Hanging Curve by Troy Soos Read Free Book Online Page A

another game in about twelve hours. But I felt better when I remembered there was little likelihood that I’d have to play in it.
     
    I woke with a start in the dark of night, not sure where I was. It was a common sensation for me, a result of all the travel I did as a ballplayer. Whenever I awoke, it took me a while to determine whether I was in a Pullman berth or a hotel room or at home. Another challenge was to figure out what city I was in.
    There was no rumble of the rails, so I knew I wasn’t on a train. After a few moments, I got my bearings and realized I was in my own bed. Our own bed. Margie murmured in her sleep and shifted her head, pressing it heavier on my shoulder. Her movements were probably what had awakened me.
    I made no effort to slip out from under her. With my eyes wide-open, staring into the darkness, I savored the feel of having her next to me. Despite a slight numbness that started to work its way through my arm, I wanted to remain like this all night.
    For the first time in my life, the thought struck me that I could give up playing baseball if I should ever have to. But I wanted to keep Margie Turner forever.
    That idea stayed with me until dawn started to paint the room in warm shades of orange. By the time it brightened to yellow, I was again contentedly asleep.

CHAPTER 5
    T he teams were the same, but the roles were reversed. This time it was the Browns’ home opener, and the Chicago White Sox were the visiting club.
    Sportsman’s Park was festooned with all the decorations traditional for the occasion, and a shrill marching band paraded around the outfield, displaying little sense of rhythm in either its music or its footwork.
    American League president Ban Johnson, a close friend of Browns’ owner Phil Ball, was in attendance, seated in Ball’s private box. Dozens of local politicians were also on hand, eager to be seen by prospective voters as fans of the National Pastime.
    The only aspect of the event that might have been a disappointment to the politicians—and to Phil Ball—was the size of the crowd. Nearly half of the park’s twenty thousand seats were empty. Attendance had always been a problem for the Browns, although the club generally did draw twice as many fans as the rival Cardinals. A year and a half ago, ticket sales for the Cards had been so sparse that they had to abandon their own ballpark and move into Sportsman’s as tenants of the Browns.
    When the band stopped its noise, St. Louis mayor Henry Kiel took the mound to throw the ceremonial first pitch. Not wanting to give the mayor all the glory, the president of the Board of Aldermen carried a bat to the plate, intending to hit one of Kiel’s deliveries. It probably sounded like a good idea in the planning stage, but to the vocal amusement of the crowd, whenever Kiel managed to put the ball over the plate, the alderman failed to get any wood on it. As they continued their exercise in futility, I looked around the park. When I spotted a cluster of black faces in the right-field bleachers, I was reminded that, as in East St. Louis, fans were segregated in Sportsman’s Park; Negroes were only permitted to sit in that distant bleacher section. After more than a dozen pitches, the alderman finally popped weakly to catcher Hank Severeid, and I stopped thinking about the ballpark’s seating arrangements.
    Once the real baseball game began, my teammates fared little better than the politicians. The way they played, they must have been as tired as I was from the late arrival the previous night. Chicago took advantage, and got back at us for spoiling their opening day by ruining ours with a 7—2 win. Since the score didn’t make it into double digits, I never made it into the lineup.
    In the clubhouse shower, I decided it was probably just as well that I got to rest on the bench. Because I had an ordeal waiting for me after the game: Karl Landfors.
     
    Karl’s body was almost obscured by the strand of spaghetti he was