The Legend of "Old Hoss"

 

            The July sun was scorching the brown clay in the Pennsylvania field when I first laid eyes on the man they called Charlie “Old Hoss” Radbourn. He didn’t look like the character from the stories the other players told after games over frothing mugs at Chincey’s Bar while I busied myself with a glass of ginger ale. This man appeared lacking any physical attribute that made him the subject of legends in our upstart league, yet there he strode the field as a demigod among the men who played this game.  His moustache hung untrimmed and wild over his upper lip. While other players washed their uniforms between games, his looked like it had not seen the mangle since the start of the season, and it hung from his gaunt frame like a sack holding only a handful of taters. His pitching arm hung motionless on his right side, like a tale pinned to the rear of a mule. Yet in his eyes one could perceive the fire that had given birth to those tales, and it was enough to fear this unsuspecting figure.

During our pregame stretching, I glanced over to the bullpen to size up the opposing pitcher. What a shock it was to find him leaning against the fence, puffing a cigar! Our pitcher for the game, Billy Wabash, usually spent thirty minutes warming up his arm, but this man presented the air of a spectator that would not be participating in the game about to be underway. He leaned his head back and puffed circles of smoke into the breeze. I watched his actions with particular interest and waited to find him demonstrate some form of his mythologized pitching prowess. Amazingly, he never lifted his right arm, cradling the cigar throughout the duration of its enjoyment in his left hand before smoldering it underneath his spiked toes.

Even though I had only been in the league a few weeks, my confidence was enlarging as rapidly as my statistics. It was a Tuesday morning in June when a letter arrived at my mother’s house. Apparently, a scout had seen me play for the team the mill workers had formed for amusement, and he noted that I may be of some use to his team, the Pittsburgh Pirates, in the future. Luckily for me, the future was not very far away as the team’s usual shortstop was called back to his farm because a fire had engulfed much of his crop and certain financial ruin was certain if he remained on the road. I caught the train to the city and quickly found myself an everyday fixture in the starting lineup, mostly due to my uncanny excellence with a bat and speed that rivaled the great Cap Anson.

I had yet to truly taste personal defeat in this game. Yes, the team had on occasion lost a game here or there, but it had not been because of my lack of effort. Only two errors could be attributed to me to that point, and one was unwarranted due to Jim Bastion being the most oafish individual ever outfitted with a baseball mitt. At the plate I tasted the sweetness of success quite regularly and only missed smacking the ball rather well if the pitcher lathered the skin of it in some foreign substance or when the light grew too faint to properly see the sphere. No doubt, my skills had endeared me to my teammates who affectionately called me “Rook” which I associated with the chess piece known for its strength.

By the time the competition began, my manager told me Willie O’Rourke would be starting the game at my position. I asked “Old Man” Huggins if I would be playing another spot in the field, but he just stared at me and growled something I could not make out. Nevertheless, I resided peacefully on the bench until the manager would most assuredly put me into the game when O’Rourke floundered in the game like a featherless bird. I chose to welcome this well deserved break by chiseling out the mud from between my cleats. When the time came to enter the game, I would fly along the base paths like the swift footed Mercury. I slyly mentioned this to the embittered skipper, but he offered no response and kept his focus on the game. I admired the dedication he possessed, for I only glanced toward the field when the roaring crowd drew my attention away from my important task.

It was late in the game when O’Rourke went up to the plate again. He had performed admirably throughout the game with a couple of singles and a few decent plays in the field. However, he had been nothing spectacular, and I was sure my own numbers would have dwarfed his accomplishments. The few pitches I had seen this “Old Hoss” Radbourn throw appeared quite quick, but I was positive that a minor adjustment in my stance would allow amble time to catch his pitches with my hunk of chiseled hickory.  

Willie dug in at the plate and squinted his bulbous eyes toward the intimidating figure on the mound. Radbourn cocked his arm like my father’s rifle and hurled the ball. It reminded me of the Mexican firing squads I’d read about in the Western magazines I’d thumb through at the local apothecary. The ball traveled faster than a lightning bolt pitched by Zeus from his throne atop Olympus. There was a quick crashing sound, and the poor fool O’Rourke fell face first into the dirt. The b*****d had struck him right between the eyes.

Two gentlemen bystanders hurried onto the playing field and carried O’Rourke to a horse cart, so he could be transported to the doctor. The manager held his protruding stomach with one hand as he took to his feet and pointed a meaty finger in my direction.

“Get in there, Rook,” he snarled at me like a master to his dog.  

I leapt from my seat as if a splinter had pierced my fragile bottom and galloped toward first base. The passage of time had done nothing to cool down the playing field, and I dare say the field was even hotter in the early evening hours than it was when we had taken our warm-ups. Beads of sweat began dotting my forehead as I stood on first base, awaiting an opportunity to proceed. The chance never arrived, though, and Radbourn was able to shake off the wild pitch that began the inning and struck out the next three batters with only nine pitches. I walked back toward the dugout, but one of the trainers fired my mitt at my chest and told me to stay in the field.

At last, I was in the game! Billy Wabash had been doing a fine job pitching, but so far he had been outdueled by the ragged figure, “Old Hoss.” The scoreboard relayed the story so far: Providence Grays: 6, Pittsburgh Pirates: 0. Still, we had only approached the seventh inning; there was ample time to turn the proverbial tide in our favor. After all, I had the advantage of resting in the dugout while the other team’s men toiled under this unforgiving sun.

