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THE BEE HIVE—OCTOBER 1949

The massive ballpark that stood on Commonwealth Avenue in Boston was a far cry from the quaint, intimate confines of Milwaukee’s Borchert Field. Braves Field, or “the Bee Hive” as some still liked to call it, was a cavernous playground, a forty­thousand­seat venue with a rolling expanse of fresh green grass and fences that stretched out some four hundred feet away from home plate, where prospective suitors clad in decorative flannel would sidle up to the pentagon­ shaped dish to take their hacks, carrying with them only a carefully treated hunk of Louisville lumber and lofty visions of clearing the impossibly distant barrier. It was most certainly a pitcher’s paradise, the place where many a fly ball went to die, and in the organization’s estimation, the perfect place for a young man like Mickey Tussler to shine. Mickey had dominated for two years with the minor league affiliate Brewers, and despite his idiosyncrasies and slowness of mind—two things that engendered much talk about the quizzical farm boy turned baseball prodigy—he was ready for the next step.

“Well, what do you think of your new home, Mick?” Murph asked, staring hypnotically at a thick ribbon of black smoke unfolding above the row of fir trees just beyond the center field fence.
“Sure is big, Mr. Murphy,” the young man said, his heart racing. He was mesmerized by the sizable numbers on the sixty­eight­foot scoreboard towering over left field. Lester, who was standing next to Mickey with his hand on the boy’s shoulder, was equally impressed.

“Mickey never saw such a big place. When do we move in?”

Murph laughed. His heart was aflutter as well. It had taken the baseball lifer too many years to get back to the bigs. He had endured so much disappointment. A playing career cut short due to a freakish injury. A dozen consecutive seasons at the helm of the Brew Crew, all of which had resulted in the hapless band of baseball misfits finishing in the bowels of the standings. And most recently, two very productive seasons with the new­look Brewers, both which ended with unforgivable losses to the Rangers and their manager, Chip McNally, Murph’s nemesis. It looked as though he would never get back. But the Braves owner, James Gaffney, liked what Murph was doing. There was a fire in Murph’s eyes, an insatiable yearning for excellence and victory that few others possessed. Gaffney also knew that it was Murph, and only Murph, who could get the most out of their quirky sensation, Mickey, as well as his battery mate, the recently acquired Negro League standout, Lester Sledge.

“Yes, it’s big, Mick,” Murph replied. “That’s the idea, kiddo— ain’t a player been born yet that’s gonna hurt you in this ballpark.”

Lester nodded, marginally considering the implications that the new layout would have on his own game. “You ain’t just whistling ‘Dixie,’ Murph,” he said. “And with them stiff winds whipping in off the Charles River, it’d be nothing short of a miracle if anything got anywhere near our boys out there.”

It was quite a place. All three men meandered deliberately about the park, mouths agape, in awe—as if treading on hallowed ground. They walked the base paths in dramatic pantomime, attaching each step to some fantastic moment that had already unfurled with breathless wonder in their minds’ eyes.

The outfield was also vast and awesome, and each man dragged his feet across the lush green carpet that stretched from one foul pole to the other, savoring every step as if somehow it was to be his last. After listening to the sacred voices of the past that continued to whisper excitement and endless possibilities from every corner, they finally came together on the meticulously manicured bump that stood sixty feet, six inches from home plate and sighed in unison.

“Is there anything closer to heaven, fellas, than a ballpark?” Murph asked.

Having satisfied their hunger for the diamond aesthetics, the trio made their way from the pitcher’s mound to the home dugout. They descended the steps, taking one final look at the

cavernous park from their new vantage point before finally finding their way into the locker room. Once inside, Murph felt himself leaving his feet, as though buoyed by some mystical force. It was certainly surreal. His entire life had been a quest for this very moment—the chance to manage a big league club. After all these years, his chance had arrived.

“Welcome to the show, fellas,” he beamed, arms outstretched in a most public display of effusive rapture. “It don’t get any better than this.”

