Chapter 13

After a very short team meeting everybody got ready for the game that evening. They all knew what had happened, but, like me, they were not sure what the future held. I stood up on a bench and told them that there were going to be some changes and probably some trades. Several guys looked at me, others didn't; a few scowled and one player moaned theatrically. Then I read the line-up and said, "Let's go." I got some smiles and several sullen looks.

Charley Mumford stayed behind and followed me into my tiny office. "You gonna trade my ass?" he demanded, looking angry, fists on hips, hat slightly crooked.

"Not my say," I told him. "Probably depends what we can get for you."

"How d'fuck I ain't startin'?"

"Isn't just you," I told him. "Whole new outfield tonight."

"All them young ones," he said, shaking his head. "Them prissy, college boys. Shit."

"Got to play 'em sometime. We're paying them too."

"Not as much. You gonna trade the preacher?" he asked.

"Maybe," I said, willing myself to be calm.

"And McGinty?"

I nodded. "Could be."

"That stupid-assed woman, she make you do this?" he asked, looking worried.

"Mrs. Jepperson?" I said. "Nope, she had nothing to do with it. We're just losing too many games. Shit, you haven't had a loud foul in your last fifteen at-bats, haven't had a RBI in a week. They're paying me to win. Day off might do you some good. Relax."

He snorted and departed. I went out and taped the lineup cards on the back wall of the dugout. I had my three new outfielders batting first, second and third with Bigger hitting cleanup.

During batting practice I talked to Papa Junkins who had been playing left field recently while Buzzy tried out a lanky kid named Frank Smith at first. Imagine somebody named 'Frank Smith" with all the wonderful, and sometimes barely pronounceable names in sports these days. Smith didn't even have a tattoo or a beard.

"Youth must be served," the big man said, leaning back on the cage and stroking his chin. He looked contented, professorial, stoic; one of those at least.

"That's the God-honest," I said, forcing myself not to stick my hands in my back pockets.

"What's next?" he asked, wrinkling his high forehead.

"This Smith boy doesn't get some hits pretty soon, you go back to first and maybe we send him down. I think your outfield days are over."

"Alleluia," he said with some feeling. He seldom talked much, and for him, this was a long conversation.

"On days like today when you don't start, I'd like you to coach first base, just until things settle down, and I decide on somebody permanent."

He nodded. "Where's Mason at?"

"He quit, followed Buzzy I think. Wherever he went. They were living together."

He arched an eyebrow and nodded again, and we went over some signs. My inclination was to let the catcher call the game including pitch-outs and to let the runners use their own good sense on the bases as long as they did not get picked off first or make outs at third. Like Buzzy and every other manager I had known, I hated both of those. So we had a take sign, which we seldom used except on three-and-oh, plus hit-and-run and bunt, suicide squeeze and the usual set of indicators. I had thought about coaching at third myself, but Mike McCormick was doing a good job and was one of the best fungo hitters anywhere so I resisted the temptation since I did not want him to quit.

I planned to ask Enos, Mike and Marvin to stay after things settled down and to find some young coaches somewhere, especially a hitting coach. By season's end I had changed my mind about Marvin.

Moses McGinty was sitting on the bench with his arms folded and his ankles crossed. From the look of him, he intended to stay there during batting and fielding practice. McGinty led the team in batting average, runs batted in and home runs; he was our big gun.

"You hurt?" I asked him after I got a bottle of water.

"Nope, don' feel like playin'." He did not look at me.

"Okay," I said, "you can go change your clothes. You're suspended for five days. We'll see you back here on Sunday unless we've made a deal for you by then."

I halfway expected him to squawk or take a swing at me, but he just unfolded himself and lumbered off. It was the last time I saw him until we played on the West Coast and by then he was wearing Dodger blue.