The consistency with which the batted balls flew over my head and into the outfield amazed me. I wondered if the ever increasing score of the other team could possibly be attributed to me in some fashion, but the noise of my comrades yelling at me to “get in the right position” and “face the other way” affected my concentration. Also, I was perplexed by the manner in which Radbourn rested between innings. Most pitchers would take their seats in the dugout and stretch their arm occasionally, yet this man propped himself against the bleachers and chugged what appeared to be whiskey while a rather unsavory looking fellow kept refilling his tin cup. When it came Radbourn’s time to approach the plate, the loud beast shouted something unpleasant about the umpire’s mother, so he was declared out, ending the inning.

Our next three batters were felled with the same precision that had ended our last time at the plate, and we returned to the field before I had scarcely set down upon the pine again. The next inning was over rather quickly because the opposition had removed themselves from the premises in an effort to get to the saloon before closing time. Since they could not produce the batters who appeared on the scorecard, the team was forced to take their outs without sending a lone batter to the plate. By the start of the final inning, only Radbourn and his catcher remained.

                Apparently, the liquor was taking a toll on the opposing pitcher. His pitches became wild and sailed into the stands, knocking a few unsuspecting spectators unconscious. Run after run was walked in by the inebriate on the mound, and the game soon found itself in a tie. Thomas Evers received his fourth consecutive ball and trotted down the line to first. After that, the catcher hurried to the mound and slapped “Old Hoss” across his reddened face. The pitcher slapped him back, and this exchange continued for a few moments. When he was satisfied, the catcher jogged back to his position behind the plate, and the next two batters were quickly dispelled by Radbourn’s returned precision.

                “You’re up next, kid,” the manager gurgled in my direction. I clutched my bat between my paws and moved toward my first confrontation with a sober and terrifying Charlie Radbourn. The umpire blinked his dull grey eyes in my direction; his body language pleaded with me to hurry up and end this charade. I dug in at the box and starred down the bowler bearing down on me.

                “Aye, you’re a wee one,” laughed Radbourn. “Is your boy watching this game, mate? This’ll give him something to be ashamed of you for.”

                “Oh, shut up, you old drunkard!” I slandered back at him. “Just make sure you get the pill over the plate, so I can knock it over your head!” The harsh words coming from my mouth astonished me, but the crowd let out a boisterous commotion and started flinging insults toward someone named “Sissy Pants.”

                The jackal on the mound reared his weight backward and fired a blazer right down the midway for a called strike one. “Ha,” I laughed in my head, “He thinks I’m too stunned to swing at his pitches. Just let him bring that pepper my way again.” At the next pitch I swung with the power of Hercules, but when I opened my eyes, Radbourn was spitting on the mound while the umpire called strike two. “I’m on to your game, ‘Old Hoss,’” echoed in my mind. “This time you’ll get the shellacking you deserve!”

                The noise of the crowd cleared from my mind like fed men from a dinner table. The mad bowler on the mound gripped his stubby fingers round the pill once more, leaned back, and rocked forward to fire the pitch. I gritted my pearly teeth and called forth all my strength to strike this ball into the next county.

                “Huzzah!” I exclaimed when I heard the crack of my stick upon the ball. It was a marvelous jab; George Wright himself could not have shelled the apple more thoroughly. As I sprinted toward first, the ball came to land directly behind the second base bag. This prompted me to increase my pace, for the fear Radbourn would retrieve the ball and tag me out was ever present. I rounded first and went full force toward second; Radbourn was charging towards the bag as well, no doubt to field the ball. I arrived at the base well ahead of the pitcher because of the excellent care I had taken with polishing my cleats. I turned to face the pitcher, so I could offer a condescending suggestion about his mechanics when the great beast plowed into my stomach and knocked me to the dirt!

The thrashing put upon my gentle natured frame was excessively brutal. After a number of my bones and ribs were cracked and a handful of teeth knocked loose, the powerful brut became tired and meandered off the field. Eventually, a pair of men carried me off the field to an awaiting surgeon in the clubhouse. The old man wrapped a few thin sheets of gauze around my injuries and requested I stay off my feet for a few days. He then produced a bill which he suggested I pay within a fortnight, or I might have more than a few broken bones to add to my troubles.

I continued to lie on the table in an ether induced state for several hours. At some point, my manager dropped a letter beside me describing my removal from the team along with my final paycheck, minus uniform expense and other questionable taxes levied upon me. Luckily, I had enough for a train ticket home, so I once again returned to the mill, and a few weeks later I was back playing ball with my chums.

Sometimes after games when we were all huddled around the cider barrel, I’d regale my teammates with stories of my celebrated weeks playing big league ball. The boys would practically beg me to repeat my encounter with “Old Hoss” Radbourn, mentioning every slight detail from the tip of his hat to the laces on his cleats. Eventually, the small parks I had played in were replaced by larger and larger cathedrals to the game. Nowadays, no youngster will bring up these names in their schoolyard conversations about the greats who trotted the field.

                A few years ago, I heard Charlie Radbourn had met his end when he faced his hunting rifle in the wrong direction. If it’s true, it serves the poor b*****d right, but I really have no time for these trifle fancies anymore. No, I’ve got to head over to the mill, for I hear tell another scout is making his way through these parts, and my knees only creak a little now when I bend over to fetch the ball. Although, my back’s still quite prone to freezing up on me when I swing the lumber.