Mickey was equally captivated. Sure, he was wondering what was happening back home—where his mom was and what she was doing. He calculated to the best of his ability how many carrots remained for Duncan and Daphney, his beloved rabbits. He also tried to determine, based on the harvest moon that had shone so brightly, the degree of life that remained in the leaves of the trees just outside his window—brilliant bursts of burnt orange clinging desperately to the branches of the towering sycamores along the gravel drive as the car pulled away just days before. There was so much to think about, most which eventually faded as he perused the nameplates on the gray metal doors in the October afternoon light that faintly lit the concrete walls of the moribund locker room.

Marshall—Bickford—Elliot—Holmes
He ran his hand across each nameplate, tracing the letters with the tip of his finger. Chipman—Ozmore—Spahn—Sain

As he continued to outline each letter in almost surgical fashion, he couldn’t help but think of Boxcar, and how the burly catcher— the team’s leader and his mentor—would have loved to have seen it

all. He had told Mickey on so many occasions that all he wanted to do was get some Boston dirt on his cleats before he hung them up for good.

“That’s why we’re all still here, Mick,” he explained one afternoon after practice. They were both sitting in front of Boxcar’s locker, Mickey prattling on about how he just could not understand how old some of the guys on the team were. He scratched his head and peppered the fiery backstop with all sorts of questions while Boxcar sat relatively quiet, staring blankly into the cold metal box as if it were some sort of a magical window to the future.

“It’ll happen, Mick,” he whispered with clear determination. “Yup. You’ll see. One day, old number fifteen will be sitting in the bean town locker room, with all those other important muckity mucks.”

Mickey moved from locker to locker, frowning as he recalled Boxcar’s proclamation. His mood worsened as he considered that his good friend had never realized his dream. It had been cancer, whatever that was. That’s what they told him. Mickey still could not understand how something could destroy such a strong body—and why doctors could not “fix” him.

“But why can’t the doctor make Boxcar better with some medicine?” he had kept asking Molly and Murph after the secret was out. He must have asked them that same question a thousand times during Boxcar’s silent battle before surrendering briefly to the devastating reality of what he was told. But when it was all over, and the Brewer icon had finally been laid to rest, Mickey resumed his incessant barrage of questions, as if somehow asking would eventually bring back his beloved friend.

Boxcar’s death had been the darkest hour of Mickey’s life. It was the first time he had ever experienced such a loss and it really threw him for a loop. He couldn’t eat, was restless at night, and even lost his desire to be with his animals. Mickey struggled on the mound as well, as did the entire team. Both the loss of Boxcar and Mickey’s subsequent tailspin seemed to infect them all.
It was only after Lester Sledge began to make his mark on a league that did not want him that the young phenom regained his old form. The chiseled African American came to the Brew Crew under a firestorm of controversy, spawned by Murph’s unpopular decision to replace Boxcar, who was a Milwaukee icon, with a player from the Negro Leagues.

Despite Lester’s success on the field, the catcher’s early days with the Brewers was marred by many incidents of violence and hatred, some of which threatened to destroy the entire season. Mickey struggled to understand. Why did some people hate Lester so much and want to hurt him—just because his skin was a little darker than theirs? It made Mickey sick and he had trouble getting past it. Murph and Molly spent many nights explaining prejudice to Mickey and had actually made some headway. But when Mickey made the horrifying discovery that one of their own—pitcher Gabby Hooper— was involved in a planned attack on Lester, Murph and Molly were at a loss for words.

