeatedly.

Clayton taps his finger on the desk like a ticking time bomb. “I knew this was a mistake.”

“He’s baseball’s most valuable and popular player,” Harlan moans. “He could win the World Series for us by himself.”

“Which makes our situation even more embarrassing,” Clayton replies.

Clayton takes his cigar out of the ashtray, taking a long drag. He lets out a stream of smoke, burying Snooky’s features.

Harlan buries his head in his hands. “The Rat’s got us cornered. He’s giving us until the start of tonight’s game to get rid of Whitehorse, or he’ll leak the information to the press.”

Puffing his cigar, Clayton blows a series of smoke rings. “Here’s what’s going to happen. We’ll announce that Duke Whitehorse has been drafted and is going off to serve his country… Immediately.”

“But that’s an even bigger lie, Clayton. The press’ll track it down and crucify us. The Commissioner will throw us out of the League,” Snooky says.

“I have friends at the Draft Board who’ll cover for us. And next month, Duke Whitehorse will become a hero when he’s killed in action.”

                                               ***

The Mayor of Monterrey stands at a podium, praising the return of El Ray to the Industriales after a four-month absence.

Someone pushes his way through the crowd, standing next to Frederick and the other dignitaries along the first baseline. Frederick does a double-take when he recognizes who it is.

Hoke nods at Frederick. “I wanted to get here before the game began.”

“I heard we lost the pennant to the Rat,” Frederick replies.

“By a game and a half. Did you hear you were one of the last casualties of the war? There’s a gravestone with Duke Whitehorse’s name on it in Arlington Cemetery.”

“I’ve been avoiding the papers since I came home. Hate won, Hoke.”

“No, it didn’t. That’s why I’m here. I came to tell you that Branch Rickey broke the color line. He signed Jackie Robinson to a contract. Robinson could be the first black man in the majors. And you know who says he supports the idea? Lorcan ‘The Rat’ Sommerville…. Maybe you could make a comeback...”

“I think I’ll stay dead. Being El Rey in Mexico is much better than being Duke Whitehorse in Washington, D.C.”

“I was thinkin’ of stayin’ here too. I heard you guys needed a catcher.”

November 28, 2024 14:24

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