Despite all the threats, Lester persevered and eventually won over most of his early critics. He managed to make believers out of even the most staunch cynics and was rewarded for his outstanding efforts with a major league contract with the Boston Braves. The same was true for Mickey, whose spirit was instantly buoyed by his new battery mate’s personal resolve and on­ field exploits; he soon began to dominate the pitcher’s mound again, and turned in a most magical season, one that saw the young fireballer shatter all sorts of minor league records en route to his call up to the big club.
That was all just months before, although now it seemed like a lifetime ago. As Mickey continued to peruse the row of lockers, he couldn’t help but feel a little off, as if he were somehow betraying Boxcar. It made him sad—so sad that the swell of tears that had begun to form behind his eyes would have rushed to the surface, revealing themselves to his new world with explosive clatter had he not noticed something truly incredible—something so indescribable that he could scarcely contain his enthusiasm. In between the gray metal doors that read Jethroeand Sledgewere the familiar letters that until now had always spelled nothing but trouble. It was certainly not easy being him. He could still hear his father’s caustic words as if the surly farmer was standing right next to him.

“Ain’t nothin’ right about you, boy,” his father always ranted. “I’ll be damned if I can figger out where such a numbskull like you come from. I gots a reputation to hold here boy. And yer babbling and stupid shenanigans are pinching me. Damn sin that yer walking ’round with the name Tussler, that’s for shit sure. Hell if I can figger it.” He was free from Clarence now—thanks to Molly—who, with the help of Murph, managed to muster the strength to leave her husband and start a new life for her and Mickey. Yes, Mickey was free, but the memories lingered and were brought into focus again each time he met somebody new; there were always the same stares, the side commentary, and of course, the laughter. There was always laughter.

It used to upset him more when he was younger, but with time, he had come to accept the fact that he was “different” or “special,” as Molly always told him, and that he would be treated as such. That’s why the nameplate that bore his identity was such a wonderful sight; it was just like everyone else’s. He was mesmerized by the letters, using both hands now to touch them as if doubting their existence— like if he did not press his fingers against each letter and hold them there, they would just disappear.

He marveled at how white they were and was pleased that they were arranged so neatly and in capitals: Tussler. He always liked capitals—the way they looked like blocks, each one occupying equal space. When Molly first taught him to write, she carefully explained the difference between upper­ and lowercase letters. She even used his favorite poem, “Silver,” as a model. He understood what she was saying and tried to use both lower­ and uppercase whenever he practiced. He accomplished this for a while, but he found that his thoughts flowed much more freely when he blocked out each line with all capitals—exactly the way his name read now on his locker. He was smiling at the fabulous letters when Murph walked up behind him.

“Whatcha doing there, Mick?” he asked.

The young man turned his head slightly and looked over his shoulder, but his hands remained affixed to the awesome sight.

“Mickey is just looking around,” he answered. “Looking around.”

Murph laughed. “That’s quite a locker there, huh? It sure is,” he continued. “It’s all pretty incredible. The whole place. Far cry from what we’ve been living with at Borchert Field, right?” Mickey nodded. He felt all funny inside, like little fish were swimming inside his stomach.

Murph placed his hand on Mickey’s shoulder and patted gently.
“Listen, while Lester is busy with all of his stuff, why don’t you take a walk with me and check

out my new office, Mick?” Murph said, guiding the young man away from his present fixation. “Sure could use a hand getting things set up before the other guys start rolling in.”

Mickey, still spellbound, was wondering now about the faces that would soon be attached to all the names he had read. The thought turned his mood a little; he felt a bit uneasy, like he had to wait right where he was—right there—for the others. But Murph convinced him with words and gentle prodding, and soon enough—with Mickey looking over his shoulder once or twice—the two of them were walking side by side down the runway to Murph’s new digs.

Murph and Mickey spent the better part of the next hour cleaning up, moving things around, and organizing the big mahogany desk that now bore the name Arthur Murphy—Manager. Mickey was only too glad to help, delighting in the orderly arrangement of all the implements germane to Murph’s new venture. Mickey looked at the desktop as though it were a jigsaw puzzle—and began arranging everything Murph could possibly need with that same surgical precision. Rolodex and stapler were placed on the left, along with a tiny penknife and a neat row of rubber erasers. On the right rested two caramel­colored wooden rulers, a stack of lineup cards, and three rolls of transparent tape. And directly in the center, placed equidistant from the crystal paperweight Molly had given him for good luck and a decorative tin filled with paper clips, was a Milwaukee Brewers beer stein equipped with an arsenal of freshly sharpened pencils. When it was all finished, Mickey looked at his masterpiece and smiled.

There were other things to tend to as well, of far less importance, and Mickey helped with those too. The floor needed sweeping, the shelves were dusty and disordered, and the three chairs placed before the desk were in no shape for visitors. The two worked dutifully on all three tasks.

Once everything was in its appointed place, Murph addressed the entire team for the first time. He had been preparing this speech for days but still was not confident that he had found just the right words. His fragmented thoughts and tremulous voice were indicative of the strain under which he now operated. The room appeared a lot smaller now.

“Uh, I know it’s not baseball season yet, and that we all just finished for the year, but I called you all here today just so we could, uh, meet each other and perhaps talk about the upcoming season. I’m sure some of you have a few questions. You know, on my way here today, I was thinking about—”

As he prattled on, he recognized that many of the faces looking back at him were incredulous at best. He could see several of his new charges, most of whom he had never met formally before, yawning and rolling their eyes. A couple were even snickering. He did his best to ignore what was painfully obvious and managed to trudge on, but his foremost thought was fear over the dire necessity of immediately gaining respect and control.

“Look, I know that most of you have grown accustomed to the way Billy Southworth does things, and I can understand that. I’m not trying to make any of you forget about him. He’s a great baseball guy. But he’s not here right now, and we are, and we need to figure out how we’re going to get this thing done.”

The strained silence was fast becoming a sort of initiation into a world where even Murph’s most passionate, compelling arguments would likely be rendered moot.
“What happened to Billy anyway?” asked one of the players who was standing in the shadows in the back of the room. His arms were

folded and he had his head propped up against the wall behind him. Only the lower half of his face was visible in the dim light. “None of us heard anything about any of this until a few days ago.”

“I’m afraid Mr. Southworth is ill at the present time,” Murph responded. “I’m sorry, but that’s all I know.”

A low, unremitting murmur ignited and rose steadily to a disquieting level, culminating with another question from a different part of the room.

“So that’s it?” the gravelly voice announced in a peremptory tone. “Billy is sick, and you show up? Just like that. Who the hell are you anyway? And what makes you think that you can come in here and—”

Murph was just about to fire back when a tremulous yet determined voice beat him to it.

“Mr. Murphy is . . . is the best, the best coach . . . um . . . baseball coach, there is,” Mickey said with significant alarm. His face was hot and flushed and appeared distorted from the dim illumination thrown from the frosted lamps; the faint light lingered on the beads of sweat that had begun their descent down both sides of his face.

“You oughtn’t say mean things about Mr. Murphy,” Mickey continued. “He taught Mickey how to play baseball. Taught me real good.”

The entire room grew still. Then, out of this silence that immediately followed Mickey’s impassioned defense came more derision.

“That’s right, Coops,” Buddy Ozmore announced. “You is a bad boy. Now you listen to Lennie over there, and stop bothering that nice Mr. Murphy. After all, he is the best baseball coach you know.”

Laughter erupted among the others.

Mickey’s eyes drooped. His lower lip sagged as well. “My name is not Lennie,” he said once the snickering waned. “It’s Mickey. Mickey Tussler.”

The laughter grew louder.
“Naw, I’m pretty sure that your name is Lennie,” Ozmore continued. “And since you are Lennie, that means that either your coach over there or that colored fellow you came in with would have to be George.”

Mickey folded his arms and began to rock uneasily. He looked to the left, then to the right as some of the other players joined the assault, peppering the tense air with derisive comments like “It’s only a mouse, George” and “That’s good, George. You take a good big drink.” The room erupted once again in riotous laughter.

Mickey was beginning to crumble. His rocking escalated considerably and he had already begun the catatonic recitation of some lines from his favorite poem. The rising panic was reflected in the misery in Murph’s face.

“Well, this is exactly the sort of start I was hoping for,” Murph said with waves of self­ deprecation. “Yes, sir. Absolutely perfect. You know, maybe you guys should—”

“Maybe you should just go back where you came from, mister,” another player said. “Ain’t no use for you here. And you can take your retard and his chocolate friend with you.”

The attack hit Murph hard, like a sudden wave of seasickness. He swallowed hard and locked his knees for fear they might give way at any moment. Then, like a true sailor adrift in turbulent waters, he ignored the queasiness with the belief that in doing so, he would rid himself of the malady. He walked deliberately toward his attacker, hands firm at his sides, as if he were trying to steady his gait. His eyes were narrow, his breath hot.

“Your, uh, name is Marshall, right?” Murph asked.
The surly man nodded.
“Well, Mr. Marshall. Let me tell you something.” Murph spoke louder now, turning to face the

entire room. “Let me tell all of you something. This so called ‘retard’ here is hotter than a fox in a forest fire. He has one of the best, if not the best, arms baseball has ever seen.” Murph made a point to find the eyes of the one they simply called the Invincible One before continuing. “No offense intended, Mr. Spahn,” he went on. “You are some pitcher.”

Murph licked his lips and drew a deep breath before continuing. “But Mickey here has obliterated just about every minor league record there is. He was virtually unhittable last season.

He’s a big boy and throws mighty hard. And I’m gonna bet ya, as sure as I’m standing here, that he could make each and every one of you hotshots swing and miss as well.”

He paused and raised his eyebrows before removing the baseball from his jacket pocket. “Yup, I’m certain of it. Anyone wanna give it a go right now?”

No one responded.

Each man in the room remained fixed in his place—still and silent, frozen collectively like a row of birds perched on a telephone wire. The quiet made Murph smile and buoyed his resolve even further.

“That’s what I thought,” he continued. “And just so we are clear here about everything, this ‘chocolate friend’ of Mickey’s here is also a good friend of mine. And he just might be the most talented damn baseball player I have ever seen. And with Sam Jethroe . . . uh, the Jet . . . we’ve got ourselves two of these so­called chocolate dandies. Now I don’t know about you guys, but I’m pretty stoked about that. So before you go and get your jock straps all twisted about newbies and changes, consider that these two men you just met—Mickey and Lester—have just made your ball club—our ball club—that much better.”

Murph was feeling better all of a sudden, like perhaps he had squelched an impromptu insurrection. He was never too adept at that sort of thing. In fact, he still blamed himself for the whole Lefty Rogers disaster. The fact that his carelessness had allowed Lefty to hurt Mickey—first that night at The Bucket and then again after Lefty had been traded to the Rangers—still stuck in his craw. He should have seen it coming. Now, standing in front of his new team, he felt good, like maybe he had grown some—like maybe he was ready for this.

That feeling, however, slipped away from him—like sand through his fingers—when a few rays of sunlight glinting through the top two slats of the metal blinds fell across a sea of silent faces—faces that were now stone­like and vacant—like souls in purgatory waiting for the culmination of their passage. The fever of discontent made Murph shiver, as did the afternoon shadows that began unspooling across the room.

Both unnerved the new manager, something that grew significantly worse once the insidious whispering became audible. Biting his lip, he faltered momentarily before regaining his composure.

“Well then,” he said, shrugging his shoulders while offering his open palms to the group. “If there’s nothing else—if nobody has anything else to say, then I guess we can assume that we are all in agreement.”

The room was silent, save for the barely audible sound of some restless shoes scraping the cold floor. Murph forced a smile and tipped his cap. “So, enjoy the off­season, fellas. See you all this spring in Sanford.” 

 

 

Welcome to the Show

By: Frank Nappi

Release Date: April 19, 2016 

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